Hello! Stik here. I run both this account and justskulkingaround, so no worries, all this content is mine.
Here, I’ll be keeping a running list of all the story TOC’s(table of contents) I have on here for easy access. Clicking on one will take you to a page where all the chapters of the book are linked.
Each chapter also has links that go back to the TOC, and the next or previous chapters at the bottom.
Series(Russian Adventures):
Book 1 - Puppets COMPLETE
Book 2 - The Angel Against Revolution COMPLETE
Book 3 - Retrievers COMPLETE
Book 4 - Spring
Stand Alone:
Heart Strings
One Shots
If there are any hyperlinks that do not function correctly, let me know so I can get them all fixed up. Thank you!
Also, side note for formatting purposes:
‘Thoughts’
“Speech”
“*Language other than English*” - sometimes
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Soviet walks through the bland white of the landscape. Dark blues begin to conquer the sky as snow softly falls, muffling the world. He tucks his scarf over his mouth and his eye stings in the wind. He adjusts slightly, a large bag swung over his shoulder. It is lighter than it normally is, but he pretends not to notice.
He approaches home.
The outside almost matches its backdrop, but the windows are lit up with yellow. The light stretches from the eyes of the home, and within them he sees silhouettes moving about.
He approaches the house, trying not to grab at his mid-section as hunger pains almost bring him to his knees. He grits his teeth and waits for it to pass. When it does, he sighs. He continues trudging through the snow, trying to retrace the steps he had left when leaving earlier that day.
He swallows back nausea as he kicks the snow off his boots on the porch. He hears the noise quiet as he kicks the toes of the boots.
Then, the door opens, and he walks inside, pulling his scarf down. He offers a tired smile as the door closes. Some of his children wave, and others continue with their activities. He drops the bag and begins removing his winter gear. He wacks the snow off his hat and places his coat and boots near the fireplace to dry off.
He refastens his hat and picks back up the bag and walks into the kitchen, ducking behind a bookshelf that shielded it from view.
His children play in the other room, and loud laughter reaches his ears. He smiles softly at the noise, hoping it lasts. The world outside had grown harsh, and he tries to keep a tight hold on what he could control. He counts through the rations he'd been given. His stomach sinks.
'This won't be enough.'
He shakes his head. He would make it work.
He has to.
He takes a deep breath, recipes full his mind. The mushrooms he had scavenged come to mind. He just needed something to stretch what they have.
'I have to feed my children.'
He quickly stows away the rations, and his feet ache.
He begins digging through what is still in the kitchen and freezes. Soviet's hands shake. He picks up what used to be usable produce. The smell of rot stings his nose. His stomach aches and tears prick at his eye.
'Fuck.'
He stands over the kitchen counter, crushing it between his fingers. He grits his teeth. He slams his fist on the counter, splattering it against the backsplash. His breathing comes in quiet, shaking gasps.
"Papa?"
He turns to see Moldova peaking around the corner. He snarls.
"Out," he snaps.
He turns back, trying to ignore the pit of guilt in his stomach when he sees Moldova flinch before disappearing back around the corner.
His throat tightens. He bites his cheeks in a desperate attempt to stay quiet. He feels his shoulders shake and he roughly rubs his face. He takes a quick breath in before straightening his shoulders. He ignores how the fabric of his eyepatch feels moist against his skin and swipes at the tears that had escaped. He grits his teeth.
'I just won't eat,' he decides. But he knows this can't last. He had already lost a lot of weight, enough for the leaders to start asking questions.
He used to be muscular. Broad shoulders, strong arms. Once the perfect military representation, and then a strong representation of a country. But now, he has to pad out his coat just for it to fit correctly. The sewing machine in his office had seen a lot of work.
'If you wanted me to stay that way, give me enough food,' he thinks bitterly. He is sure they think he would put himself before his children. They were wrong.
He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. Only then does he realize just how quiet his home had become. He slowly turns to see a few sets of eyes watching him. He finds himself scowling.
"Go back to what you were doing," he growls, hoping desperately that they don't notice the tears on his cheeks.
They scatter, and his knees shake. He grabs the counter to keep from collapsing to the floor. The grime sinks between his fingers against the counter, and his clean hand grabs the chinstraps on his hat. He yanks it down, as if to hide from the world.
But he knows he can't hide. He can't give up. He has children to care for. To feed. To keep safe from the people who wanted to kill them to make him fold.
His breathing is fast. Irregular. Out of control. He curses himself.
He has to be fine.
He has to be.
He has to be.
He has to be.
His heart pounds against his ribs and his chest burns. He feels tears stream down his face. He grits his teeth. He gasps for breath before he steps back from the feelings. He feels everything go numb, and his face falls.
The feelings fade, and so does the stinging behind his eyepatch and the ache in his feet. His breathing becomes regular, and his chest feels empty. Dark.
He knows this isn't good for him. After all, the distance makes him unreachable. And he knows his children notice. But they stopped asking long ago.
He slowly walks to the faucet, accidentally hitting his hand on the edge of the sink as he turns on the water.
Russia stares at his shaking hands, his brother impatiently watching him. The pulsing of his heartbeat fills his ears. The floor feels unstable and the walls vibrate. His lungs scream for breath.
“He wasn’t going to hurt me,” Russia mumbles, flinching at his tone.
“You don’t sound sure,” Ukraine snaps, crossing his arms.
The world tilts, and his knees start to shake under him. He gasps, his eyes wide and burning.
“It’s complicated,” Russia mumbles, his sight blurs together through tears.
“Then explain.”
“Ukraine?” California asks.
Russia jumps, his head whipping around to see her. He fights to stay standing, scanning the hallway, frantic.
‘When did you get here?’
“What?” Ukraine snaps.
“It was magic,” Arizona cuts in, tossing a small fireball between her hands, “he didn’t mean to. He didn’t think it was Russ.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ukraine asks, looking between the states before staring at Russia.
“I hurt him first,” Russia defends, “It is fine.”
‘Didn’t I tell you about this?’
“Wait,” Ukraine says, shaking his head, “You hurt him first but he didn’t know who you were? What happened?”
His voice sounds calmer, but the look of murderous intent in his eyes does not fade. Russia flinches.
‘Please don’t hurt him.’
“Dad had some kinda curse on him,” Kentucky states from one of the open doors, “like some kind of overlay on things… I think? He saw us as agent members and thought he saw the real us killed. So, he went crazy.”
“He went chasing after all of us,” Arizona says, her voice hollow, “and Russ was trying to protect us. Told us to hide and all that. Dad didn’t snap out of it until after hurting Russ.”
“I took his eye,” Russia mumbles, tracing the scar over his lip.
“But that’s the only reason he missed,” California argues.
Ukraine goes pale, and his shoulders shake with a deep sigh.
“How many times have you almost died again?”
Russia stiffly shrugs, which doesn’t seem to help Ukraine calm down. He looks away and finds himself growing numb, but in a way he can’t control. His chest feels like it’s on fire as his scars stretch to accommodate his hyperventilation. He passively notices his eyes unfocus. He wants to beg for help, but his mouth is dry and his throat is tight. His hands find their way under his hat, pulling on his hair.
“I am going upstairs,” Finland announces from behind them, standing by the top of the first set of stairs.
“What? Why?”
“I am going to talk to America,” she says plainly, her prothetic tucked against her side. “And Russia needs to sit down. He is going to pass out.”
‘She is going to help him.’
Russia tries to follow, but a hand stops him. His heart pounds in his ears, and the colors of the framed pictures on the wall smear into the wall’s paint. He tries to reach forward, but the hand on his shoulder pulls him back. He turns to see who’s holding him there, ready to tear away from their grip.
“You need to calm down first,” Canada says from behind him, appearing to have followed Finland up.
Russia shakes his head, but Canada doesn’t let go.
“Breathe,” Canada says, “and sit down. There should be a chair around here somewhere.”
“I’m going to go sit with Dixie,” Arizona says, her voice wavering as she turns away.
‘Is she okay?’
Russia tries to walk toward her to check, but Canada forces him to the ground.
“Sit,” Canada says, exasperated.
Russia collapses to the floor, his legs splaying out. He brings his knees up and his head down, hiding from the lights above. He pulls his hat closer to his head, his hands clutching onto the flaps and pulling them close to his ears.
Ukraine sits down next to him, breathing loudly.
‘Why are you being obnoxious?’ Russia thinks snappishly, about to hiss. Then, he pauses.
‘Is he trying to help me?’
He listens and tries to match the breathing, his eyes closed. His breath hitches, and he tries not to gasp for the air that his chest begs for. Then, the fuzz in his head fades, giving way to an ache that fills his skull. He groans lightly. The world around him steadies itself, and he looks up.
He sees Canada leaning against the wall in front of him with his arms crossed, nodding off and then shaking his head to stay awake, dark circles under his eyes.
Then, he turns to see Ukraine, who is holding his hat to his chest, almost hugging it, shaking. He takes a deeper, shaking breath, before pulling Ukraine into a hug. Ukraine tenses for a moment before returning the gesture, one hand still around his hat and the other thrown around Russia’s back.
“I am okay,” Russia promises, fighting tears, “I am here.”
‘I wish I could say we are safe.’
Russia stays until Ukraine starts to pull away. He releases his grip, and Ukraine puts his hat back on his head. Russia’s head aches, but the world feels solid.
“Stop almost dying,” Ukraine demands, jabbing Russia in the chest. Russia flinches before shaking his head.
He laughs lightly. “I don’t mean to.”
Ukraine scoffs, standing up. Then, he offers a hand, pulling Russia to his feet. Russia accepts the offer before playfully pulling him down. Ukraine stumbles slightly, scowling for a moment. Russia stands and turns around.
“Canada?” Ukraine asks.
“What do you need?” Canada asks loudly, his head whipping up and his eyes wild.
Ukraine sighs. “You need to lie down.”
“What if something happens?” Canada says, waving his hands.
“We will deal with it,” Ukraine says, vaguely gesturing to Russia.
“You are actively falling asleep,” Russia says, trying to steady his tone, “not very helpful in a fight.”
“Fuck off.”
“No,” Russia replies, trying not to smile.
Canada tosses his hands up, also trying to hide a smile. “Fine!”
Russia laughs lightly. Then, he looks toward the stairs.
‘I have to go up there.’
He starts walking toward the stairs, old injuries on his legs ache with every motion. He walks up, his footsteps loud against the wood. He laughs a little at the noise. He pulls himself up on the railing, eventually surfacing into the large room on the third floor.
He looks around and sees many states and provinces pocking their heads up around their beds. Some of them wave him in, looking concerned.
He glances around and sees America sitting on the bottom bunk of an otherwise empty bed. Finland stands nearby, rubbing her face with her human hand. He walks forward, stepping over the half-played games that decorate the rugs on the floor.
“Meri?”
America’s head whips up, and he looks scared. Of what, Russia isn’t sure.
“Russ?”
Russia smiles, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands. He raises his arms in a welcoming gesture.
‘I just have to hug him. I just have to hug him and everything will feel okay again.’
America stands and runs, colliding with Russia hard enough to nearly knock the breath out of him. Russia curls around him, trying to relish being able to hold him. In his periphery, he sees Finland step out.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t realize that would happen and I’m sorry for screaming at you and,” America rambles, crying between the words.
Russia tries to ignore the stares from the states.
Then, America suddenly steps back and pulls Russia down by his shoulders. Russia stares as America meets his eyes with a serious look, tears streaming down his face. America moves his hands, holding Russia’s cheeks.
“Are you okay?” America asks, searching Russia’s face.
Russia smiles and tries to move America’s hands. America tightens his grip, a serious look on his tear-stained face.
“No, Rue,” America says seriously, “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”
“I will be,” Russia says lightly.
America scoffs.
“What?”
America’s face softens and he chuckles.
“I guess I just said the same thing,” America admits, looking away.
Russia chuckles. Then, he looks at America, hoping his face shows how serious he is.
“I want you to talk to me,” Russia says, holding one of America's hands, “I am here to help you. Let me help you.”
America looks away.
“Meri?”
“I’m sorry for screaming at you, I- I need to talk to Sett.”
“You can talk to Massachusetts in a few minutes,” Russia soothes, “but please, let me help you.”
America nods, looking around Russia to the stairs.
“Meri.”
“I’ll let you help me as long as I also get to help you,” America chokes, pointedly looking away, “and I’m sorry if I make that hard. ‘Cause helping me might not be worth it.”
“It is if it’s you. Always.”
America looks up, awe filling his eyes and his mouth slightly ajar. Russia’s heart flips in his chest and his face grows warm. He feels a giddy smile make its way into his expression, and he doesn’t try to stop it. America stands up a little taller, pulling Russia’s face toward his. Russia leans down to meet him.
Russia closes his eyes, and their lips meet. It’s brief, but it fills Russia’s chest with warmth. He pulls back to see America looking up at him with a big smile. Russia returns the smile and his heart flutters. America releases his face, and Russia straightens his back.
“How did I get you?” America asks, wiping his face with his hand and smearing tears across his cheeks.
“Cute face,” Russia replies, smiling.
“Russ!” America exclaims, blushing, but he can’t hide the smile.
Russia’s face falls slightly. America’s smile also falls somewhat, but there is life behind his eyes again.
“I’ll talk to you later tonight,” America says seriously, “Hold me to it.”
Russia smiles. His limbs feel heavy.
“Gay!” a voice calls from a nearby bed.
“Saskatchewan!”
Loud laughter punctuates the conversation. Relief fills the air.
“Let's go downstairs,” America says, worry repainting his face. “I wanna check on Dixie. And Sett. And Ari.”
Russia nods.
“What did Finland say to you?”
“Something something trust your partner to help you, all that. And she’s right. It’s… it’s just hard.”
Russia nods, and they start walking downstairs. They make it to the first floor, and Russia notes a pile of miscellaneous objects scattered on a table. They radiate magic that doesn’t make him feel sick. Louisiana and Connecticut stand by them, cycling magic between themselves and a few necklaces and other charms.
‘Maybe I can recharge Meri with it.’
“I hope Nada is actually sleeping,” America muses as they walk toward the couches.
