For Want of a Hero Part 1
Title: For Want of a Hero.
Characters: America, Lithuania, Sweden, Finland, Bulgaria, Poland, Molossia, Seborga.
Pairings: Minor SuFin, SebMol in later chapters.
Rating: PG-13 to R.
Warnings: Angst.
Summary: America knows that he screws up a lot, but he can be a hero when it counts. He can save people, when it counts.
It started out innocently enough. Back in the Twenties, when Lithuania started living with him, America hadn’t had someone else living in his House since … Heck, since he’d declared independence, maybe even longer. He’d got into the habit of leaving things in odd places, or working around oddities, because he knew his House inside out, so it wasn’t like he was going to hurt himself. Even on the few occasions when he did, like when he forgot that the hinges on the coal cellar door were broken and it fell on him, he was fast enough and strong enough that hey, no damage done.
He’d honestly forgotten that the poles in the bannister at the top of the first flight of stairs were weakened from woodworm. He hadn’t meant to not warn Lithuania about that; it was just that not leaning on them was something he did without thinking about it by now.
And then one day he came in from the garden and saw Lithuania going up the stairs, laden with what looked like a full sack of coal, leaning heavily on the bannister to support himself -
--and America saw two of the weakened rails tremble before they snapped and the wooden handrail above them gave way, and Lithuania tumbled out into space with an alarmed shout -
America sprinted forwards reflexively, arms pumping, knowing that he was going to be too slow as he flung himself under the falling Nation, and then somehow he snatched Lithuania out of the air and ploughed forward in a tumble that he barely managed to turn into a halfway-controlled fall. They went down, smashing America’s elbow and Lithuania’s hip and both of their ribs into the hardwood floor, and America lay there panting and listening to Lithuania wheeze while lumps of coal showered down around them.
Neither of them moved while the last few fragments of coal pattered down and the fallen rails finished clattering across the floor. Then - very carefully - Lithuania shifted his hand to push himself up, and - equally carefully - America moved his arm aside to let him do it. His heart was pounding and his limbs felt shaky and weak.
He managed to prop himself upright, and when Lithuania pressed his miraculously intact glasses into his hand, America slid them on.
He looked at Lithuania to see if he was injured, and the other Nation looked back with dazed, grateful eyes in a face blackened with coal dust.
“Mr America -” Lithuania whispered. “Thank you.” He gripped America’s arm in a hold that could only be that tight from fear. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“No problem,” America managed, and the wave of cold fear inside him began to be replaced by something new at Lithuania’s gratitude. There was no resentment in the other Nation’s face - nothing other than pure, earnest thankfulness. It made America feel warm inside, to be looked at like that.
It started out innocently enough, but it became an obsession.
*
The lights were out again. Bulgaria sighed, and fumbled with the candle hidden up his sleeve.
Everyone knew that the USSR was a shambles. In an effort to disabuse the world of that notion, Russia had decided to host this world meeting in one of his more up-to-date and well-maintained hotels. Bulgaria had got into the habit of carrying a candle and matches around in case of power cuts years ago, but he’d hoped that he wouldn’t need them this week. Then again, they were four days into the meeting, and the lights were only out in the basement, so he supposed it could be worse.
The bright sulphur flare of the match hurt his eyes in the gloom. Bulgaria winced and lit the candle quickly.
Russia wanted the wine that had been bought for the occasion. That wine was at the back of the cellar, behind sacks of potatoes and onions and assorted clutter. Bulgaria spotted something that he could swear was a grand piano half-buried under old water-stained books. At least he didn’t have to search for the crates. The people who’d come down to fetch food and drink earlier in the week had left a trail in the dust, and all Bulgaria had to do was follow it. One of them must have been in a hurry, because the dust was kicked up in places. He squeezed past a tottering stack of boxes and crouched down to pick up the crate of wine bottles.
He smelled the gas an instant before the candle flame flared.
