My triumphant return eight hundred million years later, huzzah! T.T

Thanks to: Empress Vegah, Lamashtar Two, Gues, Iggy Butt, iggymochi, honey-vanilla11, jagaimo-chan, another anon and another Guest!

LAST CHAPER AT LONG LAST, OMFG. LET'S GO!

Paper Crown Kings and Pinwheel Queens

Part III

1956

"Hey, beautiful."

England paused, lowering the towel; his damp hair haloed wildly around his face as he lifted it to look at America in the dresser mirror. It was evening, already dark, and the bedroom was lit only by the glass bedside lamp. America was leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded, his blue eyes very bright.

"Hardly," England said carefully, turning away.

"Of course you are." America said this with conviction, with a grin in his voice, and pushed off the doorframe. He approached England, who backed against the dresser. "Hey, come on, let me see!"

"I should think you've got enough of your own to look at," England said nastily; he tried to pull his arm back but America was too quick, seizing him by the wrist. "Oi! Unhand me at once!"

"No." America pulled out his arm to look at it. "...Wow, you sure have a lot."

He was talking, of course, about the spade emblems all over England's right arm; and spreading over his shoulder, down his back and over his chest, scattering onto his throat, even, like black petals.

"They're recent," England bit out. "What the hell have you been doing, that's what I want to know."

"Oh, this and that, you know," America replied evasively. He kissed England's hand. "You look gorgeous, my queen."

"Spare me," England said disgustedly, finally snatching back his arm. "You're not worming your way out of this, America! What have you been doing to make the power spread so quickly?"

"Testing some new bombs." America shrugged. "I guess that's what's done it. I'm the same." He rolled up his sleeve, showing England a flash of ink-black skin, turned that way by closely-etched spades symbols. "It can't be helped."

"It most certainly can be helped!" England said incredulously. "Are you trying to kill us both?!"

America frowned.

"You say 'kill'," he said, "but that's not what you mean."

"How the hell do you know what I mean, brat?" England growled at him.

"Because I'm the King of Spades."

"Bollocks." England pushed past him, dropping his towel on his way to the bed. He liked to to bathe in the evening during the summer; and of course couldn't help scrubbing at the spades, growing ever more desperate when they stayed very firmly where they were. "You may think you know this power, America, but I assure you that you have no idea."

"But you say 'kill'," America insisted, "when that's not the case."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly comment," England sighed angrily, pulling on his pyjama bottoms, "given that I was never stupid enough to let it go this far."

"Well, why didn't you?"

England froze, looking up at him.

"...I beg your pardon?"

"I said why didn't you?" America folded his arms again. "You were the King of Spades once, the world's biggest empire, the most powerful country on the globe; you were the master of Supremacy." He shook his head." But how can you know true Supremacy if you never let it reach its fullest potential?"

England lowered his pyjama shirt back to the bed, looking at America in horror. He held out his arm.

"Are you telling me... that this is nothing... but an experiment to you?" he asked quietly.

America shook his head.

"Not an experiment, as such," he said. "More a means to an end." He gestured down at himself. "Look at us: entire nations crammed into human bodies. Don't you feel caged in, England? Don't you want more? I already freed you from goverment servitude; and now I'm going to break open these pathetic bodies." He clenched his fists. "The things we could do, England, if only we weren't forced to live as men."

"I... I don't understand-"

"Yes you do." America sighed, rolling his eyes. "God, I hate when you act stupid; you're sharp as a whip, England, and I know it better than anyone." He frowned. "That's why I find it so odd that you never tried to do this. You must know that there's so much more to us than pencil-pushing; you've lived the life of adventure and exploration, of changing the world order to better fit you. These bodies barely contain us; there's too much history in my head, too much language on my tongue, too much power in my hands." He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grimacing. "I can't live like a human much longer, I'm going to go mad."

"Look," England said patiently, "I know how you feel, America, but-"

"I know you do," America cut in absently. "That's why I trust you to be my queen." He moved suddenly, snatching England's hands, clasping them within his own. "We'll do this together, of course. I would never leave you behind!"

