Rinse, Lather, Repeat (1/?)
Title: Rinse, Lather, Repeat (1/?)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama
Rating: T
Warnings: Um, it's violent.
Summary: Humans have given up on living in the real world; instead, they're addicted to a game that simulates reality. Because it's a game, they feel free to do horrific things to each other and engage in irreparable warfare. The nations, unfortunately, bear the brunt of their every attack. FrUK, America/China, Ontario/Quebec
Also on ff.net
rinse, lather, repeat
-
They'd fit him up with a nice shack, a proper mansion if he were so daring as to call it that, and they'd told him he didn't have to do a damn thing.
"Just watch," they'd said, "We'll turn this place into the largest empire you've ever seen. We'll bring back the glory years." And they smile at him, eyes glazed over with excitement.
Oh, sweet taste of victory, let us laugh at the fallen, let us trample over their dirt-ridden bodies, crush their spirit, take their land. And let them forget - always forget.
They're smiling, because they know that whatever they do in-game, whoever they choose to conquer, kill, murder, rape - none of it matters, because they're not real people, because it's just a simulation. Noise, one of his citizens had called it, background noise, like crickets chirping on a hot summer night.
"No one will get hurt," they'd said, and they left their lips quirked in a permanent smile.
He wonders if they ever realized that "English imperialism" might be a pair of dirty words, and that perhaps they ought not go around parading it with such pride. He wonders if they know that he hears voices in his head sometimes, petulant (childish) cries of fuck you, you little whore and die you greedy son of a bitch, and he doesn't know who's saying them, who's disgusted. America had tried to put him in a mental hospital, twice, and he'd almost broke the man's nose for it the second time.
France is the only nation he still keeps in touch with. They meet biweekly, in the Saharan desert, land that should not belong to France at all, but somehow does, and he feels the urge to accuse France of cruelty, of repeating the same mistakes over and over again. (France, he wants to ask, are you still bitter? Can you still not accept that he left, like they all do?) But he says nothing, because he is just as guilty, and yet their people do not feel any guilt. They say it's because there's nothing to feel guilty about now, because every few weeks or so, when things become horrifically unbalanced and the world unworkable, the game is reset.
And all their hard work is undone, whisked away by the northern wind.
"How are you, Angleterre?" France asks, holding the door open for his visitor, because this is polite, and outside of the battlefield, France is never crass.
England nods stiffly in greeting. "Dry and dusty, France. I don't think this desert weather suits me well."
France gets the two of them drinks, and they sit by the kitchen table, sipping their liquids in well-practiced silence. They stare at the wall, at the floor, they avoid each other's gaze.
Eventually, it is France who breaks the silence. "We're supposed to declare war on America tomorrow."
England looks into his cup - tea, jasmine green - not his favorite, it's one of China's brews, but he hasn't been doing well this round, hasn't got a culture to speak of at all. Only memories, always memories.
He looks up at France and says, voice even, "So I've heard. At dawn tomorrow, our troops will move down from Québec into Vermont. And they will pillage and burn Newport, St. Johnsbury, Lebanon. And - "
He chokes on his tea, and forces himself to say the next words. " - and America, he'll get a new scar. On his right arm. His shoulder will be dislocated, and maybe he'll get a burn, a second degree burn."
"If we burn Newport," France says, "then it will certainly not be a second degree burn. Third degree is more like it, don't you think?"
England feels his face flush, but says nothing, because France is right, because he'd gotten too good at using euphemisms. Everything was 'second degree', 'mediocre', 'partly undone', and 'sometimes right'. Their people would give the same excuses, with those childish, dispassionate grins plastered to their faces, "Who cares?" they would say, "It's just a game."
"It's kinda funny," one boy, not much older than fifteen, had informed him, "I mean, there aren't even any consequences, so why should I care? My grandpa says it's genocide, but he's just one of them 'get off my lawn' oldies. It's not genocide if no one's dead."
"And what if someone gets hurt?"
"Oh come on, I mean, people's feelings get hurt and shit - I bet some baby'll probably be crying over losing - but that's no genocide."
The boy went back to loading his gun, and England thought back to that day when America had been stabbed, four times, each cut lodged neatly between his ribs, and he'd crawled back to camp, screaming, blood staining the hardwood floor. It wasn't genocide, it wasn't, not even if America was carrying his goddamn heart in his hands, it wasn't.
