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[weirdestbooks]

Reset (Wattpad | Ao3)

Requested by written-by-an-idiot on Wattpad

England didn't know why this had happened. There was no reason for this to have happened. It was supposed to be simple, supposed to be easy.

Sign the act, Wales dies or becomes a people's personification; either way, he would no longer be a threat, and England moves on with his life.

There was never meant to be a new personification.

England was never meant to become a people's personification.

England had no idea how this had happened, but with the first one dead, the replacement would have to stay.

At least it was a replacement. There was something wrong with replacements. Not being the original countryhuman made them almost as bad as people's personifications.

That was a good thing. It made the boy less of a threat. The boy, who seemed to understand that he had no power, as he let England drag him from the room without a doubt.

England dragged the boy down the hallway. He knew he had a limited amount of time to take care of things before the memory of the original one would stay with him forever.

While it might do him some good to remember that he was a replacement, the boy shouldn't know that it was England. That was the kind of resentment that could be dangerous, especially with what the boy now was.

England couldn't let that happen.

He would let the boy live, let the boy have a place in the palace, but the boy would never have a true name and would simply be kept out of the way.

England couldn't let anyone know what the boy was.

England refused…he refused to go through that. He had worked hard to make his mother proud, and he wasn't going to stop now.

"Where are we going?" The boy asked. England tightened his grip, ignoring the hiss of pain from the boy.

"To fix things. Quiet now," England said, seeing a guard up ahead

and calling out to them. "I need your assistance!"

The guard turned to England, mouth dropping open in shock as he saw the boy beside England.

"My—my lord, who is this?" The guard asked. England scowled.

"The boy's name is unimportant. I need you to kill him," England said. The guard gaped at him, and the boy froze before screaming.

"Help me! Help me!" The boy said, fighting against England's grip. England tightened his grip, pulling the boy close and whispering in his ear.

"You aren't going to stay dead. I am having a human do it. I am ensuring that you don't have to remember what you have seen and that you are not the original so you can be happy. Stop fighting," England hissed.

The boy stilled, trembling, and England turned to the guard, who was staring at them in shock. England pressed his ears against his head and bared his teeth at the guard.

"You will do as I say. Make it quick," England ordered. The guard nodded and pulled out his sword, stabbing the boy in the heart.

The boy's eyes were wide, but he was looking at England with trust in his eyes until the light in them faded.

"My lord, what was the purpose of that?" The guard asked, pulling his sword from the boy's body, horror in his eyes.

"Mercy. I just wanted to help him forget. I'm going to take care of him now. You will speak of this to no one," England said. The guard nodded, bowing slightly. England pulled the boy into his arms and brought him back to his room.

The boy was still in death, looking nothing like the threat he was. England placed him onto the floor, using an old shirt to wipe the blood from his chest.

England then took some clothes he didn't care for and dressed the boy before placing the boy in his bed.

England then waited for him to wake up.

While replacements were weak, the wound wasn't a big one, meaning the boy should be coming back soon enough.

After a few moments, the boy's eyes began to open, fluttering slightly. England remained silent until he sat up and began to look around, knowing that coming back from death made it hard to think as the mind and soul readjusted to the body.

"Are you awake?" England asked. The boy blinked at him but nodded.

"I…what happened?" the boy asked.

And so the lie began.

"You were born, and I got you dressed while I waited for you to wake up. I don't think you were properly connected to the land because I don't know what you could be, and you passed out after being born, which is unusual for us," England lied, confidence in his voice so the boy would believe it as the truth.

"I…" the boy trailed off.

"I am going to give you a place to stay. I don't know why you are here, but I cannot abandon one of our own. But I have a job to do, and I cannot be there to pamper you," England said, standing up.

"Wait! You can't just go! This is your land, right? Doesn't that make you my father?" the boy asked. England scowled. He had hoped the reset would make him forget or at least prevent him from thinking about that.

"This is my country," England said forcefully, "But you are not my child. You're barely a countryhuman, only holding my flag because you're in my land. I am being merciful by letting a nameless, landless being like you exist. Do not test my patience," England said, stepping forward and baring his teeth.

The boy got the hint, hunching in on himself, fear sparking in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," the boy muttered. England stepped back, flicking his tail toward the door.

"Follow me," England said. The boy obeyed, following England silently as they walked through the halls. His head was bowed, and he was staying just behind England as if he wanted to stay out of England's sight.

That was good.

England didn't need a reminder of this mistake.

[weirdestbooks]

Broken Brother (Wattpad | Ao3)

This AU was made by @universal-casey. This is her AU, but I have just been doing some writing for it. Check her out!

America looked so small in the hospital bed, skinny and gaunt, with dark shadows under his eyes. He looked pale, sickly. He was bandaged, an IV coming out of his right arm.

He looked so different than the lively brother Canada once knew, a ghost of his former self.

While UN meetings had shown that before…a part of Canada wanted to believe that that had just been an act, that America was just acting weaker than he was due to some fear of Soviet Union.

He knew then that it hadn't been true. But it was hard to confront the truth when it was so painful.

It was hard to see his big brother, who had always been so cheerful and full of life, be so…quiet and downtrodden.

America had been unrecognizable.

When Canada had heard the news of Soviet Union's death, he could hardly believe it. It seemed so unbelievable, but it was true.

He was gone.

And America had killed him.

That didn't really surprise Canada. Even with…how his brother had changed throughout his years under Soviet occupation, even if Canada had only seen the bits and pieces Soviet Union wanted them to see, Canada knew his brother would find a way to reclaim his independence.

Even if it took longer than Canada had expected.

But…Canada expected to see his brother, after regaining independence, in the same condition he had been in after his war of independence against their father. Maybe a little injured, but still strong and prideful.

America was anything but now. He looked like hell.

"What happened?" Canada heard his dad ask, his hand running through America's hair as if he was trying to reassure himself that America was real, that he really was there, really was free, and that this all wasn't a dream.

Canada had had dreams about getting his brother back before.

He knew this wasn't one. In his dreams, his brother was the one from his memories, with his old flag, acting how Canada remembered him. In his dreams, Canada got his brother back exactly as he lost him.

America never looked this weak, never still bore the flag given to him by his occupier.

This wasn't any dream. But America's wasn't going to magically get better.

"Well, he was injured from his confrontation with the Soviet Union, but we're more concerned about the chronic issues," The doctor explained.

"What kind of chronic issues?" Canada asked, a note of fear in his voice. While they had all noticed America's missing eye, as it would be impossible not to, and noticed how he was getting slimmer…no one ever knew much about his health.

That had worried Canada a lot. It was almost worse than the three months after the invasion, where no one had seen the hide nor hair of America, and everyone, Canada included, had presumed the worst.

But…to know that there might be chronic issues that America now had from whatever Soviet Union put him through…that was scary.

Canada hated seeing his brother hurt.

"Well, based on the x-rays we did, as well as old bruises that we saw when bandaging him, we believe that America might have been experiencing some form of domestic abuse, and considering how long he was with the Soviet Union, it was most likely chronic abuse—especially considering how malnourished he is. Most of the reason he is going to be here for a long time isn't because of the injuries but because of the malnourishment," the doctor explained.

Canada's stomach dropped, and he grabbed his brother's hand, trying to provide himself some comfort, grounding himself in the knowledge that his brother was alive.

That didn't stop the guilt.

What-ifs had plagued Canada for a long time. How could they not, when he shared such a long border with his brother, saw him at every UN meeting sitting next to his occupier—his abuser?

Canada had always wanted to do more. He felt helpless, sitting on his side of the border as his brother suffered.

How could they all have sat by and let that happen? America was brought to UN meetings, and not a single one of them had noticed? Recognize that he was being abused? Done something to help?

America had seemed nervous around Soviet Union, but Canada had just chalked that up to the power imbalance between America and him, to the threats against America's states or people, but…

It made horrifying, horrifying sense.

And Canada felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner.

Canada squeezed his brother's hand tighter, just now noticing the unsteady silence that had fallen across the room. Dad looked horrified, hand resting on America's head.

Australia's face had paled, and he looked as if he was going to be sick.

"No wonder he's so skinny," France murmured.

Canada pressed America's hand to his forehead.

"I'm so sorry," Canada whispered. He knew his brother couldn't hear him, lost in the throughs of unconsciousness, probably at peace for the first time since the invasion, but…Canada had to say it.

"If he wakes up, call us in so we can do another check," the doctor said with a smile before leaving the room, leaving behind Canada's family and their stunned silence.

There was an air of guilt permeating the room as if all of them were stewing their own thoughts of how they failed and how they should have done better.

"I had suspected something was going on, but…" Dad trailed off, shaking his head.

"What could we have done? Gone to war to get America back?" Australia asked, with a slight shake of his head.

"We should have done something more. We should…we all knew that the personality change was wildly out of character, but we…we never tried to look into causes? I don't…I know Soviet hated him, and they had their issues together, but I guess a part of me hoped that as long as America didn't try to fight him, Soviet would have left him alone," New Zealand said.

"We didn't want to believe it, so we didn't," Canada said, looking back down at America's face.

His brother looked so peaceful, asleep like this.

Canada hadn't seen him look this at peace in a long time.

"We can't change what we didn't do. We can only offer whatever help we can give now," Dad said as his hand began to run through America's hair again. Canada nodded.

He had to do whatever he needed to help his brother heal.

It would soothe the budding guilt in his chest.

And Canada really wanted to have his family be whole again.

It was over.

It was really over.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

When Dad called them all into his hotel room after a visit to the hospital, Canada felt his stomach drop.

All sorts of worried thoughts ran through his mind, about what his dad could want to talk to them about, to the state of his brother, to some horrifying news the doctor wanted to tell them.

Canada wished that he could have run to the hospital to visit his brother, to see that he was alright.

Maybe it was irrational, but a small voice in the back of Canada's mind whispered that if he let his brother out of his sight for too long, America would disappear again, that somehow, America would be taken away again, and Canada would be helpless to his suffering.

Canada knew the anxious thoughts were unrealistic, but America had been taken from under his nose before, and now, here in Russia, the homeland of the man that had caused America all the pain he had suffered in the past fifty years…Canada just felt he couldn't trust that America would stay safe here.

"What is it, Dad?" Australia asked. Canada's eyes narrowed as he looked at his dad's face. He seemed somewhat excited, but nervousness was present behind his eyes.

The excitement made the knot in his chest loosen some.

The nervousness prevented it from loosening all the way.

"I went to see your brother this morning," Dad began, and as much as Canada knew he should wait for his father to finish, he couldn't stop himself from blurting out a question.

"Is it okay? Did his health take a turn for the worst?" Canada asked.

"He's okay," Dad said, and Canada felt a weight get lifted from his shoulders as his dad said that. "He's also awake."

Canada's head jerked in surprise, and he gaped at his father. America was awake. America had woken up, Canada could talk to his brother—properly talk to his brother—and hug him and apologize and see his brother again.

The knot in his chest was gone, replaced by relief and the slightest bit of anger.

Why hadn't Dad told them to come to the hospital instead of wasting their time with this meeting?

"Why didn't you lead with that?" New Zealand asked incredulously, standing up as if she were preparing to leave.

"Because he ended up having a panic attack within seconds of our conversation beginning, and I don't want you triggering another," Dad said, his voice and eyes full of concern. Canada's stomach dropped again.

Oh, America, what did Soviet Union do to hurt you this badly?

"Oh," New Zealand said, swallowing and sitting back down. Even Australia looked a bit perturbed. After all, America was their older brother. It was hard seeing someone like that look weak, to be hurt like that.

"I'm still going to visit him," Canada said, looking his dad in the eyes. Canada had been dreaming of his reunion with his brother for a long time, and he wasn't going to let his dad stop him.

Besides, if America was panicked, Canada didn't think leaving him alone would help. America had to see that they were there. America had to see that he wasn't alone anymore.

"I'm not going to stop you. I just…wanted to warn you, so if something is triggered, you're prepared," Dad said. Canada nodded.

"Do you know what triggered the panic attack you saw him have?" Australia asked.

"I'm…not sure, but I think it had something to do with my movement. I think…sudden movement probably never meant anything good for him," Dad theorized. A sick feeling rolled in Canada's stomach, and Canada tried to push it aside, turning to the door.

"I'm going to visit America now while I know he is awake," Canada began, "I need to make sure he's okay."

No one stopped him, and Canada could tell that his siblings were following right behind him.

Panic attacks. America had had a panic attack. It felt like they had only scratched the surface of what had been done to America.

Canada was afraid of what else he would find. Afraid of all the other ways that his brother might have been hurt without his knowing.

But Canada was more afraid of not knowing than knowing.

Canada just hoped America was going to be okay.

That was all that mattered to him.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Canada's government wasn't super happy that he was insisting on staying in Russia until America was allowed to leave the hospital. But with the rest of their family having gone back to their respective homes, Canada…he had to stay behind to be there for America.

Some of it was guilt. The rest was concern for his brother.

Canada knew he had Russia to keep him company now, but…Canada still felt strange leaving America alone. It wasn't that he didn't trust Russia (okay, maybe he did a little), but that America needed people to be there for him.

Especially considering how often he complained about the hospital.

Even though Canada knew a little as to why America hated hospitals now, knew that it was linked to all the hurt that Soviet Union had caused his brother, it was nice seeing him complain.

It reminded Canada of before.

The more he talked to America, the more, behind an unfamiliar flag and decades' worth of trauma that Canada could only try to understand, the more he saw traces of the person his older brother had been. The person his brother still was, deep down, hidden under fear and paranoia.

So Canada tried to talk to him as often as he could, helping, little by little, to coax his brother out of his shell, to show him that he was safe now.

When Canada walked into America's hospital room, he expected a lot of things. America talking to a doctor or nurse, America having a conversation with Russia in Russian or some variation of the two.

And while America and Russia did seem to be having a very animated conversation in their shared language, Canada's eyes were immediately drawn to his brother's face, as his jaw dropped.

America's flag was back.

His brother's old flag, his original flag, was back.

America looked up at Canada and gave a little smile, waving. Canada's heart ached at how familiar it was.

America had looked so different with the Soviet flag, but now that it was gone…America looked a lot happier.

"Ame, your flag!" Canada exclaimed, walking over to his brother, unable to keep his own wide grin off his face. America's smile widened a bit more—nothing like the joyful grins America had before, but still wider than Canada had seen from him since the restoration of his independence.

"It changed this morning," America said, smiling at Canada.

"Hug?" Canada asked, knowing by now it was better to ask as America was still prone to panic attacks. America nodded, and Canada pulled his brother into a hug, squeezing tightly.

Canada knew it didn't mean his brother was healed; of course, it didn't, but it was so achingly familiar, something that he had missed, that had been confined to the pictures Canada looked at late at night, feeling regret and guilt.

America looked more normal, and he looked happier.

Canada knew it had to do with the flag.

Canada pulled away, smiling brightly as he did so.

"Man, if I had known, I would have brought something to celebrate," Canada said, half jokingly, half sincerely.

"You don't need to bring anything. I already appreciate you being here," America said. Canada smiled.

"Well, I want to. This is…your flag is back, and that's amazing. And…" Canada said before trailing off, unable to find the words to explain what this meant to him, what it probably meant to his people, to him.

"I look more like who I used to be," America said bluntly with a small smile.

"You're still you," Canada quickly protested. As much as he would be the first to say that his brother had changed, that his brother wasn't the person he remembered him being, he didn't want America to think there was anything wrong with that.

America had changed, and he had to change, and Canada understood that. Even though he mourned the parts of his brother that had been killed during the Soviet occupation, he celebrated that his brother was alive, that his brother was healing, that things were going to get better.

There was nothing wrong with changing.

Canada certainly wasn't the same person he used to be back then, either.

"I know…but…I felt different with that flag on my face. I don't…with my flag back, it's kinda like the final conversation that he's gone, and it's over now, and I don't have to worry anymore. Before, it felt like there was maybe another shoe that was going to drop," America said, hunching in on himself and rubbing his arm.

America did that a lot, hunching in on himself as if he were trying to hide.

Maybe he was.

Russia leaned over and whispered something to America as if Canada could understand Russian and would be able to overhear. America shook his head and responded.

"Well, now all you need is for them to let you out of the hospital, and then things can really start going back to normal," Canada said, trying to cheer his brother up before wincing at his choice of words. "Okay, maybe not back to normal, but—"

"I can go home, and things can start to get better, and I can start fixing things. I know what you meant," America said, uncurling from his protective position.

"Good. I—sorry, I really didn't mean to word it that way," Canada said, not wanting his brother to be offended, not wanting America to think that Canada thought he wasn't normal, that something within him was wrong and he had to go back to who he was before to be better.

"Canada, it's okay," America said, but something in his eyes made Canada question if he really believed that.

Canada questioned a lot about his brother these days.

Once, they used to read each other very well. Now, reading America felt like reading a stranger.

Canada knew it wasn't fair to blame his brother for anything, but…he missed what they used to be able to do together, and even though his brother was right there…Canada missed all that they would never be able to do together again.

"You look a lot happier now," Canada said. America smiled.

"I am."

That was good enough for Canada. He didn't care about all the ways his brother had changed.

So long as he was happy, that was good enough for Canada.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Living with America made all of his still-healing wounds from his time under Soviet occupation blindingly obvious to Canada.

Canada tried not to bring it up, to let his brother deal with things on his own terms. Canada was afraid that pushing it was only going to cause America to close off more, and letting him talk when he was ready was the best option he had.

That didn't stop him from fretting over his brother.

When Canada came home, there was a heavy air hanging in his house, something that left him feeling unsettled.

Canada walked inside, glancing into the kitchen and seeing an uneaten sandwich on the table.

A terrible feeling sunk into his gut.

Where was America?

"America?" Canada called, receiving no response. Trying not to panic, Canada began to search the house, finding his brother curled up on top of his bed.

Canada let out a sigh of relief, his panic fading to concern.

"America, are you alright?" Canada asked. America's breath hitched, but he didn't say anything. Canada frowned. It didn't seem like America was having a panic attack, but something had clearly scared him.

Canada took a few steps closer before sitting down on the bed. He didn't sit near America, nor did he try to touch America. Canada resolved to wait until America was ready to talk—or had at least calmed himself down.

"I'll be here when you're ready," Canada said. America's head jerked in a small nod.

Canada and America sat there for a few moments until America slowly began to uncurl himself, tension in every feature.