"How kind." England slithered free, his voice cold. "All the same, I think I'll give it a miss." He scowled at America. "You're just like Atlee, making plans for my body without even consulting me. If you must know, I have very little quarrel with having a human body. It's gotten me by for this long, after all."

"Ugh." America sounded disgusted. "With all their flaws? The needs to eat and sleep, the ability to feel pain and hot and cold...? To not have to bother with any of those things anymore doesn't seem so bad to me."

Some of these things were, in fact, dwindling in America already, England had noticed; and in himself, too, so that he often took hours to fall asleep, not tired when his head hit the pillow, and sometimes lost his appetite completely. Their intimacy had become far less frequent, too, with neither of them showing much interest beyond the odd peck on the cheek. They hadn't had sex in months, America particularly dismissive.

In retrospect, then, England admitted he didn't know why he was so surprised. All the warning signs were there, America having made no attempt to hide them or his intentions.

Dismayed, England rubbed at his temples.

"And how, pray tell, do you intend to shed your skin... as it were?" he asked testily.

"Like this."

America grabbed England by the throat, slamming him against the wall as he strangled him. His face was set, emotionless, as he held him, squeezing the life out of him; so, so much stronger than England, who clawed at his hands, trying to pry him off.

"No, England," America sighed, "calm down. I'm not going to kill you. I'm just showing you something."

England stilled; though America's words had, in fact, fallen on deaf ears - and his sudden obedience stemmed only from the blinding pain suddenly coursing throughout his entire body, spreading from America's iron grip on his neck, sparking and skipping down every nerve ending.

"That's it, babe." America's voice came flittering, distorted, through the waves of agony. "Just let it take you. Why don't we do it tonight...?"

England kicked out wildly at him, slamming his heel into America's stomach. America crumpled, releasing him, and England slid down the wall, gasping for breath; America righted himself against the bedpost, coughing.

"Jeez," he moaned, "I don't think there was any need for that..."

Rubbing at his neck, England glared up at him.

"...Was there not?" He leaned his head back against the wall. "And I suppose... you'd like for to me have just... let you kill me?"

"I told you, I wasn't going to kill you." America straightened, clearly impatient.

"Ah." England pushed himself up, shakily stepping past America; hitting his hand away when he reached for him. "My mistake."

"I was doing you a favour-" America began, following him.

"Stay away from me," England said coldly, whirling on him. "I mean it. Stay right where you are."

America smiled lazily.

"Or what?" he cooed.

"Or I'll rip your balls off with my bare hand."

America snorted.

"Go ahead," he said airily. "What the hell do I need them for - procreation?" He shook his head. "Nah, I have other ways of creating now."

"I don't know what you mean." England looked haughtily at him - the only way, he felt, to deal with him when he was like this.

"You would if you'd just look in the mirror," America sighed, nodding towards it. "Go ahead, turn around."

Now morbid curiousity overtook him; for as a rule he tried not to take single a thing America said seriously. He turned cautiously, dubious of precisely what America had done to him in those few seconds he had held his life in his hands-

He wasn't all that surprised to find his entire chest smothered in spade motifs, having spread rapidly like a plague over his skin at America's touch; now they ventured below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, too, and further up his neck, spattering onto his jawline, down onto his hands, under his nails and between his fingers.

"I guess it hurt," America said idly as England sank wordlessly into the chair at the dresser. "The intensity of it, I mean, that's a lot for only a few moments..."

"Yes," England said woodenly. "Yes, it did hurt."

"No pain, no gain, huh?" America started to approach him again.

"Won't you just stay where you are?" England said tiredly. "Can't you just...?"

"Just what?" America, behind him, put his hands on his shoulders.

"...Just leave me alone." England said it defeatedly, his shoulders sagging beneath America's strong fingers.

"No way. I need you." America leaned over, opening the dresser drawer and rummaging around until he pulled something out: the crown, an anniversary gift of years before, glinted hard in the lamplight.

England didn't protest, or even move, as America put the crown on his head; he did it roughly, decisively, and it was heavy, not a proper crown designed for wearing, just a showpiece encrusted with jewels.