“Hopefully,” Russia replies, his head filling with the ambient noise of the first floor.
‘But if he is like you, he probably isn’t.’
His feet drag across the floor and his calves and hip burn from the activity. He looks around, and finds himself sinking into the comforting activity of the first floor. People shuffle around, handing off projects and moving places. The kitchen also seems alive with laughter and the smell of cooking food. Two of the provinces sit at the dining room table, papers scattered across the surface and a radio sitting nearby. Nebraska gives him a wave from the dining room and he spots Washington stationed on a couch, petting an unvested Olympia.
‘I always forget she is here,’ Russia muses.
“Hey,” Dixie says from a couch. Russia switches his attention and sees Arizona tucked against him, a blanket wrapped around her. She stares around the room, her eyes not focused. Kansas sits on her other side, rubbing her back.
Russia waves and America chirps a greeting.
‘One of us should check on Arizona.’
“Anything happen?” America asks, approaching them.
“One of the guard posts spotted some wolves pretty deep in the trees. Not sure if they're comin’ this way though.”
“That’s weird,” America says, taking Kansas’ place with a hand on Arizona’s back. Arizona shakes a little, but her eyes refocus.
“Yeah. I’m thinking it’s one of them magic-fed packs, but they haven’t been ‘round here in decades,” Dixie says, staring out one of the nearby windows.
“Huh.”
Connecticut speaks, not looking up from the table, “Pretty sure the magic they’re using to smoke us out is covering a lot more ground than we thought.”
“On that thought, would you be able to heal me with some of that?” Dixie asks, gesturing to the direction of the table.
“Ruby?”
Russia nods, “There should be enough magic there to charge you.”
America gives him a light smile and stands up, taking a few steps to stand next to him.
Russia closes his eyes, leaning into the magic. The pain in his limbs numbs, and he sighs. He opens his eyes and sees magic dully circling the things on the table, though it's lightly muffled by the grey that still hangs in the air. Some of it has signatures, some of which he doesn’t recognize, but others are just coated in colorless magic.
His shoulders fall.
“I need it moved here,” Russia says, waving next to him.
He watches as the magic is gathered and sees under the haze that the things are moving into a large basket. Soon, it slides across the floor, stopping within arm’s reach. Russia mumbles a “thank you” and reaches for the white around the brightest things.
He twists the cloud of magic into strings between his fingers. He turns to look at America’s light blue, and he finds himself admiring the color. He shakes his head and begins feeding the threads toward the core of America’s magic.
He turns his head back to the basket of artifacts, squatting down to get a better look. He listlessly digs through the pile, slowly dragging out more white fuzz. He ultimately decides to leave the things with signatures for last. Once he has the things loosely sorted and a steady line of magic, his mind begins to wander.
‘I wonder how I was using magic when I was younger. I needed something to feed on.’
He fights a tired haze that starts creeping through his limbs and mind.
‘My father’s house is haunted. But ghosts have to feed on something too.’
He shakes his head.
‘Maybe it was those dolls?’
He shivers at the thought of their porcelain eyes, and he distinctly remembers them having more life to their gazes than they should have.
He looks up again and sees Dixie bathed in light blue magic, like a heavy wool blanket. America pulses with the light blue, the signature in his chest glows brighter than normal. Russia smiles, watching.
Then, worry worms its way into his chest.
‘If they are affecting a larger area, that will make more things angry.’
He sighs, turning his attention back to the basket and slowly pulling more magic. Many of the once glowing things fade beneath his vision as their magic is drained.
‘That will not be good. We don’t want to give our location away with a fight.’
He stiffens as someone taps his shoulder. He focuses again and sees the magic around Dixie begin to fade. He stands, cycling already drawn magic between his hands. He looks around and spots bright green.
‘It seems dull. He could use this.’
“Massachusetts?” He feels himself call.
Massachusetts approaches, and Russia feeds the magic into the green. It seems to swell at the addition. Russia smiles and takes a deep breath, dropping his hands to his sides.
He blinks, and the world shifts back into focus. Dixie gives him a smile and America leans against his arm. Massachusetts's eyes seem bright and he walks away, waving his hands in excitement.
‘I wonder if it is about the magic.’
“Am I good to remove this?” Dixie asks as he looks to America, his voice holds more energy than it had in a while.
“Yeah, you should be fine,” America replies, waving his hand. “Just be careful. If it's not perfect, I can’t use magic to reset any bones or anything. You know how it works.”
Dixie laughs lightly. He moves his limbs, and the casts fold like wet paper.
‘If his healing is halved, why is his strength that way?’
Russia figures he might not get an answer.
“Thanks Amy.”
America laughs a little, rubbing his cheek on Russia’s arm.
“One more thing,” America says, his voice serious.
“Yeah?” Dixie asks, standing up, much to Arizona’s disappointment.
“You have to promise you’ll tell me if you get hurt.”
“I will.”
“No, you need to promise,” America emphasizes.
Dixie goes quiet for a moment, looking at the ground as he picks off the bandaging from his arm.
“Dixie?”
“I promise,” Dixie says, looking at America with emotions that cross his face so quickly that Russia can’t identify all of them.
America sighs.
“Good.”
America lets go of Russia and grabs Dixie into a tight hug.
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“I know,” Dixie replies, returning the hug.
“I love you, and I didn’t keep you alive for no reason.”
Dixie laughs dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
America scoffs, releasing him and poking him in the chest, saying something too quiet for Russia to hear.
The house quiets to the drone of machines and conversations, but for only a moment. The radio on the table comes to life, and New Brunswick grabs it, fumbling before it clatters to the floor. The noise that emits from it sounds like speech, but Russia can’t make out any of the words under the ringing that fills his head.
“Bruns!” British Columbia chides, grabbing the radio off the floor before he has the chance to recover it.
“Hand it to me,” Dixie demands, and it flies around Russia before he can think to move.
The chatter suddenly sounds more comprehensible, but he can’t identify the voices. Talking overlaps through the static of the signal. Russia squints at the radio, trying to make out the words and allowing his mind to fill in the parts his hearing steals from him.
“I don’t know! They just seem to be circling.”
“No, they’re getting closer from what we can see.”
“You sure they’re magic?”
“They’re heading for the stump. That would be magic, right?”
“No, what do they look like?”
“Like wolves? I guess?”
“No, they’d look different if they were magic.”
“You sure?”
“I think she’s right.”
“Okay, sure.”
Dixie brings the radio to his face. “What do they look like?” His tone is plain, but his brow furrows with stress.
Overlapping voices take hold before the radio stills.
“Like wolves, but wrong? …I don’t know. They look like prey animals almost.”
There is a pause before someone else starts talking.
“Their snouts are too long, their paws are tiny, and their eyes are huge and kinda toward the sides of their heads, but they look like wolves. That sound familiar Dixie?”
Dixie sighs before speaking.
“They don’t normally come around here. It’s weird. Try not to start any fights with them, they’re probably just here for the source.”
Dixie hums for a moment before continuing.
“But if they’re this far out, that probably means they're pretty desperate, Be careful and call in if anything else happens.”
“Will do.”
Dixie sits back down, rubbing his face.
“It’s gonna be a long night.”
Russia nods in agreement, watching the sunlight push through the windows, stretching across the floor. It lazily covers the rug, carelessly caressing the tips of the wrinkles in it. Dust floats within the warm yellow light.
Russia wishes he could take more comfort in the image as the sun sinks.
West Virginia swallows dryly, fidgeting with his sunglasses. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to make his jacket fit a little better. Gangly arms slide around the jacket sleeves. He bites his cheek nervously. He holds files to his chest with one hand and his collar with the other.
‘I shouldn’t be here.’
He stands idly in front of a large desk, its surface clear and its height feels uncanny. The back of the desk reaches the floor, completely hiding anything under it. The magic charm around his neck is dull, almost empty.
‘I can’t back out now. I should’ve saved more of the magic. I am so fucked when Dad finds out where I am.’
He fidgets with the charm, trying not to jump at the movement outside the huge wooden door behind him. Waiting, he contemplates his life decisions that led him here.
‘Maybe he won’t know who I am. I just needed an audience with him. I just need the money.’
He had been so sure of himself. The flight into Moscow mid Cold War, sneaking into the government building, dodging guards. But the disguising and invisibility charms had worn off moments before, and he had to take refuge in the one room he had been looking for.
‘I hope I’m in the right place. I kinda wanna go home.’
He holds papers close to his chest. The room is suffocating. The walls are lined with shelves of books, both new and old, and a bulletin board has a world map pinned to it, ‘Cold War’ written across the top in both English and Russian. Countries are highlighted in different colors, the key in Russian.
‘I shouldn’t’ve done this.’
Suddenly, there is a knife against his back. He tries not to jump, feeling the blade easily slice through the fabric, its point directly against his back. He feels warm blood start seeping down his spine.
‘Fuck.’
Someone speaks behind him, but he doesn’t understand any of the words. He swallows. His shadow is engulfed by the person behind him.
“I am here to-" he starts, reciting practiced words in Russian.
The person behind him growls.
‘I am going to die. Fuck. My dad is gonna kill me.’
“What is an American doing in my office?” The person growls, his accent coats his words.
‘My dad will get me out of here… right?’
“I have… I have a request.”
The knife falls. Then, the person steps around him.
West Virginia finds himself staring up at the personifications of the USSR. He feels himself shrink into his jacket. Soviet stands over him, his tan military jacket hosts old bloodstains on the sleeves. His eye patch seems to glow, and his brow is slightly furrowed, almost unnoticiably. His hat sits on his head, small parts of the lining are discolored, almost appearing rusty. He is thin, but he still towers over him.
A shiver runs down West Virginia’s spine and he tries to remember to breathe. Fear grips his heart, and blood pounds in his ears. The air around him seems to buzz. He feels Soviet’s stare and tries not to crumble under the weight.
‘This was so stupid. I could’ve gotten the Vulcan bridge money some other way. I should have.’
Soviet walks around the desk. He pulls out a gun and sets it on the desk, his hand lying on it. He stands over the shining wooden surface, staring down at West Virginia with an unreadable expression.
“How are you here?”
‘I did not think this through.’
He reaches for the pendant.
“That will not work,” Soviet says bluntly.
West Virginia looks back up to see Soviet leaning forward, examining him, his eye narrow. Soviet picks up the gun.
‘Fuck fuck what do I do?’
Out of impulse, he lifts his glasses, staring up to meet Soviet’s gaze. He meets his eye. Gold meets gold.
‘Please. I’m a personification. Please don’t kill me.’
The air stills, and he’s sure he imagines Soviet’s eye widening. Soviet silently stares before pocketing the gun. He walks around West Virginia, and West Virginia watches as he locks the door.
West Virginia notes how Soviet keeps him on his sighted side.
‘I’m not getting out of here. Is this where I die? Fuck. I’m sorry Dad. I should’ve listened to you.’
“You are very lucky this office is not monitored,” Soviet says quietly, his voice blank, facing the door.
‘What?’
“What are you doing here?” Soviet asks, walking back to his desk and sitting in the armchair behind it.
“I am here to request monetary aid,” West Virginia says, trying to keep his tone steady, nervously tucking his glasses into a jacket pocket.
“You are a child,” Soviet mumbles, an undercurrent of exasperation in his voice.
‘I am not!’ West Virginia bites his tongue, frantically shuffling through his papers.
“What is your relationship to America?”
“I don’t know-”
“You are West Virginia, an American state,” Soviet interrupts, and West Virginia’s heart makes a home in his throat. “What is your relationship with America?”
“I-”
“And do not lie,” Soviet says, replacing the gun on the desk surface.
West Virginia swallows.
“He is my father.”
Soviet hums quietly, not taking his gaze off West Virginia. Then, he shifts his chair back and opens one of the drawers. Then, he pulls out a phone. He places it on the desk.
“Come here.”
West Virginia doesn’t move, his feet feeling glued to the floor.
‘Why did I think this was a good idea?’
“I said come here,” Soviet repeats, not looking up from the phone. It doesn’t make West Virginia feel less watched.
West Virginia steps forward to the desk, staring between the phone and the gun on the desk. Its metal shines under the overhead lights.
“Stupid American,” Soviet mumbles, one hand on the phone.
West Virginia ignores the fuzz filling his head. Soviet silently holds out the other hand, and West Virginia hands over the documents he had brought with him. Soviet glances over the first few pages and sighs. Then, he opens another drawer and slides the papers inside before closing and audibly locking it.
“Do not say anything. This is watched,” Soviet warns in a hissed whisper before dialing a number. It rings for a moment before a voice answers.
‘Is he calling my dad?’ He wonders, a little hope bouncing around his ribcage.
“Hello,” Soviet says into the phone, his voice filling with irritation, “I need an audience with The United States of America.”
There is a pause.
“I do not care what he is doing,” Soviet says, a growl to his voice, “this is important.”
Soviet removes the phone from his ear and rubs his face with a sigh.
“He will pick up soon,” Soviet mumbles.
‘Why… Oh. He’s speaking in English so I understand.’
Then, Soviet brings the handset back to his ear.
“Hello America,” Soviet says with disdain.
“I am busy,” America says, loud enough for West Virginia to hear clearly.
West Virginia’s heart drops at the anger in America’s voice.
“I have something important.”
There is a pause before Soviet hands the handset to West Virginia.
West Virginia’s heart drops, and his mouth goes dry. He slowly takes the device, his hands shaking. Soviet stares at him while he slowly puts the earpiece up to his face.
‘If I wasn’t dead before, I am now.’
“This better not be a fucking trick,” America hisses.
‘I have never heard him so angry before… Uh oh.’
“Hi,” West Virginia squeaks, unsure of what else to say.
There is silence.
“Hand the phone back. Now,” America demands, so many emotions in his voice it's hard to read.
‘I am so dead.’
Soviet takes the phone back when someone knocks on the door. Soviet’s eye widens slightly. He mumbles something into the handset before placing it on the desk. He walks toward the door, but first grabs West Virginia’s shoulder tightly, not looking at him.
“Under the desk,” Soviet hisses, shoving West Virginia back.
West Virginia scrambles behind it, tucking himself under the wooden frame, his back pressed into a corner. He hugs his knees to his chest, hoping the back support is low enough to hide him.