Canada opened his mouth, prepared to ask his brother if he was all right, before pausing, realizing it was a stupid question, as America very clearly wasn't okay.

"Feeling better?" Canada elected on asking, feeling it was a better question.

"I…I think so," America said, his voice soft and hesitant. He lifted his head to look Canada in the eyes, revealing teary eyes. Canada's face softened into a smile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Canada asked. America shook his head, and Canada nodded. "Okay. Are you okay with a hug or me touching you?"

America scooted closer to Canada before pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you," America said, and Canada pretended like he couldn't feel the tears dripping onto his shoulder, "For being there for me."

"I'm always going to be here for you."

"Promise?" America asked, voice quiet. Canada smiled.

"Promise."

[weirdestbooks]

Secrecy and Deception Chapter 41

Solidarity (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

Event: Solidarity Union formed

Location:  Warsaw, Polish People's Republic

Date: August 30, 1980

"I can't believe they actually let Solidarity become a union when it's…not supportive of the current government," Poland said to his companions as soon as they had time alone after hearing the news.

"Maybe this means things are changing for the better?" Wioletta said, hope in her voice. Poland shrugged.

"I don't know. I can't…it feels more like a mistake that someone made. They don't like strikes. It hurts their reputation, and validating a union that is against them just seems…out of character for them to have done," Poland said, worry in his voice. While most governments could be strict with their people and personifications, Poland's was even more so, something that Lechosław always attributed to the continued survival of Poland's father.

It was Poland or his father in their eyes, and in order to ensure that Poland won, they kept the leash taunt.

"The USSR doesn't help either, with how overbearing he is. And the Warsaw Pact only ties that closer together," Kazimiera said.

"They recognize the union. Accidentally or not, it's…they can't go back on that now without causing themselves further problems," Poland said, nervously squeezing his hands together.

"Are you going to express your support?" Wioletta asked. Poland shrugged as a strange silence fell upon them.

"I…I can't," Poland eventually said.

"You could," Piotr added.

"He shouldn't. It might get him in trouble. It's more trouble than it's worth," Wojciech said, and Poland knew the man was shaking his head, "Poland doesn't need to put any sort of target on his back. We don't need more excuses for them to put him under martial law."

Poland hated martial law. He hated how it twisted his mind, forced him to forget and ignore his companions, and how it was so unnecessary. Poland was a good country. He knew when to push and when to obey. They didn't have to hurt him to achieve their goals.

Even if Poland knew it was less about controlling him and more about gaining the powers needed to solve what the government saw as a crisis.

"They threaten martial law whenever he reminds them that he isn't the government. But…I see your point. I just wish…" Piotr trailed off, leaving his words hanging in the air.

"The government is just trying to help me. Maybe they don't always go about it in the best way, but they're trying to help," Poland said, moreso to himself than the others. Sometimes it seemed that way, othertimes it seemed they just wanted him under their thumb.

Poland knew his government wasn't perfect. No one had a perfect government, even with Father's and United States' weird little competition.

Despite the flaws, it wasn't worth it to make trouble.

"We'll just have to see how things go from here," Poland then added when he didn't receive a response.

"Yeah. We will," Kazimiera said, sounding apprehensive.

• ───────────────── •

Event: Poland is placed under martial law due to the Solidarity Movement

Location:  Warsaw, Polish People's Republic

Date: December 13, 1981

Wojciech would always kick himself for not noticing it sooner. How Poland quieted, how he withdrew from them and their conversation, how his movements seemed less fluid, stiffer.

Wojciech knew the signs of martial law. They had discussed it as a possibility when the Solidarity strikes began. They knew it was a possibility, something that could be coming for Poland's already broken mind, so why didn't he recognize that it had happened until it was too late?

Wojciech felt like a fool. He had been so caught up in the hopes of what Solidarity wanted that he forgot that the possibility of martial law had become a certainty.

Kazimiera had been fretting a lot about the strikes, as they were slowly causing Poland to head towards bankruptcy. She worried that the growing anti-Soviet, pro-American Polish nationalism that was growing with the strikes and protests would trigger a conflict that would bite Poland against his father.

She worried a lot.

But perhaps Wojciech could stand to worry a little more. Maybe then he would have noticed it.

"Are you worrying again?" Wojciech heard Ryszard's familiar voice ask from beside him. Wojciech tore his eyes from Poland, who had been pulled away from the front as soon as Kazimiera realized what was happening and was now sitting in their little world, wings pulled tightly around him.

"I should have noticed it. It's my responsibility to look after everyone here the same way you protect people. I should have noticed, helped," Wojciech said, regret hanging heavy in his voice.

"Kaz got him out before any major damage could be done. And Wioletta is keeping Vlad from getting anywhere close to the front and causing any damage that way. It's okay. We're handling things, and it will turn out fine," Ryszard said, sounding more confident than Wojciech felt.

"But they still got some programming in," Wojciech said before hitting the wall beside him, "I hate how they can just change him because they feel he isn't good enough, that he needs to be changed in order to be the countryhuman. It's in his nature to be Poland. What gives a bunch of humans the right to decide who Poland is?"

"Poland is a bunch of humans," Ryszard said. Wojciech sighed.

"You know what I mean," He stated, not in the mood for any jokes or attempts at lightheartedness. This was a serious situation, a bad situation. The government could be doing God knows what, and if they wanted to protect Poland and each other, then they would have to sit by and do nothing.

"Still, don't blame yourself. None of us noticed. It's not all on you to keep track of things," Ryszard said as if that made it better.

Well…it helped a little.

"I know. I just…I wish this didn't have to happen. Not again. Not when there was a widespread movement in favor of helping him," Wojciech said. Ryszard winced.

"Don't bring that up around Poland. The first thing they said to him was that Solidarity was trying to kill him and that the only way he can stay alive is if he stays under the communist government," Ryszard said. Wojciech looked down at the ground, swearing under his breath.

It was what he feared would happen.

"I hate how they take advantage of martial law. I wish it weren't public information," Wojciech said, knowing that all countryhumans would be much safer if it weren't knowledge that humans had access to.

"Me too. But all we can really do now is help Poland. The martial law can end, and then we can remind him who Solidarity really is."

Wojciech nodded in agreement, trying to ignore the doubts creeping into the back of his mind.

He hoped it wasn't too late by the time martial law ended.

[weirdestbooks]

Brother Dearest, How Are You Faring? (Wattpad | Ao3)

Bonus Oneshot for the Consequence of Loyalty

Guam hated her weekly visits by Japan. They were frustrating at best and terrifying at worst. While Guam was no longer being held in a prison, the room she was locked in was hardly any better.

It was guarded, and Guam was never allowed to leave without a guarded escort.

She hated it. She hated it so much.

How Japan renamed her Ōmiya-Jima, how Japan insisted that Guam call her mom and punish her whenever she disobeyed as if she were a disobedient child. Most of all, Guam hated how Japan held her dad as a puppet state.

It was scary.

Regardless of how much emotion Japan ordered him to show, his eyes were always blank and empty.

It scared Guam so much.

She knew her father had to be trapped inside there, but…sometimes it was hard to tell. The puppet was just so different from her dad.

Guam knew today was supposed to be another visit from Japan, and she wasn't looking forward to it. Guam had learned by now that it was better to keep her head down unless she wanted to invoke Japan's anger, but she still hated it.

Guam didn't like being docile. It felt unnatural, especially with how Japan treated her people and her family.

But…she needed to stay alive.

Guam was pacing her room when Japan entered. Guam took a few steps back, trying to hide her fear.

"Hello," Guam said. She knew by now it was better not to call Japan by her name, but like hell, she was going to call Japan 'Mother.'

"Good morning, Ōmiya-Jima. It's so nice to see you. I have brought your sister along, as I have big news for you both," Japan said, walking into the room, followed by South Seas Mandate.

South Seas Mandate…well, Guam just felt sorry for her. It had to be hard to be raised by a country as delusional and volatile as Japan. South Seas Mandate did seem to buy into her mother's delusions, but Guam wasn't sure if that was fear or simply because Japan prevented her from knowing any better.

"Is Father coming?" South Sea Mandate asked. Guam felt her hands curl into fists, trying to calm her anger. Philippines was her dad, not South Seas Mandate's! She only knew the mind-controlled version, not the real Philippines, not her real dad.

But Guam didn't say anything. She had learned her lesson about that. Japan hated when her "children" fought and didn't like when Guam was "jealous."

Had Guam mentioned that she hated her yet?

"Your father will not be coming. He is busy with his new independence. Isn't it wonderful that he is now a country again after the Americans betrayed him?" Japan asked.

"It is wonderful," South Seas Mandate said. Japan turned to Guam, who clamped her lips shut and nodded.

She didn't trust herself not to yell at Japan and say something she'd regret. Dad was going to get his independence, and Japan had taken that away from him, forcing him to become a puppet state.

Japan had stolen his independence. Guam hated how she acted like she didn't.

"Ōmiya-Jima?" Japan asked as if prompting her to talk.

"I am very happy for my father. He has wanted this for a long time," Guam said, gritting her teeth as she forced out the words. Japan looked happy at that response.

"Your father has also confessed to me that there was an American state in a prison camp that had surrendered at Bataan and fought to keep your father under America's thumb. He didn't want to worry us," Japan said. Guam froze.

One of her siblings had been captured? Had ended up under Japan's control? Guam felt her face pale, and her breathing panicked. Guam was lucky. She was treated well because Japan had convinced herself that Guam was her child, but…Guam had seen how Japan treated the people she didn't like.

What was Japan doing to her sibling?

"But you're supposed to protect him!" South Seas Mandate exclaimed. Japan smiled, small and fading quickly.

"Your father didn't want to worry me with the war going on. But I told him that he needed to tell me those things, as we are meant to be partners," Japan said.

"What happened to the American state?" Guam asked hesitantly. She didn't want to invoke Japan's anger, but she had to know what was happening to her sibling.

Guam was terrified for them.

" Don't worry, Ōmiya-Jima. He is no longer a threat to your father. He has been taken from the prison with the other Americans and taken in for questioning," Japan said. Guam relaxed some. Her brother—whoever he was—was safe.

For now. Guam didn't like the way questioning sounded. Guam…she knew that meant he was going to be…be tortured for information.

Guam's gut flipped, and she felt sick.

She felt helpless.

Guam was trapped here, in his gilded prison, being treated like a queen, and one of her brothers was about to be tortured by the same person who had ensured that Guam would be treated this nicely.

"I…I used to live with the American states. Maybe I know something that can help you with your questioning," Guam said, keeping her voice even and looking down at her hands. Guam was trying to play the part of the docile and obedient daughter, trying to hide that she wanted to know who it was, wanted to see if there was anything she could do to help.

"Ōmiya-Jima, I know you want to help, but this is business for your mother and father. You do not need to get involved. You are supposed to be making up for the time in your childhood that you lost to America's ways," Japan said. Guam nodded, keeping her head down.

She was afraid that Japan would see her fear for her brother in her eyes. Guam was worried that Japan would find out her loyalties still did not lie with Japan and punish her.

Guam hoped her brother was okay.

She really hoped he was okay.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 45

The Fights of South Carolina (Wattpad | Ao3)

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August 6, 1780

The rebels were annoyingly relentless. Despite the fall of Charleston and the end of the rebel's control of major cities in the Southern Colonies, they were still not giving up the fight.

While they weren't attempting to take back Charleston, they were making movements in the countryside, which is what led to Quebec being sent out to a small outpost in rural South Carolina.

Something about a show of strength.

Quebec just found it increasingly annoying.

Quebec let out a small yawn, tired from all the stress that had come from war when suddenly he heard screaming from the right side of the camp.

Quebec shot up, all tiredness gone. There was only one thing that could explain that. They were being attacked.

Quebec rushed to grab his gun as the loyalist forces crashed into camp, having fled from whatever rebel troops had attacked them. The chaos did not help the situation, as it impeded the effort to get the real army regiments into place.

They withdraw to a thicket of trees, unfortunately leaving behind their artillery pieces, as they scrambled to put together a defense.

Eventually, they were able to put together a force to drive off the attackers, which was made up of regulars as opposed to the militia. Unfortunately, it seemed that the rebels were targeting their officers, shooting them one by one, and only furthering the confusion from the attack on the camp.

Quebec hated the tactic. It was disgusting and went against everything a civilized nation should stand for.

Quebec's face was hard until pain erupted in his neck.

Quebec dropped to the ground, hands flying to his neck, which was steadily leaking blood. His hands tried to cover it, to stop the flow, but his body began to grow slower and colder as fuzzy black spots appeared in the corner of his vision.

At that moment, Quebec knew it had been a mortal wound. There was no way he would be able to get treatment in time.

Quebec let his eyes slide shut, bleeding as he listened to the sounds of battle. A pair of hands were placed on his shoulders, and dimly, Quebec could feel himself being dragged away from the battlefield.

Distant voices were yelling as Quebec slipped further away into the dark.

He wondered if it was noise from the battle or if it was noise from the soldiers who had noticed what had happened to him.

At least Quebec was the only personification here. He knew he would come back.

Quebec wondered if his people would.

The pain was fading as the blackness crept in closer.

Quebec let himself drift away.

• ───────────────── •

August 16, 1780

Britain was furious. The rebellion had gone to far a long time ago, that much was clear, but now the rebels had taken it another step too far.

They had killed Quebec.

Quebec had returned to Charleston with haunted, hurt eyes.

Britain was less inclined to show them mercy, even though he knew it was in his best interest, too. War was war. People died. They died.

That didn't mean Britain had to be happy to learn that his son died in a war that shouldn't have ever happened in the first place. It only reaffirmed to Britain that they had to end the war as soon as possible.

They needed the Southern colonies to fully capitulate, and the Northern ones would then follow.

Unfortunately, it was hard to do that. While they had control over the cities of Georgia and South Carolina, the countryside, as proven by Quebec's death, was still hotly contested, which prevented them from being able to go further north into North Carolina.

Then they heard about the rebel army that was coming down to face them, an attempt to forced the British out of the lands they had liberated.

Luckily, since they had heard of the movement before the rebels reacted Charleston, they had the opportunity to go out and face them, rather than another siege being started.

After all, if they crushed this army, it would hinder the rebel efforts in the South and allowed Britain to continue his movements north.

They met the rebel forces in a town called Camden.

After the scare with Quebec's death, Britain had been ordered from the battlefield, now meant to stay by General Cornwallis' side during any battles, to prevent him from dying as his son had.

Britain understood the logic. He still hated it. He hated being set to the side, made to feel useless when this entire war originated in part from his failure to properly discipline his son the first time he began to speak rebellious thoughts.

If Britain had just stamped it out earlier…

Well, there was no use for regrets. Britain would just have to make do with what he had been given and hope that General Cornwallis would eventually let him return to the battlefield.

Britain had hopes that this battle would be successful, for although they still didn't have the greatest luck outside of cities, they came to the Americans, which would hopefully help them gain an advantage.

Britain still prayed for victory when the battle began. Quebec's death had shaken him in a way he hadn't been shaken before, and Britain…war was war, but Britain had reached his limit.

He needed this to be over. He needed this victory.

Britain watched as his left flank, filled with some of his most experienced soldiers, crashed into the rebel lines, which were slowly breaking under the weight of his soldiers.

Then, the line collapsed.

Britain watched with a small grin growing on his face as the collapsing line began to retreat; with the militias, the rebels relied so heavily on fleeing as they always did.

They were breaking the rebel hold on South Carolina.

While it would not be enough to get his son back, it was another blow to the rebellion and would hopefully help spark infighting within the rebellion, a deadly blow that could force Thirteen Colonies back to his side.

The rebel line had completely collapsed now, and they were fleeing in large numbers.

South Carolina was now firmly back in Britain's hands.

This meant that it was time to move to the next colony and bring North Carolina back under control.

Britain didn't know what it would take to make the rebels surrender, especially when they had an advantage in having Nova Scotia and St John's Island prisoner, but the more colonies that fell, the more they would be forced into suing for peace.

Then, this could all be over.

Britain just hoped that would be soon.

[weirdestbooks]

A Slip of the Motionless Tongue (Wattpad | Ao3)

Bonus Oneshot for the Consequence of Loyalty

TW for some Non-consensual kissing.

October 13, 1943

"It is so wonderful that you are now your own country, is it not?" Japan asked, her voice lighthearted, as if she and Philippines were friends, not puppet and puppetmaster, not empire and colony.

Philippines hated it. He hated her.

Philippines had thought America was bad for betraying him and forcing him to become a colony again after tasting the freedom of being a country, for putting him under martial law in an attempt to make him a good little American.

Japan was far worse. America had at least treated him like a person. Japan treated him well, like a puppet that she could do whatever she pleased too.

Philippines hated it.

Even this independence that she was giving, it was false independence. For even as his flag was raised, and Philippines could feel the strength of a nation flowing into him, his body remained unresponsive to his movements.

Philippines was now just a proper puppet state, trapped under the command of his master while the feeling of freedom danced just out of reach.

It was sickening.

"Yes, it is wonderful to be my own country again. Thank you for restoring it to me," the puppet said. Philippines mentally scowled. He hated this, being a prisoner in his own body, watching as Japan did whatever she wanted as she—

Philippines cut off that thought. He didn't want to remember. Those memories were the memories that made Philippines wish he didn't have to be aware of things when under the puppet's control, made him wish his mind was asleep while his body was used for Japan's amusement.

"You'll never have to worry about the Americans again. I'll make sure not a single American steps foot in this country again," Japan promised. Philippines knew if he had control over his face, he would be glaring at her. He didn't want freedom from the Americans if the other option was this Hell, a pseudo-independence where Japan promised him everything he ever wanted and gave him nothing.

At least, after the initial betrayal, America had been honest with his intentions of making Philippines a colony.

Japan was making him a colony and had the audacity to pretend she supported him, his people, and his independence.

"Aside from Kentucky," Philippines then heard his voice say.

No.

No no no no no no no no no.

He hadn't. That…no, he didn't.

Philippines felt fear and panic run through him and knew that if he had control over any part of himself, he would have been paralyzed with fear.

Philippines had just told the person who hated Americans more than anything in the world that an American state was trapped in his land, was trapped at Japan's mercy if she so decided to do anything to him.