…pain. Pain and heat, and dim light flickering in the corner of his vision - Bulgaria squinted through a reddish haze. Wasn’t it meant to be dark in here, oh no, the blast must have knocked him out - Bulgaria tried to sit up and a heavy weight pressed down on his chest, squashing the air out of him. He gasped for air and bitter smoke swirled into his throat, making him choke.
Fire. The basement was on fire.
Bulgaria shoved his hands against the heavy beam pressing down on his chest in a sudden panicked convulsion. His slippery palms skidded on the wood, and the beam didn’t move an inch. He shoved again and again, panic coursing through his veins, but he didn’t have the leverage or the strength to lift the beam.
The heat was growing. In his peripheral vision, Bulgaria could see the flames creeping closer. He coughed on another lungful of smoke, pushed on the side of the beam, and tried to wriggle out from underneath it. His arms felt weak as water and he couldn’t move his legs enough -
He heard a crash from the other end of the cellar. Someone shouted, loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the flames.
Bulgaria turned his head and tried to call out, but all he could manage was a raspy cry.
The other person must have heard him, though, because they came crashing closer, and a moment later the foot-thick wooden beam was lifted off him with superhuman strength.
Bulgaria rolled away from the flames licking at his coat, sucked in a lungful of smoke and air, and ran for the door.
He collapsed, wheezing, in the corridor. The air was still hazy, but at least it was clearer. He could hear Lithuania shouting for a bucket chain as footsteps hurried overhead. America came bursting out of the basement in a billow of smoke, slammed the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, panting.
“Looked like a broken gas pipe,” the other Nation said between gasps. “There wasn’t anyone else down there, was there?”
Bulgaria shook his head. His throat felt scorched by the smoke and the heat. Well, he thought, with a giddying rush of relief, at least it was only his throat.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, fumbling for the unfamiliar English words.
America grinned at him. “No problem.”
*
For the first few years, America sat on the impulse. The feeling of saving someone else, of being a hero, was insistent in his memory.
But life was good. His people were happy, the tables were full, his cities rang to music and laughter, and as good as life was it only seemed set to get better. He ignored how good it had been to feel like a hero, because there were lots of things that felt good.
Then the Great Depression hit.
Suddenly Lithuania was gone, back to Europe and who-knew-what. Suddenly his people had nowhere to live, no homes to go to. Suddenly they couldn’t afford shoes, or clothes. Suddenly there wasn’t enough food to fill all the hungry mouths. Suddenly his prosperous fields were blowing away into dust, into clouds that swallowed towns.
Suddenly America was helpless.
It was shockingly painful. There were people sitting in the streets and along the sides of the roads, mothers with haggard faces and jutting hips digging roots out of the ground to eke out their children’s lives a little longer, children wearing rags or nothing at all, people who would do anything, however dangerous, for a mouthful of potatoes. America walked past them on his way to work, and his heart ached to help every one of them, but there was nothing he could do. He was the strongest nation around, he stretched from coast to coast, but he couldn’t give them food or homes or clothing. He was helpless, and it was terrifying.
But when a warehouse collapsed with the workers still inside, America could lift support beams like they were nothing and haul people out from under the wreckage. Just for once, he could do something, and afterwards the battered people and their too-thin families looked at him with awe and gratitude, like he was a hero.
It was addictive, that feeling - he started spending his time near old and crumbling structures, so that when they broke down he could dive in and rescue people. Oh, he worked in the soup kitchens as well, helping people however he could, but it was nothing compared to the thrill of yanking people from the jaws of death. Anyone could hand out bread, but a person who’d throw themselves in harm’s way to drag out a perfect stranger was something special. A person like that had worth.
And then the Second World War came along, and suddenly the world needed America to be the hero. He rose to the challenge like an eagle to the wind, soared with wings outstretched, and knew that this was what he was meant to be.
*
“We could go to you and America’s place,” Seborga suggested.
