The Battle (for) Britain [4a/6]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 02:10:28 UTC
America thought for a long while over whether a covert, silent entry, or a loud, bulldozing entry was best. He sat in the driveway across the street from England’s house for a long time, staring at England’s front door in contemplation.
The thoughts he’d been conjuring all morning to motivate himself-ones of a lonely England, locked up in his tower-er, bedroom, by his evil siblings, sighing wistfully and awaiting his hero-came back to him without much prompting, and soon he was out of the Bentley and moving across the street with a determined pace.
He knew, from being in England’s house several times, that there was a window in the back with a faulty latch that he could climb through. But given the layout of the house, the front door might be just as good a bet. He reached it sooner than he thought he would, and, peering carefully through the window-stepping on England’s flowers as he did, he’d apologize later-he gently, ever so slowly, turned the handle, finding it unlocked, and opened it as silently as he could.
The house was eerily quiet as he poked his head in, and he looked up to the second landing, to England’s bedroom door, which was closed. No guards, no ambushes-this was going well.
Even as he thought it, he knew it was too good to be true.
“Alert! Alert!” someone, a child, began screaming as he set his foot down on the threshhold. He only realized it was Sealand-the little brat-as quickly as the boy’s body collided with his, tackling him with all of his force. Any other day, Sealand might have bounced off America as easily as a gumdrop off a brick wall, but in America’s shock, he was caught off guard, and was knocked backward by the force of Sealand colliding with him.
Before he could gather his wits, the other siblings-with one addition, a fire-headed boy who America vaguely, by deduction and process of elimination, concluded to be Ireland-were upon him, shutting and locking the door behind him, and driving him into the corner, surrounding him like an aggressive, hungry wolf pack.
“So, the Yank makes his triumphant return,” Northern Ireland sneered, looking down at him from over her nose and looking much too smug for America to feel comfortable.
America didn’t give her the satisfaction of getting angry, and simply focused on getting Sealand-and his sticky fingers-detached from his shirt.
Something odd was crawling over him-it felt like bugs, but lighter, more fleeting a touch, like a feather. It was crawling up his leg, up his arm, and across his chest, and he found it difficult to move after a moment of struggle against it, which was more than a little annoying.
“You made a mistake coming back here, mug,” Scotland spat at him, mirroring his siblings’ hyena grins. “You’re not going anywhere except back out on the street.”
Unable to move his head to properly glare at them, he settled for flicking up his middle finger, however weakly, from where it lay by his side. A rumble of giggles passed over the siblings.
“Nice try,” Ireland sniggered. “Met your match, have you? Bloody Yank?”
“America?”
For a moment, everyone in the entry looked confusedly between each other for where the inquiring voice had come from. Enough of a gap was left in the group circled around him for America to glance England on the staircase from his awkward position on the floor. England was looking at the lot of them, horror clear on his face, which was slightly, almost unnoticeably paler than normal. Sealand lifted himself from America’s chest, standing behind Scotland’s legs in shame.
“What the hell is going on here?” England said, his voice darkly accusing.
The thoughts he’d been conjuring all morning to motivate himself-ones of a lonely England, locked up in his tower-er, bedroom, by his evil siblings, sighing wistfully and awaiting his hero-came back to him without much prompting, and soon he was out of the Bentley and moving across the street with a determined pace.
He knew, from being in England’s house several times, that there was a window in the back with a faulty latch that he could climb through. But given the layout of the house, the front door might be just as good a bet. He reached it sooner than he thought he would, and, peering carefully through the window-stepping on England’s flowers as he did, he’d apologize later-he gently, ever so slowly, turned the handle, finding it unlocked, and opened it as silently as he could.
The house was eerily quiet as he poked his head in, and he looked up to the second landing, to England’s bedroom door, which was closed. No guards, no ambushes-this was going well.
Even as he thought it, he knew it was too good to be true.
“Alert! Alert!” someone, a child, began screaming as he set his foot down on the threshhold. He only realized it was Sealand-the little brat-as quickly as the boy’s body collided with his, tackling him with all of his force. Any other day, Sealand might have bounced off America as easily as a gumdrop off a brick wall, but in America’s shock, he was caught off guard, and was knocked backward by the force of Sealand colliding with him.
Before he could gather his wits, the other siblings-with one addition, a fire-headed boy who America vaguely, by deduction and process of elimination, concluded to be Ireland-were upon him, shutting and locking the door behind him, and driving him into the corner, surrounding him like an aggressive, hungry wolf pack.
“So, the Yank makes his triumphant return,” Northern Ireland sneered, looking down at him from over her nose and looking much too smug for America to feel comfortable.
America didn’t give her the satisfaction of getting angry, and simply focused on getting Sealand-and his sticky fingers-detached from his shirt.
Something odd was crawling over him-it felt like bugs, but lighter, more fleeting a touch, like a feather. It was crawling up his leg, up his arm, and across his chest, and he found it difficult to move after a moment of struggle against it, which was more than a little annoying.
“You made a mistake coming back here, mug,” Scotland spat at him, mirroring his siblings’ hyena grins. “You’re not going anywhere except back out on the street.”
Unable to move his head to properly glare at them, he settled for flicking up his middle finger, however weakly, from where it lay by his side. A rumble of giggles passed over the siblings.
“Nice try,” Ireland sniggered. “Met your match, have you? Bloody Yank?”
“America?”
For a moment, everyone in the entry looked confusedly between each other for where the inquiring voice had come from. Enough of a gap was left in the group circled around him for America to glance England on the staircase from his awkward position on the floor. England was looking at the lot of them, horror clear on his face, which was slightly, almost unnoticeably paler than normal. Sealand lifted himself from America’s chest, standing behind Scotland’s legs in shame.
“What the hell is going on here?” England said, his voice darkly accusing.
Reply
Leave a comment