And she would. Japan hated Americans, America, but couldn't get to him, couldn't attack him, because he was out of her reach, and as much as Japan claimed to be winning, she was being pushed back.

But now Japan knew she could get to America's son, use Kentucky against him.

"What do you mean?" Japan asked. Philippines fought against the puppet with everything he had, fighting not to break free but just to keep his mouth shut and keep him from saying anything else.

It seemed to be working at first, as the puppet fought to respond to its master, and Philippines fought to silence it.

Tears began to roll down Philippines' cheeks, not intention, but a byproduct of his battle for control over one part of his body, the one part that could doom the man who refused to abandon him.

Kentucky knew what the consequences of being found were, but like Hell was Philippines' going to give him up without a fight.

Kentucky fought for Philippines. Now Philippines was going to fight for him.

"Philippines, please. You don't have to be scared to say anything. I promise I will make sure this American pays, but I need you to explain," Japan said. There was concern on her face.

It made Philippines sick, and he fought even harder.

It was exhausting on his soul, and he could feel his strength leaving him, but he refused to stop.

Japan put a hand to his cheek and brushed the tears away.

Philippines could feel his control slipping as his lips began to move unbidden.

Please! Philipines begged, Please, you can't let this happen. She'll kill him, she'll kill him, she'll kill him.

His silent pleas went unanswered.

"Kentucky is an American state. He was sent by America to aid the army meant to keep me prisoner. He was captured at Bataan," the puppet said. Philippines dropped his fight for control, knowing it was too late now and that he needed to better conserve his strength.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Japan asked, her voice worried.

Because I love my friend, and like Hell was I going to give him up to you willingly. Kentucky cares more about me than you ever claim to, and I didn't want him to be… Philippines trailed off, knowing it was futile.

No one could hear his thoughts, his pleas, his cries for help.

No one at all.

"He was taken prisoner with the rest of the Americans, so I believed it was no longer an issue," The puppet said. It was that that had kept the puppet from endangering Kentucky.

If only Japan didn't have her strange vendetta against America, if only Japan didn't bring America up, if only she hadn't invaded his country and forced Philippines into this situation.

Every day, Philippines didn't think he could hate her anymore. Every day, she proved him wrong.

"You should have told me sooner. An American state is bound to know a lot about his country and his plans. The information he has might be able to win us the war," Japan began.

Internally, Philippines was screaming. How could he have told her when the only person in charge of his voice was her? How could Kentucky know anything when he was captured so early into the war?

Mostly, Philippines was just scared, scared for what might happen to Kentucky, scared as to what Japan had planned.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think he would be an issue anymore, and I wanted to put it behind me," The puppet said. Japan smiled.

"I understand, but we're supposed to be allies, and I want to help you. I'll find the American and take him to Fort Santiago tomorrow, though. Today is supposed to be a day of celebration, so we shouldn't let any Americans ruin it," Japan said before pulling Philippines into a kiss.

Philippines wanted to cry. He hated her so, so much.

[weirdestbooks]

Wrong Reflection Chapter 18

A Matter of Death and Dying (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Alfred hasn't expected the panicked phone call. While he knew that the research with Arthur and his brothers probably wasn't going as well as anyone hoped for, he didn't expect there to be any major emergencies when Sam left to discuss things.

Then his phone started buzzing with texts. As tempted as Alfred was to sneak a peak at them, Matthew slapped his hand anyway and told Alfred to pay attention.

Then his phone started ringing, and Alfred got the sinking feeling that something was wrong—deeply wrong.

"Hey, Germany, I have to take a call," Alfred said, his words coming out less confident than he meant for them to.

"Why?" Ludwig asked.

"Because my phone has been going off for the past ten minutes," Alfred said, unable to ignore how the sinking feeling in his gut was only getting worse. If something really was wrong, he was responding to it late.

Alfred hoped Sam was okay and that he hadn't had a magic accident.

Has Alfred ever mentioned how much he hates magic?

"Your phone's been going off too?" Arthur asked. The pit in Alfred's stomach dropped.

"Something's happened with Sam—other me," Alfred said, standing up. "I have to go."

Alfred speed walked out of the room, phone in hand, where he could see multiple texts from Dylan, as well as a missed call.

Uncle Dylan

Sam's passed out.

Alfred

Alfred, I know you don't pay attention

Alfred come back

Something's wrong

Alfred

Okay, I'm calling you

Alfred had never pressed the call button faster in his life.

"What happened?" Alfred asked as soon as the call connected.

"I don't know! He looked really pale and tired, but when I asked, he said he was just jetlagged, and then he was on the floor!" Dylan explained, sounding panicked.

"Is he sick?" Alfred asked, trying to scan his mind for anything that could explain what had just happened. He had noticed Sam getting more exhausted and tired-looking, but Alfred had chalked that up to the stress of their confrontation and being stuck here.

Had Alfred missed the warning signs?

"I don't know!" Dylan said. "I called you to see if you knew anything, but if you're confused…"

"I'm heading over," Alfred said.

"You sure?" Dylan asked. Alfred nodded to himself absentmindedly.

"I want to make sure he's okay," Alfred said. Worry squirmed in his gut.

What was wrong with Sam?

"We have him on the couch. His breathing is a little shallow, but he didn't hurt himself on the way down, so it could have been worse," Dylan explained. Some of the worry subsided at that, but it nevertheless festered in his gut.

"Thanks, Dylan," Alfred said.

"No problem, Al."

"What happened?" Matthew asked, causing Alfred to startle at his voice.

"Jesus, Mattie. I didn't realize you followed me," Alfred said as his heart rate calmed, turning to see that not only Matthew was there but also Arthur and Francis. Matthew frowned.

"What happened?" Matthew asked.

"Dylan said that Sam passed out. Like completely unconscious, and now is breathing shallow," Alfred said. Everyone looked equally as put off as Alfred now.

"Do you know why?" Arthur asked, ever the dad brother friend, prompting Alfred to shake his head.

"No, but I intend to be there when he wakes up," Alfred turning to leave the meeting place.

He hoped Sam was okay. Whatever caused him to pass out, it couldn't be good.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Sam looked…relaxed in unconsciousness. Alfred knew that Sam was in a high-stress situation, and the chance of seeing him relaxed was low, but it was strange that the one time Sam looked relaxed was when Alfred was stressed.

"How long has he been unconscious?" Alfred heard Francis ask Allistor.

"About half an hour, give or take," Allistor responded, worry in his voice. Alfred fiddled with his fingers, trying to find something to occupy his hands with to help soothe the worry that was running through him.

"Well, that's not good," Arthur said before turning to Alfred. "Are you sure this came out of nowhere?"

"Yes. He's been tired, but I just thought that was stress," Alfred said, not wanting to bring up the information he gained through his intrusion. Sam didn't need to be triggered after passing out.

"Could stress-induced insomnia make him pass out?" Dylan asked, a frown on his face as Allistor looked at Alfred, eyes piercing through him as if he knew Alfred wasn't completely honest.

Before anyone could say anything, however, they were cut off by a low groan and movement from the couch in front of them. Sam's eyes were slowly blinking open.

"Are you okay?" Dylan asked, immediately going to check in on Sam. "Your breathing is still a bit shallow."

Sam blinked, confusion in his eyes as if he weren't understanding what he was seeing. Then, he pushed himself up, hand on his head as he leaned against the couch, the bags under his eyes becoming more prominent as he did so.

"Sam? Or is it someone else?" Alfred asked.

"It's a lot. Give us a minute," Sam-or-maybe-someone-else said. There was a pause as Sam closed his eyes again, Dylan hovering nearby in case he somehow passed out again, as Alfred exchanged worried looks with the others. "It is Sam. Sorry. What happened?"

"You passed out," Seamus said, looking worried. Right, he had watched it happen. That was probably scary. Sam nodded.

"That lines up with how I feel."

"Why did you pass out?" Dylan asked, looking worried, before clarifying. "Do you know why?"

Sam shot Dylan a confused look, as if the sentence had confused him. Had he hit his head? Did he have a concussion?

"I'm dying?" Sam said, looking far too casual as he tilted his head to the side. "Didn't you know?"

Alfred froze.

"Of course we didn't!" Alfred explained, panic running through him. He knew he hadn't been perfect in handling all the issues that came up, but he thought that Sam would have been able to confide in him about something like this.

"Oh. I guess that's another difference then," Sam said, still sounding strangely apathetic.

"What does that mean?" Francis asked, his voice firm and slightly panicked. Sam sighed.

"We aren't human. That's an important thing to remember when it comes to my world," Sam said. Alfred felt the worried pit in his chest sink deeper.

He really hated Sam's world.

[weirdestbooks]

Soviet America AU Oneshot Collection

This AU was created by @universal-casey. I am just writing oneshots for it cause it's such a fun AU to write for. So go check her out for lore stuff.

The Gardening Incident

The United States refused to let himself be controlled by the USSR, and resolved to fight him. A confrontation in a garden shed changes that.

A Moment of Reflection

The Soviet Union was dead. America was finally free of his influence. Well, at least that was what he thought. Turns out the path to recovery isn't as linear as he thought.

Broken Brother

Canada had worried for his brother during the long fifty years of America's occupation by the Soviet Union. Now that his brother is free, Canada is now seeing how much he has changed.

[weirdestbooks]

A Moment of Reflection (Wattpad | Ao3)

This AU was made by @universal-casey. Go check her out if you haven't. She does awesome work! Anyway, English is in bold!

America didn't remember much after Soviet Union died.

He remembered feeling triumphant, feeling angry, feeling sad, and scared, and hurt, and so many things at once. 

Then there was black. And America felt nothing at all.

When he woke up again, he was in a hospital room, surrounded by family and people he once called friends. 

America was quick to shut his eyes. It was too much. It was all too much. He couldn't face them all, not after everything that had happened to him. 

Not after everything, the failure, the shame, the hurt.

Everything hurt.

But he still listened as murmured voices spoke with the doctors, hearing words like "malnutrition" and "chronic abuse."

America wished he could fade away into the darkness again.

There was a hand running through his hair, a gentle, repetitive motion that soothed America.

Logically, America knew he had to be safe.

He was still so scared.

But he was so tired, and the movement of the hand was so soothing, and despite his fear, America quickly slipped back into the darkness. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America awoke again to quiet murmurs. They sounded so…so far away. America tried to pull his eyes open to see what was happening, but it felt as if his eye had been glued shut.

They were just so heavy.

A hand was placed in his hair, and America let out a little whine at the contact, confusion running through him.

It was confusing, how gentle the touch was. America wasn't used to kind touches.

Belarus and he didn't interact all that much. Russia was nice, but Soviet Union hated it when the two of them talked or even interacted, and Soviet Union was…he was…America's breath hitched at the memory, and another hand landed on him, this time taking America's right hand into its own and squeezing gently as if the owner had noticed America's distress and was trying to help.

The murmured voices became louder.

America sat there for a long time, drifting in a half state between awake and asleep, head heavy. He couldn't tell how long it had been, but long enough that some voices came and went, and there was some sort of movement and pressure around his right arm that nearly woke him from his half-state, but the exhaustion won out, and despite his eyes fluttering, he never woke fully.

Eventually, America began to make sense of the voices.

They were speaking in English. It wasn't like America didn't understand them; English was his first language, after all. But it was strange hearing it spoken so freely when, living with Soviet Union, speaking English was something that he had to do secretly, practicing it so he never forgot, but still watching as his first language became foreign to his ears.

Foreign, and yet so familiar.

Like so many things about what he used to like, who he used to be.

The speakers of the voices were America's family, talking amongst themselves, talking over his body, as they must have believed him to still be unconscious because they never made any effort to include him in their conversation.

America didn't mind. He wasn't ready to speak with them. How could he, when they saw how…

America knew it wasn't his fault, that his only options were to submit or die, but a part of him couldn't help but feel shame for folding to Soviet Union's demands, shame for letting himself become a puppet state and how he stopped fighting, and shame for leaving his states alone to suffer.

America was ashamed of himself. He knew that Soviet Union had wanted that—encouraged that, but it didn't stop the emotion from choking America, keeping him silent.

America knew his family was probably just worried for his safety, but…he was scared they would scorn him for being weak, for not being able to free himself sooner.

America had lost so much, and he didn't want to lose his family. He didn't want to lose the people he loved.

America was so tired of mourning. America was just so tired.

"Do you think he'll wake up soon?" America heard Canada ask, feeling the hand in his squeeze America's hand once more, a sign that Canada was the one holding his hand.

"He has to eventually," Dad answered, his voice sounding so worried. The sound of his voice tugged at America's heart, making guilt rise up in his throat. America had made his dad sound that way. America had made his dad sound so worried and mournful, and it hurt.

America knew it was because his dad was worried for him, but it was so easy to blame it on himself, so find some reason that he was unworthy of his dad's concern, so easy to make it out as if America were some troublesome burden his dad should wipe his hands clean of.

Even with the Soviet Union gone and the man himself dead, America was still being haunted by his words, his malevolent influence.

Go figures.

America was free of him now, but what did that really mean?

Soviet Union had destroyed as much of America's history as he could, removing tangible traces of a time before to ensure everyone was complacent with the now, to make everyone forget there had been a time before, a better time, a time without fear.

And even though he could have been a lot worse, even though he had the power to torture America until his mind couldn't take it, to kill America in the hopes of breaking any sort of spirit in America's people.

He could have been a lot worse. In a twisted sort of way, America owed Soviet Union his survival. The only reason America had lived to see his death, lived to cause his death, was because Soviet Union found some sort of satisfaction in keeping America alive and under his thumb.

America lived because his conqueror wanted him too.

At the same time, Soviet Union had hurt America in ways that he wasn't sure were ever going to heal. His eye was the most noticeable example, but that didn't account for all the other things hiding underneath the surface.

America was free of him as a person, but could he ever be free of his influence? Could America ever be the person he once was, the person he knew his family missed?

America didn't know.

America didn't know how he was meant to move on, how he was supposed to…just live as if the past fifty years hadn't happened, as if…as if he hadn't been invaded and had everything taken from him.

As if he hadn't been treated as if he wasn't deserving of respect, of personhood, of everything that every other SSR got.

America didn't know what he was supposed to do with himself now. How was he meant to move on, meant to…be something more than a puppet state, servant, and glorified punching bag?

Moving on would be nice, but to America, it seemed impossible.

So America just laid there, listening to his family talk in concerned, worried voices and trying to ignore the guilt growing in his chest.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America had been trying to avoid talking to his family. He had awoken many times, talking with nurses and doctors, finding out that he was trapped, trapped in the hospital until they deemed him healthy enough to leave because he hadn't been eating enough.

America thought it was a waste of time. He had been freed, regardless of the complications of what they actually meant, from the Soviet Union, and now that he was free…America didn't want to be trapped in a hospital for an issue that really wasn't a big deal.

So what if he hadn't been eating enough, hadn't been allowed to eat enough while under Soviet Union's thumb? It wasn't that bad. America could go back to eating normally once the hospital let him out, but they wouldn't budge, pointing out a long list of issues that could come about from the malnu—from him not eating as much as they liked.

Did it explain some things, like how America got so sick so often after Soviet Union began restricting his food, how weakness seemed to persist deep in his bones, and how exhaustion chased his body until his body eventually gave out at the end of the day?

But…America had learned to live with that, and he didn't need to be monitored like a child. Like a prisoner.

America wanted to be out of the sterile environment.

It set him on edge.

Soviet Union was never one to care for America's health, so the last time America had been—

The memory of the pain was as sharp and vivid as the day it happened, no matter how many years had gone by.

Being in the hospital made it all too easy for those memories to come back, to haunt him, leaving him on edge, tense shoulders and eyes always scanning the room as if the ghost of the man who took his eye was going to appear at any moment.

So when the door opened suddenly, America, already jumpy from nerves, flinched.

Then America realized who it was, relaxing slightly.

But not fully. America hadn't been able to relax fully in years, and sometimes, it felt as if he never would again.

"Hello, Dad," America said, trying to give his dad his best attempt at a smile.

It didn't seem very successful, but his dad grinned anyway, joy alighting on his face as he walked over to America's hospital bed. There were bags under his eyes, but the joy on his face made them seem small.

"You're awake! They didn't tell us that. How long have you been up?" Dad asked, placing a hand on America's.

"I've been awake on and off for a while. I just…haven't felt like talking," America said. "I've been really tired."

It was an honest enough answer, one that was less likely to provoke any anger or strong emotions that could be harmful. Dad nodded, a soft smile on his face.

"I'm glad you're okay," Dad said before he suddenly raised his hand, and then America wasn't in the hospital bed. 

He was on the floor of his room, shaking as Soviet Union began to beat him.

"Please, stop," he begged in his conqueror's tongue as blows from Soviet Union landed on his stomach. America fought back the urge to protect his stomach, knowing from experience that it only worsened the rage.

He was shaking, a mix of fear and adrenaline, as he tried to bite down his fear, waiting for it to be over. It always ended eventually.

Soviet Union was saying something, but the words were muffled, and America couldn't make them out. His fear was too strong for anything else, his breaths shaky and uneven, as if the very air was being stolen from his lungs.

America couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?

Soviet Union wasn't strangling him, but he was there, watching America, anger on his face, the kind of anger that only promised pain.

America couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," America begged, hoping it would convince the man to show him some mercy.

America didn't know how long he sat there trembling until his senses started to return, and he began to recognize the voice speaking to him, the language it was speaking.

It was English.

America tried to hold back the tears as the panic subsided, and he remembered where he was.

America was in a hospital. Soviet Union was dead, dead at America's hand.

Soviet Union couldn't hurt him anymore.

So why was America still so afraid of him? How did his dad, his dad who had always cared for him and loved him, who had never hurt him or broken him the way Soviet Union had, why did his dad remind him of that monster?

America knew his dad wouldn't hurt him.

Why did his brain think he would?

"America, America, you need to breathe. I've backed away. I'm sorry. Please, son, breathe," America heard his dad ask from somewhere else in the room. America inhaled, his breath shaky and tearful.

The panic and the fear were old friends, and they wouldn't leave easily.

America opened his eyes, seeing his dad standing a few steps away from the bed, eyes panicked, eyes concerned, and America couldn't help the overwhelming feeling of shame that hit him.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to," America said, curling up on himself slightly. He didn't get it? Why had his brain done that? Why now, the first time he had the chance to talk to his dad, actually talk to his dad and not parrot whatever Soviet Union told him to?