The other micronations chimed in with general agreements, but Molossia scowled. “No.”
“Why not?” Seborga asked in surprise.
“It’s lame. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“We could go see the Grand Canyon,” Wy put in excitedly, fingers twitching towards her sketchbook.
“I said, let’s go somewhere else!”
*
The World Conference of 1988 was held in Greenland, as far as Sweden could tell because Denmark had become pushy and because everyone else had been bored enough to agree that a meeting far away from anything resembling civilisation sounded quite restful. Sweden himself didn’t mind; he was used to the cold and the dark, and the distance.
He settled back in his seat and drove. High above him, the sharp crowns of the glaciers glimmered in the eerie light of the Aurora Borealis. The stars were points of hard light in endless darkness, and the bare rock of the mountains’ naked flanks was dark and unforgiving. The world outside and far around was cold and hard, but Sweden and Finland wound along the narrow road in a tiny cosy nest of warmth and safety.
“Another twenty miles,” Finland said, consulting the map. He folded it with a rustle of paper. “It takes you back, doesn’t it, Sve?”
“Mm,” Sweden agreed, half-listening to the silence outside.
Then something went wrong. Sweden didn’t hear anything, but the distinctive rumble of the engine turning over stopped, leaving the car freewheeling along the icy track. Sweden blinked in surprise, but swung the wheel as the vehicle decelerated, and pulled over on the turf at the side of the road.
Without bothering to say anything, he opened the door and got out. Hana-Tamago poked her head out of his shirt and sneezed. Sweden unbuttoned his coat, put the dog on the seat, and closed the door.
The air was bitterly cold. It poured down off the icy mountains in a wave that struck him almost like a physical blow. Sweden was glad of his gloves as he went around to the front of the car and lifted the hood.
One look was enough to tell him it was hopeless. Most of the engine was fine, but one of the belts had snapped cleanly, and without it, there was no chance that the engine was going to start again. He didn’t have the materials to repair it with him. Careless, he chided himself. Should’ve checked the engine at the harbour, made sure it was all in working order.
He lowered the hood and climbed back into the car, where Finland was fiddling with the radio with a frown on his face. “Belt’s broken.”
“Oh.” Finland twisted another knob, his frown deepening. “Can you fix it?”
“No. Needs a tow.” Which would be forthcoming as soon as Finland got through to the harbour or the meeting place and explained their situation. They had blankets, a thermos, and a small wood-kettle just in case of emergencies; he might not have checked the engine, but he wasn’t completely unprepared. They could wait it out readily enough.
“Ah.”
Sweden turned to lean over the back of the chair for the blankets in the back seat, and was brought up short by the words, “Sve, I think the radio’s broken.”
Sweden almost put his foot on the dog. Hurriedly, he twisted back in his seat and bent to peer at the radio. Finland turned the dial to demonstrate. Sure enough, there was no answering crackle of static. A few moments of pushing buttons was enough to tell him that the radio was completely dead.
Sweden felt the cold creep into his stomach.
“Blankets,” he said and began to detach the front of the radio as Finland climbed into the back seat with the dog. Any hope he’d had left died at the sight of the handful of burned-out components.
They’d have to wait it out. Sweden clambered over to join Finland, who held up the blanket for him to crawl underneath.
Some indeterminate length of time later, light beamed through the window. Sweden lifted his chin from where it had been tucked over Finland’s head, and squinted outside.
“Hey!” A fist knocked on the window, and America grinned in at them. “You guys need a hand in there?”
America was all helpful energy, helping Finland and Hana-Tamago into the back of his car and turning up the heater. Sweden dropped into the passenger seat and listened absently as America radioed the harbour and told them where to find the car.
“And that’s that,” America said, climbing in and starting the car. “Good thing we noticed you guys were missing, huh? I figured you’d got lost or something. Leave it to the hero!”
*
Being the hero in World War Two was easy.
