[FANFIC] Wednesday's Child
According to the rules, I can't post this to the Hetalia comm due to OC Wales and Scotland. ): (all the more reason for Hidekaz to HURRY UP AND MAKE A CANON LOT OF THEM ALREADY)
Well, at least you lot get to enjoy it!
(and many thanks to my excellent beta
oz_the_bobble , who confiscated all my commas)
Edited to remove the blasphemy. In case you're wondering, I'm a Christian and I.... had second thoughts.
Prologue- Scotland, 1965
England stared into the light. It flickered briefly- the silhouettes of the children wavering, becoming tall and strange- before going out. Night rushed in to cover what they had done.
"They're gone. One left- a boy. We're sweeping for him now."
He nodded to show that he'd heard and shivered. Not that it was especially cold. It was more the shudder that comes over you when you feel that you are being watched- which he supposed he was. Goodness only knew what kind of technology those creatures had had. In a way, he was grateful that they'd chosen to hide behind radio frequencies and bright lights. It had made it easier, somehow. Beside him, his brother was still gazing into the sky.
"May God forgive us for this." Scotland muttered. England couldn't look at him.
"It was simple mathematics, Alastair. Twelve children for the lives of thousands- in my country and yours. We did the right thing."
"Was it the right thing for the bairns, though?"
England shrugged, and hated himself for it.
"They said they'd live forever."
Scotland still gazed at the stars.
"Aye, and what if they come back?"
--
Monday's child is fair of face
England woke with a start. Turning to his bedside table, he glared at the alarm (which had failed to go off- the damn thing seemed to have a vendetta against him) and dragged himself upright. He'd had one of his nightmares again. Ever since the invasions had begun, they'd become more frequent- feverish glimpses of alien worlds. Sometimes they were red and black under dying suns, all civilization long since vanished. Sometimes they were gas-filled worlds where creatures existed in a perpetual, smoggy twilight. Always they left England with a sense of profound, inescapable loneliness, of a universe grown much bigger. He didn't talk to the others about the dreams, but he knew that they all suffered them too. None of them wanted to talk about what they meant.
Beside him, the telephone trilled.
"England?"
Arthur held in a sigh of exasperation. The current PM- Green or Groves or whatever his name was- was, in his estimation, an odious little slimeball of a man. He'd been rather too keen on the idea of England as a kind of barometer of public opinion- the country got the impression that the PM would like to have him in a glass box in the corner of his office, just to keep an eye on.
"Yes, Prime Minister?"
"Look, we've got a bit of a problem coming up and I want to know if I can count on your discretion. You know. With the, ah, others."
England raised an eyebrow.
"Can you be more specific?"
"Not right now- if we're lucky it'll all blow over. Just know that I have your very best interests at heart."
There was a pause. England could have sworn he heard Green ratcheting up the sincerity by a few more notches.
"You don't want to embarrass your government, do you?"
"No." sighed England. They did a good enough job of that on their own. "You can count on me."
"Excellent." The man sounded relieved- something that further heightened England's suspicions. "And don't worry about anything. We're keeping everything running smoothly up here."
England wondered what he meant until precisely an hour and forty minutes later, when he felt over half of his people stop dead. No- he felt the adults panicking, though it was like thinking through treacle. It was the children who had frozen, all of them, the comfortable background hum of his people turning to half absolute stillness, half blind panic. Slowly, words forced themselves to the front of his mind.
"We are coming." He rasped, through lips that were suddenly dry.
--
Tuesday's child is full of grace
"Bastard." Wales hissed, his voice filled with the kind of hate that only siblings could have for one another, betrayed and angry and dripping with venom. "You utter, utter bastard."
"Howell, it's the middle of the-"
"Do you know where I'm standing, right now?"
England sighed and looked up as though appealing to the heavens.
"I have yet to develop psychic powers, so why don't you tell me?"
"I'm standing looking at the ruins of the Hub."
"Ruins?"
"Your fascists have ripped a bloody great crater in it."
