Japan says absolutely nothing, Sealand attempts sneaking in, Russia tries to hide from Belarus but Belarus finds him anyway, England engages in a brutal argument with France for no particular reason, China despairs of everyone and ultimately Germany takes control.
America’s not even sure why he bothers attending these meetings anymore because they’re the least productive things ever imagined, and it’s not like the others listen to him anyway. Eyes set to the ceiling and hands shoved decidedly into his pockets, he waits for his companions to stop talking, leaving the room swiftly once the conference has reached its conclusion.
And then he sits on the steps outside, appreciative of the gentle breeze and approving of the clear sky. It’s a good day, a wonderful day, and he sighs as he realises he’s wasted an hour of his life in that damned meeting that he’ll never get back, an hour he could have been using to hit up the nearest beach.
England eventually emerges from the building too, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a scowl across his pointed features. He’s always angry about something; America wishes he’d smile more.
“Hey!”
At the sound of America’s voice, England looks down at where the nation is seated (on the third step up from the ground since three’s a lucky number) and shoots him a questioning stare.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” America insists, leaping to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Clearly suspicious, England asks, “Why?”
“No real reason. Just thought, if you’re not busy, we could hang out.”
Seemingly disgusted, England replies as he starts to walk away, “I’d rather not.”
It was worth a try. Outside of summits and gatherings, England rarely leaves his own home, and it’s rarer still that he agrees to spend time with America at all. Shrugging off the rejection, America decides to spend time with Tony instead; he’s on the eighteenth level of Werewolf Massacre and it’s always much more fun on two-player mode.
As he wastes away the day locked indoors and bashing the crap out a games console controller, the morning becomes afternoon soon enough, gradually slipping into evening and finishing with nightfall. After uttering a single “Goodnight” to Tony, America collapses into bed and sleeps in his clothes, exhausted from virtual warfare.
He wakes to the sound of his alarm clock blaring like he usually does. What isn’t expected is that he’s wearing pyjamas when he slips out of bed. Deciding he must have woken up sometime in the night and changed, America doesn’t think much of it, dressing into his day-clothes and heading downstairs to the kitchen, his groaning stomach reminding him that he should probably eat breakfast before he does anything else.
Just as he’s about to fling open the kitchen cupboard and check for pancakes, the phone hooked up on the wall starts to ring. All too eager to speak to someone that isn’t his alien housemate, America seizes the handset and greets whoever it is calling with, “Hey there! What’s up?”
It’s England, and he sounds irritated. “Why aren’t you at the World Conference?”
“What do you mean, bro?” America asks, frowning. “That meeting was yesterday...”
“No it wasn’t,” England snaps. “It’s today. And because you’re one of the leading countries, we can’t start until you arrive, so you’d better have a good reason for not showing up.”
America shoots a glance to his calendar. Sure enough, it’s gone back a day, even though he can still remember tearing out ‘Monday- World Conference!’ and leaving it as ‘Tuesday- Nothing Planned’.
“I’m really sorry,” he mutters, “I must’ve had this really vivid dream ‘cause I could have sworn it was Tuesday today...”
“Well, it isn’t, because Tuesday is tomorrow,” England announces. “So hurry up and get down here before I drag you down myself!”
The line goes dead. America gives up on breakfast and starts his journey to the Conference Hall.
Japan says absolutely nothing, Sealand attempts sneaking in, Russia tries to hide from Belarus but Belarus finds him anyway, England engages in a brutal argument with France for no particular reason, China despairs of everyone and ultimately Germany takes control.
America’s not even sure why he bothers attending these meetings anymore because they’re the least productive things ever imagined, and it’s not like the others listen to him anyway. Eyes set to the ceiling and hands shoved decidedly into his pockets, he waits for his companions to stop talking, leaving the room swiftly once the conference has reached its conclusion.
And then he sits on the steps outside, appreciative of the gentle breeze and approving of the clear sky. It’s a good day, a wonderful day, and he sighs as he realises he’s wasted an hour of his life in that damned meeting that he’ll never get back, an hour he could have been using to hit up the nearest beach.
England eventually emerges from the building too, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a scowl across his pointed features. He’s always angry about something; America wishes he’d smile more.
“Hey!”
At the sound of America’s voice, England looks down at where the nation is seated (on the third step up from the ground since three’s a lucky number) and shoots him a questioning stare.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” America insists, leaping to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Clearly suspicious, England asks, “Why?”
“No real reason. Just thought, if you’re not busy, we could hang out.”
Seemingly disgusted, England replies as he starts to walk away, “I’d rather not.”
It was worth a try. Outside of summits and gatherings, England rarely leaves his own home, and it’s rarer still that he agrees to spend time with America at all. Shrugging off the rejection, America decides to spend time with Tony instead; he’s on the eighteenth level of Werewolf Massacre and it’s always much more fun on two-player mode.
As he wastes away the day locked indoors and bashing the crap out a games console controller, the morning becomes afternoon soon enough, gradually slipping into evening and finishing with nightfall. After uttering a single “Goodnight” to Tony, America collapses into bed and sleeps in his clothes, exhausted from virtual warfare.
He wakes to the sound of his alarm clock blaring like he usually does. What isn’t expected is that he’s wearing pyjamas when he slips out of bed. Deciding he must have woken up sometime in the night and changed, America doesn’t think much of it, dressing into his day-clothes and heading downstairs to the kitchen, his groaning stomach reminding him that he should probably eat breakfast before he does anything else.
Just as he’s about to fling open the kitchen cupboard and check for pancakes, the phone hooked up on the wall starts to ring. All too eager to speak to someone that isn’t his alien housemate, America seizes the handset and greets whoever it is calling with, “Hey there! What’s up?”
It’s England, and he sounds irritated. “Why aren’t you at the World Conference?”
“What do you mean, bro?” America asks, frowning. “That meeting was yesterday...”
“No it wasn’t,” England snaps. “It’s today. And because you’re one of the leading countries, we can’t start until you arrive, so you’d better have a good reason for not showing up.”
America shoots a glance to his calendar. Sure enough, it’s gone back a day, even though he can still remember tearing out ‘Monday- World Conference!’ and leaving it as ‘Tuesday- Nothing Planned’.
“I’m really sorry,” he mutters, “I must’ve had this really vivid dream ‘cause I could have sworn it was Tuesday today...”
“Well, it isn’t, because Tuesday is tomorrow,” England announces. “So hurry up and get down here before I drag you down myself!”
The line goes dead. America gives up on breakfast and starts his journey to the Conference Hall.
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