‘This was such a bad idea. This was such a bad idea.’
He slowly breathes through his nose, trying desperately not to make any noise as he hears Soviet walk toward the door, his boots heavy against the floor. The door unlocks.
Words are exchanged, and West Virginia tries not to listen to the rustle of weapons. He inhales slowly, and his heart drops. He covers his nose and mouth as he hears two sets of footsteps walk into the office, his lungs burn.
‘I’m trapped. Please don’t kill me.’
Soviet walks behind the desk, not acknowledging him while he sits back in his chair.
“I will be hosting an emergency meeting here as soon as you arrive,” Soviet says into the handpiece before hanging up.
‘My dad’s gonna come get me.’
The thought doesn’t so much to calm his racing heart. He has to remind himself that the other person can’t hear his heart rate.
Then, Soviet’s attention returns to the person on the other side of the desk, and West Virginia dodges his hand as he puts the gun back into its drawer, but doesn’t close it. West Virginia tries to listen and is sure he hears one of them mention an American, but the other voice sounds muffled on the other side of the wood.
‘Fuck. I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.’
‘I want my dad. He’d know what to do.’
The conversation continues above him and he tries to soothe the shaking in his limbs, rubbing his arms slowly.
‘If he wanted me dead, I would be.’
‘It’ll take hours for Dad to get here.’
Soviet’s voice, sounds calm, if a little irritated. The other man sounds like he’s feigning concern to hide his frustration.
‘Am I gonna get out of here alive?’
Suddenly, the other man hits the desk. The noise fills the space. West Virginia shrinks into the corner, his heart in his throat and his breathing stops. Soviet’s voice rises. The man hits the desk again, closer to the other side.
‘Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me,’ West Virginia begs, closing his eyes and clutching the useless charm hanging from his neck.
Then, the shouting becomes clear before it stops. West Virginia opens his eyes and meets the other man’s gaze, the red of his flag a little off. The man grabs West Virginia’s collar, a snarl creeping across his face as he yanks him forward. West Virginia chokes, desperately grabbing at the hand on his collar, trying to free his neck. The man opens his mouth.
‘Now I’m dead.’
Then, one shot is fired. Blood, brain matter, and skull fragments go flying across the room.
The hand releases him, and he hits the floor with a dull thud. Blood drips onto his forehead from the now limp face over the lip of the desk. The dead man stares at him, his eyes now blank. Soviet stands from his chair, smoking gun in hand and his jacket covered in spots. Soviet easily picks up the body with his other hand, tossing it off the desk. He mumbles something that West Virginia doesn’t understand, disgust on his face.
West Virginia retreats back under the now dripping desk, ignoring the blood now covering him. He shivers, tears welling in his eyes.
‘This was such a bad idea.’
He curls up, trying to slow his breathing.
‘He could’ve shot me like that.’
The gun slams into the desk as people come running into the room. Chaos fills the air, and Soviet guards the back of his desk, snapping at anyone who gets close.
‘I wish I could understand anything. I should’ve learned Russian instead of just reciting it,’ West Virginia thinks, cursing himself and tucking himself as far into the desk’s corner as the cold, ridged wood allows.
‘I just wanna go home. I don’t care how grounded I am. I can be grounded for the rest of my immortal life as long as I still have it after this.’
“I will be cleaning my own desk,” Soviet says in English, before saying something else in the same tone that West Virginia doesn’t understand.
There is a flurry of motion before someone storms in. He shouts, causing West Virginia to freeze. Soviet replies, his voice hollow and calm.
‘I am so fucked. That’s the president. I am so so fucked.’
Soviet stays behind the desk, wiping off the surface. West Virginia can hear other people cleaning up the blood from the floor as the new man shouts.
‘Fuck fuck fuck please don’t come back here.’
West Virginia covers his ears, his eyes shut as tight as they can. He tries to breathe as quietly as he can, feeling lightheaded.
‘I can’t pass out. Not here. Not now,’ he thinks, pulling at his hair.
He focuses on his breathing, trying to stay as silent as possible. His whole body shakes violently. He pulls away from the desk sides, afraid of shaking the desk.
He’s not sure how much time passes before a wet piece of cloth pokes his face. His eyes shoot open to see Soviet crouched down in front of the desk, a grey sweater visible now. West Virginia spots his jacket on his chair.
West Virginia stares, his hands falling as Soviet wipes at his face again. The water on the rag is warm. Then, Soviet pauses and hands over the fabric. West Virginia slowly takes the rag, wiping off his face. The dried blood pulls at his skin as he tries to scrub it off. He looks up again and Soviet’s facial expression seems softer, but West Virginia isn’t sure. Soviet stands, and waves West Virginia forward.
West Virginia slowly crawls out, his limbs feel like jello and his back aches. He tries to stand, but his legs give out under him. He is caught before he hits the ground, arms under his shoulders. The world tilts. Soviet seems to curse under his breath.
“Are you okay?” He asks quietly.
West Virginia gasps for breath and his vision doubles. Then, he is sat in the office chair, and his jacket is removed. Then, a blanket is dropped over him. It scratches his neck. He grabs it in handfuls and rubs it roughly on his face.
He takes a shuttering breath.
‘I need to breathe. I need to breathe,’ West Virginia reminds himself, taking a deeper breath.
He exhales shakily, looking around the room. The chair he’s in is pushed against one of the bookshelves, which is missing some of the books it had earlier. The map is now spattered with blood. Soviet squats by the desk, wiping off the edge and under the desk.
“I will not be able to clean your jacket,” Soviet says bluntly, not looking up.
‘Probably means it’ll stay stained. Oh well. I didn’t like it that much anyways.’
“That’s okay,’ West Virginia mumbles.
Soviet hums.
“Are you hungry?”
West Virginia pauses.
‘Should I say yes?’
He looks around again and sees a bowl on a platter left on the desk, the food in it is unfamiliar.
“It is mine,” Soviet says, not looking up, “it is not poisoned.”
“I…”
‘If he wanted me dead, he would’ve killed me already. Or just let me die. And he wouldn't do this while Dad’s on his way.’
“Yes sir.”
Soviet nods, standing. Then, he walks over, grabs the back of the chair, and pulls it over to the desk roughly.
West Virginia picks up a shiny spoon from the tray and starts eating the soup, poking around at it as the steam caresses his face. He sighs.
‘This isn’t great, but it is food. There isn’t very much in here. Did he already eat some?’
West Virginia shakes his head, figuring that the question isn’t very important. Tears start welling in his eyes.
‘I just want my dad,’ he thinks, trying to keep tears from streaming down his face.
“Your father will be arriving in a few hours,” Soviet says, plucking books off the shelf and adding them to a stack: the ones on the bottom obviously blood-stained. “I am not sure when you will be able to see him.”
“What do I do until then?” West Virginia asks, spooning more soup into his mouth. It’s warm.
“Sleep.”
‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep,’ he thinks, but he doesn’t argue.
His limbs start to feel heavy, and he stirs the remaining soup in the bowl.
‘Maybe I can take a nap.’
He looks back under the desk to see more blankets piled under it. He rolls out of the chair onto them.
‘Was that drugged?’
He lays his head down and spots Soviet finishing the bowl as his eyes shut.
‘I guess not.’
He dozes lightly, listening as Soviet moves around the office and things are shuffled.
Then, the door opens. He is lightly jabbed in the chest by a boot. He looks up, offended, to see Soviet giving him a significant look. He sits up.
“Lock the door,” Soviet says, looking over the desk.
‘In English? Is Dad here?’
He hears the door lock.
“Where is he?” America asks, anxiety skates behind the anger in his tone.
‘DAD!’
“You can come out,” Soviet says.
West Virginia scrambles out, dragging blankets out with him.
“Dad!”
He tackles America. America hugs him tight enough to knock the breath out of his chest.
“Don’t you ever do this again,” America chastises, his voice tense and quiet, “fucking ever. Do you understand?”
West Virginia nods vigorously, tears soaking America’s shoulder.
“This-” America starts.
“Is a secret,” Soviet finishes, “You do not target my family, I do not target yours.”
America stiffens.
“I told him,” West Virginia admits through sobs, collapsing against America.
America holds him. “My poor baby,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of West Virginia’s head.
“I wanna go home.”
“I know, but we have to stay here for a little bit,” America soothes, “don’t want anyone getting suspicious.”
West Virginia does not release America, who idly talks with Soviet in splintered sentences. Soon, America pushes him off gently.
“We’re undercover now,” America says gently, “just walk next to me.”
West Virginia nods, wiping his face. Then, he's handed his jacket. He flips it around to see the tear in the back sewn with red thread. He slips it back on, ignoring the spots of blood and brain matter. He pulls his glasses back out of his pocket, shielding his eyes. He follows shortly behind America, who is soon surrounded by guards.
The office’s door slams behind them.
“He’s coming home with us,” America says firmly, a threat under his words.
‘Yay. I get to go home. My siblings aren’t gonna believe this.’
He looks up to see America’s shoulders stiffen when the guards turn away and his heart sinks.
Russia blinks, and Louisiana is waving off the ghost, a look of mild frustration on her face.
“Well, that wasn’t helpful,” she says, annoyed.
America nods, but he doesn’t seem to have heard her. Russia's heart drops a little.
‘He does not seem here.’
Louisiana sighs, her shoulders dropping. Then, she turns to Massachusetts.
“You should try the sword hilt.”
“What?” Massachusetts asks, sounding startled.
“The sword hilt,” Louisiana replies slowly.
“No, I hear you,” Massachusetts says, rolling his eyes, “But all I’ve succeeded in doing with summoning weapons is it exploding in my face.”
“None of the rest of us wanna try,” Louisiana argues, “And you have the most magic to spare if it don’t work.”
“Dad?”
“Go ahead,” America says, waving his hand dismissively.
The states exchange confused glances before Massachusetts tentatively steps forward and picks up the hilt.
He holds it at arm's length and closes his eyes, tilting his head away. Georgia snickers into her hand and Louisiana elbows her. Massachusetts hands glow green and the item starts to glow with three distinct colors: the bones vaguely red, and the magic extending from it hosts a bright green center and a faint teal surrounding it.
The magic starts to shake, and Massachusetts pulls his head farther away, closing his eyes tighter.
“You almost got it!” Louisiana exclaims, waving her hands.
Massachusetts nods but seems to be trying to bury his face into his own shoulder. Then, it starts to stabilize. The magic jutting from the hilt changes to resemble the blade of a sword, the edges trembling behind their almost blinding glow. Massachusetts opens one eye momentarily, and the glow suddenly shrinks.
Then, Massachusetts stands, his eyes closed once again, holding a formed weapon in his hands, the blade bright green with teal edges almost unnoticeably encasing it.
Russia starts clapping, a smile so wide it hurts his face. His chest swells with pride. He finds himself laughing lightly, relief and joy a welcome guest to his thoughts.
Massachusetts slowly opens one eye. Then, both his eyes shoot open and his face lights up. He starts bouncing between his feet, laughing, staring with wide eyes at the blade in his hands.
Virginia claps, a wide smile on her face, “Never knew you could do it.”
“Hey!” Massachusetts snaps back playfully.
“Good job kiddo,” America says, smiling. But his voice sounds hollow.
“Dad?” Massachusetts asks, his shoulders falling.
“Come on, we should probably go back inside,” America says, already having turned around.
Massachusetts stares at America, his eyes watering and his shoulders falling further. Russia quickly walks up, the joy replaced with empathy and pain. He places a hand on Massachusetts’ shoulder,
“You did well,” Russia says, trying to keep his voice bright.
Massachusetts scoffs, dismissing the sword and rubbing the hilt with his thumb.
“Maybe it’s not that great. I mean, everyone else can already do this,” Massachusetts says, staring at the grass.
It feels like a kick to Russia’s chest. Massachusetts pulls away.
“Come on Russ, let's go inside.”
Russia slowly follows the group back toward the backyard, making sure all the states walk out ahead of him. They disperse into their bunk buddies once they’re out of the trees, and Russia takes a few running steps to catch up with America, who does not react to his approach.
‘He’s not reacting. Does he not care?’
“Meri?”
America continues limping forward, not acknowledging being talked to.
‘Is he not noticing?’
The thought has Russia’s heart in his stomach.
‘What if it wasn’t me? Would he know?’
Russia tries to shake off the thought, but the fear doesn't leave his mind. America drops the door behind him, and Russia barely manages to catch it with his hands instead of his head. America walks past the states around the downstairs, not reacting to their waving. Many of them then turn to Russia, their eyes pleading, as if asking him to fix this. Russia promises himself he will, for his and their sake.
America starts walking up the stairs, leaning strangely on the railing. Russia slowly follows him up.
‘I need to talk to him.’
America reaches the hallway, tapping his fingers on the wall, unaware of Russia behind him.
“Meri?”
America jumps a little, turning to look at Russia over his shoulder.
“Yeah?” America asks, his face strangely blank.
“I need to talk to you,” Russia says, eyeing some of the rooms around him.
‘I need to get him alone.’
“I’m fine,” America says, looking back toward the wall his hand is against.
“You are not,” Russia argues, feeling a pang in his chest at America looking away from him.
“I am,” America insists flatly, staring at the wall.
Russia’s nose crinkles and frustration bubbles in his chest to match the fear in his head.
‘You aren’t listening to me.’
‘You’re going to get hurt like this.’
Russia dully notes that a few faces pop out from behind doors, looking at them curiously. The pain in his chest also has his mind flitting back to Massachusetts and the sword.
‘This is hurting the states too.’
Russia speaks before his mind can catch up.
“No, you’re not. You are ignoring me and your children.”
‘Fuck.’
“I am not!” America snaps, spinning on his heels and staring at Russia.
‘I have his attention. But I didn’t want this.’
Russia stops himself from stepping back. Nausea creeps up the back of his throat and he looks toward his arms, noticing a pink twinge. He shakes his hands, trying to stop reaching for the surrounding magic. He tries to ignore the regret sitting in his chest.
“Yes, you are,” Russia replies, trying to keep his tone calm, “Massachusetts just-”
“I know,” America says, cutting him off in a flat tone, his eyes narrow.