"Perfect," America crowed gleefully. "It suits you more than ever."

"You have a portrait of George Washington downstairs in the drawing room," England replied, watching America's reflection. "I feel his eyes on me every time I walk past. ...I do wonder what he'd say about this. He was never one for crowns."

America went very, very still; England watched him beneath the weight of the crown, wary of him. He was very unpredictable of late.

"He also wanted Isolationism," America said; though his brow furrowed, as though he was having difficulty remembering. "They all did." He stepped back suddenly. "The world has changed so much."

"Has it?" England turned to him. "The stakes get higher, it's true... but the petty conflict itself is ever the same. I suppose it's just that we all can't stand one another."

America looked sullenly at him.

"You can't stand me, right?"

"Not at this precise moment, no."

"I guess I can't argue with that." America flopped down on the bed, squirming to get comfortable; he stilled, sighing, and folded his hands over his belly, looking up at the ceiling. He said nothing more.

"You've got some nerve to be sulking," England said icily. "Really, you're being perfectly hateful tonight."

"Oh, god, stop." America looked fixedly at the ceiling, scowling. "Saying that we we can't stand each other, that I'm being hateful... Stop talking about us like we're humans! Emotion shouldn't cloud the relationships between nations, England - everything should be about reason."

England snorted.

"Don't be so ridiculous."

"No, I don't want to hear any of this anymore. You raised me like your own child, like a parent, not like one nation nurturing another. What is your excuse for that?!"

"I did what came naturally to me," England replied stiffly. "And if the manner in which I raised you was human in nature, then so be it. I did my best, as I saw fit."

America simply gave a deep, disgusted groan.

"You don't get it," he said. "We're not meant to be human. There's so much more to us-"

"America, I do not regret raising you," England interrupted sharply; he stood, facing the bed. "If you want to think of it as me frittering away my time on something so... undignified, then you are welcome to. I maintain that those were some of the happiest days of my life."

"Happiness is just a mimicked emotion," America replied coldly. "Nothing we feel is real, only copied from humans. Even your maternal instinct, England, which so miraculously presented itself when I crossed your path, is nothing but a mimicry." He shook his head. "I guess I can't blame you for acting like a human then - or treating me like one."

"America, this is Spades talking," England said gently, taking off the crown, "not you. Please undertsand that."

"Oh, I understand." America turned his head towards him. "Spades, Clubs, Hearts, Diamonds... they are our true forms, our power uninhibited by these weak human-shaped bodies."

"You must hear how silly you're being," England said cautiously, approaching the bed. "Of course our emotions are real-"

"No, they're not. You should know that by now." America looked fixedly at him, his blue eyes icy. "I don't love you, you know - and you don't love me. We're just... compatible. That's all it is; but love seems the only explanation if you will insist on thinking of it in human terms." He smirked. "But you'll never be perfect if you think you love me. You need to cast off everything: the things humans call love and pain and pleasure, taste, touch, fatigue, emotion..." His eyes widened as though he'd suddenly come to a realisation: "Oh, I get it now!"

"You get what?" England asked testily, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why you didn't take the power all the way when you were an Empire. The Victorian Era was lavish and decadent and you wanted to reap the spoils of your empire. There's no point in wearing the finest clothes and eating the finest food if you can't enjoy it, right? You were ruthless and powerful but you couldn't let go. That was your mistake, England. You were weak."

"Weak, perhaps," England sighed, "but you are stupid."

"No, I'm not." America shook his head. "Not anymore. We don't belong here, crawling in the dust with the humans. We are meant to stride among the stars." He reached for England's hand, pressing his own firmly on top of it, gripping tightly. "Won't you come with me? I don't want to leave you behind to rot. You... you belong with me, England."

"Even though you seem certain that you don't love me?" England asked woodenly.

"Not in the human way," America insisted. "I used to be naive, I thought that was the only way: base pleasure, kissing and sweating and... a-and fucking, god, it's all so pointless for creatures like us!"