And he had wondered it if was too cruel to bare his back for the boy, to point at the scars, especially that newest one, still pink and barely healed over. That was wrong, he'd heard, for they don't show children the consequences of war. The more violence they see, the more violent they get, and prevention was always more important than truth. So England kept everything under wraps, hidden, and wondered - what had happened to their years of psychological reform?
("That stiff upper lip of yours," she had said to him, "it's unhealthy. You shouldn't bottle up your emotions." Then she'd put her hands on his shoulders, and said, "Come on, I know you like to pretend to like you've got some control over your emotions, but we're not living in the 19th century anymore. You've got to move on, like the rest of us."
And then - "Arthur, tell me what's wrong, tell me what's bothering you. We're all friends here, aren't we? You'll be happier, I swear, once you tell me."
She'd forced him to go out to dinner, three times in a week, and tried to coax the troubles from his throat.
"They're too tightly sealed," she'd complained one night, brushing her hands over his lips, "What, did you accidentally get superglue stuck on them or something? Maybe I need to get you drunk."
And so she did, leading him to a spacious little bar in the south end of his capital, nestling the two of them in a corner. They drank, and England felt the alcohol in his veins, felt empowered.
"I...I hurt someone today," he whispered, and it felt good to finally hear the words out in the open. Except it wasn't today, it was last week, he'd hurt someone last week, last month, last year. Last century, he'd hurt the world, and they would never forgive him.
She chuckled, sudden mirth surprising him. "You hurt someone? I mean, you can be plenty abrasive on the outside, but surely it's not that serious. They'll get over it once they realize you didn't mean it. Maybe you just need to apologize."
She'd bought the next round of drinks, and England thought to himself, perhaps talking about his troubles wasn't so bad after all.
They drank together, toasting each other throughout the night. He wondered if she knew she was toasting her country, if she knew that he was in love, that England was in love with her.)
(He'd been so happy back then, as if on a euphoric high, and everything was going so well too, because she could tolerate his lifestyle, his mood swings, everything.
Then he'd got the letter in the mail - she'd been in that damned vehicle, and then she'd - )
(Dead, like everyone else that had come before her.)
"How many times do we have to do this?" England asks. The teacup is shaking in his hands, and he wants to crush it. "So one day we attack Iceland, and the next day we're his ally, one day he's screaming bloody murder over a chest wound we inflicted and the next he's trying to wed us? This - can't you see something wrong, France?"
France peers at him from behind his cup, face a neutral mask.
"There is nothing we can do, Angleterre. The people - our people - they do what they will."
-
It doesn't make any sense, China thinks, because somehow, even after twenty rounds, they'd never attacked each other even once. He didn't think America was particularly fond of him, especially not after he'd tried to auction off the nation's bonds.
"Why are we working together?" he'd asked America one night, when they'd returned to their makeshift tent.
America had looked thoughtful for a moment before finally saying, "You're a good drinking buddy."
He decides not to question the matter, because he does rather enjoy the taste of máotái, and it's always better with someone else by his side. Besides, when they wake up from yet another reset game, it was nice to have someone there, someone who could confirm your existence, your memories, everything that your people had chosen to reject.
And that night, they drink quietly and pray that their citizens will come to their senses in the morning.
-
"England," America croaks, "don't do this."
England has a gun in his hand, cocked and ready to fire down towards the city.
"Give me Newport then. And St. Johnsbury, and - "
"Christ, England, what the hell would you want with Vermont?"
England glares at him, and America hastily amends, "I mean, what would your people want with Vermont?"
America feels a fleeting moment of guilt for accusing England of a crime his people had committed, but really, what was the difference? He couldn't tell anymore, because all their actions had bled together, one after the other, a mess of misery and lies and carelessness.
"I don't know," England states, refusing to meet America's gaze. "They need it to promote stability in the empire, or they got bored and reckless and decided to cross the border, or they - you know what, I don't fucking know what they want."
He puts the gun down on a nearby tree stump, turns to America, and whispers, voice hoarse, "I don't know, alright, I don't know!" Then he cradles his head in his arms, tries to stop himself from picking up the gun again - it's so close, right there, and if he picks it up he knows he'll shoot America - and the bullet, oh god the bullet, would pierce his temple, and he'd fall to the floor, scream caught in his throat.
"Please leave," he says, staring sullenly at the floor.