Everyone knew what Germany was doing. His forces had invaded France, Russia, Poland and the Nordic countries. His aeroplanes dropped bombs on civilian centres. He was the villain. America was the hero. It was that simple.
When Japan bombed Pearl Harbour, that was simple, too. He’d attacked America, and before that he’d invaded China and Korea and his ships were in the Philippines and heading for Australia. It was so easy for Japan to be the bad guy. And if Japan was the bad guy, America was the good guy, right? He was the Hero. Simple.
He was the Hero, because Germany dropped incendiary bombs on England’s capital right before the New Year, so that people died screaming and England doubled over gasping on an army cot in Egypt with burns spreading over his sternum.
He was the hero, because…
Only evil people killed people who couldn’t fight back. Only evil people killed civilians. America had to be the good guy, so he fought honourably -- tried to fight honourably - soldiers against other soldiers, taking prisoners and treating them decently, and he tried to end the war cleanly. He really tried. He all but begged Japan, but in the end…
Pika. Don.
(When he was talking to Australia after, the other Nation said he thought that atom bombs were probably kinder than firebombs. America tried not to think about Dresden and Tokyo. Shouldn’t he have been above that kind of thing?)
*
Poland woke to darkness, and couldn’t remember what had happened.
He squinted into nothingness, wracking his brain for a clue. Bed? No, duh, he was lying on what felt like the floor and there was something digging into his back. Besides, his bedroom wasn’t this dark. And -- he twitched his arm gingerly and muffled a shriek - yeah, that was definitely broken.
And he felt bruised all over.
What had he been doing, again?
He tried to sit up, and his forehead banged into something. Poland slumped back down as purple light blossomed in front of his eyes. More things dug into his back and legs. Poland felt around with his unbroken arm, trying to ignore the pain in his head and arm and the way his stomach was trying to rise. His fingers found something cool and rough, rectangular. Poland dug his fingers into it and fought down a wave of nausea until his head cleared. It felt like … bricks?
Huh. Poland let go and fumbled around until he found another one. Yep. Bricks.
And the air smelled. Actually - Poland sniffed carefully and wrinkled his nose - it stank, and that was a very familiar smell. Not a very modern smell, he hadn’t run into it for a good few decades and the last time had been a fluke, but to anyone who’d been around before modern sewers, that smell was unmistakeable.
…oh. Oh, boy, he was never going to live this down. Seriously, having a public toilet collapse on him? Poland actually laughed. It was a weak, thin laugh, and it trailed off into the darkness, but the whole situation was just too absurd.
He was still giggling randomly when America and Germany dug him out of the wreckage ten minutes later. The whole thing was so dumb that he barely even noticed the handsaw on America’s belt. Of course the universe was crazy enough that America would have a saw in case he needed to help get someone out of a collapsed public building. That was just the kind of day they were having!
*
After the Second World War…
After, America tried to keep being the hero. It was almost natural, by then; he’d settled into a role and he liked it, it suited him.
So it was natural to reach out to Germany and Japan, to send them aid. The hero, helping his defeated enemies back to their feet and showing them a better way. It was beautiful, really. It could have been amazing, except for Russia.
…well, not just Russia. But Russia was most of it.
If it had been just Russia, America could have managed; it could have been like it was in the war, the hero squaring off against the enemy. He kept trying to make it be like that. But everything was falling apart around him, everything he did came out wrong, and it was like he couldn’t quite fit into the mould any more. He wasn’t good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t good enough.
Sometimes he caught his friends looking at him like they were scared of him. He had to show them that he was the good guy, that they didn’t have to be afraid.
Heroes rescued people.
*
In 1957, Italy’s car went over the guard rail and landed in the river. America was there in minutes, diving into the water, wrenching the door open and hauling the soaked, shaking Italian to the bank.
*
Heroes rescued people.
How do you rescue people best? By knowing that they’re going to need rescuing.