"It's okay. It's not your fault," Dad said, walking over slowly as if he were afraid that America would panic again. America hated it, eyes moving from his dad to the IV that hung next to him, the very reason he was trapped in his bed. America glared at it. If he hadn't had that stupid thing, he could have left.

America was only so wound up cause he was in the hospital to begin with.

"The last time I was in the hospital, I…" America began, turning back toward his dad. But he wasn't able to finish the sentence, to get out the words to describe the beginning of the decades of shame and fear.

Dad's eyes flickered to the missing eye, and America knew his dad had understood his meaning anyway.

"I'm sorry," Dad said. America shook his head.

"It's not your fault," America said. It was his fault.

"Maybe not, but I could have done more to help. I should have listened to your concerns back when this all began, and I should have done more to help you after he took control instead of standing by and regretting," Dad said, gently reaching out to grab America's hand. America let him.

"I don't blame you for anything, Dad. I know…I know that you would have helped if you could," America said. Dad's eyes looked slightly teary, and he squeezed America's hand just a little bit tighter.

"I got you involved with Soviet Union to begin with. It was my feud that led to you having a target put on your back. It was my feud that made you think you had to protect everyone from him," Dad said. America shook his head.

"I made the choice to be that protector. Maybe your feud started it, but you never forced me to do anything," America's choices had led to the invasion—no one else's. Dad still looked guilty but gave America a small nod.

"Can I hug you?" Dad asked. America paused but nodded. Dad pulled America into a hug, gentle and not very tight, to avoid aggravating the IV in America's arm.

But it was nice.

America bit down more tears, overwhelmed by the feeling of safety that came with being in his dad's arms, the fear and panic being chased away.

For the first time since Soviet Union's death—since he had been invaded all those many years ago—America felt safe.

America pulled his dad tighter and let the tears fall.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Some of the tightness in Ameica's chest had loosened after talking to his father. It was still there and certainly wasn't going away anytime soon, not with America all mixed up, not with the confusing emotions that were plaguing him, but it had lessened some, giving way to…

America wasn't sure what it had given way to, but he felt less shameful, less guilty, less like he was alone in the world.

America had talked with his dad a lot after his panic attack and subsequent breakdown until exhaustion tugged him back to sleep.

So, despite his concerns and fears, America was excited to talk to his family again. It had been so long…America had forgotten what it was like to have a family that cared for you.

The other soviet republics hadn't been bad per se, but they were all stuck in the same situation, kept away from each other, and it was hard to find solidarity with each other with all that was happening.

America often wondered if that had been on purpose. He certainly knew that Soviet Union parading him around like he was a shiny, expensive toy had its purpose in keeping people from challenging him too much, but America wouldn't have put it past him to also keep the SSRs isolated, so none of them could team up and rebel.

Lot of good that did him, considering how it all went down in the end.

The only friend he really had was Russia, when living in Soviet Union's house, and sometimes America wondered if those feelings were more than just platonic, but now that he was free, a part of America was now wondering if those emotions were real, or if America was just clinging to the one person who showed him kindness.

America would need to talk to Russia again. Talk to him, and figure out what was happening, now that they were both free.

America didn't want to make things worse than they already were. Russia had already lost his father, even if he was a complete piece of shit.

America knew he was also somewhere in the hospital, although they had yet to be reunited.

America was pulled from his thoughts by the door opening and his brother rushing in. America flinched despite how badly he didn't want to, and Canada slowed.

"Sorry. I should have known you'd be a little jumpy," Canada said before grinning as if he couldn't help himself. "It's really good to see you."

The relief in his voice was palpable, and America felt a small smile stretch across his face in spite of himself.

He had missed his brother. Following Canada were Dad, Australia, and New Zealand, the family he had been closest to on the eve of his last days as a free country.

Dad had so many colonies, it was really hard to be close with them all, but Canada was his neighbor, and Australia, New Zealand, and him had become closer after the Second World War, when America was the one protecting them and spearheading their defense.

"It's good to see you too. I really missed you all," America said, hands tightening around the hospital sheets as emotion welled up inside of him, threatening to choke him. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—not sad ones, but happy ones.

America was with his family again. The pain of their absence had dulled over the years, but now that they were here, that he was with them again, the dulled edges of the pain seemed to become sharp again.

"Group hug?" Australia said with a small laugh, arms outstretched. It was a joke, but clearly still a silent question, as his younger brother met America's eyes as he asked.

America nodded and tried to keep his breathing even as his siblings crowded around him, pulling him into a warm hug.

America let out a wet laugh.

God, he had missed this, missed them.

It was just a hug, and maybe it was stupid, but America was just so emotional about it. He hadn't really been hugged in a while, not in the way his siblings did it, and it was just a reminder of all the time together they lost, but also how badly he had missed them.

Missed doing stupid shit together, missed hanging out and teasing each other, and all the little things that came with being siblings. Like hugs.

Grief burned in America's throat as tears began to fall.

America kept holding his siblings tight, relishing in their reunion.

America felt warm and safe in a way he hadn't in a long time. America was squeezing them tight, and they were doing the same as if America would vanish the second they pulled away.

Eventually, they let go and pulled away, and America tried to quickly wipe the tears from his eyes. If his siblings saw them, they didn't mention it.

"How are you?" New Zealand asked. America frowned at the loaded question before shrugging.

"I've been better. I want to be out of the hospital, but they won't let me leave until they think I'm at a healthy weight, even though most of my injuries are healed or no longer a problem," America confessed, firmly placing everything to do with Soviet Union and his time with the man in the "Do Not Touch" part of his mind.

His issues with hospitals were a part of that, and America wasn't ready to talk about that. He just…he just wanted to move on.

Canada frowned at his answer, some emotion on his face as if he had just realized something or had an opportunity to ask a question he had wanted to for a while.

"Why are you so underweight?" Canada asked hesitantly.

"I don't…I don't want to talk about that. Not yet. I need time," America said. Canada nodded, worry still present in his eyes.

"Don't worry, America. You've got all the time in the world. Although maybe you should consider getting therapy," Australia proposed. America shook his head, a sharp pang of fear going through him.

"I don't trust anyone to tell me how I feel about myself and the past fifty years. That's for me to work out on my own," America said, wrapping his arms around himself as if that would soothe the turbulent emotions inside of him.

He didn't trust that a therapist wouldn't just use him for their own ends.

America…he didn't like doctors anymore.

New Zealand placed a hand on his shoulder, and America sighed, taking comfort in the gesture.

"I understand," Australia said, but it felt more like a pleasantry than a fact.

There were very few people who could understand.

Speaking of people who could understand.

"Do you know what happened to all the other SSRs?" America asked. He wanted to make sure they were all okay. While they weren't close, there was still a strange form of solidarity that came from being trapped in the same situation, even if they weren't close.

Not to mention, Soviet Union's death probably threw a lot of things into disorder, as officials from the former union probably fought to keep their power.

Something that was only going to cause issues and, in the most extreme scenarios, civil war.

And that really wasn't something any of them needed.

"A lot of them are busy reestablishing themselves or cleaning out the last traces of the Soviet Union in their country," Canada explained. "They're all in the middle of a crazy political transition. This caught a lot more people off guard than one would expect."

"What about Russia? He's in this hospital, too, right?" America asked, wanting to know if he was right about that. Last he remembered, Russia hadn't been in as bad of a shape as America, so it was weird that America hadn't seen him at all. Canada nodded, a small smile on his face.

"He is, but he isn't allowed to see you," Canada said. America blinked, confused.

"Are the only visitors I'm allowed to have family? The nurses never mentioned that." America said, worried. Why would they have kept that information from him?

America didn't like it, and he felt the familiar paranoia rise up within him.

When America was in the hospital because…because of his eye, he had been a prisoner there, not allowed to leave his room, with his only visitor being Soviet Union, who made sure to drill in the lesson that America losing his eye had taught.

There, everything had been carefully monitored in order to keep America contained and exposed only to what Soviet Union wanted him to be exposed to.

Even if America had no one that could have visited him.

This felt familiar, and he didn't like it, and the urge to leave the hospital only grew.

"Well, no, but Russia isn't allowed because of some of the injuries you had. The…the doctor said it was abuse," Canada began, before pausing, as if gaging America's reactions, "So none of the former SSRs were allowed in for your safety."

America wouldn't pretend like hearing the word abuse used to describe how Soviet Union treated him didn't make something curl in his gut, didn't make part of him want to explain that it wasn't abuse, as a small part of him felt he deserved it.

America elected for an unsteady silence before eventually speaking.

"Russia never hurt me. He helped me a lot," America began, knowing he couldn't let Russia take the fall for his father's crimes, regardless of how Russia had chosen to remain ignorant, to pretend that it wasn't happening until he couldn't.

They all had their ways of staying sane. And Russia had loved his father.

America's family didn't look like they believed him, exchanging concerned glances with one another. Eventually, they decided to speak the words they were silently communicating with one another.

"Are you sure?" Dad asked, walking over from where he had been watching their reunion.

"Yes," America said, not even bothering to speak English in his annoyance. He knew his family was glad to have him back, despite everything that had been done to him, but he felt as if they didn't want to acknowledge that he was a very different person than he was fifty years ago and that they couldn't pick up where they left off.

America was going to struggle with Soviet Union's influence for years; his language, his governmental system, his ideals having sank deep into the fabric of who America was, like a vile poison, stealing away his breath and life.

English might be the language of the people, but Russian had long been the language of the government, the elite, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

America had watched the decolonization of his father's colonies, and he watched as his father's language persisted.

The changes to his country weren't going to fade. They were just a part of who he was now.

His family couldn't change that. No matter how much they wanted to.

"I know you don't want me to be hurt anymore, but…you can't pretend you know Russia, and you can't claim he is guilty for what his father did to me," America said. Australia nodded.

"If you're sure, I trust you," Australia said, with New Zealand nodding in agreement. Dad looked worried but acquiesced with a small nod. Canada, meanwhile, didn't.

"Australia!" Canada protested before glancing over at America as if he were holding his tongue in America's presence.

"Just because he was Soviet's son didn't stop him from being an SSR. You've talked to Ukraine, haven't you?" America said. He still didn't know the full context of what had happened between Ukraine and Soviet Union, and that topic was one that you didn't bring up unless you wanted to get in trouble, so America had never asked.

But America knew it wasn't on friendly terms. He knew there was a deep pain there. Even as an outsider, America had been living with Ukraine's biological family, and even if he had lost both eyes, the tension would have been clear as day.

Canada's face fell as America's words registered to him.

"I don't want to see you hurting anymore," Canada said, reaching out for America's hand, which America took, "I felt so useless, being right there and still unable to help. I just want…I want you safe."

"Then you have to let me make my own choices," America said, hoping Canada would understand the meaning without him having to say it. Canada nodded.

"Okay. I'll trust you. But if it hurts you, I'll make him pay. You're going to be safe now," Canada promised. Tears welled up in America's eyes again.

"Thank you."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The nurses moved Russia's bed into America's room the day after America's conversation with his family.

Both of them had been uncomfortable alone, and Russia had been worried about America, as apparently no one had ever updated him on America's condition, with the suspicions that Russia had hurt America.

Apparently, it was policy, a just in case, to ensure that no one could be in danger in the hospital, to ensure that people in bad situations were taken out of them.

America hated it. Hated that people saw Russia, and assumed the worst. Their independence was supposed to mean they were free of Soviet Union.

But they weren't.

America was haunted by him in his dreams, in his fears, in the familiar unfamiliarity of his mother tongue.

Russia was haunted by him in the fact that everyone saw him as his father, regardless of how much evidence there was to the contrary.

It was horrible.

But in the same way, it also continued to prove to America that the only ones who really understood were the other SSRs.

No matter what his family said.

"I thought things would be easier once he was gone and we were our own countries," Russia said with a small, humorous laugh, "But everything feels so much harder now."

"It's hard to rebuild. And it's hard to be your own country. You haven't experienced that before. It's a different kind of workload," America said, thinking back to happier days, before the paranoia, and before Soviet Union's flag flew over his land.

America really wanted his flag back.

"Sometimes it was easier to just…" Russia trailed off, shaking his head. America frowned.

"Easy doesn't mean it was good for us, for our people. He did a lot more harm than good," America said. Russia frowned, some dark emotion flickering behind his eyes.

"That's easy for you to say. I remember…I remember my father before this, before he…lost sight of everything, turned into the kind of person he always said he hated. I can't…it's hard, realizing that the person I love did so much harm to so many people. Especially to you. I hate…I hate how I never realized it before, how I chose to be blind," Russia said, his voice sad and angry.

"You loved your father. That's not a crime," America answered. Russia scoffed.

"Your family sure seemed to think so," Russia said, something hurt in his voice. It seemed like America wasn't the only one pissed off by the hospital's policy being used in that way like there wasn't evidence to the contrary.

"My family doesn't know you the way I do. I've lived with you for fifty years, and you've done more for me than you'll ever know. They just see you as another part of the person who hurt me. I know you're not," America said.

"My father used to be a good person. What if I end up like him? Ukraine already thinks so," Russia said, looking away.

"And when was the last time Ukraine actually talked to you? He doesn't get to judge you on who you were fifty years ago, and he certainly doesn't get to judge you by your father's actions," America argued, angry.

He knew how Ukraine felt. He really did.

Soviet Union had taken so much from both of them, let them starve for control over them, and tried to do everything he could to prevent them from tasting freedom.

Soviet Union was a monster.

That was no reason to take it out on Russia.

Russia, who clearly wanted to be better than his father had ever been.

"I just…maybe if I realized things sooner, I could have stopped him from hurting all those people, stopped him from hurting you," Russia said, looking back at America, tears in his eyes.

There was silence for a few moments as America processed those words.

Russia wasn't innocent; that much was true, but…Russia was raised by Soviet Union, had grown up with the good version of him, before Soviet Union became as cruel as any empire.

It was hard to see when a person you loved changed like that.

Especially when it was the man who raised you.

But even then, Russia had always been so much better than him. Russia never hurt America or starved America. Russia never cared when America spoke English and let America teach him. Russia knew and allowed America to have things from before that Soviet Union would have destroyed.

Even complacent, Russia had never been anything like his father.

"Your father broke something in me a long time ago," America began with a sigh, breaking the silence. Russia frowned and looked away.

"I'm sorry."

"Before, I had pride, self-confidence. Soviet Union broke them and then spent the past fifty years making sure to grind up any remains, leaving behind fear and shame. Now they're gone…and I feel empty. What I lost, I can't get back. And…I have no idea how to do anything anymore. But that's on him, not you. You don't need to feel sorry for his actions because they weren't your actions. We both did a lot under him. But neither of us had a choice, no matter how willing we thought we were."

Russia was silent before eventually sighing.

"No one else is ever going to see it that way," Russia said. America shook his head.

"You just need to give them time. Maybe it'll take another fifty years, but his shadow will fade eventually. Then we'll both finally be free," America said, his voice more confident than he felt.

"Maybe you're right. I just wish we could be free of it sooner," Russia said. America smile.

"Yeah. Me too."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America hadn't realized it when it happened. He hadn't had a mirror to look at himself with and hadn't been paying much attention to his appearance.

Russia had noticed it first, looking up from the book he was reading (as there was little else to do in a hospital, and America was getting stressed by the news cycle. After a panic attack, the nurses banned them from television. That was almost worse than the panic attack.), and nearly dropping the book.

"Your flag's changed!" Russia said. America felt a rush of nervous exhilaration, throwing off the covers.

"It's back?" America asked in a strangled, disbelieving voice. He knew his flag was going to change eventually, but knowing that and having it happen were very different things.

"Yeah, it's the old flag," Russia said, staring up at America with a small smile before he brought a hand to his face. "Mine hasn't changed, has it?"

America shook his head before getting out of the hospital bed, shivering slightly as his bare feet touched the floor.

He needed to see it for himself. Another piece of proof—the final piece of proof that he really was free. America grabbed his IV and began taking it with him as Russia also got out of his bed.

"You need to see it yourself?" Russia asked. His tone wasn't judgmental or questioning, more understanding than anything else. America nodded, looking down at his hands.

He could see the changes to his flag there, see that his flag was back, but a part of him…a part of him still didn't want to believe it.

America walked to the bathroom as fast as he could, careful not to rip out his IV in the process, as he didn't need to give the doctors another reason to keep him here.

America flung open the door to the bathroom and walked to the mirror.

His face lit up when he saw that flag.

America's flag hadn't changed at all since he first adopted the Stars and Stripes motif, aside from the ever-changing stars for each new state added. It was familiar, a part of who he was.

Losing that flag, to have his face branded with the symbol of the Soviet Union, of communism, of so many things he hated—it had been a hard pill to swallow, not knowing if he would ever have his familiar old flag again.

And it was back.

America felt tears well up in his eyes, the emotion overwhelming him.

Sure, it wasn't the same. His face was marred by that scar, his missing eye, dark bags under his eyes, and a gauntness in his face that hadn't been there before.

America wasn't the same.

His face didn't look the same.

But it was closer than what it had been before. The hammer and sickle were gone. Finally, the last visible trace of Soviet Union's power over him was gone.

Well, aside from the brand. But that was on his collarbone and could be hidden away. America couldn't hide the hammer and sickle on that former flag—a constant reminder of who was in power whenever he saw his face.

That reminder was gone.

America could look at his face and see himself, see the country that he had been once.

See the country he wanted to be again.

America let the tears fall.

It was such a stupid reason to cry but at the same time…America felt like he had gained back another part of himself that he had lost before; he felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders that he had never even realized before.

His soul felt lighter without the reminder of Soviet Union crushing it.

"Your people are going to be so happy that it's back," Russia said. America smiled and nodded, gripping his IV tighter.

"I'm happy that it's back. I feel…better. More like myself," America said before turning to Russia with a small smile. "It's hard to explain. I feel like a weight has been taken off my chest. Everything feels more real now."

"I'm glad. You…you look happier with that flag. Happier than I think I've seen you since…well, everything began," Russia said, his tone unsteady, as if he were trying to avoid opening old wounds.

"I think this is just…it's the first time that it's actually hit me, really, truly hit me, that Soviet and his government aren't going to be a problem anymore. Before, sometimes it felt like a dream, too good to be true, and any minute I was going to wake up again and—" America cut himself off, beginning to feel choked up.