"What-?"
"Oh, don't act surprised." Wales was on the verge of tears, England could hear, although he sounded too angry to let them fall. "I felt it happen. You can't blow a hole in my capital city and not expect me to know about it."
Arthur took the phone away from his ear and looked at it in sheer disbelief. Surely he would have heard about something like this? He picked up his tv remote and switched to the BBC. Sure enough, the channel was reporting breaking news from Cardiff. Terrorists had blown up Roald Dahl Plas, though no group had claimed responsibility yet. Emergency services weren't letting the news cameras near the scene, but England knew why it had been targeted. Torchwood.
But why?
"I can hear the telly." Wales piped up from the other end of the line. "Terrorists. Bull. I know it was you, Arthur. I saw your government goons crawling around the place. Proud, are you?"
"Wales, be rational. Why would I attack you?"
"I was hoping you could tell me, little brother."
"I don't know what you're talking about." England snapped, before slamming down the handset and retreating back into his duvet. The telephone rang again and again- it wasn't always Wales, but he didn't answer any of the messages left on his answer-phone. After lunch, he made a telephone call to the Torchwood liason, but they were out of the office. Then he got his old radio set out of the loft and started to fiddle with it. He'd been good at it during the War- wireless operators were worth their weight in gold back then, and he'd enjoyed the small miracle of finding signals in the ether. For a while, he found nothing, but around teatime he finally hit the frequency he was looking for and his kitchen filled with harsh, ugly noise. England sat and listened to it until the room grew dark and the outside world was blotted out. Then he called Downing Street.
--
Wednesday's child is full of woe
"All I am asking..." The Prime Minister paused and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He did a very good impression of a man who hadn't slept well. "All I am asking is that you use a little discretion."
"Discretion?" England was staggered by the understatement. "You mean you want me to lie to the other nations about what went on in 1965? When every single child in the world has pointed straight at us and as good as told everyone that we've had contact with these... these monsters before? When I practically waved the little sods off?"
"Well, you have had forty years' practice."
The words were like a slap across the face. England balled his fists and would have punched the man in his smug face if he hadn't been the leader of his country.
"I was scared." He ground out through gritted teeth. "They gave us no choice."
Green raised his eyebrows.
"Then why share it with the rest of the world?" He unclasped his hands and spread them- as if taking the whole messy, difficult business on himself. "You will be around long after I'm gone, Mr. Kirkland. Don't you want to be able to face your compatriots across the conference table knowing that you have a clean sheet?"
He leaned forward and England unconsciously took a step back.
"We already have our scapegoats in place. All you need to do is keep your mouth shut- use that famous stiff upper lip. The embodiment of England shouldn't be too bad at that, hm?"
England turned to go, then paused.
"And Scotland?"
Green smiled.
"Don't you worry about Scotland. He won't say anything either."
--
Thursday's child has far to go
"-Ngland? Is it working?"
England waved away the technicians and moved in front of the webcam.
"Yes, America, it's working."
"Good." The screen, which had been filled with an extreme close-up of America's bomber jacket, resolved itself into a neat Washington office and a very angry America. "Now you can tell me what the hell this 1965 business is all about."
"I don't know what you-"
"England, don't lie to me." Alfred was doing a good job of hiding it, but England could tell that he felt betrayed. His hand was twitching with the cuff of his jacket and his voice was shaking- not much, just a little. Enough to let someone who knew him know that he was struggling not to shout. "What happened in 1965?"
"I don't-"
"Tell me, dammit!"
The camera shook as America pounded his fist onto the conference table. England didn't flinch, but only because he'd told himself beforehand that he wouldn't.
"It wouldn't serve any practical purpose." He spat. "What happened in 1965 was purely a British matter, and we all know you've never been interested in any of those."
"Aliens landing on British soil-"
"And how long was Tony in your basement before you told the rest of us?"
"Tony doesn't want to take any of our children."
There was a long moment of silence.