“Let me speak,” Russia hisses, ignoring the guilt starting to build in his chest.
Russia’s heart sinks and he sees America’s chest rise sharply. America’s hands spark wildly before he shakes them, running one roughly through his hair. America snarls, and Russia meets his glare.
America opens his mouth before closing it. “Fine,” he says, waving his hand before crossing his arms.
Russia feels anger clawing at the back of his throat and he swallows it back. He breathes in as deeply as he can manage, trying to steady his thoughts.
‘He’s dealing with a lot, including about Dixie. I just want to help him.’
America scowls at his silence.
“Your mind is gone somewhere else,” Russia says, struggling to find the right words under America’s scrutinizing gaze, “you are not noticing things. Not reacting correctly.”
America scoffs, dropping his arms to his sides. “It’s fine Ruby, I’ll be fine.”
‘Please talk to me, I want to help you,’ Russia thinks, desperation filling his mind.
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“I. Have. Magic,” America says, his hands balling into fists, “I’ll be fine.”
“Not very much,” Russia counters, “and there is no good magic for me to help you with.”
“Dad?” Arizona asks, stepping out from behind Russia with a charred piece of wood in her hands. America doesn’t react to her, and Russia turns back to look at him.
“I’ll be fine, leave me alone,” America says, his expression contorted.
Russia's breath almost leaves him, and he finds himself baring his teeth. Arizona steps back a little, curling in on herself.
‘Does he not see this?’ Russia thinks incredulously, ‘he’s hurting them!’
He ignores the aching in his chest for himself and a protective feeling rises within him.
“I know you think it doesn’t affect them, but it does,” Russia snaps, “You-”
“Shut up!” Ame screams, “stop fucking talking to me about this!”
“No! I want to help you!” Russia exclaims, throwing hands up and stepping forward.
“I don't need your help!” America screams back. He steps forward, his eyes glowing, one much brighter than the other.
Russia back peddles, his heart in his throat. His eyes widen as he tries not to stubble over Arizona. He feels like he’s in two places at once.
‘No nono no not again.’
America takes another step forward, he seems to be saying something.
All Russia can hear is, ‘You killed them!’
Russia takes another step back, his chest burning, his mind’s eye coating America’s eyes in grey. He gasps for breath, trying to reach at his beltline for a weapon that he doesn’t have.
Motion catches his attention, and he sees Arizona trying to step around him. He grabs her arm as gently as he can think to, pulling her behind him. It feels like he’s stepping on the dirty, broken tile of the base.
Russia crouches slightly, his arms in front of him, glowing pink. His chest fills with the burning sensation of the bad magic. He closes his eyes, the scar across his midsection burns.
‘Not again. Please not again.’
All he can hear is his heartbeat roaring in his ears.
Nothing happens.
He forces his eyes open, and sees America walking slowly closer, one hand extended.
‘What are you doing?’
Russia turns his head away as America approaches.
“Please don’t hurt us,” he mumbles, sure it’s too low for America to hear.
Then, a strong hand grips his shoulder. His head spins to meet Ukraine’s gaze.
‘What? How are you here?’
His heart pounds in his chest and his hands shake wildly. He scans the hallway. Then, he slowly starts to recognize the walls around him.
‘I’m not there anymore.’
He turns back toward America, who stares at him in horror, a hand over his mouth and the other pulling at his hair.
America stumbles back, tears filling his eyes. Then, he spins around, running toward the stairs up to the third floor.
Russia’s pounding heart fades, and the house seems quiet under the static filling his ears. He grabs his chest, his breathing fast and heavy.
“What the fuck was that?” Ukraine snarls, starting to push past Russia toward the stairs.
America grumbles, his brow furrowed. He rubs his arms, mumbling. He paces in place, limping. Louisiana and Russia meet eyes, and Louisiana purses her lips. Russia looks back toward America, ready to step forward with his hand half raised.
‘Meri?’
“Okay Dad,” Louisiana says, almost hiding her nerves, “I know you’re mad, but how are we gonna do this? I don’t know no Prussian.”
America takes a deep breath, and his shoulders fall. His hands drop to his sides, and his eye focuses on the ground. He kicks a rock toward the hilt halfheartedly.
“I dunno kiddo.”
Russia feels his heart drop at his tone.
‘He sounds tired. So tired…’
“You can ask questions,” someone suggests from behind him, causing Russia to jump.
His heart jumps into his throat, and he reaches for the magic around him and spins around. He scans his surroundings, and his vision zeros in on Massachusetts, who holds his hands up in a placating manner, his eyes wide and flashing green. Russia takes a shaky breath, and his hand falls.
“Sorry,” Russia mumbles.
Massachusetts continues to step forward, Virginia and Georgia following him. Russia shakes his hands, trying to ignore his anxiety.
‘They followed us,’ he thinks, sighing.
“What do you mean?” America snaps, tensing in an almost defensive manner.
Massachusetts raises his hands again in a surrendering manner. America flinches, and then looks away, running his hand through his hair. Then, America sighs, his shoulders falling, and he starts leaning to the side, shifting most of his weight to his good foot.
‘Is he okay?’
Russia shakes his head, almost bemused with himself.
‘No, he is not. I need to talk to him.’
“Sorry Sett,” America says, his voice weary, “could you explain?”
“Yes and no questions might be easier to do,” Massachusetts says, his hands falling to his sides in tight fists and his eyes scanning the area.
Virginia stands beside him, looking behind them. Georgia stands close by, her arms crossed and brow furrowed. Both of them stand with knees bend, as if ready to pounce.
‘We are freaking each other out.’
Russia takes a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. He straightens his back, exhaling slowly. He steadies his gaze on the trees, relaxing his hands at his sides. He feels the states looking at him and he tries to keep his face unbothered. He turns toward America, and America sighs, giving him a soft smile.
‘If I calm down, they will do the same.’
“Simple questions would help,” Russia agrees, steadying his tone.
America meets his eyes and then looks away. His face scrunches up for a moment before he shakes his head as if to reset his thoughts.
‘I wish I could get him alone. He won’t talk about anything with the states around.’
America sighs. Motion in Russia’s periphery grabs his attention. He swallows his panic and slowly turns to look. He tries not to visibly sigh when he sees the ghost waving at them. The ghost starts talking again, trying to get America’s attention. The ghost’s arm drops when America doesn’t look at him.
“Do you guys want the translation-ish?” America asks, wiping his face with his hand.
“If ya don’t mind,” Georgia replies, her shoulders stiff.
America sighs, running his hand through his hair. His eye seems unfocused. He shifts his weight between his feet and doesn’t seem to flinch when leaning on his bad foot. Russia feels his heart drop.
‘That is not good.’
Russia looks at America before he looks toward the states.
“He’s talkin' again,” Louisiana states, her voice tense.
“Okay,” America says listlessly, staring at the sky.
‘I don’t think he is listening.’
’It feels like he isn’t here.’
Russia starts reaching out his hand, about to step forward. He looks around at the states for a moment, who are looking at each other.
‘I have to do something..’ he resolves.
“Dad?” Louisiana calls, her voice tense and annoyed.
America stares blankly forward for a moment, before shaking his head, trying to refocus. He starts snapping his fingers next to his face, and then suddenly focuses on Louisiana, and then Russia.
“Can you explain what is going on to him?” Russia asks gently, his hand falling.
America looks at him, pauses, and then smiles. Russia’s heart flutters and he looks down, his face hot. Then, he looks up and sees America staring at the rock pile where the hilt is sitting.
‘Oh. He can’t see him,’ Russia reminds himself.
America starts talking, stumbling over the words. Slowly, his tone becomes more steady. The ghost looks at him, many facial expressions passing over his face.
“I just told him I can’t hear him, but that you two can,” America says, not looking away, “but you can’t understand him. Is he saying anything?”
The ghost looks between the three before his shoulders fall. He turns toward Russia and begins to speak slowly. Lousiana looks annoyed between them, and then sighs, kicking the ground.
‘Why isn't he talking to her?’
The ghost pauses, waiting in between words and more so between what Russia assumes are sentences.
“He is saying something,” Russia starts.
Then, he turns to America and mimics the syllables, trying to use a German accent to make it sound closer to what he hears. He feels his face scrunch up, and it feels clunky in his mouth.
Russia stares beside America’s face, focused, and he almost misses the smile that America gives him. He looks tongue-tied toward the ground for a moment, his face warm. He sighs, ignoring how his heart skips a beat, and tries to finish the last word he is repeating.
‘He is cute.’
The ghost falters a little, looking between them, before continuing, a strange expression on his face. Russia stumbles to finish repeating the words.
“Okay, okay,” America says flatly, glancing around at the other people around him, “I’m going to start just asking yes or no questions. Let me know what he says. And I’ll say it in English so y’all understand.”
“But what did he say?”
“I could be wrong,” America says hesitantly, “but I think he’s just asking how this is going to work.”
America first explains ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to Louisiana and Russia before he turns back and begins talking. Russia assumes the first few sentences are to explain how the conversation is going to work.
“Do you know how you got here?” America says in English before talking to the ghost. The ghost is quick to reply.
“No,” Louisiana translates.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No.”
“You’re in the United States of America. Do you know how you got here?”
The ghost seems to pause and then doesn’t answer.
“Anything?” America asks, his fingers nervously tapping his leg.
“No,” Russia replies, “he’s not answering.”
America purses his lips.
“Okay. What is your name?”
“Georg Endris,” Louisiana attempts to repeat with his accent.
America repeats it, still butchering the pronunciation, but it sounded closer than Louisiana’s attempt. The ghost looks happy for a moment before continuing to talk.
Russia begins tuning them out as the ghost focuses on talking to Louisiana.
Russia stands up to look around in one of the other rooms when someone taps him on the shoulder. He spins around and sees Iowa, who takes a step back.
“Ope, sorry!” she exclaims, raising her visible hand in the air, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
Russia breathes a sigh of relief before looking closer at her. She has one hand behind her back and a badly masked look of excitement on her face. Minnesota stands slightly behind her, grinning widely. Both of them are covered in dust.
‘From searching,’ Russia assumes.
“But we have something for you,” Minnesota says, mischief in her voice.
“What?” Russia asks, trying to hide a smile that threatens his expression.
“This!” Iowa says brightly, handing Russia a sickle.
Russia takes it. The metal of the blade doesn’t shine like he expects, but it also shows no extra signs of age other than the dust-covered handle, which has a few spots showing new fingerprints. He laughs lightly.
“Where did you find this?” he asks, baffled.
Iowa shrugs, a large smirk on her face.
Russia laughs.
‘It is Dixie’s house. Maybe he kept it for something?’
He shakes his head to dismiss his musing. He looks down and studies the sickle for another moment, noting the dark wood handle and dull steel, before a large smile takes over his face.
‘I know exactly who I am going to give this to.’
“Ukraine!”
“What?” Ukraine calls from upstairs.
“Come here!”
“Why?”
Russia decides not to answer. He sees a few states around him look between him and the stairs, snickering.
“Russia?”
Russia smirks, hiding the sickle behind his back.
He hears a door shut loudly upstairs. Then, he feels the floor shake a little as Ukraine stomps down the stairs. Ukraine appears from around the corner, his hat barely peaking above the miscellaneous things he was holding, a spear nearly tumbling down the stairs.
“This better be important.”
“I have something for you.”
“What?” Ukraine asks, annoyed. He drops what he’s holding into a pile on the table.
Something interesting catches Russia’s attention. It looks like a sword hilt made of bone.
“Russia!” Ukraine demands, his hands on his hips.
“Oh yeah,” Russia says, pulling the sickle out from behind him.
“This is-”
“<Fuck off!>” Ukraine yells while Russia shoves the tool into his hand.
Russia laughs loudly and steps back, avoiding Ukraine’s swing at his neck.
“Can’t get me!” Russia laughs.
Ukraine snarls and hooks Russia’s arm in the blade of the sickle.
“<Why would you give this to me?>” Ukraine hisses, loud enough for Russia to understand
“You can fight with it,” Russia replies with a shrug, pulling his arm to his side.
“What is this?” Massachusetts interrupts, raising the sword hilt.
Russia turns to look at him, and Ukraine hooks him around the other arm, scratching him.
“Hey!” Russia exclaims.
“I don’t know,” Ukraine says, not looking away, “I found it up on a shelf and it looked interesting.”
“Dixie?” Massachusetts calls.
“I dunno,” Dixie answers, “it was given to me after…” He pauses for a moment. “I’ve had it for a long time.”
“Huh,” Texas says, watching it nervously. The star in his eye spins for a moment before quickly stuttering to a stop.
‘He can do that? How did I not notice?’ Russia wonders, once again removing his arm from Ukraine’s sickle.
“You are such an asshole,” Ukraine sneers.
“Is that made of bone?” asks British Columbia, sounding skittish, pointing at it hesitantly.
“Probably,” Dixie says with a shrug, “either way, I tried to take care of it.”
“You think there’s anything attached to it?” Manitoba asks nervously, turning to look at Louisiana, “because it looks human…”
“I don’t know!” she exclaims, crossing her arms, “and I ain’t checkin right now.”
“You could.”
“What are you talkin about? I just tried to use my magic and I got cursed,” she exclaims, swiping her hand through the air.
“But that’s probably because you were trying to use just magic,” Manitoba starts, waving their hands.
“What else would I use?”
“The source outside?” they say with a shrug, “Like directly?”
Louisiana goes quiet for a moment and then hums to herself. Manitoba suddenly seems unsure of themselves, their shoulders dropping for a moment before they straighten their back.
“I know what I’m talking about! I have magic too!” they defend.
“I just wanna be careful.”
Manitoba scoffs.
“If you’re going to try that, I’m coming with you,” America says sternly, his arms crossed.
Russia nods in agreement.
“Mass?” Louisiana asks.
“I don’t know,” Massachusetts says with a shrug, “if it is haunted, I’d want to know. But I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“And there ain’t no way a thing made of human bone ain’t haunted,” Alabama calls from another room.
Louisiana sighs. She looks toward Russia.
“If this goes wrong, you’re finna help me,” she demands, stomping to the pile.