"Because with his flag, it felt like he could be some cruel trick," Russia said, understanding. America nodded, a frown appearing on his face.

"And…and it also felt unreal that I was the one to do it. How could I have killed him? He's…I was terrified of him. I still am, I think, and the idea that I could have done that…yeah, maybe fifty years ago, it would have made sense, but now? He made me feel powerless, weak. And in turn, he felt… invincible. And now he's dead at my hands. It doesn't…it doesn't make sense, and yet that's what happened," America said, lifting up his hand to cover his missing eye.

"Well, now you have your proof that he was never invincible," Russia said. America let out a small laugh, pulling his hand from his eyes, looking at his reflection.

Battered as it was, it was still him.

"I guess I did," America said quietly, "I hope you get your new flag soon, too."

If there was anyone else who could use that reminder, it was Russia.

Russia put a hand to his head, covering the hammer and sickle that still rested there.

"Yeah, me too. Maybe without his symbol, everyone will stop claiming I am my father," Russia said. America placed a hand on his arm, trying to offer some comfort.

"We can only hope," America said before turning back to the mirror, examining every detail of his flag, refamiliarizing himself with this face, as opposed to the face that he had before.

America had his own flag again.

He really was free.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America hadn't seen much of his states since the Soviet Union took power, since America was taken away to Moscow and locked away there.

Soviet Union had kept them away from America because they had always been more rebellious, and Soviet Union needed America broken.

They posed too much of a risk to his goals.

So America rarely saw them, and typically, it was the one Soviet Union already had on a short leash or Soviet Oregon, the one born of his conquest.

Apparently, that one was dead now.

America couldn't really bring himself to care. A state born of Soviet Union's invasion wouldn't have an easy time in a world without him.

Death was a mercy.

Still, his real states, especially the ones that had fought the hardest, America had not seen in decades.

So when his states finally began visiting, America couldn't have been more excited. They had been busy dealing with the aftermath of Soviet Union's death while America was hospital-bound, and apparently, Pennsylvania had preserved quite a lot of stuff from before the invasion, helping to…restore what he had lost.

And change what needed to be changed now that things had been different for so many years.

Perhaps that was why it was so ironic that Pennsylvania had been the first state America saw again.

His face was so familiar and yet so different. America was sure Pennsylvania was thinking the same thing.

They had both changed in the past fifty years since they had last seen each other.

Most noticeably, Pennsylvania's wings were gone.

America didn't comment on it.

"It's good to see you again," America said, gesturing for Pennsylvania to come over and give him a hug. Pennsylvania smiled and did just that.

"You have no idea how good it is to see that flag on your face again," Pennsylvania said, relief in his voice. America grimaced, remembering how much Soviet Union liked flaunting America around to his people to keep them under his thumb.

When America pulled away from the hug, he did his best to smile.

"You have no idea how wonderful it is to have it back. The final proof that that part of our lives is over," America said. The relief in his voice was palpable.

"I'm glad it's over. I saved a lot, like the Declaration, and a lot of other stuff from before, but I was always worried that one day the protections I had would fail, and Soviet would destroy them," Pennsylvania said. America let out a bitter laugh.

"He probably would have forced me to do it. Just to remind me of who I belonged to," America said. Pennsylvania scowled, the expression dark and ugly.

"Sick bastard. Glad he's dead. Karmatic justice, with you being the one to take him out," Pennsylvania said. He was so…he was so angry. America hadn't ever heard him like this before.

But Soviet Union had hurt them all. America was just finally seeing that.

"I wish I could have done more sooner," America said. Pennsylvania's eyes flickered to America's missing eye, the same way so many people did when they were trying to combine the person they remember him being with the person he was now.

"You killed him. That's enough for me," Pennsylvania said before plastering a semi-fake smile across his face. "Enough with all that depressing talk. The future is bright. Do you know when you're leaving the hospital?"

"Soon," America said with a shrug. "They're very concerned about my health due to the malnutrition and how often Soviet should have let me go to a hospital and didn't. At least I can walk around now, but I'm still a little bit stir-crazy."

"I hope you'll be out soon. Things are a bit chaotic right now. They're trying to make Russian an official language! Can you believe that? We're not Russian, and we're not under the Soviet Union's control anymore, so why the hell would we do that?" Pennsylvania said, laughing as if it were a funny joke.

America furrowed his brows. He understood Pennsylvania's anger, but…that wasn't the way things were anymore.

"Because so many people speak Russian now. It was mandatory in schools, and you had to speak it to be in government, and that's not going to go away. We can either embrace it and move forward or argue endlessly over something that can't be changed," America argued. Pennslyvania looked at him disbelievingly, horrified.

"You can't possibly believe that. What good comes out of pretending like Soviet still has power over us?" Pennsylvania said. There was something worried in his gaze, something else that America couldn't read. America shook his head.

"It's not pretending he has power over us. It's accepting the way things are now. We can't force people to use English. The Russian language is a part of the country now. I've been speaking it daily for decades now. And…and even if we only had English as an official language, that's not going to stop it from still sounding foreign to me," America confessed quietly. He hadn't told anyone that.

But if it got the point across he would. Pennsylvania just looked horrified, staring at America as if he didn't recognize him.

"America," Pennsylvania began, sounding so…scared. "This is why we can't have Soviet influence here anymore. Letting it stay, it'll only make us weak to other powers."

"Like who?" America asked, his voice firm.

He knew where this topic was going.

Ironically, as if he knew he was being talked about, Russia reentered the room.

Although he had been discharged two days prior, he had been staying in a nearby hotel until they let America out.

"Hello, Russia. This is Pennsylvania, one of my states. He's just catching me up on things I've missed," America greeted casually, ignoring how horrified Pennsylvania looked. Russia smiled at Pennsylvania, looking nervous.

"Hello, Pennsylvania," Russia said, his English accented but understandable. Pennsylvania turned to America, eyes wide.

"Why is he here?" Pennsylvania hissed, his voice low and..and very scared.

"Because he's my friend, and he's worried about me," America said, noticing the fear, the paranoia in Pennsylvania's eyes. America was intimately familiar with that kind of fear and paranoia. "He's not his father. Russia chose me over him."

"You can't be serious," Pennsylvania said. America straightened his back, trying to command as much authority as one could from a hospital bed.

"He's not his father. I trust him," America said. Pennsylvania shook his head, looking…terrified as if he were about to be attacked.

"How? He's the son of the man that invaded us. I wouldn't be surprised if he helped plan the invasion, wanting to see us crushed under Daddy Dearest's thumb! How do you know that he's not just going to manipulate you, keep you as a satellite state? America, we just got our freedom. We can't…we can't lose it again," Pennsylvania said, his voice emotional. He sounded near to tears.

America understood where Pennsylvania was coming from, the fear and paranoia that had kept him alive to see this day, but it wasn't needed anymore and was only going to hurt him.

"He's not going to hurt us. He was hurt by Soviet, too. I trust him, even if you won't," America repeated, standing firm.

Pennsylvania shook his head again. The fear in his eyes had faded some, replaced by grim determination.

"I think this is a big mistake and is only going to hurt us all," Pennsylvania began. "But if you're sure, I won't get involved. Just…be careful."

With those final words, Pennsylvania left the room.

"He doesn't like me, does he?" Russia asked. America shot him a small smile.

"Give him time. He's just…dealing with a lot right now," America said. A small part of him had hoped that his states would be okay with Russia.

But most of them knew nothing of Russia other than the fact that he was the son of the enemy.

America just hoped the rest of them would trust that America knew what he was doing and trust Russia as a result.

America just got out from under the control of the Soviet Union. He didn't need any more problems.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America didn't trust his doctor. Not really. He knew, logically, that they were probably doing what was best for him, his family, Russia, and his states; they wouldn't have let him stay with a doctor who was purposefully keeping him trapped, but…America didn't like it.

Maybe it was the clinical environment of the hospital, triggering bad memories and paranoia. Maybe it was because he was alone in the room, having to deal with everything himself.

Maybe it was because of the fact that the doctor spoke very little English, mainly Russian, reminding America of those doctors who treated his eye so long ago.

They hadn't been cruel, per se, but they had been used by Soviet Union to display his power over America. Back then, America hadn't spoken a lot of Russian, so Soviet Union had taken over the burden of consent for anything involving his medical care.

It hadn't been torture, but it had made America, America, who had just lost his will to fight, feel weak and helpless. It had been used to shame him.

America had been trapped in that hospital.

Those memories would never leave him.

So when the doctor spoke to him, America couldn't help but hunch in on himself, trying to stay small.

"Your body weight is back to normal, but we want you to stay with someone for a while just to monitor things once you're out of the hospital, just in case there are any complications, and to ensure that you're eating fine," The doctor said. America frowned, asking in a voice that was far too quiet for his liking.

"Can I leave now? Or do you want me to find someone first?" America asked. If he wasn't allowed to leave now, not allowed to leave until he complied, complied with the orders of a man he didn't trust, complied with the orders of a man that reminded him too much of a power play by Soviet Union, America…he…he didn't know what he would do.

But he felt…powerless in a strange way.

Even though the IV was no longer attached to his arm, even though he wasn't strapped to the hospital bed like he had been when his eye was being treated (Soviet Union hadn't wanted any escape attempts, even if America had been too broken to even try), all signs that he was going to be discharged, America just…he felt like it was all an act, like the other shoe was about to drop.

"You're still being discharged. This is just a recommendation for your own personal health in order to prevent any complications," the doctor said. America nodded.

"I'll see if I can figure something out. Can I leave now?" America asked, fidgeting. He was eager to leave, and the doctor seemed to have noticed that, too, because he nodded.

"Your brother is bringing in a change of clothes for you, so you don't have to leave in the hospital gown, but yes, then you can leave once that is taken care of," the doctor said, leaving the room. America watched him go, the tension only fading when he left.

God, Soviet Union really had made him fearful and paranoid of the most mundane things.

Although, maybe he had just been that way for a long time before when paranoia had been consuming him.

Either way, America hated it. How was he meant to be a country again when he could barely talk to a doctor?

"You look upset for someone who's finally going to leave the hospital he's been complaining about being in," America heard Canada say. America looked up, seeing his brother at the door, looking concerned. America smiled.

"Sorry, just thinking about the doctor. He thinks…he thinks I should stay with someone to help monitor my weight and stuff, just to be safe, in case any complications arise," America said, standing up to walk over to Canada, taking the clothes from his brother's arms.

"Do you want to stay at my place? We can catch up in a place that isn't a hospital, make up for some lost time," Canada offered. America almost considered refusing before remembering that he no longer had a house of his own.

That was one of the first things Soviet Union took from him. His house and everything inside of it. America had no idea if his home was still standing or what happened to all of the things inside of it.

It was an option between staying with Canada or staying with one of his states, and as great as it was to be talking to his states again, things were awkward between them, most of them not liking America's closeness with Russia and America always feeling guilty when around them.

It would be a while before things began to feel normal on that front.

America smiled.

"I'd be happy to stay with you," America began, stepping into the bathroom to put the clothes on. "Just until I get my own place."

America could feel Canada's excitement, and he couldn't help but smile.

He was glad to be getting out of that hospital.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It was strange staying in Canada's house. America thought he would feel better after leaving the hospital and beginning a return to normal life, but… every day, that just felt more impossible.

It was hard, figuring out what to do with his time now.

Canada was trying to help, and America, of course, had some governmental matters to take care of now that he was cleared to…but it just felt hard.

America felt trapped.

He knew he wasn't; he knew he could leave at any time, and his brother would let him, but it was hard, fighting against his brain, against the habits that had been built up to keep him safe from Soviet Union's anger.

America tried to keep himself busy, finding chores to do, things to fix, anything to keep his hands busy.

When his hands were busy, it helped keep away the memories.

Besides, it was what he was used to, and it provided some sense of normalcy, even though America knew his definition of the word was skewed as he applied it to the abusive situation he had been in.

But what else could he do?

America tried to move forward, tried to do things he had done before the invasion, tried to do things with Canada, but America felt as if he were trapped in a cycle, trapped in the memories of what had happened.

America had thought the memories would stop haunting him when he left the hospital, but they just changed from the memories of losing his eye and the aftermath of that, to…to the memories of everything else.

America had nightmares a lot, waking up in the far-to-comfortable bed, mind trapped in the past.

America always had to go to the bathroom after that, look at his face in the mirror, look at his flag, his flag, not the one Soviet Union made him, and remind himself that Soviet Union was gone, that he was gone, and America was safe now.

Canada hadn't brought it up yet, but America could tell he was worried, that he knew something was up.

America hated worrying his brother. He knew that Canada had been so excited that it was all over, that America was free now, but living with him, America felt that Canada now saw all the ways America was still trapped.

How America stared at the old pictures of himself from before this all happened, trying to remember a time when he had been that happy and carefree.

America was happy, but there was an ever-present sadness in everything he did, in every memory.

Probably grief.

America had been stuck in that survival situation for so long, not really trying to live, although he had still been able to do that but survive, and now that the fight or flight was over, now that America could live without having to worry about survival, about looking over his shoulder…it was a lot harder than he remembered it being.

America just wished that it all could have been over when Soviet Union died, that the memories would stop, and America could move forward with his life.

America should have known better.

That didn't stop the memories from hurting any less.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America ate his meals with Canada. His brother was worried about his health and always insisted on it. Despite everything going through his head, America didn't mind it all that much. It was nice to have someone who cared for him, who cared about his health, in making sure he was going to be okay.

Not only that, but it helped America remember to eat. In the hospital, the nurses had always brought him food, scheduled meals that kept America eating, as America struggled to tell when he was hungry now, so desensitized to the sensation of hunger.

Canada offered that same schedule, reminding America to eat and ensuring that he actually finished the meal instead of eating a little and calling it a day.

America was starting to understand why the doctor wanted him to stay with someone for the first couple of weeks out of the hospital. It was surprisingly easy to neglect his own health.

It was also nice being in Canada's presence. It was a reminder that no matter how his brain tried to twist his perception of things, make America feel like he was still a prisoner in some way, America wasn't.

It was something normal, a normal that didn't come from the routine he had in Soviet Union's house.

But even his new normal had its interruptions.

"Hey, America, something just came up, and I'm not going to be able to make it home for lunch," Canada called from where he was hopping to the door, trying to tie his shoe. America leaned against the entranceway to the living room and smiled.

"Don't fall," America offered unhelpfully. Canada, having somehow managed to tie his shoe (although it looked as if it could come undone at any minute), flipped America off.

America was surprised by the laugh that escaped him at the gesture.

Canada's face lit up, and he looked proud of himself as if he had achieved a goal. He probably had. America hadn't exactly been as cheerful as he once was, and he was sure his brother was happy about seeing something familiar, another sign that America was healing.

America didn't mind, the smile not leaving his face as he waved at his brother as he left the house.

Something about interactions like that always soothed the jagged and broken parts of his soul.

America had a good feeling about the rest of the day.

He managed to resist the urge to clean everything again, as Canada's house was small. America must have cleaned it until it was cleaner than when Canada bought it. Instead, he sat down with some random book from Canada's bookshelf.

America had read around half of it when he checked the time and realized that he should eat, as it was far past lunchtime, but America hadn't eaten yet.

Glad he had caught himself before he skipped lunch, something America knew was going to make Canada look at him with worried eyes, America bookmarked his spot in the book and made his way to the kitchen to cook lunch.

Cooking was soothing. There was something about the motions of it that calmed some of the fears that plagued his mind.

But, since he had only realized so late, America didn't bother to cook anything, instead choosing to make himself a sandwich.

America made it, took it to the table, sat down, and prepared to eat it.

But something stopped him.

As America reached out, he saw that his hands were shaking, and his breaths were starting to become shallow, shaking as well.

Fear welled up inside him, and America tried not to start crying.

Was this real? Was something about him so damaged that the act of eating alone left him choking on his fear?

America wasn't doing anything bad! He was supposed to be eating.

But his mind was turning against him, and his throat was closing up. It was so stupid, panicking over the simple act of eating food alone, but before his freedom, before Soviet Union's death, America eating without permission was a cause for…for…

America could feel the phantom hits against his skin.

Why did Canada have to have something come up? He was doing so well. But now, the smell of the food was making his stomach turn in knots, and America forced down a choked sob.

America grabbed the sandwich and took a bit, determined to push through the panic and eat.

It didn't even make it to his mouth before he was almost throwing up.

Maybe he was just sick. With shaking hands, America set it back down, retreating to his room as he tried to get his breathing under control.

His eyes burned with unshed tears, and it was hard to swallow past the lump in his throat.

America went to his bed and curled up into a small ball before he let some of his tears begin to fall.

Today was supposed to have been a Good Day.

America sat there, face buried in his knees until Canada came home.

Why couldn't it have been a Good Day?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

America knew at some point that he would have to talk to his brother.

He would have been blind to notice how Canada wanted to talk, wanted to do something to break the awkward silences that would persist whenever Canada noticed some strange new behavior in America, and was visibly holding back from asking more.

It made things a little tense, and when things got tense, America got nervous, which didn't help any. It just made America clam up more, less eager to talk.

He trusted his brother, of course, he did, but the small part of his mind trained to keep him alive during the worst of Soviet Union's rage whispered what-ifs.

Eventually, it seemed that Canada wanted them to talk.

"Ame, can we…I need to talk with you, if you're okay with that," Canada asked one morning. America nodded, leaving the kitchen to go sit by Canada on his couch.

"I'm not going to talk about anything that I experienced when under his control," America began, wanting to ensure that the conversation never even went down that avenue. Canada nodded.

"You don't have to. I need to…I'm sorry," Canada began. America's brows furrowed in confusion as he turned to his brother.

"What for?" America asked. He didn't remember Canada doing anything recently that could warrant an apology. Canada…he had been amazing in helping America and…restoring some healthier normalcy to America's life.

"For not being able to do more to help you," Canada said before looking away. He said those words like it was a big secret, a hidden shame he couldn't tell anyone else about.

It was a silly apology because Canada had done so much for him.

"Nada, you've done so much to help me. Letting me stay here, helping me with…just feeling normal again, it means a lot. You haven't failed me, so you don't need to beat yourself up over it," America said, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, hoping it would provide more comfort.

"I meant more…with what happened at the beginning," Canada said. America felt a small flicker of anger within him, something he quickly stamped down.