America started causing accidents.
Characters: America, Lithuania, Sweden, Finland, Bulgaria, Poland, Molossia, Seborga.
Pairings: Minor SuFin, SebMol in later chapters.
Rating: PG-13 to R.
Warnings: Angst.
Summary: America knows that he screws up a lot, but he can be a hero when it counts. He can save people, when it counts.
It started out innocently enough. Back in the Twenties, when Lithuania started living with him, America hadn’t had someone else living in his House since … Heck, since he’d declared independence, maybe even longer. He’d got into the habit of leaving things in odd places, or working around oddities, because he knew his House inside out, so it wasn’t like he was going to hurt himself. Even on the few occasions when he did, like when he forgot that the hinges on the coal cellar door were broken and it fell on him, he was fast enough and strong enough that hey, no damage done.
He’d honestly forgotten that the poles in the bannister at the top of the first flight of stairs were weakened from woodworm. He hadn’t meant to not warn Lithuania about that; it was just that not leaning on them was something he did without thinking about it by now.
And then one day he came in from the garden and saw Lithuania going up the stairs, laden with what looked like a full sack of coal, leaning heavily on the bannister to support himself -
--and America saw two of the weakened rails tremble before they snapped and the wooden handrail above them gave way, and Lithuania tumbled out into space with an alarmed shout -
America sprinted forwards reflexively, arms pumping, knowing that he was going to be too slow as he flung himself under the falling Nation, and then somehow he snatched Lithuania out of the air and ploughed forward in a tumble that he barely managed to turn into a halfway-controlled fall. They went down, smashing America’s elbow and Lithuania’s hip and both of their ribs into the hardwood floor, and America lay there panting and listening to Lithuania wheeze while lumps of coal showered down around them.
Neither of them moved while the last few fragments of coal pattered down and the fallen rails finished clattering across the floor. Then - very carefully - Lithuania shifted his hand to push himself up, and - equally carefully - America moved his arm aside to let him do it. His heart was pounding and his limbs felt shaky and weak.
He managed to prop himself upright, and when Lithuania pressed his miraculously intact glasses into his hand, America slid them on.
He looked at Lithuania to see if he was injured, and the other Nation looked back with dazed, grateful eyes in a face blackened with coal dust.
“Mr America -” Lithuania whispered. “Thank you.” He gripped America’s arm in a hold that could only be that tight from fear. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“No problem,” America managed, and the wave of cold fear inside him began to be replaced by something new at Lithuania’s gratitude. There was no resentment in the other Nation’s face - nothing other than pure, earnest thankfulness. It made America feel warm inside, to be looked at like that.
It started out innocently enough, but it became an obsession.
*
The lights were out again. Bulgaria sighed, and fumbled with the candle hidden up his sleeve.
Everyone knew that the USSR was a shambles. In an effort to disabuse the world of that notion, Russia had decided to host this world meeting in one of his more up-to-date and well-maintained hotels. Bulgaria had got into the habit of carrying a candle and matches around in case of power cuts years ago, but he’d hoped that he wouldn’t need them this week. Then again, they were four days into the meeting, and the lights were only out in the basement, so he supposed it could be worse.
The bright sulphur flare of the match hurt his eyes in the gloom. Bulgaria winced and lit the candle quickly.
Russia wanted the wine that had been bought for the occasion. That wine was at the back of the cellar, behind sacks of potatoes and onions and assorted clutter. Bulgaria spotted something that he could swear was a grand piano half-buried under old water-stained books. At least he didn’t have to search for the crates. The people who’d come down to fetch food and drink earlier in the week had left a trail in the dust, and all Bulgaria had to do was follow it. One of them must have been in a hurry, because the dust was kicked up in places. He squeezed past a tottering stack of boxes and crouched down to pick up the crate of wine bottles.
He smelled the gas an instant before the candle flame flared.
