@vulcanheritage
There was a sense of purpose in England’s steps as he stalked through the outskirts of the battlefield, keeping a distance from the warring humans in his search for his target. If he stopped and thought about it, the Nation would realise he couldn’t quite remember what war he was taking part in, how he had gotten to the field, or even which Nation he was fighting. France, maybe? It was always him, after all. Though sometimes it wasn’t him, right? But England had no time to think about that kind of thing, not when he had to focus on finding the enemy, whoever they were.
Then all of a sudden, there was a human – or some creature that looked like one; he met so many of those these days, didn’t he? – right in front of him, and England froze, eyes darting from the other’s face, to his unfamiliar attire, then to the odd, gun-shaped object on his person. He raised his own weapon.
“I’ve never seen your uniform before; you’re certainly not one of my people. Are you the enemy I’m fighting here?” Dimly, he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that his words lacked a certain rationality, but he didn’t quite stop to clearly think himself through. There was a fight at hand, after all.