"The units-" England realised his mouth had gone dry. And when had he started using words like 'units'? "The units amount to only 10% of our population. I'd say that that's preferable to killing everyone on earth."
America stared at him. England stared right back. Heaven help him, it was at least good to be consulted for things again.
"It's simple mathematics."
"England, you're talking about kids."
"And I suppose you have a better solution?" America couldn't meet his eyes. "No. I didn't think so. So did you call me up to offer anything constructive, or did you just want to shout at me?"
Alfred opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of what he was going to say and tried a different angle.
"What about your Doctor?"
"He's not my Doctor." England snapped. "And sometimes we have to work things out for ourselves."
America slumped back into his seat and ran a hand through his hair. He looked older, somehow, and defeated. No, that's not the right word, England thought. He looked disappointed.
"This isn't working things out for ourselves, Arthur." He sighed. "This is just... politics. Using kids as bargaining tokens."
Alfred reached over to turn off the webcam, but before he did England heard him say one more thing.
"We aren't our governments, you know. Sometimes we have to be, but most often we're our people. So when did you start talking like your PM, England?"
--
Friday's child is loving and giving
It was easier, England reflected, when all the aliens wanted to do was kill you. Then, he could feel his people unite against them, the adrenaline rush one usually only felt in war when they all pulled together and you knew that anything was possible as long as you fought and scratched and kicked until your last breath, because all of your people were fighting with you. This felt more like a civil war. He'd been feeling a kind of roiling nausea since Wednesday- the slow buildup of tension as the country started to realise the full horror of what the 456 actually wanted from the world. People were intelligent. That was what everyone forgot. People were wily, and crafty, and suspicious, and it didn't take long for them to put two and two together.
He'd heard from America, for example, holing up with as many kids and parents as he could find in some school somewhere, taking a last stand as his people fought back against their army. Russia and millions of his children had just vanished into the snow- communications were a nightmare across so big a country. China, rumour had it, had refused to give up a single child- though it was difficult to hear anything from his government. England, meanwhile, was walking down a long, white corridor, counting off doors, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head as parents clashed with soldiers in schools and housing estates up and down the country. Finding the right door, he opened it and looked in. Wales didn't turn to face him.
"Took you long enough."
"Can we save the 'I told you so's for later, please?" England sighed. "There's a bloody war on, or haven't you heard?"
Wales got up and looked at his little brother carefully.
"Which side are you on, then?"
"I'm breaking you out of jail, Howell. Whose side do you think I'm on?"
A smile flashed briefly across Wales' face and he walked out into the corridor. Looking around, he raised his eyebrows. This had just the same impressive quality as when England did it.
"Why aren't we arse deep in soldiers right now?"
"Special UNIT Liaison A. Kirkland, at your service." England did a mock-bow. "No-one here was high up enough to know the whole truth, so I just requested a prisoner transfer. Did the same with Scotland, only by phone."
Wales laughed and then walked to the door. They both knew that not far from here, a group of parents had teamed up to try and defend their children- they would need all the help that they could get. England had parked his car outside and it was a matter of minutes before they were nearly there. Getting out, Wales wagged his finger at England.
"Don't think I've forgiven you just 'cause you decided to grow a conscience. You've still got a lot to answer for."
"I know." England's brain crowded with excuses, but he didn't offer any of them. "But right now, my people need me."
"It was your Alfred, wasn't it?” Wales muttered as they walked up to the soldiers. "Beginning to see what you like about that boy."
"It was Thames House, actually.” England replied quietly. Wales shot him a look, and England remembered that he’d lost someone there too. Two people, actually, though Howell would never admit what losing Jack Harkness did to him every time.
“Well, I can’t say as you didn’t deserve it. Doesn’t make it right though.”
The soldiers had spotted them. Wales squared his shoulders, and England felt adrenaline rush through him. This was going to be hell to explain to Green. The thought gave him rather a lot of pleasure.
“You don’t want to fight us.” He shouted. The army turned and raised their riot shields. Behind them, the besieged parents were taking advantage of the distraction to try and herd their kids to safety.