She snatches the bone hilt from Massachusetts, who offers a loud complaint in response. She quickly turns toward the back door.
“Lu, are you sure this is a good idea?” Georgia asks hesitantly.
“I dunno, but I don’t wanna anger nothin else right now,” Louisiana states, her brow furrows and scowl makes its way onto her face, “and it does look like a magical item.”
“Can I see it?” Russia asks, reaching out a hand.
Louisiana sighs before handing it to him. He flips it in his hands. The actual handle is wrapped in old, dry leather. The base feels smooth, worn under his fingers. The guard looks scratched, but not broken.
He also notes how it feels fuzzy in his hands.
‘Definitely magic. And there was probably no physical blade.’
He holds it, and the handle it a little too small for his hand.
‘I wonder if I can see anything else.’
He breathes in deep.
“Russ?” America calls, “You have to tell us before you do anything.”
“Sorry. There is magic attached, I want to see it,” Russia explains plainly, closing his eyes.
He tries not to flinch at America’s annoyed sigh.
He opens his eyes again, and the remaining sound he could hear falls under the ringing. He looks around, noticing the grey around them is a little duller. He feels like he’s breathing in campfire smoke instead of the acrid house fire smoke of earlier.
‘Still unpleasant, but better.’
He focuses his attention on the sword hilt. The bone glows with a deep, blood red. Then, he blinks.
A whispy teal surrounds the hilt, shifting around it. It tries to cover the red, but fails to disguise it. It seems to cling lightly to his fingers. He passes the hilt between his hands, watching it move.
‘Those are magic signatures.’
‘Why?’
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, the world shifts back into focus.
“The grey magic around us is less,” he announces, “and magic signatures are attached to this.”
“Signatures?” Louisiana asks, startled, “like more than one?”
“Yes,” Russia says, “I don’t know why.”
“Now you have to check it out!” Manitoba says.
Louisiana paces for a moment, mumbling to herself. Then, she curses.
“We need more magic items. Dixie, are you sure you don’t know where this came from?”
“It was given to me after the Civil War. I don’t know,” Dixie says sternly. A “don’t ask me again,” is left unsaid.
Louisiana sighs loudly.
“Russ?”
“Yes?”
“You can filter magic to me, right?”
Russia nods.
“Cool, You’re gonna do that,” she says, walking toward the back door.
Russia follows close behind, watching America side-step behind him, a visible limp in his stride.
They walk outside, and Russia spots several groups of four scouting the area, some on the ground and a few in tree stands. There is a larger group sitting at a picnic table in the center of the backyard, idling chatting and eating snacks.
Louisiana walks past them, waving a stiff hello. A few of them wave back, and others eye the hilt in her hand suspiciously.
They arrive at the stump and Louisiana looks toward him. Russia nods, closing his eyes for a moment. He opens them again and stares at the clean magic erupting from the stump.
‘It is working hard to filter this,’ he notes idly.
He grabs some of the strands and dully notes Louisiana slowly putting the hilt on a rock pile nearby. She steps back and looks at him, one hand outstretched. He takes a few steps toward her.
He funnels the strings to her, and they take on a purple hue as soon as they reach her grasp. He watches her speak, unable to make out the words. He breathes in deeply, turning down the valve in his chest, teetering between the physical and magic worlds.
‘I need to be able to hear them.’
Then a man, who looks around her age, emerges. He looks almost solid, and Russia takes a startled step back.
The man opens his mouth and speaks in a tongue Russia doesn’t understand, facing Louisiana.
‘That sounds familiar.’
Louisiana’s face scrunches. His face seems to dim at not being understood. The man looks at Russia and Georgia, his shoulders falling.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?” America answers nervously.
‘I don’t understand what he’s saying.”
America’s shoulders fall and he seems to sigh in relief.
“Just try to repeat it back to me and I’ll see what I can do.”
Lousiana does, her tongue tripping over unfamiliar syllables. America goes a little pale and rubs his face.
“Okay, I’m gonna try something. Let me know if he responds.”
America says something in a similar accent, and the man jumps, his eyes lighting up and he begins to speak rapidly.
“He’s responding,” Louisiana reports.
“God damn it,” America says, grinding his foot into the dirt, “It’s fucking Prussian.”
“Really?” New Hampshire asks, muffled excitement in her tone.
“Yeah,” Dixie says nonchalantly, waving his good hand, “why would I get rid of anythin’?”
The states rush out of the room. Some of them run upstairs or to nearby closets, others walk outside, the doors slamming shut. Loud, incongruous talking filters out of the room.
‘They’re taking the opportunity to leave,’ Russia figures, scanning the now nearly empty room from his seat.
‘To get away from this.’
“I hope they paired up,” America comments, stepping toward the center of the room.
“They did,” Russia replies, faintly hearing Dixie and Delaware talking about a bow. Connecticut stands nearby, wringing their hands.
“But what if they didn’t?” America says, worry painting his expression.
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because- I- they might not have!” America says, his hands quickly raising.
Russia furrows his brow, putting his hands at his sides.
‘But we haven’t had that problem recently.’
‘Do you not trust them?’ Russia wonders. ‘Do I want to know?’
“We should check on them,” America says as he turns toward the stairs, his tone short.
“Wait-” Russia calls, extending his hand.
America doesn’t turn back, calling for some of the states as he walks into another room.
“Oh,” Russia mumbles, retracting his hand and glancing at the ground.
‘Bye.’
Russia rubs his arm, looking down. A dull buzz fills his head as movement crops up around him. He sinks slightly into the couch, biting the inside of his cheek.
‘That hurt.’
“Hey, Russ?” Delaware asks with a wave of his hand.
“Yes?” Russia replies, looking up.
Delaware stands diagonal to him, his eyes tired. Russia tries to swallow back worry.
“Could you help me find something?”
“Yes,” Russia replies, moving to stand.
He pauses for a moment.
“Are you going to be okay?” Russia asks, looking to Dixie.
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” Dixie laughs lightly, an attempt at a disarming smile adorns his face.
Russia tries not to let the doubt in his chest show on his face, but by the way Dixie’s smile wavers, he knows he isn’t doing a good job.
“Don’t worry Russ,” Nebraska calls, “we’ll keep an eye on him.” She gestures to Montana standing beside her.
Russia nods, standing. He ignores the slight vertigo, taking a deep breath and bracing on the back of the couch.
“You okay?” Connecticut asks.
“Yes, I am fine,” Russia says, waving off their concern.
Connecticut hums disbelievingly. Russia ignores them.
He stands, planting his feet. His vision doubles for a moment and he squints, forcing his eyes to focus.
‘I hope I don’t look too unsteady.’
He looks idly around for Ukraine, not immediately seeing him, or Canada, nearby, but the provinces duck in and out of the room.
‘I wonder where he is.’
Russia sighs.
‘I’m sure he can handle himself.’
He follows Delaware to the back door and Delaware sighs. Connecticut says something to Dixie before following behind them.
“I know you're not okay,” Delaware says, staring ahead.
Russia’s heart drops. Delaware reaches for the door and slowly opens it, his shoulders sinking.
‘Are you okay?’
“But I also know you won't let yourself rest.” Delaware turns to look up at him, “please, take it easy?”
Russia nods, biting his tongue at the tears visible in Delaware’s eyes. Delaware steps outside and Russia ducks under the doorframe, following him out. Connecticut closes the door behind them.
“Come on, I need help finding Dixie’s old bow.”
Russia follows him to a shed, passing people polishing weapons. Sticky static coats his skin.
“It feels so weird out here,” Connecticut says, cautiously looking around, “‘Sides, where are we going?”
“Dixie says that his compound bow is probably in the shed next to his bigger machete.”
Connecticut nods, and Russia falls back behind them.
As they walk forward, Delaware keeps glancing back, occasionally meeting Russia’s eyes. Delaware eventually sighs, turning to talk to Connecticut. Before he can say anything to them, he trips, stumbling slightly. Russia takes a wider step forward with his hand extended, but Delaware quickly waves him off.
“It’s fine, Russ.”
Russia’s hand drops and he slows for a moment to give the states some space.
They approach an older-looking, but well-maintained, wooden shed; the paint is a faded red color. It looks almost ombre with wear, with a pink skirt around the base that is painted lightly with dirt. Connecticut walks forward and grabs one of the doors. They yank on the handle, and it groans, unmoving.
“Del?”
“Before I break it, we should try the other door.”
Russia steps up, grasping the other worn handle and pulling it back. The track the door hangs on squeaks, and he shakes it slightly. It sticks and Russia’s nose wrinkles.
‘I don't want to break it.’
“Just pull it,” Delaware says nonchalantly.
Russia pulls harder, and it shrieks. He finches at the noise. Light leaks into the shed as it creaks open and Russia is surprised by the lack of cobwebs. He can see the inner walls lined with wood, and the floor is concrete.
“I think Dixie should probably oil that,” Connecticut says offhandedly, waving their hand.
“I don’t think he can reach it,” Delaware replies, laughter in his tone.
Russia shakes his head lightly.
He carefully ducks into the shed, passing a machete and spotting a compound bow hanging off the wall. It’s a dark wood with shiny gears. The handle is worn in the shape of someone’s hand. A name is carved into the side.
‘Dixie,’ Russia reads.
He reaches for it, and a few wisps of white magic circle his hand as he grabs it. It feels spiked. Russia bites his tongue at a strange impulse.
‘Why do I feel like it does not trust me?’
“I am retrieving this for Delaware,” Russia explains.
Immediately, the magic around it subsides, and he picks it up without issue. He glances around and spots a quiver of arrows hanging nearby. The quiver itself is made of dark brown leather; the strap is creased with memories. He reaches over to grab it while he sees Connecticut walk in behind him.
“Could you hand this to Delaware?” Russia asks, offering both items to them.
They nod, taking the set and turning around, handing it off. On their way to Delaware, they flip a switch that Russia did not originally see, bathing the shed is a warm yellow light from a lightbulb in the center of the ceiling.
Russia looks around in awe at the array of weaponry. Axes, spears, a trident, and several more bows are easily visible. He also spots what looks like a wardrobe and a gun safe. Delaware walks in from behind him, quiver on his back and bow in hand.
“Lots of us had some pretty weird interests,” Delaware comments lightheartedly, picking up a toolbox helpfully labeled “THROW KNIVES + ECT”.
“We should bring some of this stuff inside,” Connecticut says off-handedly, grabbing what looks like a battle axe.
Russia nods, walking over to a large blue drum. It looks like it may have once held liquid, but now holds spears. Russia grabs as many as he can hold without stabbing himself in the face and Connecticut picks up a long leather bag, sword hilts poke out of the top.
“We should probably ask around to make sure all of these are battle usable,” Delaware comments.
“What do you mean?” Russia asks.
“Well this,” Delaware says, kicking something that looks like a cross between a spear and an axe, “was a blacksmithing experiment, if I remember right.”
“Yeah,” Connecticut comments, “Claws thought halberts were cool.”
“Yeah, and I don't know what else in here might be… a prop, I guess,” Delaware says after a pause.
“And you don’t wanna find that out when it’s important,” Connecticut says with a laugh.
Russia nods with a smile.
“Battle is a bad time for a weapon to break,” Russia mumbles, unable to hear the words.
Connecticut snorts loudly and Delaware scoffs.
“Yes, Russ. Very right,” Connecticut says, trying to hide a smile plastered on their face.
Russia’s face feels warm and Delaware laughs.
‘I didn’t think they could hear me.’
Russia walks back out, momentarily blinded by the sun. He squints, and his eyes adjust to see targets being arranged. He can also see people setting up tree stands in the distance.
Delaware steps around him, leading the way back to the house. Russia follows, Connecticut walking behind him. They enter the house, and Delaware drops the toolbox.
“You found everything?” Dixie asks from the couch.
“Most of it,” Delaware replies, “is this the bow you were talking about?”
Russia drops the spears that he’s holding next to the toolbox and takes a step back. States converge on the pile, inspecting each item. They talk amongst themselves, too quiet for Russia to understand.
“We should go grab the rest of the stuff,” Connecticut says.
Heart Strings - XXVI - America May Not Have Liked the Guards, but This is Worse
America isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he’s shaken awake by a boot to his shoulder. His head shoots up to see a familiar yellowed grin.
“Howdy,” Confederacy says, smirking.
America scowls, trying to suppress the shivering from the cold in his bones. The room is dark, sunlight barely peaking through dust-caked windows. The air tastes heavy and old. He’s on top of a pile of faded cloth, holes rubbing against him. A single, very thin blanket it strewn on top of him. It smells faintly of mildew.
He knows his arm should be hurting, but it feels mostly numb.
‘Bleh. Mouse holes.’
Confederacy laughs, and it echos in the slowly decaying building. A hat covers his hair and a scarf rests loosely around his neck.
‘I should strangle you with that.’
“You’ve been out for a while,” he comments, a smug look on his face.
‘I hope they didn't see my magic.’
‘You are such an asshole.’
‘Wait, been out?’
‘Russia?’
‘Mare! Are you okay?’
America flinches at the relief, feeling guilty.
‘I must’ve worried him. And my kids. Fuck.’
‘Uhhhhhh.’
America looks around, trying to ignore Confederacy’s bragging.
“I got you away from Neo, and he didn’t even notice!”
‘Neo? Neo-Nazi. Cool,’ America thinks, sarcastically.
Then, his heart drops.
‘That means he’s probably behind this. Fuck. Who else is there?’
“And Red didn’t say nothin’ either.”
‘I’m sure Neo noticed,’ America thinks, ‘but then why would he let you take me? And “Red”?’
He looks behind Confederacy and sees a phone on top of a pile of food and a few thermoses, one plugged into a portable battery.
‘Is anyone else here?’
He listens for anything underneath Confederacy’s yapping, but he doesn’t hear anyone else.
‘Fuck.’
“-and I couldn’t have you dyin’ before I kill ya.”
‘And who the fuck are you calling Red?’
“Where am I?” he hisses, interrupting Confederacy.
“Now, now. That ain’t polite now is it?” Confederacy asks with an oddly symmetrical smile, leaning over, his heavy down coat rustling as he moves, “to interrupt people while they’re talkin’?”
