Fic: Revolution (PG-13)
Fandoms: Axis Powers Hetalia/Red Haven
Pairing: America/Mars (OC)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I don't even know where the hell this came from. For imthe_hero.
Summary: And America misses the days of old. Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Obama.
The days of super-strength. And American pride.
~*~
Today is July 4th, 2366, and America is 590 years old.
There was a time, he thinks, when he knew what age he was. Without having to think about it. But these days, he just rounds up. Six centuries.
He actually had to calculate it out, today.
America winds the scarf closer around his neck. The leather of the bomber jacket is worn, now. Replaced, patched. He doesn’t think it looks much like it used to. But then, he has a hard time remembering how it used to look.
The first of the fireworks explode over his head -
~*~
Like fireworks. Seems to him there was a time that they just exploded. Bright flares. And now they make shapes. Flares of soldiers, planets, flags in the sky over what, centuries ago, used to be Navy Pier. The city expanded over the lake - under the lake, too - and ‘pier’ didn’t apply anymore.
They still call it Navy Pier, though. Navy Pier, and it stretches all the way out to the White House.
~*~
It’s unseasonably cold today. Fifty degrees in July. They say that the bombardment from the Moon two years ago twisted all the weather patterns on the planet. Crops would be failing, people starving.
But then, it’s all mechanized, these days.
The crowd surges into a cheer, and America clasps his hands behind his back.
The president steps up next to him. Sends him a sideways smile. America ignores him.
~*~
There’ve been a lot of presidents America has liked. A lot that he’s disliked. But, lately, he can’t seem to find one that he cares about.
Nine percent voter turnout. Figurehead office. Doesn’t mean a damn thing, not since the United Nations version 7.0 took over. And America misses the days of old. Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Obama.
The days of super-strength. And American pride.
Now he’s powerless. One of a dozen countries that squabble over civil law distinctions between countries. They’re all a part of Earth.
And Earth fights Mars.
~*~
There are thirty thousand prisoners of war on American soil. Five thousand in Chicago, ten in upstate New York, seven in Dallas, and eight put to work cleaning up what’s left of Washington, DC.
It’s a futile gesture. America can touch the scar tissue, just behind his hip. He knows it’s not healing. He knows DC is gone forever.
It doesn’t stop him from going back.
~*~
He finds Mars in the middle of a field. Scattering the pellets the scientists claim draw the radiation from the ground. American ever really understood the science. He doubts it, that’s all.
Mars ignores him. Just as much as he ignores the silvery cuff around his wrist. The tracker embedded in it.
It’s about fifteen minutes before America can thing of anything to say.
You know, if you signed the loyalty pledge, you’d be out of here yesterday.
But Mars looks so gaunt, so thin, so starved. And there are cuts, wounds, breaks in his skin that aren’t healing.
“Need some help?” is what he asks, finally.
“Not from you,” says Mars.
~*~
America tells his boss - the boss of the United Nations - that he should send aid to Mars.
Mars needs to be taught a lesson, says the boss. Don’t do it, unless you want trade restrictions like you’ve never seen before.
America’s president keeps his mouth shut.
And, outside the meeting, America takes a crowbar into a sheet of safety glass. It takes sixteen hits before it shatters.
He doesn’t have superstrength. Not anymore.
~*~
The next time he sees Mars, the man is ill, braced against a window, eyes up to the stars.
Dark hair, dark eyes. Pale skin. And yet, everything about him is a dark, dusty red. Defiant, and a little alien, but all too human.
“We thought we were like you,” says Mars.
No. No, anything but this.
“Colonial power,” and Mars turns to look at him. Gaunt. “We thought we could beat them, and break away. Become free.”
No. Oh, God no.
“Never thought you’d be on the other side of that battle, huh?”
America steps back from the bars. “Stop it,” he says.
“Let me go back.” Mars’ voice is low, intent. “For Christ’s sake, America, get me out of here.”
America is powerless.
~*~
Food doesn’t help, the guards tell him. Mars is starving to death, like his people are starving to death, so far away.
~*~
And America remembers what it was to be defiant.
~*~
The bomb is a work of art.
America almost wishes this was an old Hollywood movie, so he could play it back - the walls collapsing in slow-motion, rubble flooding the air, the guards going on alert. Hitting the alarm.
America reaches down into Mars’ cell.
“Come on,” he says, as the insurgents rush all around him.
Mars reaches up, and takes his hand.
~*~
The kiss is rough and dry, but the hand that touches America’s face - well, it barely touches him at all. Feather-light, with gratitude.
And then Mars is gone.
Along with several thousand pounds of food. A good start.
America turns, ready to face whatever damn trade restrictions the UN wants.