Roaring an ancient battle cry, the brothers charged.
Well, at least you lot get to enjoy it!
(and many thanks to my excellent beta
oz_the_bobble , who confiscated all my commas)
Edited to remove the blasphemy. In case you're wondering, I'm a Christian and I.... had second thoughts.
Prologue- Scotland, 1965
England stared into the light. It flickered briefly- the silhouettes of the children wavering, becoming tall and strange- before going out. Night rushed in to cover what they had done.
"They're gone. One left- a boy. We're sweeping for him now."
He nodded to show that he'd heard and shivered. Not that it was especially cold. It was more the shudder that comes over you when you feel that you are being watched- which he supposed he was. Goodness only knew what kind of technology those creatures had had. In a way, he was grateful that they'd chosen to hide behind radio frequencies and bright lights. It had made it easier, somehow. Beside him, his brother was still gazing into the sky.
"May God forgive us for this." Scotland muttered. England couldn't look at him.
"It was simple mathematics, Alastair. Twelve children for the lives of thousands- in my country and yours. We did the right thing."
"Was it the right thing for the bairns, though?"
England shrugged, and hated himself for it.
"They said they'd live forever."
Scotland still gazed at the stars.
"Aye, and what if they come back?"
--
Monday's child is fair of face
England woke with a start. Turning to his bedside table, he glared at the alarm (which had failed to go off- the damn thing seemed to have a vendetta against him) and dragged himself upright. He'd had one of his nightmares again. Ever since the invasions had begun, they'd become more frequent- feverish glimpses of alien worlds. Sometimes they were red and black under dying suns, all civilization long since vanished. Sometimes they were gas-filled worlds where creatures existed in a perpetual, smoggy twilight. Always they left England with a sense of profound, inescapable loneliness, of a universe grown much bigger. He didn't talk to the others about the dreams, but he knew that they all suffered them too. None of them wanted to talk about what they meant.
Beside him, the telephone trilled.
"England?"
Arthur held in a sigh of exasperation. The current PM- Green or Groves or whatever his name was- was, in his estimation, an odious little slimeball of a man. He'd been rather too keen on the idea of England as a kind of barometer of public opinion- the country got the impression that the PM would like to have him in a glass box in the corner of his office, just to keep an eye on.
"Yes, Prime Minister?"
"Look, we've got a bit of a problem coming up and I want to know if I can count on your discretion. You know. With the, ah, others."
England raised an eyebrow.
"Can you be more specific?"
"Not right now- if we're lucky it'll all blow over. Just know that I have your very best interests at heart."
There was a pause. England could have sworn he heard Green ratcheting up the sincerity by a few more notches.
"You don't want to embarrass your government, do you?"
"No." sighed England. They did a good enough job of that on their own. "You can count on me."
"Excellent." The man sounded relieved- something that further heightened England's suspicions. "And don't worry about anything. We're keeping everything running smoothly up here."
England wondered what he meant until precisely an hour and forty minutes later, when he felt over half of his people stop dead. No- he felt the adults panicking, though it was like thinking through treacle. It was the children who had frozen, all of them, the comfortable background hum of his people turning to half absolute stillness, half blind panic. Slowly, words forced themselves to the front of his mind.
"We are coming." He rasped, through lips that were suddenly dry.
--
Tuesday's child is full of grace
"Bastard." Wales hissed, his voice filled with the kind of hate that only siblings could have for one another, betrayed and angry and dripping with venom. "You utter, utter bastard."
"Howell, it's the middle of the-"
"Do you know where I'm standing, right now?"
England sighed and looked up as though appealing to the heavens.
"I have yet to develop psychic powers, so why don't you tell me?"
"I'm standing looking at the ruins of the Hub."
"Ruins?"
"Your fascists have ripped a bloody great crater in it."
"What-?"