When America doesn't move, doesn't listen, he looks up and snaps, "Leave, goddamn it, leave! Get the fuck out of my sight, Alfred - I don't - I don't want to see you burning - "
America looks at him a moment longer, as though trying to freeze the frenzied state of his former mentor in his mind.
"What are you waiting for, America?" England screams, "Goddamn it, leave!"
And so America runs, runs from the forest, sprints down the hill, wind pulsing by his ears, howling cries of burn, baby, burn, because it was on fire - an entire forest was lit up in flames, and he could see one of England's people standing at the edge again, match held proudly in hand.
-
China cooks that night. They'd been alternating depending on who had the worse wounds, who was still standing on any given day, and after seeing America come back cradling his left elbow in pain, it was definitely his turn to do the honors.
"Smells good," America says, peeking out from their makeshift tent.
China turns, scowling. "Alfred, go rest. The soup isn't ready yet."
America ignores him and walks out to examine the bonfire. "So what did you put in it?"
"Tofu," China lies, gesturing at the rectangular chunks in the soup. He's lying because he knows America would not find jīyāxuětāng appetizing, because as far as Alfred was concerned, chicken blood was absolutely revolting. But they didn't have supplies, and America needed to eat something to recover.
America dips his ladle into the pot, stirs, and says, "Do you think our - our newest scars - do you think they'll be permanent?"
China cranes his neck to stare at the nation. "You're worrying about this now? You shouldn't worry about it, měiguó. There's nothing we can do. Scars come and go as they will." A pause. "Do you want to keep them?"
"Well..." America stops to ponder, takes in several sips of the soup and hums in satisfaction. "Someone needs to remember, you know? There aren't records in these games - it's like no one cares at all once a round is over! What about all the alliances of the last round? How can France and Germany be friends in one round and then try to rip each other's guts out the next?"
China sighs, shaking his head, because there's that question lingering on his lips again - why are we together then? They'd rarely seen eye to eye, and yet there hadn't been a single round where they'd ended up pitted against each other. Perhaps they weren't alone in this though - perhaps other nations -
"Do you think there are others like us, then?"
'What?" America asks, taking a break from devouring his soup. His face looks tense - confused - and China regrets bringing it up, because suddenly there's fear in the air - because what if their people do turn against each other? What if that happens the very next day? China has detonated a nuclear weapon in the United States' heartland. The American government, in retribution, detonates a series of - goddamn it all, he would not think about that, because then the trust they'd held in each other, their carefully constructed safety net - it would all be gone.
He would wake up to an empty bed - to war cries - to terrified screams - and he would be all alone.
"Hey - Yaoyao - you okay?" America was waving his fingers in front of his face.
"I'm fine," he manages, feeling slightly offput by America's use of his diminutive, "We should figure out what to do next - England is clearly not done."
"Right, right, military strategy and all that. I guess since England's demanding some of my border towns and stuff, I'll just give it to him. Appease him and...and then there's Québec - shit."
"Is he French, German, Japanese or Mongolian?" He had been German for the last three rounds, Japanese before that, and Mongolian before that, but China had a feeling France was there again, this time around.
"I think he's French. I mean, England's troops came down through Québec, and England and France seem pretty friendly, or else why would France have allowed England to invade my land while trampling through his?" A pause. "You think they're fucking each other?"
China rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't put it quite that way, but possibly, yes." And of course, maybe they were just taking advantage of the opportunity while they could, because next round their people could try to kill each other again, and they'd be forced to raise arms against each other again...make love, not war, right? And the cynic in him proclaimed it the most idiotic saying he'd ever heard.
America finishes up his soup and struggles to rise. China walks over, pats him on the shoulder, and says, "You should rest for the night. We can come up with strategies tomorrow morning - I doubt either England or France will bother staking another attack tonight."
"I'm not a baby," America grumbles, looking petulant, "I can do my own dishes."
China snorts. "Give me the bowl, America."
-
"What are you doing?" France asks.
"Recording," England answers simply. It's something he does daily, and he has no intentions of stopping.
France leafs through the papers, pages and pages of meticulous notes detailing the past day's events. Arrival at Newport. Our troops number ten thousand strong and we look down onto a village of four thousand yards wide. "Do you really need this, Angleterre?" he asks at last, lifting England's shirt sleeve. Then he gestures to the scars on the nation's wrist and says, "You have these - are they not good enough for you?"
England pushes France away, scowling. "Get your filthy hands off me, France."