“It also ain’t polite to kidnap people,” America bites through his teeth.
‘I wish Dixie was here. He would smack that look off your face. And maybe your jaw too. That would be funny.’
Confederacy scowls.
‘I’m alone.’
‘Where?’ Russia asks, muted panic following his words.
“I… don’t know yet.’
Confederacy paces in front of him, his combat boots loud on the ground. America notes the white shoe laces that appeared to have an attempted ladder-lace pattern.
‘As if I didn't know that already,’ America thinks, rolling his eyes.
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Confed.’
There is an eerie silence that follows.
“Now, I have a question for ya.”
America pointedly looks at the ground, a scowl set on his face. Then, the side of his face burns as Confederacy kicks him. America rolls slightly, staring up at Confederacy.
‘Oh, I am NOT laying down in front of you, you prick.’
He scrambles to sit up, his hands tied behind his back and his arm loosely bandaged.
‘Why am I bandaged??’
“Where are the states?” Confederacy says, a false smile cutting into his cheeks.
“I don’t know what you’re-”
America is cut off by a swift kick to his stomach. He gags at the bile rising from it. He looks back up to see Confederacy’s smile has faded.
‘You motherfucker.’
“Where. Are. They?”
“I don’t know!”
‘Technically I don’t know exactly.’
“Right,” Confederacy spits.
America looks at his jacket, jealous. He also notes the lack of distinguishing features.
America clenches his chattering teeth, holding his legs close to his body in a desperate attempt to stay warm.
‘Dixie is here to look for you.’
‘What!?’
“So, where are they? They’re with Russia, ain’t they?”
America tenses, and Confederacy laughs.
‘Fuck.’
“Now to find ‘em,” Confederacy says, grabbing America’s chin.
America scowls.
“Besides, I want an audience.”
“For what?”
“For killin’ you!” Confederacy says brightly.
‘Russia?’
‘Yes?’
‘How long was I out for?’
‘Two days. Your children are worried about you.’
‘Fuck.’
America tries not to let the cold leech through the link. He’s not sure if it's working.
“Would you like to talk to them?” Confederacy asks flippantly.
“What?” America asks.
“I have Russia’s phone number!” Confederacy says brightly, picking up the phone from the pile.
Confederacy fumbles with the phone for a moment, cursing. Then, he takes off one of his gloves.
‘He’s gonna call you.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You’re guess is as good as mine. But, if I had to guess, it’s to trap the states… and I’m probably gonna be the bait.’
‘That isn’t nice.’
America bites his tongue, trying not to snort at the statement. Confederacy looks at him, offended.
‘Yeah, you could say that.’
“You know, you should really respect me more,” he says with a scolding tone.
America scowls.
‘You think you have the right to scold me? You’re as good as dead.’
“Besides, I’m the perfect replica. Don’t you see that?”
America’s eyebrows furrow.
‘Of Dixie?’
He scowls.
‘You are nothing like him.’
Confederacy laughs, shoving his uncovered hand and the phone into his pocket.
“I’m the best there’s ever been,” he says with a wide grin, gesturing with his gloved hand, “since the failures y’all killed. Or crumbled. Whatever.”
‘Failures?’
‘Wait, they think Dixie is dead.’
‘What are you talking about?’
“And I’ll be able to have the states to myself, I just have to get rid of you first.”
Confederacy begins fumbling with the phone again, looking away from America.
‘Wait, crumbled. Red. A Soviet duplicate? Nazi killed himself, so he can’t be talking about him.’
“And then I can do what he never could.”
‘They think Dixie is dead. And probably Soviet.’
‘What should I tell them?’
‘Thank you for just believing me,’ America thinks, almost positive that his relief sinks into the link.
‘Don’t call them yet, you’re probably about to get a call.’
Then, a phone is shoved next to his face. He hears it ringing, and then he’s met by someone else’s voice.
“Dad?” South Carolina asks.
‘Shit, they shouldn’t have known.’
‘I told them not to, but he stole my phone.’
America looks at Confederacy, only to see no suspicion. He sighs under his breath.
“Hey kiddo,” he says, his voice cracking.
‘I wish I could’ve sounded more confident,’ he thinks, flinching.
Before he gets a response, Confederacy takes the phone.
“If you want to see him again…”
Confederacy continues, but America tunes him out.
‘This is a trap.’
‘I know. And Dixie and my father are working together to find you and my siblings.’
‘Well, tell them they have to stay hiding.’
‘I don’t think Dixie will take that answer, and my father won’t.’
‘Well, tell them not to get caught.’
He can almost hear Russia sigh, stress leaking through the link.
‘Yeah, I don’t know how you’re going to do that either. Good luck.’
Confederacy hangs up the phone, a proud smile on his face.
Russia is helped off the ground and led to the couch. He collapses onto it with a sigh. He looks away from the windows, tuning out the chatter around him.
‘This is not going to end well.’
“What do we do now?” Massachusetts asks, and Russia’s head rises at the noise.
“I don’t know,” America replies, his voice blank.
“Dad?” A worried voice calls.
“I can’t wait to be home,” Egypt says.
“I think they're tryin’ to smoke us out,” Texas says, his eyes narrow as he scans the calm landscape outside.
The room erupts into chaos. Voices overlap with each other, and Russia’s head is filled with noise. He flinches and tries not to cover his ears.
“So do we camp out here?”
“What else are we gonna do?”
“Fight through ‘em?”
“How? We don’t know how many people there are.”
Russia starts shivering, his mind buzzing.
“And the magic is wicked strong too.”
“I'm scared.”
“What if this is how they capture us?”
“No, we got this far.”
“But this is new.”
“What if we get frozen again?”
“Frozen?”
Russia covers his ears at the noise, gasping. Then, he takes a deep breath. The talking gets louder, and his heart pounds in his chest.
‘I can’t think!’
‘I can’t breathe.’
“Quiet!” he demands, his hands falling to his lap.
‘I sound like my father,’ he registers faintly.
Everyone goes quiet, whipping around to look at him. Ukraine has a weird look on his face, but Russia decides to ignore it for now. He pants for a second, quickly scanning the room, his eyes wide.
“Are you-” Ukraine starts.
“We will find a way through this. And if they wanted to freeze us, they would have. Why give us warning?” Russia asks the group, ignoring Ukraine’s eyes.
“Then, what do we do?” Utah asks, his glasses slightly askew on his face.
Russia goes quiet for a second, feeling eyes on him, desperate for answers.
“We need more physical weapons,” Canada announces.
The room turns to face him.
“And what happens if we get attacked?” Massachusetts asks, his eyes narrow and his hands raised.
“No magic,” Russia says.
“Okay, I got that much,” Massachusetts says sarcastically, turning back toward Russia, “but what do we do?”
“We go on the defensive,” Dixie says hoarsely.
“So we’re just sitting ducks then?” Massachusetts rebutts.
“We’re being surrounded,” Russia says, “we don’t know what they might have.”
‘And I don’t want to make this worse.’
“And we have no way to prepare if we run,” Maine chimes in, “Verge and I are trying our best, but we can’t do any weaponsmithing on the road.”
“And Bama and I won't find nothing useful for it either,” Mississippi adds.
“Dixie? What do we do?” one of the states asks from the crowd.
The room goes quiet, and Dixie sits up a little, flinching at the movement. He coughs lightly, cradling his ribs at the movement.
“I don’t have it all figured out…”
‘But you sound like you have ideas,’ Russia thinks, relief twinged with guilt tucks itself away in his chest.
“But you probably have more than we do,” America says reluctantly.
Dixie sighs.
“We need to have rotating guards, and another meal time for that,” he says, gesturing with his good hand, “I’ll draw up a map for where y’all’d be stationed. I’m thinking rotating between stations every maybe 15 minutes.”
‘He needs to be sleeping, not doing this…’
“Is bunk buddies still gonna happen?” Oklahoma asks.
“Yeah, and I’ll be pairing up people who don't already have partners and plan to stay. I’ll write that down at some point.”
“And us?” Maine asks.
“You and Verge will have to teach some of your siblings how to forge weapons.”
“But-”
“You’re gonna need the extra hands,” Dixie says firmly, “I know neither of you like doin’ it, but we don't have time for y’all to do it all yourselves.”
“And the fibercrafts?”
“Del is in-charge of it, but I’ll figure out who's gonna be helpin’ with that.”
“Do we start guard rotations now?”
“How do those work again?”
“Hold on y’all,” Dixie says, waving his hand, “I just said I don’t got it all figured out, but yeah, we should have a watch go out.”
“We still have walkie-talkies!” Iowa volunteers.
“And we’ll make use of those,” Dixie says, giving her a grateful look.
“So that’s it? We just wait here?” Ohio demands.
“You will listen to Dixie,” Finland says, her tone final, “There is nothing else we can do.”
“And y’all,” Dixie says, gesturing to Phillippines, “will just have to be careful heading out.”
“Obviously,” Philippines says with a smirk.
Dixie sighs, rubbing his face.
“All y’all should probably also see what I’ve still got in storage.”
“What are you talking about?”
‘Is there more stuff here that can help us?’
“I’ve got some old hunting and magic stuff,” Dixie explains, “and it ain’t like I’ll be using it.”
Dixie lets a pained chuckle past his lips, and Russia flinches at it.
“Where haven’t we checked?”
“I don’t remember where I put everythin’,” Dixie says, looking down, “but anythin’ y’all gave me, it’s around here somewhere.”
He looks back toward Dixie with a frown. Dixie doesn’t meet his gaze. Russia sighs and looks down.
‘Will we be able to fight it?’
He swallows. He looks up. The calm breeze outside teases him.
‘And win?’
Someone pokes him and Russia whips around to meet their gaze. Ukraine jumps back before laughing lightly, his hands up. Russia sighs in relief.
“You’re jumpy,” Ukraine teases, but his shoulders are tense.
Russia scoffs, trying to shake off the feeling in his chest. The house seems to darken, and heavy static sticks to the walls.
Manitoba looks around, a strange look on their face. Then, they disappear into the crowd of movement as people move about the room. Russia watches the group for a moment before sighing.
The magic sinks into his chest, weighing him down. He shakes his head.
‘It’s thick,’ he notes, ‘heavy.’
“Hey, Dad!” someone shouts.
Russia looks up and sees Wyoming handing America a thick sock and an attachment for his foot. America smiles, sitting in a chair brought over by Oregon, who smiles and signs something Russia couldn’t understand.
“New York says that this should work for now.”
“And Finland?” America asks.
“I’m getting something for her now!” Missouri shouts, waving their prosthetic arm with a determined smile, “It won't be perfect, but-”
“But something is better than nothing,” Rhode Island cuts in.
“Rho! I was talking.”
“Too fucking bad.”
Russia chuckles. America moves and sits down next to Russia.
“So!” Ukraine says from behind his head.
Russia jumps, his hands flying. Ukraine laughs, but it sounds strained.
“What’s going on?” he asks nervously, leaning over the side of the couch, “Someone is coming?”
“Yes,”
“What did you see?” Ukraine asks, poking Russia in the back of the head. Russia flinches again.
“It looked like a wall of magic,” Russia says, scanning the treeline outside, gesturing vaguely, “It had smaller things inside.”
“Like signatures?” Manitoba interjects.
Russia nods.
“That ain’t good,” Alabama says from an adjacent room, poking his head through a doorway.
“Whatchu mean, Bama?”
“That means they’re probably organizin’ this,” Alabama adds, waving his hand.
“Do they know where we are?” Indiana asks somewhere to Russia’s left. Mumbling fills the room, too low to hear.
“Russia,” Massachusetts says, stepping in front of Russia, “I need you to check again.”
Russia nods and closes his eyes. He opens the valve in his chest and immediately chokes.
‘It feels like thick smoke.’
He scrambles to disconnect enough to focus and his eyes spring open. He can barely see Massachusetts’ signature through the dark grey, felted magic filling the space. He looks around, and can’t see America’s blue.
He grumbles anxiously and squints, searching for the smaller concentrations, and spots them in the distance.
They polkadot the area, faded colors at their centers.
‘Other magic users,’ he thinks, a bitter taste in his mouth.
‘They don’t look closer than before.’
He disconnects and leans onto his hands, his eyes closed. His head and limbs feel heavy. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.
“What was that?” America asks, panicked.
“What?” he asks, looking up.
“You were frothing at the mouth,” Massachusetts says, his eyes wide and momentarily flashing green.
“Don’t use your magic,” Russia warns, wiping spit from his chin, “I won't be able to give you more.”
Massachusetts flinches a little, stepping back.
“What do you see?” Ukraine pushes, the panic rising out of the undercurrent in his tone.
“The people bringing it here aren’t getting closer,” Russia explains, fighting to talk through brain fog.
“What did they look like?”
“It's other magic users,” Russia says, scowling, ”I can’t see them any more clearly.”
‘Why would they be doing this? And why can I see them better than Meri?’
Then, someone shrieks upstairs.
“Dad!” Louisiana screams.
Russia sits up and hears someone rushing down the stairs, stumbling over the steps. Louisiana rounds the corner and claws at her face, Georgia close behind her.
“Lulu?!” America calls, spinning around.
Russia jumps to his feet, and he hears Ukraine stumble back behind him.
“She needs help!” Georgia shouts.
“What happened?” Russia demands.
“I don’t know!” Louisiana cries, stumbling forward into the room and holding her eyes, “I was just trying to check the magic and I can’t see no more!”
‘Oh no.’
His heart sinks. The room explodes with noise.
“No one else use any magic!” America commands, panic painting his words.
Russia walks forward, the other people in the room parting ways to allow him through. Their faces fill with panic and dread.
Louisiana claws at her face and Georgia guides her forward by her arm. America meets Russia’s eyes, a desperate look on his face.
‘I will see what I can do,’ he promises himself.
Russia steps forward and takes her hands in his.
“Show me,” he says softly.
She removes her hands, and he can see tears streaking down her face. He swallows the lump in his throat. A dull, dark grey shades her eyes and forehead.
“Help me,” she cries.
Russia sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, everything is bathed in a darker grey. The color fills the room, almost like the house is on fire. Russia gasps for breath, his chest heavy with the spoiled magic.