…pain. Pain and heat, and dim light flickering in the corner of his vision - Bulgaria squinted through a reddish haze. Wasn’t it meant to be dark in here, oh no, the blast must have knocked him out - Bulgaria tried to sit up and a heavy weight pressed down on his chest, squashing the air out of him. He gasped for air and bitter smoke swirled into his throat, making him choke.
Fire. The basement was on fire.
Bulgaria shoved his hands against the heavy beam pressing down on his chest in a sudden panicked convulsion. His slippery palms skidded on the wood, and the beam didn’t move an inch. He shoved again and again, panic coursing through his veins, but he didn’t have the leverage or the strength to lift the beam.
The heat was growing. In his peripheral vision, Bulgaria could see the flames creeping closer. He coughed on another lungful of smoke, pushed on the side of the beam, and tried to wriggle out from underneath it. His arms felt weak as water and he couldn’t move his legs enough -
He heard a crash from the other end of the cellar. Someone shouted, loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the flames.
Bulgaria turned his head and tried to call out, but all he could manage was a raspy cry.
The other person must have heard him, though, because they came crashing closer, and a moment later the foot-thick wooden beam was lifted off him with superhuman strength.
Bulgaria rolled away from the flames licking at his coat, sucked in a lungful of smoke and air, and ran for the door.
He collapsed, wheezing, in the corridor. The air was still hazy, but at least it was clearer. He could hear Lithuania shouting for a bucket chain as footsteps hurried overhead. America came bursting out of the basement in a billow of smoke, slammed the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, panting.
“Looked like a broken gas pipe,” the other Nation said between gasps. “There wasn’t anyone else down there, was there?”
Bulgaria shook his head. His throat felt scorched by the smoke and the heat. Well, he thought, with a giddying rush of relief, at least it was only his throat.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, fumbling for the unfamiliar English words.
America grinned at him. “No problem.”
*
For the first few years, America sat on the impulse. The feeling of saving someone else, of being a hero, was insistent in his memory.
But life was good. His people were happy, the tables were full, his cities rang to music and laughter, and as good as life was it only seemed set to get better. He ignored how good it had been to feel like a hero, because there were lots of things that felt good.
Then the Great Depression hit.
Suddenly Lithuania was gone, back to Europe and who-knew-what. Suddenly his people had nowhere to live, no homes to go to. Suddenly they couldn’t afford shoes, or clothes. Suddenly there wasn’t enough food to fill all the hungry mouths. Suddenly his prosperous fields were blowing away into dust, into clouds that swallowed towns.
Suddenly America was helpless.
It was shockingly painful. There were people sitting in the streets and along the sides of the roads, mothers with haggard faces and jutting hips digging roots out of the ground to eke out their children’s lives a little longer, children wearing rags or nothing at all, people who would do anything, however dangerous, for a mouthful of potatoes. America walked past them on his way to work, and his heart ached to help every one of them, but there was nothing he could do. He was the strongest nation around, he stretched from coast to coast, but he couldn’t give them food or homes or clothing. He was helpless, and it was terrifying.
But when a warehouse collapsed with the workers still inside, America could lift support beams like they were nothing and haul people out from under the wreckage. Just for once, he could do something, and afterwards the battered people and their too-thin families looked at him with awe and gratitude, like he was a hero.
It was addictive, that feeling - he started spending his time near old and crumbling structures, so that when they broke down he could dive in and rescue people. Oh, he worked in the soup kitchens as well, helping people however he could, but it was nothing compared to the thrill of yanking people from the jaws of death. Anyone could hand out bread, but a person who’d throw themselves in harm’s way to drag out a perfect stranger was something special. A person like that had worth.
And then the Second World War came along, and suddenly the world needed America to be the hero. He rose to the challenge like an eagle to the wind, soared with wings outstretched, and knew that this was what he was meant to be.
*
“We could go to you and America’s place,” Seborga suggested.