"You used to enjoy it," England said. "...I suppose you were young; but it seemed as though that's what the war was to you, passionate quickies in cockpits and stolen kisses at the canteen dances. You enjoyed it the way the men did, I have to say that it was awfully human of you-"

"Ugh." America gave a revulsed moan, pressing his hands to his eyes; and then, realising that his glasses were there, plucked them off, holding them up by one arm. "Do you know, I don't even need these anymore?"

"Heh." England looked at him. "I understand, brat. You're evolving. Human weakness and need no longer have any hold on you - and now you want my approval."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do." America's hand was hot on top of his. "I can't even say why you still care what I think - but you do, unfathomably."

America tossed his glasses aside, silent; and England, after a moment's deliberation, leaned over and lay on top of him, resting his cheek in the crook of his neck. America lay very still, neither rejecting nor welcoming him.

"I don't know what I'm to do with you," England sighed, closing his eyes. "You're truly a thorn in my side, my dear; you seem to insist on being so."

"Everything I do is for the best," America replied coldly.

England snorted.

"If you say so."

"It is." Despite himself, it seemed, America draped his arm over the dip of England's waist. "I won't leave you behind, England. You're my queen."

"You're killing us both and don't you dare act like you don't know it."

America sighed, sounding overbearingly - infuriatingly - patient.

"Oh, England, it's okay," he said softly. "It's okay to be scared. I know you're old, you've been immersed in humans and their fears for centuries longer than I've been alive... I guess you can't help it, seeing life and death and nothing in between. But for nations, there are more than two choices. Didn't you know that?"

"Without humanity," England reminded him icily, "you cease to be a nation."

"There are other things to be," America said lightly. "...Like gods."

"Or monsters." England glared at him. "Don't be so pathetic. You're nothing special, love; you're no different to any other nation, frankly, and damn Washington and Franklin and Jefferson to hell for convincing you otherwise."

America snorted.

"If you're going to blame dead men, why not throw Jackson and Wilson and Roosevelt into the bargain?" America smirked. "You're only blaming the Founding Fathers because you lost me to them; but I'd have turned out like this anyway, England. I am different. I'm the New World. I'm the last of the old order and the first of the new."

"Be careful - you're starting to sound like Germany." England couldn't hide his weariness. "...And we all know how that ended."

"Whatever." America rolled his eyes. "You talk big but you couldn't have won without me." He held up his tattooed arm, shaded with spades. "Without this."

"Maybe I'd have preferred that," England said miserably. "If we'd lost, at least I wouldn't have to watch you being eaten alive by that wretched power."

"That's selfish of you," America sniffed.

"I suppose." England shrugged. "...But I love you and I can't bear it."

"Oh, England...!" America lost his patience, pushing him off forcibly; he sat up and swung off the bed. "I don't want to hear another word about "love" from you! When are you going to understand?!"

"I regret that I may be too human for you to do a thing with," England said flatly, rolling over. He didn't want to look at America a moment longer. "Forgive me for clinging to love whilst I wait to die."

1945

The night smelt of coconut water and salt.

"I've seen the way they look at me," America sighed. "Even China - our own Jack."

"You can't blame them," England said softly, reaching up to touch his face; he rubbed his thumb over his cheek, creasing the 'K' with his nail. "Those bombs... are like nothing else on this earth."

"Neither am I." America pressed down, lowering his weight onto England's chest; he buried his face in his neck.

"I know." England exhaled, pressing his hand to the back of America's head, fingers curling into his damp hair.

They breathed for a while, settling, neurons firing down; his skin still tingling with every touch, every kiss, every graze of teeth. The thin blanket was stuck to the curve of America's back, sweat in the heavy heat of early August. Hawaii hung sticky, tropic and plush, in the night air; it was damp heat like India, England was used to wool uniforms in weather like this. They had a rattling old fan on the desk but their hair was so plastered with sweat that it didn't move in the fakery.

"Gonna do it again," America mumbled. "If Japan doesn't throw in the towel."

"Mm." England scratched gently at the back of America's neck. "Nagasaki, wasn't it?"