Funny, he thinks he feels some of that old strength coming back.
Pairing: America/Mars (OC)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I don't even know where the hell this came from. For imthe_hero.
Summary: And America misses the days of old. Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Obama.
The days of super-strength. And American pride.
~*~
Today is July 4th, 2366, and America is 590 years old.
There was a time, he thinks, when he knew what age he was. Without having to think about it. But these days, he just rounds up. Six centuries.
He actually had to calculate it out, today.
America winds the scarf closer around his neck. The leather of the bomber jacket is worn, now. Replaced, patched. He doesn’t think it looks much like it used to. But then, he has a hard time remembering how it used to look.
The first of the fireworks explode over his head -
~*~
Like fireworks. Seems to him there was a time that they just exploded. Bright flares. And now they make shapes. Flares of soldiers, planets, flags in the sky over what, centuries ago, used to be Navy Pier. The city expanded over the lake - under the lake, too - and ‘pier’ didn’t apply anymore.
They still call it Navy Pier, though. Navy Pier, and it stretches all the way out to the White House.
~*~
It’s unseasonably cold today. Fifty degrees in July. They say that the bombardment from the Moon two years ago twisted all the weather patterns on the planet. Crops would be failing, people starving.
But then, it’s all mechanized, these days.
The crowd surges into a cheer, and America clasps his hands behind his back.
The president steps up next to him. Sends him a sideways smile. America ignores him.
~*~
There’ve been a lot of presidents America has liked. A lot that he’s disliked. But, lately, he can’t seem to find one that he cares about.
Nine percent voter turnout. Figurehead office. Doesn’t mean a damn thing, not since the United Nations version 7.0 took over. And America misses the days of old. Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Obama.
The days of super-strength. And American pride.
Now he’s powerless. One of a dozen countries that squabble over civil law distinctions between countries. They’re all a part of Earth.
And Earth fights Mars.
~*~
There are thirty thousand prisoners of war on American soil. Five thousand in Chicago, ten in upstate New York, seven in Dallas, and eight put to work cleaning up what’s left of Washington, DC.
It’s a futile gesture. America can touch the scar tissue, just behind his hip. He knows it’s not healing. He knows DC is gone forever.
It doesn’t stop him from going back.
~*~
He finds Mars in the middle of a field. Scattering the pellets the scientists claim draw the radiation from the ground. American ever really understood the science. He doubts it, that’s all.
Mars ignores him. Just as much as he ignores the silvery cuff around his wrist. The tracker embedded in it.
It’s about fifteen minutes before America can thing of anything to say.
You know, if you signed the loyalty pledge, you’d be out of here yesterday.
But Mars looks so gaunt, so thin, so starved. And there are cuts, wounds, breaks in his skin that aren’t healing.
“Need some help?” is what he asks, finally.
“Not from you,” says Mars.
~*~
America tells his boss - the boss of the United Nations - that he should send aid to Mars.
Mars needs to be taught a lesson, says the boss. Don’t do it, unless you want trade restrictions like you’ve never seen before.
America’s president keeps his mouth shut.
And, outside the meeting, America takes a crowbar into a sheet of safety glass. It takes sixteen hits before it shatters.
He doesn’t have superstrength. Not anymore.
~*~
The next time he sees Mars, the man is ill, braced against a window, eyes up to the stars.
Dark hair, dark eyes. Pale skin. And yet, everything about him is a dark, dusty red. Defiant, and a little alien, but all too human.
“We thought we were like you,” says Mars.
No. No, anything but this.
“Colonial power,” and Mars turns to look at him. Gaunt. “We thought we could beat them, and break away. Become free.”
No. Oh, God no.
“Never thought you’d be on the other side of that battle, huh?”
America steps back from the bars. “Stop it,” he says.
“Let me go back.” Mars’ voice is low, intent. “For Christ’s sake, America, get me out of here.”
America is powerless.
~*~
Food doesn’t help, the guards tell him. Mars is starving to death, like his people are starving to death, so far away.
~*~
And America remembers what it was to be defiant.
~*~
The bomb is a work of art.
America almost wishes this was an old Hollywood movie, so he could play it back - the walls collapsing in slow-motion, rubble flooding the air, the guards going on alert. Hitting the alarm.
America reaches down into Mars’ cell.
“Come on,” he says, as the insurgents rush all around him.
Mars reaches up, and takes his hand.
~*~
The kiss is rough and dry, but the hand that touches America’s face - well, it barely touches him at all. Feather-light, with gratitude.
And then Mars is gone.
Along with several thousand pounds of food. A good start.
America turns, ready to face whatever damn trade restrictions the UN wants.
Funny, he thinks he feels some of that old strength coming back.