Why did everyone want to blame themselves for what happened to him? The only people to blame were Soviet Union, the bastard that invaded America in the first place, and America, who made himself so much of a target that he…he…

"You couldn't have done anything. It's not your fault," America said.

"I could have done more. Do you know how many UN meetings I sat through…where I could have said something, called Soviet Union out on his shit, tried to protect you, and instead just sat there and watched?" Canada said, tears in the corners of his eyes. America swallowed hard.

He hated those meetings. The eyes of the world were on him, watching him and his shame, watching as he was forced to silently agree with everything Soviet Union said, watching as he behaved as a puppet.

America hated them because he was surrounded by friends and family and yet so firmly under the thumb of his invader.

It made America feel hopeless, helpless—like he could never be free from the Soviet Union, and this was his new reality.

"Nada, that's not your fault. Unless you were planning on invading or killing him…that wouldn't have changed things," America said. It probably would have made things worse for him if America was being honest with himself, but that wasn't a burden he needed to put onto Canada.

Canada didn't need to know that every time someone tried to help him without actually freeing him. It only seemed to make things worse, only seemed to make Soviet Union angrier and angrier at the idea that America's friends and family still cared for him.

America supposed if it wasn't so effective to parade him around like a trophy, Soviet Union would have ensured America saw or heard nothing of any of the other countries, just to further leave him trapped and broken in isolation.

"It would have made me feel like I was doing something. I just…I missed you so much. You were so close, and yet, I could never talk to you, or…or…I just felt helpless, like I had abandoned you to him, and…" Canada trailed off. America pulled Canada into a hug, resting his head on his brother's shoulders.

How could Canada blame himself for doing the best thing for him, his people, and the continued existence of people who could fight Soviet Union? If all of them had ended up under his control, however unlikely that was, then there really would have been no end to the pain.

"You stayed free. That's all that really mattered to me. I would have hated even more if you did something dumb, tried to fight him, and only got yourself captured and forced into his union. I would have felt like it was my fault for not protecting you. Maybe the last fifty years sucked a lot for me, but at least I always knew that everyone else was safe. I can't be mad at you for that. Nada, I'm never been mad at you," America said.

Canada leaned into the hug, letting out a shaky breath before falling silent for a long few moments as if he were thinking hard about something. Finally, Canada sighed.

"I missed you a lot," Canada said. America squeezed his brother tighter, burying his face into his shoulder.

"I missed you too," America responded.

They sat there like that for a while in silence, just enjoying each other's company.

Then, Canada began to speak.

"It was terrifying, the first time I saw you after you lost your eye. You were so different, and it scared me. I had been trying to keep my head down after the invasion, afraid that I was a target. Still, I was there at the UN meeting when UN got really mad at Soviet for a violation of international law," Canada began. America scowled.

"A lot of good international law did me," America muttered.

"Yeah, well, no one was ever going to be able to talk Soviet into leaving your country, and no one had an army to force him out. But…it was scary because all we really knew was that you were in his hands. And for three months, that was all I really knew, even though I tried to learn more," Canada continued.

"My flag changed, and I was branded within the first week. Soviet was also pretty intent on isolating me from my people, so I was in Russia pretty quickly after. My states were still fighting back, and I don't think…I don't think he wanted to risk me getting away from him," America replied, lifting his head from Canada's shoulder but still holding his brother close.

They were the first words he had spoken about anything involving his time in the Soviet Union.

Canada looked shocked that America was even talking about it, but he quickly regained composure and pulled America closer to himself, as if trying to provide America, or maybe even the both of them, comfort.

"I'm guessing it only got worse from there," Canada stated. It wasn't a question, but Canada was clearly opening the floor for America to talk more if he wanted.

"Soviet didn't like that I was fighting him," America said. He didn't want to say anything else, and considering the state America remembered being in for that first UN meeting…well, he wouldn't need to.

"The next time I saw you, it was at a UN meeting. I got excited 'cause it was proof that you were alive, but…" Canada trailed off, "Then I saw your eye and how…different you were. I wondered a lot if I could have somehow stopped that."

"You couldn't have done anything. Nada, when I say it wasn't your fault, I mean it. Some of the states have told me about the things you have done to help my people during all of this. You did what you could. That's what matters," America said, giving his brother a small, sad smile. "Okay?"

"Okay. That…that was a lot. Do you want to find some stupid movie to watch to…take our minds off that?" Canada asked. America smiled and nodded.

"That sounds great. I want the shittiest movie you have. I've…I haven't watched a good movie in a while," America said. Canada grinned.

"I have just the movie for you."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Ukraine's visit had been a surprise. Canada had offhandedly mentioned they were friends once, but it hadn't been brought up since, and America had forgotten until he stepped inside of Canada's house after what had down become a daily tradition of waking around the neighborhood and seeing Ukraine sitting there on the couch.

Ukraine and America had locked eyes, and America stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

"America, you know Ukraine," Canada said awkwardly, picking up on the tension between them. America didn't say anything, hunching in on himself a little. Ukraine nodded at America.

"Thank you for taking care of him," Ukraine said. "A huge weight has been taken off everyone's shoulders now."

America gave him a weak smile.

"You're welcome, but I didn't do it for the rest of the world," America said. The others had been the furthest things from his mind. Bleeding, injured, and weak, America had attacked and killed Soviet Union for his own freedom, finally snapping after decades of abuse.

Only to retreat back in on himself after.

"If I had the chance, I wouldn't have done it for the rest of the world either," Ukraine answered. Canada, who barely spoke any Russian, was watching them with barely disguised curiosity but seemed to be holding himself back from actually saying anything. Ukraine then turned to Canada with an apologetic look.

"Do you mind if I talk to your brother for a little bit? I know we were meant to be spending time together, but—"

"Go ahead. I'm sure you have a lot to talk about," Canada said with a small smile and slightly worried eyes as he stepped out of the room.

"Is this the former SSR bonding club, or what?" America asked, turning to Ukraine, unsure of what they really had to talk about.

"I don't know, I just…Canada tries to understand; he really does, but he can't, and I figured…you might want to talk about some of it. I saw you at all those UN meetings, too. I know—" Ukraine's voice hitched, and America looked away.

America had forgotten the first person Soviet Union starved was Ukraine.

"I forgot that you were the first one he starved as a means of control. I guess he decided it was effective enough to use twice," America said, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. Ukraine let out a bitter laugh.

"He was always a bastard like that. He claimed he wanted equality but picked his favorites and left the rest of us to starve," Ukraine said, his voice full of the bitterness of someone who had been clinging to his resentments for decades.

"And by favorites, you mean Russia."

"Who else?" Ukraine asked. "He was always the favorite, but it just got worse as time went on."

"But you know he was a victim, too, right? Just because Soviet liked him more doesn't mean that all of the hurt he went through wasn't real," America pointed out. Ukraine scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground.

"I know that. We've talked. But that doesn't excuse the things he did do to hurt me. Maybe you can't see it, because he likes you more than he liked me, or maybe he really has changed, but when I tried to leave, Russia turned his back on me. He didn't care that we were family. He only cared about obeying Soviet," Ukraine said. His voice was still bitter…but sad, too.

"Maybe he was worried you'd be hurt if you failed," America pointed out. America knew the pain of failed escape attempts. He had been carrying a reminder of it for fifty years.

"Maybe. That doesn't mean I have to forgive him," Ukraine said. America didn't say anything after that. He knew nothing about the situation and didn't want to make anything worse. He didn't even know why Ukraine wanted to talk to him.

Finally, Ukraine sighed.

"It's going to get better," he said. America raised an eyebrow and glanced at him, prompting Ukraine to continue. "Everything feels terrible now, and it feels like he's haunting you, about to take you back somehow, but…it's going to get better. It did for me. It will be for you. Especially since you don't have the threat of him invading you again anymore."

"Thank you," America said. While he knew that Soviet Union had hurt Ukraine and him in different ways, it was nice to hear someone say that it would get better, that the paranoia and fear were going to get better, that it was going to become easier to become a country again, even if it felt impossible.

And Ukraine was also right.

There was no more threat from the Soviet Union to keep things in a limbo. Things could actually heal.

"Why do you think he never invaded your country? You know, before you joined NATO?" America then asked, curious. Ukraine shrugged.

"I…I don't know. After you fell, I thought my independence was going to be short-lived again, that I was going to be forced into being an SSR again, and that the other countries he used to have power over were also going to fall. But…he took you, and he stopped. I think capturing your land took more from him than he expected, even if it helped to keep him alive for a little while longer," Ukraine said. "Why?"

"Sometimes, I try to understand the way he thinks," America said. Ukraine snorted.

"Why would you do that?" he asked, looking genuinely curious.

"I don't know. I guess a part of me wants to make sense of him and why he hurt me in the ways he did. Because…sometimes it felt like it was more than just 'I used to oppose him,'" America explained.

"Here's my advice. Don't try to make sense of him, because it'll just make everything more complicated. Just…be glad he's gone and that you get to have your freedom now. Don't waste more time on him than you need to," Ukraine said before giving America a small smile and leaving in the direction Canada had gone.

America wrapped his arms around himself.

Ukraine was right. It was better to move on and stop dwelling on the past.

But…America had no idea how to begin doing that.

Maybe he really did need therapy.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Canada, I think I should look into getting a therapist," America announced one morning over breakfast. He had been debating with himself over the idea, so nervous about committing to getting one.

He was still afraid that he might be taken advantage of and that…talking about it all would only make things worse.

But at the same time, things weren't getting better, and America was still struggling as he did before.

Canada seemed surprised, head jerking up, mouth half open, and his eyes wide as he stared at America.

"Close your mouth, you'll catch flies," America chided, snapping Canada out of his shock.

"Sorry, I just…what happened to 'I don't trust therapists?'" Canada asked, instantly becoming focused on the conversation.

"I don't trust therapists still…but Ukraine got me thinking on some things—about moving on, and…I don't think I can do that on my own. It doesn't seem likely, not without help. I get…stuck in ruts too easily, and I know I need to talk about some of the things that have happened to me, but…I…I don't—I can't talk about it with anyone in this family. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But some things I need to talk about," America explained. Canada nodded, nothing but understanding in his eyes.

"Did you have any therapists in mind, or…?" Canada trailed off, letting the question hang in the air. America shot him a small smile.

"I was hoping you would help me. I…I'm still pretty paranoid, especially when it comes to this, and I was wondering if you would be willing to help me go through candidates and help me pick ones that would be good and help make sure my distrust of them doesn't cause me to become…completely unreasonable in my standards," America asked. Canada nodded, a grin spreading across his face.

He looked really happy about America's choice, and regardless of how nervous America was, that only reaffirmed to him that he was making the right choice.

"Of course. I'd be honored to help. Have you started compiling anything yet, or do you want to start later?" Canada asked. America shot his brother a sheepish look.

"I haven't started yet. I told you because I was afraid I would back down unless someone held me accountable," America confessed. Canada laughed.

"Well, that's understandable. But…I'm really proud of you. This is a really big step, and I know it's not one you want to take, but…I'm glad you're learning to take care of yourself again," Canada said. America smiled, rolling his eyes.

"You keep talking like that, and people are going to start thinking I'm the younger brother," America joked.

"Ha, ha. I'm a great older brother," Canada said, "Now, can I have a hug?"

America stood up and let his brother hug him, relishing in the comfort he provided. Canada had been so great the past couple of weeks as America readjusted. A small part of America knew that part of the reason that living with Canada had motivated him to start working past his issues was because he didn't want his little brother to see him as broken anymore.

Since America was preparing to move out to his new home, one that he had recently bought for himself, he still wanted to keep that momentum of self-improvement and keep working to move past it all.

Canada had proven to America that it was impossible to do that alone.

"Thank you," America said, feeling himself begin to choke up a little. Canada squeezed him a little bit tighter before pulling away.

"What else are brothers for?" Canada asked. America smirked.

"Free food, what else?" America joked. It wasn't a good one, but Canada laughed anyway, as he always did whenever America managed to make a joke.

America thought that Canada was just happy to see America slowly healing to a mood where he could make stupid jokes.

It was nice. Every time Canada got so excited about America's recovery progress, it only motivated America to do even better.

It was strange how one person could make everything so much better.

Even if America never managed to find a therapist that worked for him, he was still going to try to work on himself. For Canada, for Russia, for all his family and friends.

America didn't want to be that broken little puppet state anymore.

He was going to be himself again, the United States of America.

America wasn't going to let the Soviet Union win.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Being a country was hard. The eyes of the world were constantly on you; everything you did was judged and debated, and your fate could sometimes dictate the fate of an entire country.

America had never really thought about how hard it was to be a country. Not until his independence was restored.

Of course, it wasn't because he didn't know how to be a country, but rather that he was struggling with personal issues that came about as a result of everything the Soviet Union had done to his lands, his states, his people, and to him.

The world was different now.

And it was hard to adapt when struggling with your very identity and self-worth.

America was really lucky to have a support system that was always going to be there for him.

However, America was finally going to stop mooching off his family's kindness, as he had finally gotten his own home in his capital and was preparing to move back there and into his new home.

As great as it was living with his brother, America didn't want to live off his kindness forever. Besides, America wanted to live in his lands again. After so many years in Moscow, America felt like he had finally come home.

"Smaller than I expected," Canada remarked as he parked the car outside of it. America let out a small laugh.

"Soviet's house was big. Smaller…it reminds me more of your home. Someplace that's safe. Hopefully, it'll help me have less panic attacks," America said.

"Yeah, that's probably a good thing. Just…not what I was expecting," Canada remarked. America laughed.

"I'm just full of surprises," America joked. Canada rolled his eyes, getting out of the car.

"I'm getting your stuff out of the car. You better help before I break your stuff 'cause you were being too annoying," Canada said. America quickly scrambled out of his seat, a smile on his face as he did so.

His soul felt lighter than it had in a really long time. Therapy had been working better than America wanted to admit.

"Russia's going to be here soon, too. He wanted to help me unpack, and we wanted to catch up," America explained. Canada grimaced.

"Good thing your states aren't here. How are things going on that front?" Canada asked, referring to the fact that a majority of America's states viewed his relationship with Russia as a threat to their safety.

Not that America could blame them after everything the Soviet Union put them all through.

"Eh, it could be better, but some of them are coming around. It's helped that his people have been helping us and that he hadn't tried to make me into a puppet state," America explained.

"Oh, I can hear the 'not yet' in that last statement," Canada said. America gave a strained smile.

"Everyone just wants to be safe and wants me to be safe. It's just…"

"They're being overbearing," Canada finished. America nodded.

"Painfully so," America reaffirmed, walking up to the front door of his house.

His house.

For the first time in a long time, America had a house to call his own. America unlocked the door, letting his brother inside, before leaning against the doorway, waiting for Russia to show up.

Russia arrived shortly after, waving to America as he walked up the front steps.

"It's good to see you again," Russia said. America laughed and nodded, pulling Russia into a hug.

"Good to see you too. It's been a while for us both," America said, pulling away and gesturing for Russia to come inside.

"Well, governments have certainly kept us busy," Russia commented. America nodded.

"That and the fact we don't live together anymore. Everything is a big adjustment," America said.

"It is…but it's getting easier," Russia said before his smile faded some. "Do you think about him often?"

"I used to. I try not to anymore. It…it always ends up with me in a bad place. And…Ukraine told me it was best not to waste any more time on Soviet. Sure, he did a lot of horrible things to me, and that changed me, but…I'm here, and he's not, so what's the point in continuing to treat him like he can still hurt me?" America, his tone becoming softer and more vulnerable.

"I wish I could do that," Russia said.

"You'll be able to someday. I didn't think I could do this when I first killed him, but I can now. I just needed to give myself time. And…not all the reminders of him are gone," America said, his hand moving to rub the brand on his chest. "But I've heard the best revenge is to live a happy life, and I know I am going to do just that."

Russia smiled.

"Yeah, I think I would like that too," Russia said. America grabbed Russia's hand and dragged him inside.

"Then let's do that."

[weirdestbooks]

Countryhumans Oneshots: Human POV Table of Contents

The Boyfriend's Truth:

Anna was so excited to finally be dating her longtime crush, Peter. Things get more complicated when Peter confesses something to her.

[weirdestbooks]

The Boyfriend's Truth (Wattpad | Ao3)

Anna loved Peter.

He was kind, thoughtful, smart, and one of the nicest people Anna had ever dated. He wore his heart on his (jean jacket) sleeve and was very open about his feelings, something he admitted was only true because of years of therapy.

She was so excited that after a few months of dates and talking, they had finally become official. Anna had been on the phone with her sister for hours, talking about it and planning their first official date as a couple.

Anna had been so excited.

That was why it was so easy for her to notice that Peter…no longer seemed as excited about their relationship.

Anxiety flip-flopped in Anna's gut. Had Peter not actually wanted to be an official couple and now regretted it? Had she done something wrong, hurt his feelings in some way?

Anna didn't know, and that ate away at her.

It all came to a head about a week after they became official when Peter invited Anna to his house.

Anna's anxiety grew.

Anna didn't need to knock on the door, as Peter was waiting for her outside, on hand on his dog's head.

"Hello, Anna," Peter said, smiling nervously. He looked stiff and awkward as if he were ready to bolt at any moment.

"Hey, Pete," Anna said, hoping Peter couldn't tell how nervous she was.

"I…I need to tell you something. I should have told you a while ago, but…I didn't realize how serious we were going to get when we started dating," Peter began. Some of Anna's anxiety subsided, as that was definitely not the message of someone about to break up with her, but there were lingering nerves.

What did Peter want to tell her that was so important?

"You don't have to be nervous to tell me anything. I know we've only been serious for a little bit, but I want to be there for you, and I want to have a strong foundation," Anna said, walking over to Peter, smiling. Peter smiled back.

"I know. That's why I have to tell you this. Because…it changes things, and I don't want you to become so committed to me and find this out later and for it to crush your dreams," Peter said, standing up as his smile turned sad. Anna's smile slid from her face as she placed a concerned hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Pete, are you alright?" Anna asked. Peter placed his hand on top of her own.

"I'm…okay. Let's take inside," Peter said, smile turning gentle as he led Anna into his home, an old home filled with equally old things.

Anna wouldn't be surprised if it were inherited from a grandparent.

Peter sat down on his couch, his dog curling up at his feet. He looked nervous and stressed.