"Yeah - and again and again and again, Osaka and Kyoto and Tokyo, until he gives up. He's got no king, no jack, no support at all."

"In chess, the queen is the most powerful piece on the board," England reminded him. "And I've seen real queens who are much the same."

America snorted.

"Japan is neither," he grumbled. "He's nothing but the secondary holder of Hatred. I am the primary holder of Supremacy. I'll leave him with a handful of ash to call his country if that's what he wants."

"Don't talk like that," England begged. "It doesn't suit you."

America frowned.

"Why doesn't it suit me? You've seen what I'm capable of."

"Come here." England took his face, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, the damp press of tired mouths, withered with the six-year argument. It was lazy, chaste, and America pulled away after a moment, impatient.

"Why?" he pressed.

"Because you're my beautiful America," England said; though his voice was lifeless, he couldn't keep the lie off his lips. He squeezed America's cheeks instead. "...Ugh, you're the nice one, aren't you? The five of us, all in that room, month after month, year after year... fighting it out, getting nothing done even though we're all on the same side, all at each other's throats..." He sighed. "And four of us are complete pricks, can't you see that? Someone has to be the nice one. And you're far from sensible, my dear, but damned if you aren't gold-hearted."

"Well, I'm fed up of being the nice guy," America groaned. "I want to say nasty, horrible, frightening things, England, and I want to mean them - the way you used to."

"Oh, dear." England rested his chin on America's head. "That's a compliment, I suppose?"

America said nothing, merely shrugged.

"Because do you know something?" England went on. "It's like this: I'm Dr Frankenstein and you're my monster. Which of us is worse? It's hard to say, isn't it?"

America laughed.

"Well, I'm worse, of course," he said, seeming amused. "Monster. It's right there in the name."

"You haven't read the book, have you?"

"Nope." America walked his fingers up England's neck. "And does the book make any mention of Dr Frankenstein sleeping with his creation?"

England rolled his eyes.

"Of course not. Mary Shelley wouldn't have been so vulgar." He frowned. "You really ought to read it."

"Ha, you don't get to set me homework anymore, queenie." America nuzzled contentedly against him. "Besides, none of this is about choice. The humans start the wars but we're the ones who have to finish them."

"I rather think we're seen as weapons," England agreed. "Immortal soldiers at their disposal." He paused. "And, well," he added meaningfully, "some of us are wont to flaunt it more than others."

"Says the British Empire."

"Oh, I was talking about myself, naturally. I was quite the little show-off, I'm sure you'll recall."

"A goddamned peacock," America said with a grin, "and a bully to boot."

"Well," England said delicately, "I do hope you're not going the same way."

"Me? Nah." America smiled up at him. "You know how different the world is going to be when we come out of this - and I'm going to be standing at the top of it. The future is coming, there's gonna be peace, no more of this petty squabbling between you old imperial codgers in Europe, you hear me?"

He tapped England on the nose; and England recoiled irritably, glaring at him.

"Your king has spoken," America went on cheerfully, ignoring him. "No. More. If you can keep your promise, I'll build you paradise, England - but you have to behave."

"I thought you said you were tired of being the nice guy?" England sighed. "You're saying two different things, love."

"No I'm not." America rubbed at his cheek. "I never once said I was going to be nice about it."

1957

America wasn't in the bed.

Earlier, half-asleep, England had heard him groaning; but it had come through like white noise, foam floating far above him, and he deep beneath in the blue of dreamlessness. He hadn't reacted, only listened.

Now he woke, however, and sat up. The covers were pulled back, America's side of the bed wrinkled and cold.

The spades scattered all over his skin were prickling; not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable. He shivered, peeling back the covers, and slipped out of bed, pulling on his robe. He went barefoot to the bathroom, pausing on the threshold.

"Oh," he said faintly, "there you are..."

Now that it had finally happened, he didn't know what to do, what to say; so he stood in the doorway to the bathroom and offered nothing even though it had been years in the making.