The other micronations chimed in with general agreements, but Molossia scowled. “No.”
“Why not?” Seborga asked in surprise.
“It’s lame. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“We could go see the Grand Canyon,” Wy put in excitedly, fingers twitching towards her sketchbook.
“I said, let’s go somewhere else!”
*
The World Conference of 1988 was held in Greenland, as far as Sweden could tell because Denmark had become pushy and because everyone else had been bored enough to agree that a meeting far away from anything resembling civilisation sounded quite restful. Sweden himself didn’t mind; he was used to the cold and the dark, and the distance.
He settled back in his seat and drove. High above him, the sharp crowns of the glaciers glimmered in the eerie light of the Aurora Borealis. The stars were points of hard light in endless darkness, and the bare rock of the mountains’ naked flanks was dark and unforgiving. The world outside and far around was cold and hard, but Sweden and Finland wound along the narrow road in a tiny cosy nest of warmth and safety.
“Another twenty miles,” Finland said, consulting the map. He folded it with a rustle of paper. “It takes you back, doesn’t it, Sve?”
“Mm,” Sweden agreed, half-listening to the silence outside.
Then something went wrong. Sweden didn’t hear anything, but the distinctive rumble of the engine turning over stopped, leaving the car freewheeling along the icy track. Sweden blinked in surprise, but swung the wheel as the vehicle decelerated, and pulled over on the turf at the side of the road.
Without bothering to say anything, he opened the door and got out. Hana-Tamago poked her head out of his shirt and sneezed. Sweden unbuttoned his coat, put the dog on the seat, and closed the door.
The air was bitterly cold. It poured down off the icy mountains in a wave that struck him almost like a physical blow. Sweden was glad of his gloves as he went around to the front of the car and lifted the hood.
One look was enough to tell him it was hopeless. Most of the engine was fine, but one of the belts had snapped cleanly, and without it, there was no chance that the engine was going to start again. He didn’t have the materials to repair it with him. Careless, he chided himself. Should’ve checked the engine at the harbour, made sure it was all in working order.
He lowered the hood and climbed back into the car, where Finland was fiddling with the radio with a frown on his face. “Belt’s broken.”
“Oh.” Finland twisted another knob, his frown deepening. “Can you fix it?”
“No. Needs a tow.” Which would be forthcoming as soon as Finland got through to the harbour or the meeting place and explained their situation. They had blankets, a thermos, and a small wood-kettle just in case of emergencies; he might not have checked the engine, but he wasn’t completely unprepared. They could wait it out readily enough.
“Ah.”
Sweden turned to lean over the back of the chair for the blankets in the back seat, and was brought up short by the words, “Sve, I think the radio’s broken.”
Sweden almost put his foot on the dog. Hurriedly, he twisted back in his seat and bent to peer at the radio. Finland turned the dial to demonstrate. Sure enough, there was no answering crackle of static. A few moments of pushing buttons was enough to tell him that the radio was completely dead.
Sweden felt the cold creep into his stomach.
“Blankets,” he said and began to detach the front of the radio as Finland climbed into the back seat with the dog. Any hope he’d had left died at the sight of the handful of burned-out components.
They’d have to wait it out. Sweden clambered over to join Finland, who held up the blanket for him to crawl underneath.
Some indeterminate length of time later, light beamed through the window. Sweden lifted his chin from where it had been tucked over Finland’s head, and squinted outside.
“Hey!” A fist knocked on the window, and America grinned in at them. “You guys need a hand in there?”
America was all helpful energy, helping Finland and Hana-Tamago into the back of his car and turning up the heater. Sweden dropped into the passenger seat and listened absently as America radioed the harbour and told them where to find the car.
“And that’s that,” America said, climbing in and starting the car. “Good thing we noticed you guys were missing, huh? I figured you’d got lost or something. Leave it to the hero!”
*
Being the hero in World War Two was easy.