"Peter, are you in trouble?" Anna asked, wondering if that was why, if that was why he was acting so strange, so…scared, almost afraid that Anna wouldn't commit to a relationship after learning whatever secret he had.

"What? No! I'm okay…I just…my birth name's not Peter," Peter began, and Anna understood.

Peter was trans and worried that Anna might not want to date him or be in a committed relationship because of it.

Anna almost said something that she would never break up with someone because of how they were born, but she paused.

This seemed like something Peter had been wanting to say for a while.

She should let him say what he had planned to say. This was clearly important to him.

"My birth name…well, I didn't have one for a while, but my real name is Delaware," Peter said, and Anna froze.

"Peter, that's not funny," Anna said. There was no way her boyfriend, the man she had befriended and fallen for, was the immortal countryhuman of her state. That was impossible! That wasn't how countryhumans worked!

Peter said nothing, and Anna watched as his human form melted away, replaced by the Delaware flag. She watched as horns forced their way out of his skull, and his ears morphed from human ears to cow ears—oh God, this couldn't be happening.

Anna's jaw was hanging loose, and Peter, Delaware, wasn't looking her in the eyes, his ears pressed close to his head.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Anna asked.

"I couldn't. I love you, and I want to be your boyfriend, but I can't reveal my human face until I know it's serious, which is why I waited," Delaware said before finally looking up at her. "I know this changes things. Whatever decision you think is best for you, make it."

"I need time to think," Anna answered. Delaware nodded.

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

With those parting words, Anna left, mind swirling with the information she had just learned.

• ───────────────── •

Peter was Delaware.

Peter was a three-hundred-year-old personified landmass.

Peter had been alive for longer than Anna's family had been in the United States.

It didn't make any sense, and yet it made so much sense at the same time. Anna would have to be blind to say that Peter wasn't weird, that sometimes, his stories about his family seemed too strange to be normal, but Anna would have never expected this.

How could she?

Anna, at risk of sounding like a bad person, hadn't really thought about countrypeople as being able to feel emotions like humans did. They were just so…different that it seemed unlikely, if not impossible.

Never mind finding herself dating one.

It wasn't that Anna didn't like Peter—Delaware, but that it was strange to think of the guy she was dating as being like…well, that.

She couldn't blame him for keeping it secret.

She had looked at his Wikipedia page after finding out, trying to make sense of it all.

As soon as she read about what that one governor had done, she clicked off. It was just…that was Peter. That man she had always seen on the news, always heard about in passing, was her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend had been hurt in the past before. Peter had said he didn't want to tell her until it was serious, but a part of Anna wondered if it was because he wanted to ensure he could trust her, truly trust her, with something like that.

After a few days of thinking it over, Anna invited Peter to her house to talk it out.

"Hey, Anna," Peter said as he walked inside her home. He hadn't brought Reed with him, which was strange considering the dog was meant to be an emotional support dog, and Anna knew this might be an emotional conversation.

"Hey, Peter," Anna began, "Sorry about disappearing on you for a few days."

Peter smiled.

"No need. You had a lot to think about," Peter said. "Would you prefer me to be in my other form for this?"

"Whatever's more comfortable," Anna said, giving Peter a smile. Peter smiled back, something softer and nervous before his form shifted.

"This is more…my human form isn't a lie, but I feel I can be more honest when I can show you my real face," Peter said. Anna pulled him into a hug.

"I still want to be in a relationship," Anna said, pulling away. Peter immediately perked up at that, anxiety bleeding from his form.

"Really?" Anna nodded.

"Really. I want to make things work, even if it will be a little awkward at first because…you make me happy, Peter."

"You make me happy, too," Peter responded, a wide grin stretching across his face.

"Good," Anna said before gently kissing him.

Anna didn't know how this would end, but she knew, at that moment, that she was happy.

And that was enough for her.

[weirdestbooks]

Secrecy and Deception Chapter 40

Hostages (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Event: Iranian Hostage Crisis

Location: Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

Date: November 4, 1979

America should have realized sooner that the overthrow of the Shah of Iran would only lead to more problems for him.

Honestly, the fact that he hadn’t realized it sooner was a bit worrying.

America knew that what he and his Father had done to keep…friendlier forces in power hadn’t been the most moral action, but it was the most logical one, something to secure the reason, to ensure that things wouldn't fall apart, that the USSR wouldn’t seize more power, but he had hoped that things wouldn’t fall apart the way they had.

America had hoped that, as so much time had passed, that people would calm down about the whole thing.

What was the point of even causing this kind of international incident?

“Funnily enough, America, I don’t think they are eager to play nice with you for the reasons you just listed,” James intoned, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“Officially, I wasn’t involved,” America reasoned, even though he knew it was a weak reason and wouldn’t stop people from inspecting his involvement.

“If they hate the government that was pro-you, they probably hate you. I just wish the embassy hadn’t got caught up in all of this. Would it not have been better just to ask the embassy to leave the country instead of taking them hostage?” Unorganized Territory asked. America hummed.

“We still don’t have the details. No one has told me whether this was a government thing, which, in that case, they should have just asked me to withdraw my embassy staff, or if it was some unrelated third party taking advantage of the chaos from the overthrow of the Shah and the death of the old Iranian personification,” America pointed out. Deaths of personifications were always stressful for governments, even if they were planned or anticipated. 

People clung to what they knew, after all, and sometimes, removing that personification could anger people who would have otherwise agreed with the new government.

America did hope that the new Iranian personification wasn’t involved in this. It wouldn’t look good for him if he were, and it would only make people more hesitant to help him if it was going to target chargés d'affaires and embassies.

He was young enough that everyone was already circling him, judging him, trying to figure out his weak points, and figuring out how best to interact with him and how to demonize him if needed.

If he was involved, he was just giving anyone who wanted him gone more ammunition to use against him.

“It’s too turbulent of a time for new countries to have an easy start,” James muttered, “You and USSR aren’t helping that.”

America scowled but didn’t argue, knowing his brother was right.

“Let’s just go figure out if this new Iran made things even harder for himself.”

• ───────────────── •

Event: Soviet forces invade Afghanistan

Location: Soviet-Afghan Border

Date: December 24, 1979

Tajik SSR didn’t want to be the one sent to war. Unfortunately, due to the border he shared with Afghanistan, he didn’t have much of a choice. His great-uncle had asked in no uncertain terms if Tajik SSR would go.

His uncle also wasn’t one for asking. Tajik SSR knew an order when he heard one, and he resigned himself to war.

At least it wasn’t a long one. The plan was to go in, seize the towns and road networks to help stabilize Afghanistan and withdraw all their forces in six months to a year.

In and out.

Tajik SSR supposed that was why he had been sent over any of Russian SFSR’s oblasts or any of the more minor Soviet personifications. He wouldn’t be away from his government for long, and therefore, it wasn’t too much of an issue to send him in for a little while.

Tajik SSR still wished he didn’t have to.

He knew Afghanistan was one of his uncle’s pseudo-wards, one of the communist countries he looked after and called family (although he had not made Afghanistan call him father as he did with the countries in Europe. Perhaps it was because their relationship had evolved to this point, rather than his uncle had helped to create the young communist Afghanistan's personification) and that it was their job, as defined by some treaty, to help him when he needed aid.

Not to mention, Afghanistan was barely a year old. It made sense that his uncle would want to help the young country, especially when it was only a matter of time before the United States stepped in to weaken him.

Afghanistan at least deserved to live a human lifespan.

Tajik SSR and his family had delayed long enough, regardless—a back and forth over whether or not they answered the call to help, even though many of their military advisors had been murdered during the course of the uprising. The events in Iran eventually changed things.

Now, Great Uncle was afraid that the ideas of the Iranian Revolution would spread to Afghanistan and to Tajik SSR and all the other Soviet personifications that were Muslim (even if they were supposed to be atheist, Tajik SSR fought against that weight in his mind, the crushing feeling of the official religion of non-religion, to hold onto his faith.)

Tajik SSR wondered if his uncle was more afraid of their people falling prey to those ideas or if he was afraid of them falling prey to those ideas.

Based on the way he acted whenever his Eastern European “children” protested his ideas, had their own social movements, or did anything he didn’t particularly like, Tajik SSR wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to that.

He wondered if this was to keep him out of the way.

Tajik SSR didn’t know, and he didn’t really care all that much. He was here, and that was all he could do for now. He would be home soon, and this mess could be put behind them.

He just hoped they were right about this not taking a long time.

Tajik SSR didn’t want to get stuck in a war abroad.

And he didn’t want to see Afghanistan fall into a war like Vietnam’s—and possibly even die like South Vietnam had.

Afghanistan was so young.

He didn’t deserve to die.

Tajik SSR just hoped he was able to do something worthwhile about it.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 44

The Butcher (Wattpad | Ao3)

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May 29, 1780

Britain had been excited about the success of his southern campaign. It showed great progress in its ability to crush rebel strongholds, even if the countryside still remained a battleground.

Still, without key ports, the ability of the rebels and France to put in a significant amount of troops in the South was limited, leaving them with only one option for an invasion of the South.

Since there was no word of that, however, Britain took it upon himself to help mop up any significant number of rebel troops in the countryside.

After they had retaken Charleston, General Cornwallis had learned of a column of rebel reinforcements that had failed to reach Charleston in time to help with the siege. The force was estimated to be around 400 men, which was nothing compared to Britain’s army but nevertheless dangerous enough to pose a threat.

Never one to stand by and do nothing, Britain had decided to accompany the Lieutenant Colonel sent to hunt down and engage the rebels, Banastre Tarleton, while Quebec stayed behind in Charleston.

After the capture of Nova Scotia, St. John’s Island, and West Florida, Britain was doing his best to keep his children and family out of battlefields in which capture was more likely. The more colonies were captured, the worse their position got, and if there was anything Britain’s childhood had taught him, it was how to avoid being seen.

Britain was more confident in his ability to escape than he was in his children’s. He was a father anyway. He needed to keep them as safe as he could, even as fighting in this war was a necessity.

Britain didn’t think this mission would lead to anyone being captured, but the countryside was a dangerous battleground—one that the rebels knew better. Britain would be a fool not to notice that advantage. 

Lt. Colonel Tarleton moved fast to keep up with the rebel force, and once they were close enough to the force, a message was sent to the commander, demanding surrender.

Based on how things had gone previously, Britain didn’t have much hope that the rebels would surrender. They were annoyingly stubborn like that, refusing to give in when any normal country was. Not to mention, if Britain was right and this force knew the area, they would use it to their advantage and not surrender.

Still, it was always better to try and see if the force had come to its senses before attacking them. The less bloodshed spilled in the countryside, the easier it would be to take control of it.

Unsurprisingly, when they received their response, the rebels refused the offer of surrender. 

Battle became inevitable then. 

The rebels had formed their battle lines across an open field, right across the route of march. They were in a single line, and there were no heavy cannons or artillery, just a single row of infantry.

It was almost a guarantee that they would be crushed, not having the men nor weaponry to fight back the British army.

Britain sighed. Why hadn’t they just surrendered? They could have saved the lives of their men.

They had no one to blame but themselves for the casualties of the battle.

Lt. Colonel Tarleton ordered the British army into three columns before they marched onto the field of battle the rebels had chosen. The rebels did not fire when they first entered the field, but considering they had limited ammunition, Britain knew they were probably waiting for the British troops to come close before they fired.

Britain had guessed right because when his army was about ten yards from the rebels, the rebels opened fire. 

While that had been the same strategy that had led to the maiming of England in that battle at Bunker Hill, Britain was not worried about it. The rebels had no high group that the British needed to scale, and since they were fighting on a flat surface, Britain’s army grew close in order to have a more accurate fire, which also allowed Britain’s army to be close enough for accurate fire.

That was made abundantly clear when Britain and his forces began overwhelming the rebel line. While the line hadn’t quite broken yet, the rebels had still only fired a single volley.

The rebel line then broke before they even had the chance to fire a second volley.

The rebels were quickly cut down as rebels began to flee, no longer an effective fighting force but a scattered mass of terrified traitors. 

The battle was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Surveying the battlefield, Britain could hardly believe his luck. Battles in the countryside did not always go as smoothly as this, even if most of them were loyalists fighting traitors.

Britain could not tell the fact of the rebel leader, if he had been captured, killed, or fled, but with much of his force dead and wounded, he was no longer a threat to their position in Charleston, nor to any of their forces that might enter the countryside.

However, if the Battle of Paoli had taught Britain anything about how the rebels responded to crushing defeat, he knew they would try to twist this battle from an honorable battle that they lost to a massacre committed by the “cruel” British.

Britain had seen it before. He knew that the rebels simply did not understand war or the complications of bayonet warfare. 

Instead of facing defeat with dignity, they tried to paint Britain as a monster with no heart, as this war was not being fought because Britain was trying to protect his family and keep them together.

The rebels did not understand war.

That was why, no matter how much propaganda they created or how many battles they won, they would not be able to win the war. They were no professional fighting force.

Britain only wished that the battles in the South would be enough to convince them to surrender.

Britain really was tired of this war.

[weirdestbooks]

Secrecy and Deception Chapter 39

Diplomacy and Treaties  (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Event: US and PRC establish diplomatic relations

Location: Taiwan’s House, the Land In-Between

Date: January 1, 1979

China was angry with America. America had promised that he would continue to recognize her as China despite the United Nations removing her from power, and yet here he was, recognizing the false China.

It was a betrayal that stung deeply.

America had promised to be her ally despite everything with the United Nations, not to mention that he was one of the most anti-communist countries out there. Was he really so willing to give into the demands of the false China? 

China knew about the diplomacy and diplomatic visits that had started between the two countries, but she never really thought it would lead to a betrayal like this.

China was angry. She wished it hadn’t come to this. Each day, she felt a little more alone, a little more abandoned by the rest of the world as they forgot her history and struggles in favor of pretending the false government was the personification of China.

China still tried not to give into her rage, to keep a clear head, even as the chance of her going back to her childhood home faded, as the dreams of regaining her people and her land faded, as the—

China tried not to wallow in her despair. It was unbecoming. She was still China, regardless of what anyone thought. The false China could not change that, no matter how many people she talked into joining her side.

China’s musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. China stood up, brushing off her dress before answering the door.

Not many people visited her anymore, as more and more of her allies bowed to the false China.

So when she opened the door and saw the United States standing there, China was quick to try to shut it before America stopped her by sticking his foot in the door.

“China, I need to talk to you,” America said, calling her by her real name, a gesture that stung fiercely after his betrayal.

“Why? I thought today was the day you recognized the other as China. What brings you to the home of a false nation?” China asked, her voice mocking.

“I know you have been under martial law for a long time, but we can disagree with our governments. I am not in favor of recognizing your daughter as China, but my government believes she has grown too powerful to ignore. I want to keep recognizing you. I know you see this as a betrayal, but please trust me when I say my people feel the same way,” America said, making eye contact so China could see the honesty in his eyes.

“That does not remove the hurt,” China said. America nodded.

“I know. Would I be allowed to explain further? While my government wants to recognize your child as the new China, we are not just abandoning you. We are still against communism,” America said, his care to avoid naming the false China causing China to sigh before letting him in.

“Due to the One China policy, we are incapable of recognizing you both, which would be the ideal solution,” America began, causing China to let out a small scoff.

“Would it?” China asked. 

“I know you don’t like it, but it would. I supported it when the United Nations removed you, and I support both of you in getting rid of it now. While I know you do not want to admit any sort of defeat to the mainland personification, that doesn’t remove the fact that she is an incredibly large nation with power. People will switch to recognizing her for that reason alone, even if they don’t support it,” America continued.

“Like you?” China asked. America nodded.

“My people still want to help you, and my government won’t let the mainland one invade you. But…” America trailed off, guilt in his eyes.

“But you cannot recognize me as what I am,” China said with a small sigh. “I need time to think.”

“Of course,” America said before getting up and leaving. China sighed. She knew America had some points, but she wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t give in.

China wanted to live.

She needed to stand strong. 

• ───────────────── •

Event: SALT II signed

Location: Vienna, Republic of Austria

Date: July 17, 1979

America was glad for the second SALT treaty. It was some good news to come out of the world recently, especially with how tense things were with China—Taiwan—the one stuck on an island. America wished he could do more, but he had felt a growing feeling of helplessness in the modern age.

But he couldn’t waste time thinking about that. The world marched on as always. America needed to as well.

“You are needlessly depressing,” Lydia deadpanned. America just shrugged in response. Sometimes, being realistic was the only way he could stay sane.

SALT II was important regardless of the comings and goings of the rest of the political sphere. Anything that limited the arms race limited the risks of war and the end of humanity as they knew it.

It would place a limit on the total nuclear forces to 2,250 delivery vehicles, as well as a bunch of other limits that would help control the situation. Despite the disagreements they had in the process of making it, it was finally here.

Soviet and America had signed their copy about an hour earlier; that way, they could watch the signing of the treaty between their leaders—another display of unity. America wished he didn’t have to be here.

“It’s important that this treaty has support,” James chided. 

“But it is a little redundant,” Caleb said, sounding just as tired and bored as America. Luckily, this wasn’t a long, drawn-out event, and soon enough, the two leaders were signing the treaty.

Then Brezhnev kissed President Carter.

America tried not to look too aghast at the sight, turning to Soviet.

“You try to do that to me, and not even MAD will keep me from nuking you,” America deadpanned, ignoring Caleb’s laughter. Soviet scoffed.

“Well, that’s another thing we can agree on,” Soviet said, sounding equally as unnerved as America. America let a small smile cross his face.

There were definitely more important things they should agree on.

[weirdestbooks]

The Weapon and the Spy Chapter 2

Weapon's Purpose (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Weapons had no reason to keep track of time. They had no reason to be aware of anything that was happening outside of what they were ordered to do. The best weapons are the ones that obeyed their commanders and promised doubleplusgood effectiveness. 

Big Brother’s weapon was a good and mighty one. One that could complete any mission given to it and destroy anything Big Brother said too.

War is Peace.

It obeyed every command given to it, fulfilled every order until completed, and was always ready to receive more.

Freedom is Slavery.

It never questioned why it did anything. It only did. It obeyed Big Brother because, without Big Brother, there was nothing. Big Brother was Truth and Order. 

Ignorance is Strength.  

It was a doubleplusgood weapon. Big Brother said it would be, and it was. Big Brother knew all.