And so France says no more; he just watches as England continues his furious scribbling. Occasionally, England rants aloud - belatedly furious about the outcome of some war, some botched trade agreement. Then the pages descend into a flurry of madness, as England writes about death and disease and rage and disgust and France can't help but wonder, can't help but mention -
"I do wonder," France says casually, "what would happen if we were to die? And I don't mean genocide - like, for instance, if Italie takes out all of Allemagne's people, and then Germany dies. I mean something more like - what if I decided to kill myself, right here, right - "
"France," England snarls, slamming his pen into the table, "don't even think about it."
France smiles, speaking a mesh of half-truths. "Oh, Angleterre, that was just a harmless example."
England slams his fist into France's stomach, and the two of them tumble to the floor, just like in the old days. England manages to get on top this time, so he grabs France's collar and snarls, "Don't lie to me, France, don't fucking lie to me."
"I'm not - if only you would trust me, dear Albion. I am merely asking a question, out of curiosity. If we were to die - not as nations, Angleterre, but as humans, what do you think would happen?"
"It's not possible," England snaps, "So don't bother entertaining the thought."
But it is, and France doesn't understand why England refuses to see the light. Their people claim they were in a game, claim that none of their actions were permanent, and yet every war they fought would leave a scar - a permanent scar. So why did the nations suffer in lieu of everyone else, why did they suffer when it was only supposed to be a game?
England's phone vibrates then - it's a call.
From Québec.
He picks up, switches to speakerphone for France's benefit, and hears a low growl on the other end, "C't'une idée stupide, mais- "
Then there's a strangled cry, the sound of a shotgun's roar, and England looks at France, concerned. The look on France's face makes him afraid - it's terrified, and he -
"Angleterre," France mumbles, backing away, "...Earlier, I was not joking. Québec - he is - he is reenacting it all - I don't know why he wants to die, or why he did what he did - in fact, I don't think it's just Québec - ever since our people started this - this denial of reality, have you seen Canada at all? He has not been here..."
England shakes his head, sick.
Canada - where had he gone? Sure, they'd found it easy to ignore the nation in the real world, but this game was different. Invisibility was something that could be used greatly to his advantage, so what was Canada doing? Had he - his people - been in hiding the last few rounds, or had they been hurt somehow - and England suddenly thinks of the worst case scenario -
- Matthew was hurt, maimed, prisoner of an oppressive regime -
"We need to look for Canada," England says suddenly, rising from his seat, fervent with anger, "He couldn't have disappeared in-game - it makes no sense! Isn't there a record for these things? Isn't there a goddamn record of who's alive every round, a headcount?"
France just nods.
And the two of them make a mad dash for their desktop, fiddle with the router to get online, scroll through pages and pages of names. Botswana, Brazil, Brunei...
"Where is he? Where the hell is he? There's - Cambodia, Cameroon, Cape Verde - goddamn it, where the fuck is Canada?"
England looks frantic, and France shakes his head.
"Check his provinces," France says finally, "Québec is here, is he not? What about the rest of them?"
But besides Québec, none of his provinces were there either, and the two of them stare at the screen, unwilling to believe the reality in front of them.
"I think..." France says, finally turning away, "It is best to not inform our people of this - they will think it is a good opportunity to sail over and get land." France could envision the scene already - they would laugh, because history was just repeating itself, wasn't it? If they had la Nouvelle-France, their territory would double, and who cares what came before, nothing important, not at all.
And France thinks of Matthew, the child he'd met all those centuries ago, the child who'd been at peace with Winter and had invited him over for countless dinners.
Where had he gone?
-
notes
1 - máotái - 茅台 - a type of liquor from China; měiguó - 美国 - the U.S.
2 - There actually is a reason why the people of both America and China haven't attacked each other yet - that will be revealed later, when both nations attempt to figure out the truth
3 - jīyāxuětāng - 鸡鸭血汤 - it's a soup that has chicken and duck blood in it, though the blood is shaped like tofu. it's really good; the translated name just makes it sound unappetizing
4 - There may be random US state and Chinese province cameos (so not just Canada!). Depends on how comfortable I feel characterizing them...
5 - I've been writing ahead, so expect the next chapter soon! (Yes, I've already written Ontario and Quebec; sorry that they haven't shown up.)
Reviews are greatly appreciated! :) And I swear I'm gonna update Blind Carbon Copy very, very soon. I have most of the chapter written, I just need to make sure my explanations are clear...I should probably look for a beta.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama
Rating: T
Warnings: Um, it's violent.