Everyone knew what Germany was doing. His forces had invaded France, Russia, Poland and the Nordic countries. His aeroplanes dropped bombs on civilian centres. He was the villain. America was the hero. It was that simple.
When Japan bombed Pearl Harbour, that was simple, too. He’d attacked America, and before that he’d invaded China and Korea and his ships were in the Philippines and heading for Australia. It was so easy for Japan to be the bad guy. And if Japan was the bad guy, America was the good guy, right? He was the Hero. Simple.
He was the Hero, because Germany dropped incendiary bombs on England’s capital right before the New Year, so that people died screaming and England doubled over gasping on an army cot in Egypt with burns spreading over his sternum.
He was the hero, because…
Only evil people killed people who couldn’t fight back. Only evil people killed civilians. America had to be the good guy, so he fought honourably -- tried to fight honourably - soldiers against other soldiers, taking prisoners and treating them decently, and he tried to end the war cleanly. He really tried. He all but begged Japan, but in the end…
Pika. Don.
(When he was talking to Australia after, the other Nation said he thought that atom bombs were probably kinder than firebombs. America tried not to think about Dresden and Tokyo. Shouldn’t he have been above that kind of thing?)
*
Poland woke to darkness, and couldn’t remember what had happened.
He squinted into nothingness, wracking his brain for a clue. Bed? No, duh, he was lying on what felt like the floor and there was something digging into his back. Besides, his bedroom wasn’t this dark. And -- he twitched his arm gingerly and muffled a shriek - yeah, that was definitely broken.
And he felt bruised all over.
What had he been doing, again?
He tried to sit up, and his forehead banged into something. Poland slumped back down as purple light blossomed in front of his eyes. More things dug into his back and legs. Poland felt around with his unbroken arm, trying to ignore the pain in his head and arm and the way his stomach was trying to rise. His fingers found something cool and rough, rectangular. Poland dug his fingers into it and fought down a wave of nausea until his head cleared. It felt like … bricks?
Huh. Poland let go and fumbled around until he found another one. Yep. Bricks.
And the air smelled. Actually - Poland sniffed carefully and wrinkled his nose - it stank, and that was a very familiar smell. Not a very modern smell, he hadn’t run into it for a good few decades and the last time had been a fluke, but to anyone who’d been around before modern sewers, that smell was unmistakeable.
…oh. Oh, boy, he was never going to live this down. Seriously, having a public toilet collapse on him? Poland actually laughed. It was a weak, thin laugh, and it trailed off into the darkness, but the whole situation was just too absurd.
He was still giggling randomly when America and Germany dug him out of the wreckage ten minutes later. The whole thing was so dumb that he barely even noticed the handsaw on America’s belt. Of course the universe was crazy enough that America would have a saw in case he needed to help get someone out of a collapsed public building. That was just the kind of day they were having!
*
After the Second World War…
After, America tried to keep being the hero. It was almost natural, by then; he’d settled into a role and he liked it, it suited him.
So it was natural to reach out to Germany and Japan, to send them aid. The hero, helping his defeated enemies back to their feet and showing them a better way. It was beautiful, really. It could have been amazing, except for Russia.
…well, not just Russia. But Russia was most of it.
If it had been just Russia, America could have managed; it could have been like it was in the war, the hero squaring off against the enemy. He kept trying to make it be like that. But everything was falling apart around him, everything he did came out wrong, and it was like he couldn’t quite fit into the mould any more. He wasn’t good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t good enough.
Sometimes he caught his friends looking at him like they were scared of him. He had to show them that he was the good guy, that they didn’t have to be afraid.
Heroes rescued people.
*
In 1957, Italy’s car went over the guard rail and landed in the river. America was there in minutes, diving into the water, wrenching the door open and hauling the soaked, shaking Italian to the bank.
*
Heroes rescued people.
How do you rescue people best? By knowing that they’re going to need rescuing.
America started causing accidents.