He forces his focus back to Louisiana, who is surrounded in a cloud of magic. It circles her chest and face.
‘Shit.’
His head whips around and spots a familiar green.
‘I need something to clean it out with.’
“Massachusetts,” he calls, “Here. Now.”
Suddenly, a green orb floats beside him through what feels like smoke. He can barely see the outline of Massachusetts’ silhouette. He reaches out, touching Massachusetts’ chest.
Then, he takes a small amount of the green, and he feels the teen jump back slightly. Strings of green float into his hand. He can vaguely hear Massachusetts shout.
The small amount immediately sours, turning dark and the signature dissipates. He scowls. He starts trying to filter it in his palm while reaching out again with the other hand. His head pounds.
‘I have to be faster.’
He starts to separate a few white and green strands, and he sees the aura falter. He swallows back the nausea growing in his stomach.
‘That’s all I can take.’
The magic circles just around Massachusetts, still close enough to stay clean. Then, Russia’s eyes light up.
‘If I keep it close to me, it won't be contaminated.’
He pulls it toward his chest, and the green turns pink. He keeps it close, mixing the other magic strands he was holding. His ribs feel like they tighten, but the grey slowly dissipates.
He holds his hands out and watches the magic for a moment between them. It spins, turning lighter and lighter pink.
He turns his attention to Louisiana.
“Hold out your hands,” he says.
Russia squints his eyes, seeing a vague outline of hands outstretched to him.
He pushes the magic to his chest and takes her hands. He starts moving it closer to his hands, and he watches the pink run down his left arm and climb up her right.
The grey seems to eat it.
‘Please,’ he pleads, ‘I just have to flush this out.’
The grey starts to pulse, darkening in color. The field around her eyes swirls and writhes like a ball of worms. The magic around her chest retracts and expands in a desperate bid to keep its place. She tries to pull away, and he tightens his hands, scowling.
‘You will leave,’ he tells it.
He feeds it more, watching a faint aura form around his hand. Then, he starts drawing from the grey around her. It snaps back, sticking to her. He imagines grabbing it, pulling it toward him, and it begins reluctantly following down her arm and toward his.
It jolts back. His expression darkens.
‘I can fix this.’
Louisiana grips his hands, and he can faintly feel her shaking.
‘It will be okay.’
It stretches like a mass of melting plastic as it tries to snap back around her eyes and chest. His magic starts to surround it, and it beats against it in protest. He can barely see Massachusetts through the fog, hovering nearby. His green flickers.
Small lines of grey meet his hands, and he gags. It weighs on his chest and he pulls it through. His heart pounds in his ears, but it sounds dull.
Russia looks down at his own chest and his eyes narrow. Faint pink meets him, and he watches it trickle down his arm. He looks back at the grey clouds around Louisiana.
‘This has to be enough,’ he thinks desperately, ‘please.’
‘I need to take this off.’
He yanks on the magic, and it pulls free. He watches the last of the pink trace his fingers and the grey rushes to his hand, abandoning its posts. The grey disappears from her and he releases her hands, stumbling back and faintly registering his stomach churning.
He gasps and the world snaps back to solid.
He collapses to his knees and heaves. Burning slithers up his throat, and he chokes. He looks up and sees Louisiana and Massachusetts standing in front of him. Massachusetts says something he can’t understand, and Louisiana shakily steps back, her hands up.
A bucket is shoved under him, and he hugs it to his face. The ringing lowers to normal, and a wall of noise meets him.
“What was that?” Massachusetts asks.
“Are you okay?” Texas asks, his boots steady on the ground.
“I’m okay now,” Louisiana says, her voice shaky.
“Russia?” America asks, and Russia feels a hand on his back.
Russia swallows before gagging, ultimately throwing up a black sludge. The second it's out of his mouth, the heavy, acidic feeling in his chest fades.
He sighs.
“No one else use magic without permission,” he says hoarsely.
“What happened?”
“Something was sticking to her face,” Russia says, wiping his mouth and pushing himself back to his feet, “I flushed it out.”
Delaware sighs, his head on his hand. His other hand traces the dark wood table in front of him. Everything feels dark and numb. He stares down into the bowl in front of him.
‘God, I hate feeling like this.’
“Del?” Dixie asks, sitting on the other side of the table.
Delaware looks up and smiles. He moves his head up and grabs the spoon propped up on the side of his bowl. It smells amazing.
‘At least I’m not alone.’
The house is big, but not in an unwelcoming way. It looks lived in. Several of his old projects are out on a coffee table in a nearby room, and his old sewing machine sits on the edge of the table.
All of it having been taken out in an attempt to cheer him up.
‘I appreciate it.’
“I’m glad you came to see me,” Dixie says pleasantly. He leaves the understood “And not isolating yourself,” hanging between them.
Delaware laughs lightly.
“Thanks for having me.”
“Of course!” Dixie says with a chuckle, “You think I would’ve said no?”
‘No, that’s why I asked.’
Dixie stands up, taking his bowl with him into the kitchen.
“I’m gonna do some dishes, okay?”
“Okay,” Delaware replies, staring at his meal.
Delaware finished his food quietly, choosing to focus on the noise of life in the kitchen instead of the darker thoughts that plague his mind.
‘I’m just happy I’m not alone.’
He pushes his now empty bowl aside and lays his head on the table.
‘I don’t want to go upstairs.’
“Hey, kiddo?”
Delaware’s head shoots up, and he ignores the dizziness it causes.
“You can go lie down on the couch,” Dixie suggests.
Delaware’s shoulders fall with relief.
‘That’s not a bad idea.’
‘I wonder if he knows I need the company. He probably does.’
“Lemme grab you a blanket,” Dixie says, turning off the sink.
Delaware gets up and lies down on the couch. He sinks into it and he sighs.
Then, an old quilt is thrown over him. Delaware picks it up and examines it before his heart swells. The fabric is faded, but familiar blues. Embroidered shapes that were supposed to be stars cover the surface.
“You kept this?”
“Yeah,” Dixie says sheepishly, “it meant a lot to you.”
‘I thought I told you to get rid of it,’ Delaware thinks, tears clouding his vision.
“But this is…”
“I know it's old, and I hope you don't mind that I fixed some of the pieces,” Dixie says nervously, “but I kept as much of it as I could.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, kiddo. Just get some sleep, okay?”
Delaware nods, closing his eyes.
-
He suddenly finds himself over Dixie, but it's wrong.
‘What’s happening?!’
Dixie lays on a stiff mattress, skin and bones.
“You tore my family apart!” he finds himself shouting, smacking Dixie.
‘No! Not this!’
Dixie opens his eyes, his face one of forlorn acceptance. His cheeks are sunken in, and his face is heavily bruised. Some of them are in the shapes of his and his sibling’s hands. A thin blanket, decorated in rust, covers his torso, but even with it, he looked obviously starved. His hands sit on top of it, but not moving.
‘Not this again! I don’t want to hurt him.’
“Don’t look at me like that, Confederacy!” he finds himself hissing.
‘Dixie please.’
He watches his hands pound against Dixie’s ribs. Something cracks under his hands, but his hands don’t stop.
“You deserve this for what you’ve done!” his voice shrieks, cracking.
’NO nonono!’
Dixie sighs, and he sinks into the mattress.
‘NO!’
He watches Dixie’s eyes close.
“You shouldn't even be here!”
“I know,” Dixie mumbles.
‘No nonono NO! You’re going to die. No!’
“Then leave!”
‘No! I don’t want this!’
Dixie smiles.
‘Wait no!’
Then, Dixie relaxes, and his hands begin to crumble.
“No!” Delaware shouts, sitting up.
Breathing fast, he rubs his face and stares down at his arms. The scars marring his hands help remind him of time.
The house is dark, moonlight streaming through the windows. Crickets and frogs sing outside. He spins around and spots Dixie peacefully sleeping in an armchair, a tablet beside him on a side table.
Delaware jumps up, rushing at him. He headbutts Dixie in the chest and Dixie gasps.
“Hey,” Dixie says gently, wrapping Delaware in a hug, “I’m still here, I’m okay.”
Delaware hugs him tightly.
“Did you have a nightmare kiddo?”
Delaware hums. ‘More like a flashback.’
“Well, I’m okay, okay?”
Delaware sniffles.
“Hey, Del?”
Delaware hums.
“Can we move to the couch?”
Delaware gets up and Dixie pulls himself up, rubbing his chest.
“Sorry,” Delaware mumbles.
“You’re okay,” Dixie says with a light chuckle, “just headbutted me a bit hard is all.”
Dixie sits down in a corner of it and Delaware lies down, tears running like waterfalls. He puts his head on Dixie’s knee, and Dixie bushes his hair back with his hand.
Delaware gathers up the blanket and hugs it to his chest.
America opens his eyes, trying to look around, only for shadows to meet his vision. He tries to sit up, and his back spasms.
America's head hits Canada's shoulder and he slowly blinks at the encroaching darkness from outside. His body shakes violently against Canada and the wall behind them. He isn’t sure whether it's from pain or cold, and he doesn't want to tune back into the world more to find out.
'I wonder what time it is.'
He glances around the room to see trembling Australia glancing at him, worry in his eyes. America shivers. His breath streams out from his gag into wisps of white air in front of his face.
'He's probably freezing.'
America tries his best to shake off a wave of muffled anxiety sloshing around the opposite opening of the link.
'I hope Russ is okay.'
America nudges Canada. Canada meets his eyes and America jerks his head at Australia. Canada stares back at him with a blank expression. America rolls his eyes before forcing more obvious shivering, ignoring the pain it causes. Canada watches for a second before his eyes fly to Australia and his face lights up with recognition.
'Finally...'
Canada uses his good leg and scoots forward, catching Australia's attention. The two stare at each other before Canada scoffs and headbutts Australia's back. America bites back a laugh. England watches them, annoyed. America backs up against a wall, and Canada pushes Australia next to him.
England then sheepishly joined them, settling on America's other side. Canada sits in front of them, glaring at the cameras in the room with one leg out in front of him. America summons the smallest amount of magic he can, concentrating most of it around his stomach.
‘It’s hard to breathe.’
‘I’m also hungry.’
His shackles clang and shine. America tries in vain to hold his hands still.
'I want to use my scythe blade to cut those damn chains..'
America's eyes lock on a camera.
'But if they know about my magic.... it wouldn't be good.'
'I hope Mass, Netti, and Lu are safe. And Alaska and Scar.'
America bites the gag and flinches at the rough fabric cutting into his lips.
'Can I get Russ to send Alaska and Scar home? I want to keep them safe, but sending them by themselves could get them captured.'
'I called Dixie.'
America's head perks up. Canada straightens and blocks him from view.
'...well, what did he say?'
'They are very worried for you, but they have gone to some kind of safe house. I don't understand the logistics. The others are all accounted for, excluding South Carolina and Alaska, who are with me.'
America sighs.
'...South Carolina may have also taken the phone.'
The hesitancy tells America all he needs to know.
'Is Dix on a rampage?' America asks blandly.
'I am not sure. He hung up before South Carolina was finished.'
'Well that won't end badly,' America ponders sarcastically, pulling at the cuffs on his wrists.
'How close are you to finding us?'
'I hope I can hide my desperation.'
'I'm still far away,' Russia admits reluctantly.
America's heart stops for a moment and his shoulders fall. His eyes fall to the ground and tears invade this vision.
'...oh. Okay!' America replies, forcing optimism into his tone.
'I'm sure you still know the rest of my moods...'
'I'm sorry.'
The guilt hits America's heart. He flinches and takes a sharp gasp through his mouth. The cold air burns his lungs. He shuts his eyes and shoves the optimism he can scavenge through the connection.
'No, it's okay!'
'We both know it is not.'
'I know that! ...but you can let me pretend.'
'...'
America sighs.
'Anything else?'
'My father has gone silent,' Russia replies, anxiety in his tone.
America stiffens.
'.. wait. What?'
'I'm not sure,' Russia replies, the anxiety swelling, 'I've told Dixie about it. I hope they will contact each other if nothing else. I didn't have time to contact my other siblings either.'
'Hey, I'm sure it's okay,' America soothes, defaulting into a false calm to soothe Russia's distant but storming emotions.
The only response he receives is doubt. America finds his facade fading.
'Okay, maybe not completely okay, but... wait. What do you mean you don't have time?'
'We can't stop, and using my phone on a train is...'
'Bad?' America volunteers with a sad smile.
'Yes. Bad. I do not want an audience.'
America nods. Then, terror freezes his chest.
'Mare?'
'I hope they didn't see me. They can't see me. I can't show them. They can't know.'
America's mind spins.
'Breathing. Need to calm breathing.'
A rush of rage and worry gilding in calm fill the link.
“We do still need to tell them,” Philippines says.
“I know Phil, I know,” America says, rubbing his face with his hand.
Russia flinches at the irritation in his tone.
‘Everything will be okay,’ he reminds himself.
“I’m going to make a few phone calls,” New York announces to no one in particular.
“Why?” Brazil asks.
“So the people going home will get there in one piece.”
“Do you have all their phone numbers?”
“Somewhere,” he replies, reaching for his pocket before pausing. He hums before looking up with a sheepish look. “I might actually need some help with that.”
“Anything to get home,” Egypt says.
New York starts going upstairs, and most of the countries follow.
‘They seem eager to leave.’
America falls into the couch with a loud groan.
“America?” Russia asks.
“Yes?” America replies, his tone irritated.
Russia’s shoulders fall for a moment.
“I think we should try to heal our injuries,” he suggests, unsure.
America sighs.
“Okay. Hook me up.”
Russia takes a deep breath, opening the valve. His eyes open to the magic slowly leaking into the room. Small spindles of greyed magic light up the space.
‘That is not good.’
He raises his hands, and the chaos around him fades. Even still, he is sure he sees Manitoba pouting. He begins collecting the strings, ignoring glowing auras around him.
‘Those are people,’ he reminds himself.
He feels his chest grow tight as he circles it through the filter. It takes a few tries to get it clear, and he begins feeding it to a small, blue aura in front of him.
He faintly hears America call out, and he watches with fascination as the blue expands, surrounding what looks like Finland’s arm.