"Oh, don't act surprised." Wales was on the verge of tears, England could hear, although he sounded too angry to let them fall. "I felt it happen. You can't blow a hole in my capital city and not expect me to know about it."
Arthur took the phone away from his ear and looked at it in sheer disbelief. Surely he would have heard about something like this? He picked up his tv remote and switched to the BBC. Sure enough, the channel was reporting breaking news from Cardiff. Terrorists had blown up Roald Dahl Plas, though no group had claimed responsibility yet. Emergency services weren't letting the news cameras near the scene, but England knew why it had been targeted. Torchwood.
But why?
"I can hear the telly." Wales piped up from the other end of the line. "Terrorists. Bull. I know it was you, Arthur. I saw your government goons crawling around the place. Proud, are you?"
"Wales, be rational. Why would I attack you?"
"I was hoping you could tell me, little brother."
"I don't know what you're talking about." England snapped, before slamming down the handset and retreating back into his duvet. The telephone rang again and again- it wasn't always Wales, but he didn't answer any of the messages left on his answer-phone. After lunch, he made a telephone call to the Torchwood liason, but they were out of the office. Then he got his old radio set out of the loft and started to fiddle with it. He'd been good at it during the War- wireless operators were worth their weight in gold back then, and he'd enjoyed the small miracle of finding signals in the ether. For a while, he found nothing, but around teatime he finally hit the frequency he was looking for and his kitchen filled with harsh, ugly noise. England sat and listened to it until the room grew dark and the outside world was blotted out. Then he called Downing Street.
--
Wednesday's child is full of woe
"All I am asking..." The Prime Minister paused and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He did a very good impression of a man who hadn't slept well. "All I am asking is that you use a little discretion."
"Discretion?" England was staggered by the understatement. "You mean you want me to lie to the other nations about what went on in 1965? When every single child in the world has pointed straight at us and as good as told everyone that we've had contact with these... these monsters before? When I practically waved the little sods off?"
"Well, you have had forty years' practice."
The words were like a slap across the face. England balled his fists and would have punched the man in his smug face if he hadn't been the leader of his country.
"I was scared." He ground out through gritted teeth. "They gave us no choice."
Green raised his eyebrows.
"Then why share it with the rest of the world?" He unclasped his hands and spread them- as if taking the whole messy, difficult business on himself. "You will be around long after I'm gone, Mr. Kirkland. Don't you want to be able to face your compatriots across the conference table knowing that you have a clean sheet?"
He leaned forward and England unconsciously took a step back.
"We already have our scapegoats in place. All you need to do is keep your mouth shut- use that famous stiff upper lip. The embodiment of England shouldn't be too bad at that, hm?"
England turned to go, then paused.
"And Scotland?"
Green smiled.
"Don't you worry about Scotland. He won't say anything either."
--
Thursday's child has far to go
"-Ngland? Is it working?"
England waved away the technicians and moved in front of the webcam.
"Yes, America, it's working."
"Good." The screen, which had been filled with an extreme close-up of America's bomber jacket, resolved itself into a neat Washington office and a very angry America. "Now you can tell me what the hell this 1965 business is all about."
"I don't know what you-"
"England, don't lie to me." Alfred was doing a good job of hiding it, but England could tell that he felt betrayed. His hand was twitching with the cuff of his jacket and his voice was shaking- not much, just a little. Enough to let someone who knew him know that he was struggling not to shout. "What happened in 1965?"
"I don't-"
"Tell me, dammit!"
The camera shook as America pounded his fist onto the conference table. England didn't flinch, but only because he'd told himself beforehand that he wouldn't.
"It wouldn't serve any practical purpose." He spat. "What happened in 1965 was purely a British matter, and we all know you've never been interested in any of those."
"Aliens landing on British soil-"
"And how long was Tony in your basement before you told the rest of us?"
"Tony doesn't want to take any of our children."
There was a long moment of silence.
"The units-" England realised his mouth had gone dry. And when had he started using words like 'units'? "The units amount to only 10% of our population. I'd say that that's preferable to killing everyone on earth."