Big Brother owned it, and that is what made it doubleplusgood. Without Big Brother, it was nothing. There was nothing ante Big Brother, and there would be nothing after Big Brother.

Big Brother’s weapon was refueling when Big Brother arrived, the room silent aside from the distant words of the telescreen. Big Brother’s weapon didn’t pay attention. It had been ordered still, and it obeyed.

Not a single part twitched, not even as the sounds of the telescreen changed, lights flashing in the corner of the weapon’s sight. The weapon was still, staring straight ahead.

Weapons do not think.

It had just arrived in Airstrip Two for repairs, and Big Brother often comed to oversee them. After all, Big Brother invested a lot of time into the weapon and needed to ensure it was a good choice.

That was part of what made Big Brother a doubleplusgood person. They cared for every person they met and ensured that everyone was joyful.

“There is a new enemy,” Big Brother began. Their weapon silently moved its head to face Big Brother. “There is a rebellion in Airstrip One. Minipax needs my weapon to destroy it speedwise. The rebellion want to make BB an unperson. They want to make Airstrip One an unperson. Airstrip One is a state.”

Weapons protect the states at all costs. That is what the weapon was made for. Without the states, the weapon has no purpose. Nothing matters but the states and Big Brother. 

Big Brother’s weapon saluted to let Big Brother know it had processed the commands. The familiar hum of war ran through its veins, relaxing any strained parts.

War is Peace.

The weapon was unhooked from its fueling station and slowly followed Big Brother through the long twisting hall from the armory to the info room, where it would receive its commands and the info it needed to complete its job. 

Weapons obey. Weapons listen.

"Thinkpol has taken care of the thoughtcriminals, but we know that they have bases all over the islands. The weapon will locate and make every criminal an unperson by any means necessary," Big Brother said. The weapon nodded. It understood that this was what it was made for. Big Brother was in danger.

Big Brother is the weapon's owner. Big Brother made the weapon. There is nothing for the weapon without Big Brother. The weapon is nothing without Big Brother.

"The weapon will be shipped tomorrow night." Big Brother continued. “The weapon will be refueled and rearmed on the way there.”

The weapon silently processed the info it had been given, ensuring that every info and command was in the spot it needed to be in.

It perfected obedience long ago. It was the important thing the weapon needed to be good at—not war, not killing, but obeying.

Weapons obey. Weapons don’t think.

Big Brother continued to explain more details about the rebellion, going over details and pictures they had of the leaders. The weapon took great care to save the images of all the faces, ensuring that it would be able to take care of them.

“If you find a leader, capture them. Miniluv will take care of them from there. Only kill the foot soldiers. If they cannot be loyal, they are of no use,” Big Brother explained. The weapon nodded.

Loyalty is the most important thing you can offer Big Brother. 

Things that were of no use to Big Brother needed to be purged. That was part of the weapon’s purpose. To protect the states and keep Big Brother safe.

Then, Big Brother was interrupted as someone walked into the room, head held low. The weapon began to look the man over before it recognized the face. The weapon turned back to Big Brother. It had no reason to look the man over when it was one of the weapon’s handlers.

Weapons obey their commanders. Weapons do not question them. They are the highest authority, only under Big Brother.

There was never a reason for the weapon to treat a handler with anything but obedience and respect.

Freedom is Slavery.

“What is it?” Big Brother asked, his tone curt, sounding annoyed.

“Are…is it needed in Airstrip One?” The weapon’s handler asked. Big Brother’s eyes narrowed, and the handler hunched in on himself as if he were sc—

Weapons do not question their commanders.

“Are you questioning me?” Big Brother asked. Their tone didn’t change, but something shifted in the air.

“N–no, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it,” The weapon’s handler said, eyes flickering to where the weapon sat on the chair, “But a weapon is better on the frontlines, where it can be controlled. Letting a weapon leave a warzone will only make it uncontrollable, especially in Airstrip One.”

“The weapon cannot disobey, regardless of where it is. It is hardwired for obedience,” Big Brother said.

Weapons obey.

“But what about Airstrip One?” The weapon’s handler asked. Big Brother raised an eyebrow.

“What about him? The weapon protects states like him. It can’t disobey its base function. Your worries are meaningless. It won’t break our control. It doesn’t have a mind to think with because it’s just a tool,” Big Brother said. 

Weapons protect the states at all costs. Weapons do not think. Weapons are tools.

The handler nodded, and then something about Big Brother’s smile turned deadly.

“Weapon, take this thoughtcriminal to Miniluv, and then return to the armory once you are done,” Big Brother ordered. The weapon got up and grabbed the thoughtcriminal, who didn’t even try to flee, trembling in fear.  

The weapon grabbed the thoughtcriminal’s arms, forcing them behind his back before marching him out of the info room. The thoughtcriminal was silent as MiniPax workers avoided the weapon, silently ducking around it, heads low, a clear attempt to avoid drawing attention to themselves. 

“Don’t take me to Miniluv,” the thoughtcriminal ordered, as if he thought he was one of the weapon’s handlers. 

Weapons do not listen to thoughtcriminals and those outside of Big Brother and Minipax. They are trying to use the weapon to harm Big Brother.

The weapon tightened its grip. The thoughtcriminal struggled but stopped after he realized he would not free himself. 

He was silent for the rest of the trip. 

The weapon gave the thoughtcriminal off to Miniluv before returning to the armory, the surroundings blurring as it traveled. 

The only thing that mattered was following its orders. Everything else was nothing.

Weapons obey. Freedom is Slavery.

The weapon arrived back in the armory, standing just past the entrance as it paused, waiting for further orders. It stood there, swaying slightly until Big Brother arrived.

“In the chair,” Big Brother ordered. The weapon sat, staring ahead at the telescreen as Big Brother began to connect the weapon to its fueling equipment. 

The telescreen was on, images passing across the screen. The weapon did not pay the images any mind. When it was refueling, its sensory processing was more limited, and unable to pick up on images as well.

“The weapon will be able to power off when the info on the telescreen has ended,” Big Brother ordered as they finished, stepping back. The weapon, now stuck until the refueling equipment was removed, nodded to show it had heard its orders.

Weapons obey. Weapons do not have needs. They are objects. 

The images on the telescreen were still hard for the weapon to see, but the words were easy to comprehend.

Weapons do not sympathize with enemies. 

Ignorance is Strength.

Weapons do what they are told. Weapons are not able to show mercy. 

“Oceania, sir, we have news from Airstrip One concerning the rebellion,” A commander said, entering the room briefly, causing the weapon to remove its focus from the telescreen, which it quickly turned back to.

It followed orders.

War is Peace.

Weapons cannot understand traitors and thoughtcriminals. 

“What is it?”

Ignorance is Strength.

Weapons are not humans and are incapable of feeling.

“The rebels have captured Airstrip One.”

The weapon’s focus on the telescreen was broken by a screech of anger that came from Big Brother as their form warped and stretched, growing larger, before tackling the man who had entered the room. 

The weapon heard the body hit the wall with a loud crack.

The weapon returned its focus to the screen.

It followed orders.

Weapons obey, weapons obey, weapons obey.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 43

Mutiny (Wattpad | Ao3)

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May 25, 1780

Connecticut couldn’t believe it when the soldier came running up to him, rambling on about some mutiny that was taking place in his regiment’s part of the camp. It was contained—for now.

Connecticut felt a mix of emotions when he heard the news.

First, it was disbelief. Then, it was anger.

Connecticut had quickly begged his father for control of the body. While they were also his father’s people, they were Connecticut’s people too, and Connecticut wanted to make them pay—make them understand.

He wanted to know why his regiments would do this, why they would put this kind of unforgiving target on his back, making his family look at him as if he were Rebecca. 

Connecticut was angry.

Father was generous, though, and with a small sigh and a request for everyone else to ensure Connecticut didn’t go too far, he relinquished control to Connecticut.

“These are still our people. You can’t go too far and push them towards Father’s side,” Father had warned like Connecticut didn’t already know that. Connecticut let out a small breath and ensured he had his father’s sword before marching over to the mutineers, who seemed to lose some of their gusto when they saw Connecticut approach.

Even though Connecticut knew they were seeing him as his father and not as, well, him, it felt nice to know that they at least held some guilt for betraying the trust of their country with this mutiny.

“What’s going on here?” Connecticut asked, surprising himself with how firm his voice was and how it sounded, even though he knew it would be different coming from his father’s mouth.

“We’re tired of going on like this, without any food. Surely you can’t expect us to go on like this?” One of the men called. Connecticut scanned the crowd, trying to identify a leader, someone he could reason with.

Even if his people were calling his loyalties into question, reasoning with them was the best opinion. They couldn’t start a fight. Not now.

It would only send everything they worked for crashing into the ground. 

“It doesn’t look like they have a leader,” Uncle James muttered, analytical as always, drawing closer to Connecticut as if he couldn’t handle himself.

Logically, Connecticut knew it was because mobs were more dangerous than a controlled mass, and Uncle James had always been a protector, but this was Connecticut’s problem, and he would be the one to fix it.

“Be careful,” Plymouth muttered, concern in his voice. 

“Congress will provide us with food soon. But this mutiny will only embolden the British to attack us, and surely you don’t want to be hungry and be shot at?” Connecticut asked, hoping that it would be enough to make them see reason.

It wasn’t. You couldn’t reason with the hungry and angry.

“We aren’t going to sit by and starve while you get everything you want just because you’re—” The man cut himself as if he didn’t want to commit to the words he was about to say. Connecticut sighed. 

“I am suffering through what you are now,” Connecticut said, hoping that the idea of their country also eating less during the food storage would help calm them.

“Worse, considering how mad Grandfather is and…I know he’s trying to help us. But…” Maryland trailed off, her voice becoming hesitant and unsure.

“You can claim that all you want, America, but we know that a land spirit like you isn’t going to starve. It’s beneath you, is it not?” The man said. Connecticut gritted his teeth, anger running through him as he moved his hand to his father’s sword, a silent threat.

Before Connecticut could get another word out, he was interrupted by the arrival of another soldier.

“How is it going?” The soldier asked silently. Connecticut gave him a deadpanned stare. The soldier nodded before drawing his sword.

“I demand you cease with this damned mutiny at once!” the soldier ordered. Connecticut shot a nervous look between the mutineers and the lone soldier.

“Are you sure it is wise to pick a fight?” Connecticut asked. This couldn’t get out of hand. His father trusted him to take care of this. Connecticut needed to take care of it.

He didn’t want to disappoint Father now that Father was talking to them, acknowledging them, caring for them. Connecticut wasn’t going to lose that.

This couldn’t get out of hand.

“It’s okay, Net. I can take care of it,” Pennsylvania said. Connecticut bit down on his lip hard to prevent himself from answering her.

This was his problem. He was going to solve it!

“Do you even have a leader?” Connecticut asked, turning his focus back to the mutineers, “Or a plan? What is the goal you are hoping to achieve? Take food from everyone else?”

The mutineers began to look at each other sheepishly, and Connecticut let out a heavy sigh, feeling as if he was dealing with his younger siblings.

“We are not this bad,” Georgia said indignantly.

“Are you telling me you mutinied without a plan?” Connecticut asked. One of the men nodded.

“I wish I were getting paid for this,” Connecticut muttered, rubbing at his forehead. “Just…just go back to your barracks. This didn’t go anywhere, so I can’t imagine you’ll be punished harshly.”

The mutineers began to slink away. Connecticut sighed before turning to the soldier.

“You’re lucky you didn’t make that worse,” Connecticut said. The soldier shrugged, not looking too ashamed.

“The 1st Pennsylvania Brigade had assembled their troops just in case. We were ready for things to go poorly, sir,” the man explained. Connecticut scoffed.

“Well, just because you plan for them to go poorly doesn’t mean anyone wants it to. We don’t need this, not with all the chaos down South. If they are able to press an advantage here, our job will be much harder,” Connecticut said, half to the soldier, half to himself.

“I guess you’re right, sir,” the soldier said. Connecticut let out another heavy sigh before turning back to his family’s tent. 

He was tired.

“At least it didn’t end badly,” Plymouth said in an attempt to be supportive.

“Yeah, but if two regiments can mutiny, who’s to say no one else will? We’re becoming vulnerable. We’re…we’re losing. If things don’t change soon…” Connecticut said, letting his words trail off into the empty air.

“We won't,” Uncle James said, conviction so clear in his tone.

Connecticut hoped he was right.

[weirdestbooks]

Wrong Reflection Chapter 17

The Lack of Something Overcomes Everything (Wattpad | Ao3)

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Time ticked on.

America's sense of time had begun to blur the longer he was stuck in this world, the longer he was separated from his land and states.

He dissociated a lot nowadays. It was hard to stay in control of his body when his soul was rioting so fiercely against it. It was so hard. He tried. He really did.

America just didn't always succeed.

Alfred and Matthew were attending a world meeting in Britain, and they dragged America along with them. They weren't going to make him attend it, but they did bring him so he could talk to the British Isles and get an update on their progress in finding him a way home.

A way back to his states.

To Kansas's Gentle Soul, Ohio's Unending Stubbornness, Rhode Island's Defiance, Washington's Calm Mind, US Virgin Islands' Mischievous Nature, New York's Changing Spirit, Guam's Ability to Collect Parents, and Nebraska's Faith In Humanity.

He needed them.

What was the United States of America without them?

America hoped they were close to a solution. He felt…ill. Really ill. It had only gotten worse since leaving Alfred's land. The exhaustion and dizziness grew worse when the plane landed and worse still when they landed on British soil.

It wasn't anything his soul could anchor itself to.

"You'll survive," Caleb said, although America couldn't tell if Caleb was trying to convince America or himself.

"It's not helping that you're separated from your land. I bet if you had your land but not your states, you'd be better. But you're missing half of what you are, and… let's just hope they've found a solution," Newport said, worry in his voice. America nodded.

"I hope so too," America said.

"Hope what?" Alfred asked. America gave him the smallest half-smile.

"Hope there is a solution or something that can be worked for. We'd rather have a half-hearted plan rather than no plan," America said. If he knew there was a chance, regardless of how small, of him getting home, it would be easier for him to cling to life because he knew there would be a chance at getting back.

"You better not get us all killed," Molossia said. Newport laughed, something bitter and painful.

"Like he controls that. If the body gives out, it gives out. No one can change that," Newport said.

"We'll get you home," Alfred said. America smiled.

"I know you'll try. But we don't even know why we're here, and we wouldn't blame you if a solution doesn't come," America said. While he had been thinking about how that other result, finding no way home and dying here, was becoming more and more likely by the day, he wasn't going to bring it up in front of Alfred.

It was better to keep his mind off that outcome before he worried himself to death.

"Ironic coming from you," Caleb joked.

"Let's not be pessimistic!" Alfred said with false cheer in his voice. Caleb snorted.

"I love it when I can tell he's your counterpart," Caleb said, causing America to roll his eyes.

"Caleb, please leave me alone. What did I do to you?" America asked, annoyed at how the man was being…annoying.

"Caleb is one of the alters, right?" Matthew asked. America nodded.

"He's being really annoying right now," America groaned before checking the time. "Don't you guys have a meeting to go to? I remember where they live, and three of them will be there to babysit."

"Man, and I was hoping this would give me an excuse out of it," Alfred groaned as Matthew laughed.

"You can survive a meeting," Matthew said, tugging Alfred out of the room, shooting a small smile toward America. "Good luck!"

As soon as they left, America doubled over, exhaustion running through him. Keeping up the façade of being okay so as not to worry them was tiring.

"Are you sure it's not better to tell them?" Caleb asked, voice now serious.

"They know how connected we are to our land. They…" America trailed off as he felt James join them in the front.

"We've found a lot more differences between us," James said plainly.

"They're trying their best. No need for extra worries when we can't do anything," America argued. James sighed.

"That logic can only last you so long," James pointed out. America shook his head, pulling on a jacket as he left the hotel room, pausing briefly as another wave of lightheadedness hit him.

He felt cold.

"There's no use reminding them of a deadline. They're going as fast as they can. I can't force them to be faster," America said, leaving the room. James sighed.

"I know. I just…you insist on going through this alone. They would help if you let them. They're not like ours," James pointed out.

"I know," America responded.

"Do you?" James asked. America stayed quiet as he slowly walked to Arthur's house, where Dylan and Allistor were supposed to meet him. James seemed to respect America's dismissal but still stayed up in the front, refusing to leave.

America's steps seemed to slow as he walked the streets of London, a chill settling into his bones.

He knew it had to be a result of being away from Alfred's land.

A small part of his soul felt as if it had been abandoned in a hostile environment, alone and with nothing to ground it.

Was this what it was like for humans without land bonds? America hated it. It hurt.

He was so cold.

He wished he had his states to chase away the coldness in his chest.

South Dakota's Belief In Her People, Northern Mariana Islands' Heart, Illinois' Brave Soul, Missouri's Loyalty, Montana's Human Nature, New Jersey's Confidence, and District of Columbia's Reason.

He needed it. He wanted it back.

America wanted to be home.

But despite the emotions clawing away at him, America kept himself together.

America had been through worse.

"You have?" Newport asked, skepticism in his voice.

America could make it through this without breaking.

When he arrived, America knocked on the door, and Dylan was quick to wave him in, a strange emotion on his face.

It didn't look like they had good news.

"Well, it was a long shot. We knew that. But maybe they can still figure something out, even if it's not an already recorded answer," James said as if he were trying to stay positive.

"I'm guessing that means you haven't found anything?" America asked as he followed Dylan into the room.

Dylan was strangely different from Wales. While all of them were different, Dylan's differences were easier to notice.

America wondered if Wales would be more like Dylan if he hadn't been a replacement, if the original Wales had survived.

"We only have theories right now, but nothing like this before," Dylan said as they entered the study before looking America over, "Are you okay? You look pale."

"Well, that's not good," Caleb muttered.

"Fine. Just a bit jetlagged," America said, the lie leaving easily.

"Are you sure?" A new voice asked, Seamus, who had just entered the office.

"You sound like my headmates," America groaned.

"Sorry if being worried about your health and safety is an inconvenience," James snarked.

"Do they normally call you out when you're not being truthful?" Dylan asked. America groaned again. He took back everything he said about Wales and Dylan being different.

America opened his mouth to respond before another wave of lightheadedness hit him, causing him to put a hand on the wall for support as the world spun around him.

"Sam?" America heard someone call.

Then he knew no more.