Summary: Humans have given up on living in the real world; instead, they're addicted to a game that simulates reality. Because it's a game, they feel free to do horrific things to each other and engage in irreparable warfare. The nations, unfortunately, bear the brunt of their every attack. FrUK, America/China, Ontario/Quebec
Also on ff.net
rinse, lather, repeat
-
They'd fit him up with a nice shack, a proper mansion if he were so daring as to call it that, and they'd told him he didn't have to do a damn thing.
"Just watch," they'd said, "We'll turn this place into the largest empire you've ever seen. We'll bring back the glory years." And they smile at him, eyes glazed over with excitement.
Oh, sweet taste of victory, let us laugh at the fallen, let us trample over their dirt-ridden bodies, crush their spirit, take their land. And let them forget - always forget.
They're smiling, because they know that whatever they do in-game, whoever they choose to conquer, kill, murder, rape - none of it matters, because they're not real people, because it's just a simulation. Noise, one of his citizens had called it, background noise, like crickets chirping on a hot summer night.
"No one will get hurt," they'd said, and they left their lips quirked in a permanent smile.
He wonders if they ever realized that "English imperialism" might be a pair of dirty words, and that perhaps they ought not go around parading it with such pride. He wonders if they know that he hears voices in his head sometimes, petulant (childish) cries of fuck you, you little whore and die you greedy son of a bitch, and he doesn't know who's saying them, who's disgusted. America had tried to put him in a mental hospital, twice, and he'd almost broke the man's nose for it the second time.
France is the only nation he still keeps in touch with. They meet biweekly, in the Saharan desert, land that should not belong to France at all, but somehow does, and he feels the urge to accuse France of cruelty, of repeating the same mistakes over and over again. (France, he wants to ask, are you still bitter? Can you still not accept that he left, like they all do?) But he says nothing, because he is just as guilty, and yet their people do not feel any guilt. They say it's because there's nothing to feel guilty about now, because every few weeks or so, when things become horrifically unbalanced and the world unworkable, the game is reset.
And all their hard work is undone, whisked away by the northern wind.
"How are you, Angleterre?" France asks, holding the door open for his visitor, because this is polite, and outside of the battlefield, France is never crass.
England nods stiffly in greeting. "Dry and dusty, France. I don't think this desert weather suits me well."
France gets the two of them drinks, and they sit by the kitchen table, sipping their liquids in well-practiced silence. They stare at the wall, at the floor, they avoid each other's gaze.
Eventually, it is France who breaks the silence. "We're supposed to declare war on America tomorrow."
England looks into his cup - tea, jasmine green - not his favorite, it's one of China's brews, but he hasn't been doing well this round, hasn't got a culture to speak of at all. Only memories, always memories.
He looks up at France and says, voice even, "So I've heard. At dawn tomorrow, our troops will move down from Québec into Vermont. And they will pillage and burn Newport, St. Johnsbury, Lebanon. And - "
He chokes on his tea, and forces himself to say the next words. " - and America, he'll get a new scar. On his right arm. His shoulder will be dislocated, and maybe he'll get a burn, a second degree burn."
"If we burn Newport," France says, "then it will certainly not be a second degree burn. Third degree is more like it, don't you think?"
England feels his face flush, but says nothing, because France is right, because he'd gotten too good at using euphemisms. Everything was 'second degree', 'mediocre', 'partly undone', and 'sometimes right'. Their people would give the same excuses, with those childish, dispassionate grins plastered to their faces, "Who cares?" they would say, "It's just a game."
"It's kinda funny," one boy, not much older than fifteen, had informed him, "I mean, there aren't even any consequences, so why should I care? My grandpa says it's genocide, but he's just one of them 'get off my lawn' oldies. It's not genocide if no one's dead."
"And what if someone gets hurt?"
"Oh come on, I mean, people's feelings get hurt and shit - I bet some baby'll probably be crying over losing - but that's no genocide."
The boy went back to loading his gun, and England thought back to that day when America had been stabbed, four times, each cut lodged neatly between his ribs, and he'd crawled back to camp, screaming, blood staining the hardwood floor. It wasn't genocide, it wasn't, not even if America was carrying his goddamn heart in his hands, it wasn't.