America stared at him. England stared right back. Heaven help him, it was at least good to be consulted for things again.
"It's simple mathematics."
"England, you're talking about kids."
"And I suppose you have a better solution?" America couldn't meet his eyes. "No. I didn't think so. So did you call me up to offer anything constructive, or did you just want to shout at me?"
Alfred opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of what he was going to say and tried a different angle.
"What about your Doctor?"
"He's not my Doctor." England snapped. "And sometimes we have to work things out for ourselves."
America slumped back into his seat and ran a hand through his hair. He looked older, somehow, and defeated. No, that's not the right word, England thought. He looked disappointed.
"This isn't working things out for ourselves, Arthur." He sighed. "This is just... politics. Using kids as bargaining tokens."
Alfred reached over to turn off the webcam, but before he did England heard him say one more thing.
"We aren't our governments, you know. Sometimes we have to be, but most often we're our people. So when did you start talking like your PM, England?"
--
Friday's child is loving and giving
It was easier, England reflected, when all the aliens wanted to do was kill you. Then, he could feel his people unite against them, the adrenaline rush one usually only felt in war when they all pulled together and you knew that anything was possible as long as you fought and scratched and kicked until your last breath, because all of your people were fighting with you. This felt more like a civil war. He'd been feeling a kind of roiling nausea since Wednesday- the slow buildup of tension as the country started to realise the full horror of what the 456 actually wanted from the world. People were intelligent. That was what everyone forgot. People were wily, and crafty, and suspicious, and it didn't take long for them to put two and two together.
He'd heard from America, for example, holing up with as many kids and parents as he could find in some school somewhere, taking a last stand as his people fought back against their army. Russia and millions of his children had just vanished into the snow- communications were a nightmare across so big a country. China, rumour had it, had refused to give up a single child- though it was difficult to hear anything from his government. England, meanwhile, was walking down a long, white corridor, counting off doors, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head as parents clashed with soldiers in schools and housing estates up and down the country. Finding the right door, he opened it and looked in. Wales didn't turn to face him.
"Took you long enough."
"Can we save the 'I told you so's for later, please?" England sighed. "There's a bloody war on, or haven't you heard?"
Wales got up and looked at his little brother carefully.
"Which side are you on, then?"
"I'm breaking you out of jail, Howell. Whose side do you think I'm on?"
A smile flashed briefly across Wales' face and he walked out into the corridor. Looking around, he raised his eyebrows. This had just the same impressive quality as when England did it.
"Why aren't we arse deep in soldiers right now?"
"Special UNIT Liaison A. Kirkland, at your service." England did a mock-bow. "No-one here was high up enough to know the whole truth, so I just requested a prisoner transfer. Did the same with Scotland, only by phone."
Wales laughed and then walked to the door. They both knew that not far from here, a group of parents had teamed up to try and defend their children- they would need all the help that they could get. England had parked his car outside and it was a matter of minutes before they were nearly there. Getting out, Wales wagged his finger at England.
"Don't think I've forgiven you just 'cause you decided to grow a conscience. You've still got a lot to answer for."
"I know." England's brain crowded with excuses, but he didn't offer any of them. "But right now, my people need me."
"It was your Alfred, wasn't it?” Wales muttered as they walked up to the soldiers. "Beginning to see what you like about that boy."
"It was Thames House, actually.” England replied quietly. Wales shot him a look, and England remembered that he’d lost someone there too. Two people, actually, though Howell would never admit what losing Jack Harkness did to him every time.
“Well, I can’t say as you didn’t deserve it. Doesn’t make it right though.”
The soldiers had spotted them. Wales squared his shoulders, and England felt adrenaline rush through him. This was going to be hell to explain to Green. The thought gave him rather a lot of pleasure.
“You don’t want to fight us.” He shouted. The army turned and raised their riot shields. Behind them, the besieged parents were taking advantage of the distraction to try and herd their kids to safety.
Roaring an ancient battle cry, the brothers charged.