‘What is left of it,’ he mentally adds.
Then, his hands are empty.
His head whips around to the closest wall and focuses. The wall fades out of view and a wall of grey meets him. His heart sinks.
He grabs the untangled threads, giving them a tug to release them. They reluctantly meet his hands, and he cycles them between his hands and chest until they turn white.
He feeds them to America, whose foot glows. Then, the blue is turned on him. The distant feeling of the burns on his legs lessens, and he passively watches light pink mix with the blue.
Soon, the pink dissipated, and Russia reaches for more magic, only to find an untangleable mass of grey magic that gets darker for every moment that passes.
He reaches out, grabbing hold of what he can reach. He tugs, and his heart drops.
‘It’s not moving.’
He pulls again.
Bile rises in the back of his throat.
America has moved, standing over Dixie.
Russia yanks at the strings, panic filling his chest as America’s magic core starts to waver. The blanket around Dixie fades.
‘No. No!’
He desperately heaves again, biting his tongue.
He sees America staring at him, but he can’t see him clearly enough to read his face.
‘I can’t get any more.’
He yanks again.
‘Why is this happening?’
He watches the cloud advance toward the house, and smaller, concentrated balls of magic follow its approach.
‘I need to tell them.’
He begins closing the valve, and both the ringing and America’s voice fade in.
“Russia!”
“Something is coming,” Russia says bluntly, sitting up.
His stomach churns, and he tries to ignore the feeling.
Dixie groans.
“Where is the rest of the magic?” America snaps.
Russia flinches.
“It’s just a wall,” he admits, looking away, “I pulled as much as I could.”
America sighs, rubbing his face.
“What was coming?” Massachusetts demands.
“I don't know, but I think it’s connected to the cloud of grey magic.”
“Wait, grey magic is the corrupted kind, right?” Arizona asks.
“Yes,” Russia says, staring out a nearby window.
All that meets him is foliage swaying gently with the wind outside. America sighs.
“Fuck,” America says, his hands on his hips, “looks like we’ll just have to fight like this.”
“Oh. Another one,” a rough voice says from somewhere above him.
The little personification looks up, his eyes gold and his face flag-less. The man is wearing plain clothes and his eyes are the only thing visible under his helmet.
“Kievan Rus will want to see you,” the man says, his gold gaze meeting the child’s. His face set in a frown and his nose wrinkled in disgust.
He grabs the child’s arm and yanks him forward. The young personification flinched wildly. Then, the man’s frown contorts into a sly grin.
The child gets the feeling that the man has other plans.
-
Red.
Everything is red.
He bites his tongue, tasting blood. His body shakes and he holds the right side of his face, blood flowing through his hands. Everything is fuzzy, and he can’t stop the shaking.
‘Quiet. Quiet. Quiet,’ his mind repeats.
“Stop making noise,” the man demands, “or I will do the other one.”
The child curls in on himself, one hand moving from his eye to his mouth. He rocks himself, desperately stifling cries. The feeling of the spoon in his eye socket replays over and over until everything feels distant. His body seems to catch his breath and he sits still.
“Good,” the man says, washing the blood off his hands, “and hopefully you will be killed tomorrow.”
The young personification doesn't quite know what that means, but he hopes it will hurt less.
-
“Do not say anything,” the man warns.
He isn’t wearing his helmet, and his flag looks strange.
He sits on the floor, carefully watching the man, an eyepatch covering his injury. The man is talking to a woman sat upon a throne of cushions. She wears a long dress and a cape drapes over her figure. Their flags almost match.
“He is defective!” the man argues.
“I do not care,” a woman replies, “his eye is gold. He is to be under your care until he is grown.”
“But he will not be a good leader,” the man argues, “he formed without it. He should be dispatched.”
‘My eye?’
“He is under your care.”
‘No, you took it.’
“I refuse!”
‘You took my eye.’
“As my Army and subordinate, you will obey my demands. You found this child and he will be under your care.”
‘You took it.’
The Army spins around and grabs the child by the arm. The child tries not to flinch at the forceful grip.
-
“Flag-less,” Army demands, “come here.”
The child rushes to his side.
“Yes sir.”
“Did you misunderstand me?” Army asks, his tone flat.
“I told you to shine my axe and you chip it.”
The child shrinks, his head sinking into his shoulders.
‘Oh no.’
”I did not mean-” he starts, his legs shaking.
“I do not care. I allow you to live and this is the repayment I get?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I do not want your apology,” Army says, raising his hand.
The child tenses, ready for impact.
-
“Come with me,” Army says.
The child obeys, his head down and his footsteps quiet.
“This is important.”
The child follows him, his eyes trailing after the Army’s feet. His feet ache from the shoes too small, and his face itches from the patch.
“Now guard the door.”
The child stands by it, locking it behind their arrival. Kievan Rus faces the wall perpendicular to the door, and he gets a good view of the cloth covering her. She turns toward them, and he avoids her gaze.
“Army?” The Kievan Rus calls, her tone one of surprise.
Army does not respond, instead slowly walking up to the side of her throne.
“Why do you have the child-”
Her talking was cut off with a shriek. That shriek turns into a pained gurgle. The child looks up in time to be soaked with blood.
‘Red.’
‘Red. Everything is red.’
He looks back up to see Army cackling over her. All her blankets lose their color to the blood that spurts out of the slash across her neck.
“Come and help,” Army demands.
The child rushes forward without hesitation and finds himself with a knife in hand.
Her body stills, the look of irritation hiding fear sticks as she stops pushing Army off. Army’s smile gets wider as his flag changes. His hair flashes to black, and his face takes on yellow and white. Her body begins crumbling under the blankets and He slashes at her eyes.
The man cackles. “I am the Russian Empire!”
And when the child tries to wash the blood off his hands, black, white, and yellow meet him.
‘Now I match him.’
Numb disgust settles in his stomach. He swallows it back.
-
The matching does not last long as his new flag is quick to fade in: white with a blue ‘X’. And so did a strange sensation. There is a pull in his mind that he feels the urge to follow. And everywhere it takes him, he finds someone else with the same gold in their eyes that he has.
“Navy!”
“Yes, my Empire?”
“Show me the new personification.”
‘But they disappear after you see them.’
Navy swallows.
“Because I can show you what we do with new personifications.”
Navy nods slowly before pointing in the direction his instincts tell him. His stomach sinks as they walk out to the location. It's an open clearing, and a young child sitting in the center.
‘A little younger than me.’
The Empire chuckles. The child stares up at them with curiosity.
Empire rushes them and they don’t have a chance to get away. He grabs them by the arm and holds a knife in his other hand.
Before Navy can step forward, Empire slashes open the child’s stomach.
Navy swallows back a scream as his eye widens. The child screams and Empire drops the knife and the child. The child only has a moment to scamper back before Empire grabs them again by their intestines. They scream as he yanks them back.
He picks back up his knife and plunges it into their chest. The child takes one last gasp before beginning to crumble. Empire looks down at the pile of clothes with a laugh.
Then he turns and looks at Navy with a grin, his teeth stained with blood.
“Why did you do that?” Navy shouts, his heart racing.
Empire’s expression falls to a flat look.
“Shout at me again and I will do the same to you.”
Navy takes a step back and his breath gets stuck in his throat.
“We kill them to keep our place.” Empire explains, “If any of them survive, they take away what is ours.”
‘Yours,’ Navy internally corrects.
“And this will now be your job.”
“What?” Navy asks, breathless.
“This is now your job,” Empire repeats, “or you won't have a purpose to be here anymore.”
Navy swallows hard.
‘I hope no more of them appear.’
-
Navy hunches, trying to make his height disappear. The clothes he's wearing pulling against him. He flinches.
“Navy!”
“Yes, my Empire?” he answers, his head down.
“Have you dealt with the personification I sent you after?”
“Yes, my Empire,” Navy replies, the acid of the statement sticking to the back of his throat.
He had vowed to himself to be more kind than the Empire had been, but he remembers every face he was required to dispatch.
‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’
-
The next personification he finds is an infant without a flag, wrapped loosely in a blaket.
Tiny hands reach up toward him, and the baby smiles.
He fights back tears, about to feed the baby the sweet, toxic cocktail he’d brought with him. He swallows.
The baby coos.
He drops the bottle, the contents soaking into the dirt. His vision blurs with tears. He drops to his knees, his hands digging into the dirt next to the child. He chokes and his eyepatch is soaked with tears.
The baby grabs one of his fingers, babbling up at him. Their gold eyes wide and innocent. He doesn't let the sobs escape his chest and he gently picks up the baby.
“I can’t do this,” he mumbles, “I can’t do this anymore.”
The baby coos happily.
‘I hope I can hide you well enough. He will kill us both if he finds you.’
The baby smiles, reaching up for his face. He finds himself smiling back.
‘Maybe that would be worth it.’
-
He hides the baby in his jacket.
‘Now to get you home with the others.’
“Where are you going?” A commander demands.
“Home,” Navy snaps, baring his teeth, “leave me to my travels.”
“But you-”
“You do not see anything. Leave me to my travels.”
-
“Navy.”
“My Empire?”
“I hear you have not been dealing with the personifications you find.”
His heart sinks, but he holds a neutral expression.
‘How much does he know?’
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“One of your commanders told me he saw you carrying home a child.”
“He is lying, sir.”
“It is his word against yours,” Empire warns.
“I understand,” Navy replies with an even tone, “he is lying to frame me against you. I stand by my swearing my eternal loyalty to you as my Empire.”
The words are sour in his mouth, but they are easier to say while protecting people, he finds.
‘I will lie as long as I must to keep them safe.’
Empire smirks. “Good.”
The Empire continues to talk, and Navy nods along, his mind elsewhere.
‘I need to get home.’
‘I hope they haven’t caused too much trouble.’
-
“You have been keeping them against my orders!” Empire roars.
Navy sneers, dodging a blade thrown at his face. His back is against the wall and Empire races for his gun.
“I will kill them all!”
Navy lunges, tackling him away from the rack. Empire shrieks.
“You traitor! You will be the first!”
Navy lunges for the discarded knife. Empire grabs his foot and yanks him back.
‘I can’t die here!’
He kicks wildly and shoved his boot in Empire’s mouth. Empire shouts, and Navy hears stomping from the hallway. Empire grabs his boot.
‘Faster. Faster!’
He kicks off his boot and grabs the knife. He tries to push himself up, only to be yanked back to the ground. Empire tries to wrestle the knife from his hands, and his grip loosens.
Then, the cries of his children ring in his ears.
He yanks the blade back, and people slam into the door.
‘That isn't going to hold.’
Empire hops off the ground, bee-lining toward the gun. Navy forces himself to his feet, and pounces. His hand grips the hilt of the blade, and he plunges it into the Empire’s neck.
The Empire’s shriek turns to a familiar gurgle.
Blood soaks his clothes, and he pulls back the knife before burying it into his back. Crimson spatters across his face and creeps up his arms, soaking his jacket
The Empire’s face begins to crack apart, the last look on his face is one of resentment.
And this time, when he tries to wash the blood off, the red doesn’t leave.
He looks at his reflection, and he finds a hammer and sickle burned into his eyepatch and his skin has turned red.
-
“Papa! How come Russia gets a matching flag before I do?!”
Canada takes a deep breath of the early spring air, snow from the past winter crunches under his boots. He sighs, rubbing his face. He knows his kids are waiting for him to come back inside, but for now, he decides that he needs a break.
‘There is only so much screaming I can listen to.’
He walks out into the dense woods behind his house. He weaves around the trees in front of him until the house is just out of sight. He knows the woods like the backs of his hands, and he steps over a hidden root trying to trip anyone who passes.
He shakes his head, allowing his mind to wander.
The stories about a mysterious artifact nearby take his thoughts. He had heard stories about something that would take a variety of shapes, sometimes a bat, a helmet, or other things he couldn’t remember.
What the stories did have in common was that it had a strange nameplate.
He emerges into a clearing where the lake was still frozen over. He looks across it, his mind elsewhere.
‘It’s probably not safe to walk across.’
Canada walks along the shore, his eyes loosely tracing the treeline. Then, a glimmer of light catches his attention. He turns toward it and spots something on the other side of the lake.
‘What is that?’
He begins walking toward it, his breath visible through his scarf. He adjusts his hat and takes large steps, following the shoreline. The closer he gets, the better a look he gets.
It's a hockey stick.
It’s alone against one of the trees, perfectly illuminated by the afternoon sun. Canada notes that there isn't anyone or any other equipment around.
‘Huh. I wonder why it’s there.’
‘It looks like a nice hockey stick.’
He approaches it and takes another look around. There isn't anything else beside it. So, he takes a closer look. It has no scratches on it, and no wear on the wrapped handle. There is a shiny, unmarked golden nameplate on the side.
He picks it up to examine it, and it shocks him through his glove. He jumps, dropping it back where he found it. The nameplate gleams and then it shifts.
“CANADA” is now written in bold letters across its surface.
“Shit.”
‘That’s a fuckton of nope.’
Canada backs away a few steps before turning around.
‘That didn't happen.’
He starts walking back when something in front of him catches his eye.
It’s the hockey stick again, set against a tree. His name is clear on the side.
‘Shit.’
‘What do I do now?’
Ultimately, he decides to pick it up. He holds it out at arm’s length. But he can’t help but notice how nice the handle feels in his hand. He shakes off the feeling.
‘Maybe Manitoba can figure this out, they do magic.’
‘Besides, it's going to follow me home anyway. Better to not make it mad.’
“Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me,” Canada mumbles, walking back around the shoreline.
The handle seems to mold to his grip, and he tries to ignore it. But he gets the urge to swing it. He spots a rock sitting on top of a pile of snow and glances at the stick.
‘No!’ he scolds himself, ‘this thing is cursed.’
He glances again.
“But I guess it couldn’t get any worse,” he mumbles.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says to the stick before taking it and swinging, launching the rock into the tree line.
“Woo!”
He laughs before looking at the stick again. It seems to gleam for a second before its colors shift before taking on a familiar red and white.
‘Maybe it likes me.’
He arrives home and opens the door. The next thing he hears is Manitoba shriek.