And he had wondered it if was too cruel to bare his back for the boy, to point at the scars, especially that newest one, still pink and barely healed over. That was wrong, he'd heard, for they don't show children the consequences of war. The more violence they see, the more violent they get, and prevention was always more important than truth. So England kept everything under wraps, hidden, and wondered - what had happened to their years of psychological reform?
("That stiff upper lip of yours," she had said to him, "it's unhealthy. You shouldn't bottle up your emotions." Then she'd put her hands on his shoulders, and said, "Come on, I know you like to pretend to like you've got some control over your emotions, but we're not living in the 19th century anymore. You've got to move on, like the rest of us."
And then - "Arthur, tell me what's wrong, tell me what's bothering you. We're all friends here, aren't we? You'll be happier, I swear, once you tell me."
She'd forced him to go out to dinner, three times in a week, and tried to coax the troubles from his throat.
"They're too tightly sealed," she'd complained one night, brushing her hands over his lips, "What, did you accidentally get superglue stuck on them or something? Maybe I need to get you drunk."
And so she did, leading him to a spacious little bar in the south end of his capital, nestling the two of them in a corner. They drank, and England felt the alcohol in his veins, felt empowered.
"I...I hurt someone today," he whispered, and it felt good to finally hear the words out in the open. Except it wasn't today, it was last week, he'd hurt someone last week, last month, last year. Last century, he'd hurt the world, and they would never forgive him.
She chuckled, sudden mirth surprising him. "You hurt someone? I mean, you can be plenty abrasive on the outside, but surely it's not that serious. They'll get over it once they realize you didn't mean it. Maybe you just need to apologize."
She'd bought the next round of drinks, and England thought to himself, perhaps talking about his troubles wasn't so bad after all.
They drank together, toasting each other throughout the night. He wondered if she knew she was toasting her country, if she knew that he was in love, that England was in love with her.)
(He'd been so happy back then, as if on a euphoric high, and everything was going so well too, because she could tolerate his lifestyle, his mood swings, everything.
Then he'd got the letter in the mail - she'd been in that damned vehicle, and then she'd - )
(Dead, like everyone else that had come before her.)
"How many times do we have to do this?" England asks. The teacup is shaking in his hands, and he wants to crush it. "So one day we attack Iceland, and the next day we're his ally, one day he's screaming bloody murder over a chest wound we inflicted and the next he's trying to wed us? This - can't you see something wrong, France?"
France peers at him from behind his cup, face a neutral mask.
"There is nothing we can do, Angleterre. The people - our people - they do what they will."
-
It doesn't make any sense, China thinks, because somehow, even after twenty rounds, they'd never attacked each other even once. He didn't think America was particularly fond of him, especially not after he'd tried to auction off the nation's bonds.
"Why are we working together?" he'd asked America one night, when they'd returned to their makeshift tent.
America had looked thoughtful for a moment before finally saying, "You're a good drinking buddy."
He decides not to question the matter, because he does rather enjoy the taste of máotái, and it's always better with someone else by his side. Besides, when they wake up from yet another reset game, it was nice to have someone there, someone who could confirm your existence, your memories, everything that your people had chosen to reject.
And that night, they drink quietly and pray that their citizens will come to their senses in the morning.
-
"England," America croaks, "don't do this."
England has a gun in his hand, cocked and ready to fire down towards the city.
"Give me Newport then. And St. Johnsbury, and - "
"Christ, England, what the hell would you want with Vermont?"
England glares at him, and America hastily amends, "I mean, what would your people want with Vermont?"
America feels a fleeting moment of guilt for accusing England of a crime his people had committed, but really, what was the difference? He couldn't tell anymore, because all their actions had bled together, one after the other, a mess of misery and lies and carelessness.
"I don't know," England states, refusing to meet America's gaze. "They need it to promote stability in the empire, or they got bored and reckless and decided to cross the border, or they - you know what, I don't fucking know what they want."
He puts the gun down on a nearby tree stump, turns to America, and whispers, voice hoarse, "I don't know, alright, I don't know!" Then he cradles his head in his arms, tries to stop himself from picking up the gun again - it's so close, right there, and if he picks it up he knows he'll shoot America - and the bullet, oh god the bullet, would pierce his temple, and he'd fall to the floor, scream caught in his throat.
"Please leave," he says, staring sullenly at the floor.