America didn't react to his presence; he was, it seemed, midway through changing, sprawled on the tiles and panting like a hooked fish, his eyes tightly closed. The floor was covered in his blood, for indeed he was bleeding from every last spade tattooed on his skin. There would be no coming back from it now.

"Are you happy now?" England asked miserably, taking a towel from the rack. He stepped, at last, into the bathroom; and he would have to walk through the blood to reach him, there was no other path. This he understood.

"You're so stupid, my dear." England knelt down next to him, pressing a hand to his quivering shoulder. His skin was soft and cold, spasming beneath his touch. "You've always had a head full of precisely nothing; and you should know that power like this will fill up empty spaces."

This was conversation, pithy, nasty even; to get a reaction, perhaps, although America still seemed not to notice him.

"Still..." England mopped uselessly at him, the towel greedily taking up the blood. "...How it found any room in your heart is a mystery; I should have thought it was too full of other passions..."

He was wracked with sadness at seeing this, the terrible promise of the Power of Spades inflicted on his beloved America; the child he had raised, the man he had loved-

Yet that sadness only bubbled in the lowest ebb of his heart; and rose no further, with no tears to accompany it. He understood that he was miserable, maybe, rather than truly felt it.

"God," he muttered, dropping the towel over America's shuddering back, "what have you done to us...?"

Though he knew precisely; and knew that he could now only wait.

He sat next to him, his back against the cold porcelain of the bath, and ran a hand over his bloody back; and America let out a breath and opened his eyes, monstrously blue, and looked right at him.

[1957]

["And you remember nothing? You are quite sure of that?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," England said coolly. "I've told you and told you. I don't remember anything. I was trying to clean him up and then he opened his eyes and looked at me and... and then nothing." He sighed, looking down at his hands. "The next thing I knew, I was being dragged off the bathroom floor by your lot, covered in blood."

"Did he touch you?"

"I-I don't know!" England looked up at them frustratedly; day after day they came into this little room and asked him questions he didn't know the answers to. "...I expect he must have, I was drenched in his blood, wasn't I?"

"He transformed in your presence. Do you recall what he looked like?"

"No."

"You must have some idea-"

"I said I don't remember!" England put his head in his hands, drawing a deep breath. "...Look here, the only explanation I have is this: he is the most powerful creature on this planet. Human understanding cannot grasp the concept of true Supremacy. Human eyes cannot see what he has become."

"But you are not human." A sneer. "By now you're almost as much of a beast as him."

"Memory, however, is human," England sighed. "I saw him, I expect, perhaps even spoke to him; but I did not understand him in the human way to which I am accustomed, nor did we communicate in a human tongue. I therefore cannot commit such things to memory." He paused. "That is the only explanation I can offer, gentlemen."

The official opposite nodded, grim-faced. He gestured to another.

"Get me the photographs," he ordered; and these were produced from a briefcase, five large square images in glossy black and white. They were spread out on the desk before England, deliberate and systematic.

"America and Russia reached critical point at the same time, resulting in their tranformation into sentitient super-weapons." The official gestured to the pictures. "In the six days since their disappearance, this is the destruction they have caused."

The photographs illustrated the devastation well enough; the familiar scene of London, for example, laid to ruin, flattened in a manner most akin to the Blitz of the decade before. New York City was recognisable, too, and Moscow, Paris and Berlin, pastiches of twisted metal and rubble.

"There are others," the official said in a low voice. "Anchorage and other US cities: San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, not to mention the further damage in Europe. We expect that you see our point, however."

"Well, quite," England said faintly, looking up. "But I don't know what you want me to say."

"You have no idea why they might choose their battlegrounds so strategically?"

"Battlegrounds...?"

"Well, yes; they have been fighting one another in these locations, resulting in the damage you see here."

"...Are you sure they're really fighting each other?" England looked at the man opposite him very hard. "Because it looks to me that the enemy here... is you." He coughed. "Ah, humanity, that is."

The official frowned.