When America doesn't move, doesn't listen, he looks up and snaps, "Leave, goddamn it, leave! Get the fuck out of my sight, Alfred - I don't - I don't want to see you burning - "
America looks at him a moment longer, as though trying to freeze the frenzied state of his former mentor in his mind.
"What are you waiting for, America?" England screams, "Goddamn it, leave!"
And so America runs, runs from the forest, sprints down the hill, wind pulsing by his ears, howling cries of burn, baby, burn, because it was on fire - an entire forest was lit up in flames, and he could see one of England's people standing at the edge again, match held proudly in hand.
-
China cooks that night. They'd been alternating depending on who had the worse wounds, who was still standing on any given day, and after seeing America come back cradling his left elbow in pain, it was definitely his turn to do the honors.
"Smells good," America says, peeking out from their makeshift tent.
China turns, scowling. "Alfred, go rest. The soup isn't ready yet."
America ignores him and walks out to examine the bonfire. "So what did you put in it?"
"Tofu," China lies, gesturing at the rectangular chunks in the soup. He's lying because he knows America would not find jīyāxuětāng appetizing, because as far as Alfred was concerned, chicken blood was absolutely revolting. But they didn't have supplies, and America needed to eat something to recover.
America dips his ladle into the pot, stirs, and says, "Do you think our - our newest scars - do you think they'll be permanent?"
China cranes his neck to stare at the nation. "You're worrying about this now? You shouldn't worry about it, měiguó. There's nothing we can do. Scars come and go as they will." A pause. "Do you want to keep them?"
"Well..." America stops to ponder, takes in several sips of the soup and hums in satisfaction. "Someone needs to remember, you know? There aren't records in these games - it's like no one cares at all once a round is over! What about all the alliances of the last round? How can France and Germany be friends in one round and then try to rip each other's guts out the next?"
China sighs, shaking his head, because there's that question lingering on his lips again - why are we together then? They'd rarely seen eye to eye, and yet there hadn't been a single round where they'd ended up pitted against each other. Perhaps they weren't alone in this though - perhaps other nations -
"Do you think there are others like us, then?"
'What?" America asks, taking a break from devouring his soup. His face looks tense - confused - and China regrets bringing it up, because suddenly there's fear in the air - because what if their people do turn against each other? What if that happens the very next day? China has detonated a nuclear weapon in the United States' heartland. The American government, in retribution, detonates a series of - goddamn it all, he would not think about that, because then the trust they'd held in each other, their carefully constructed safety net - it would all be gone.
He would wake up to an empty bed - to war cries - to terrified screams - and he would be all alone.
"Hey - Yaoyao - you okay?" America was waving his fingers in front of his face.
"I'm fine," he manages, feeling slightly offput by America's use of his diminutive, "We should figure out what to do next - England is clearly not done."
"Right, right, military strategy and all that. I guess since England's demanding some of my border towns and stuff, I'll just give it to him. Appease him and...and then there's Québec - shit."
"Is he French, German, Japanese or Mongolian?" He had been German for the last three rounds, Japanese before that, and Mongolian before that, but China had a feeling France was there again, this time around.
"I think he's French. I mean, England's troops came down through Québec, and England and France seem pretty friendly, or else why would France have allowed England to invade my land while trampling through his?" A pause. "You think they're fucking each other?"
China rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't put it quite that way, but possibly, yes." And of course, maybe they were just taking advantage of the opportunity while they could, because next round their people could try to kill each other again, and they'd be forced to raise arms against each other again...make love, not war, right? And the cynic in him proclaimed it the most idiotic saying he'd ever heard.
America finishes up his soup and struggles to rise. China walks over, pats him on the shoulder, and says, "You should rest for the night. We can come up with strategies tomorrow morning - I doubt either England or France will bother staking another attack tonight."
"I'm not a baby," America grumbles, looking petulant, "I can do my own dishes."
China snorts. "Give me the bowl, America."
-
"What are you doing?" France asks.
"Recording," England answers simply. It's something he does daily, and he has no intentions of stopping.
France leafs through the papers, pages and pages of meticulous notes detailing the past day's events. Arrival at Newport. Our troops number ten thousand strong and we look down onto a village of four thousand yards wide. "Do you really need this, Angleterre?" he asks at last, lifting England's shirt sleeve. Then he gestures to the scars on the nation's wrist and says, "You have these - are they not good enough for you?"
England pushes France away, scowling. "Get your filthy hands off me, France."