"But surely the contention is dictated by the Cold War-"

"Not anymore. The 'Cold War', as you call it, is a battle of human ideologies," England said impatiently. "I assure you that neither America nor Russia have time for such things now. You cannot keep concepts in cages, sir. They fight out of instinct, nothing more. They no longer desire to see the other destroyed - and I must say that I envy them their freedom."

He rested his chin in his hands.

"After all... haven't we fought your wars for long enough?"]

1726

"I don't like this game," America pouted, folding his arms on the table.

"Now, now," England sighed, stirring delicately at his tea, "I don't think there's any call for you to sulk."

"You said you were going to teach me something fun," America muttered, prodding at his closest castle.

"Well, it is fun, isn't it?" England tilted his head at the child, perplexed.

"No." America was quick to lose interest in things which did not benefit him. "It is confusing, England; the rules, I mean, and you delight in cornering me." He shook his head, eyeing the board with distaste. "I do not like it at all!"

"Practice, my dear," England promised; although it was certainly true that he took great pleasure in winning, regardless of his opponent. "Chess is a game of war; you can only know it well through experience, from many lost battles."

America frowned up at him.

"Are you saying that you're just going to keep beating me until I learn to win?"

"If you can learn, that is."

"Why would I need to? You'll always protect me, won't you?" America seemed confused.

"I should always like to," England said uneasily, "but I cannot promise such things, you know. I think it best that you learn young how to be brutal. That is our nature, after all."

"Then why not follow our nature?" America asked; with all the candidness of a child. "Why this, England? Isn't this the way the humans fight?"

"Oh, but they've such a quaint way of going about it; gentlemanly, almost," England said fondly. "My darling, you must understand... The world is not ready for our way. Not yet."

It was here, of course, that he first put the wicked thought into America's head:

"Until the time comes for us to be kings and queens, we must bide our time as pawns."

1957

Frankly, he hadn't a hope in hell of knowing what was going on up there.

Far above, beyond the ceilings and the walls, it sounded like there was a war going on without him; felt like it, too, given that it was all he could do but to lie on the floor of his cell, quivering. The pain was unbearble, barely an inch of his skin unmarred by marks, his spine feeling on the verge of crawling out through his back. He could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the crust of it on his cheek.

He was waiting.

Such suffering had no concept of time; and indeed, perhaps it was days later that America finally came to him, tearing down the wall. He stood, expectant, and grinned when England at last looked up at him.

He was a perfect beast; human still at his core, for England saw that beautiful face of his floating like the moon within the circles of weaponry, though his eyes were electric. He was a battery now, his skin playing host to the history of war, carrying every weapon like a wingspan, layered muzzles lying flat, glinting, like feathers. His very heart was nuclear now.

"I trust you're having fun," England rasped.

America ignored him, stepping closer; his body clicked and rattled.

"I promised I'd be back for you," he said; though his brow scrunched beneath the crown of bullets, as though struggling with the words, his tongue rusted. He put out his hand. "...What is a king without his queen?"

Ah, but he saw now; that he was no longer looking at a nation, as it were ("America" or "New World"), but rather...

"What is it like," England asked gently, the mark on his cheek breaking open and bleeding in America's presence, the pressure of his being, "to know war so very intimately?"

America looked at him; Mars, perhaps, the God of War. He looked as though he had been in great pain and had only just gotten the better of it, learning to carry the immense weight of his decision.

"You should know," he said impatiently; he flexed his fingers. "Come, England." Again, he struggled with the name, as though he had half-forgotten it, that human name, the Land of the Angles.

England sighed; he reached out and put his hand into America's cold one. This seemed like the only option now, the only sensible choice, and he rose, his skin vibrant and prickling.

America was smiling at him beneath the band of bullets, the spark of something still in there, the essence of history, 1776, 1941, if nothing else.

"I promised you paradise, my queen," he said. "Payment for your sacrifice, bearing half of the pain whilst I did as I pleased. I hope you'll like it."

He tugged like a child; the child he had been once, in lush fields with wildflowers to the knee, his hand clamped around England's heart.

"Come and see," he said, "the world I made for you."

...OR *IS* IT CARDVERSE WITHOUT CARDVERSE? HMMMMMMM.

XD