And so France says no more; he just watches as England continues his furious scribbling. Occasionally, England rants aloud - belatedly furious about the outcome of some war, some botched trade agreement. Then the pages descend into a flurry of madness, as England writes about death and disease and rage and disgust and France can't help but wonder, can't help but mention -
"I do wonder," France says casually, "what would happen if we were to die? And I don't mean genocide - like, for instance, if Italie takes out all of Allemagne's people, and then Germany dies. I mean something more like - what if I decided to kill myself, right here, right - "
"France," England snarls, slamming his pen into the table, "don't even think about it."
France smiles, speaking a mesh of half-truths. "Oh, Angleterre, that was just a harmless example."
England slams his fist into France's stomach, and the two of them tumble to the floor, just like in the old days. England manages to get on top this time, so he grabs France's collar and snarls, "Don't lie to me, France, don't fucking lie to me."
"I'm not - if only you would trust me, dear Albion. I am merely asking a question, out of curiosity. If we were to die - not as nations, Angleterre, but as humans, what do you think would happen?"
"It's not possible," England snaps, "So don't bother entertaining the thought."
But it is, and France doesn't understand why England refuses to see the light. Their people claim they were in a game, claim that none of their actions were permanent, and yet every war they fought would leave a scar - a permanent scar. So why did the nations suffer in lieu of everyone else, why did they suffer when it was only supposed to be a game?
England's phone vibrates then - it's a call.
From Québec.
He picks up, switches to speakerphone for France's benefit, and hears a low growl on the other end, "C't'une idée stupide, mais- "
Then there's a strangled cry, the sound of a shotgun's roar, and England looks at France, concerned. The look on France's face makes him afraid - it's terrified, and he -
"Angleterre," France mumbles, backing away, "...Earlier, I was not joking. Québec - he is - he is reenacting it all - I don't know why he wants to die, or why he did what he did - in fact, I don't think it's just Québec - ever since our people started this - this denial of reality, have you seen Canada at all? He has not been here..."
England shakes his head, sick.
Canada - where had he gone? Sure, they'd found it easy to ignore the nation in the real world, but this game was different. Invisibility was something that could be used greatly to his advantage, so what was Canada doing? Had he - his people - been in hiding the last few rounds, or had they been hurt somehow - and England suddenly thinks of the worst case scenario -
- Matthew was hurt, maimed, prisoner of an oppressive regime -
"We need to look for Canada," England says suddenly, rising from his seat, fervent with anger, "He couldn't have disappeared in-game - it makes no sense! Isn't there a record for these things? Isn't there a goddamn record of who's alive every round, a headcount?"
France just nods.
And the two of them make a mad dash for their desktop, fiddle with the router to get online, scroll through pages and pages of names. Botswana, Brazil, Brunei...
"Where is he? Where the hell is he? There's - Cambodia, Cameroon, Cape Verde - goddamn it, where the fuck is Canada?"
England looks frantic, and France shakes his head.
"Check his provinces," France says finally, "Québec is here, is he not? What about the rest of them?"
But besides Québec, none of his provinces were there either, and the two of them stare at the screen, unwilling to believe the reality in front of them.
"I think..." France says, finally turning away, "It is best to not inform our people of this - they will think it is a good opportunity to sail over and get land." France could envision the scene already - they would laugh, because history was just repeating itself, wasn't it? If they had la Nouvelle-France, their territory would double, and who cares what came before, nothing important, not at all.
And France thinks of Matthew, the child he'd met all those centuries ago, the child who'd been at peace with Winter and had invited him over for countless dinners.
Where had he gone?
-
notes
1 - máotái - 茅台 - a type of liquor from China; měiguó - 美国 - the U.S.
2 - There actually is a reason why the people of both America and China haven't attacked each other yet - that will be revealed later, when both nations attempt to figure out the truth
3 - jīyāxuětāng - 鸡鸭血汤 - it's a soup that has chicken and duck blood in it, though the blood is shaped like tofu. it's really good; the translated name just makes it sound unappetizing
4 - There may be random US state and Chinese province cameos (so not just Canada!). Depends on how comfortable I feel characterizing them...
5 - I've been writing ahead, so expect the next chapter soon! (Yes, I've already written Ontario and Quebec; sorry that they haven't shown up.)
Reviews are greatly appreciated! :) And I swear I'm gonna update Blind Carbon Copy very, very soon. I have most of the chapter written, I just need to make sure my explanations are clear...I should probably look for a beta.