11. as fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st

[keepscalm]

Characters: [OU] England (keepscalm) and [OU] America (colonial), closed.
Setting: Floor 87; June 24, daytime.
Format: Prose
Summary: Ruana has released the last hints for the game. England knows what he has to do.
Warnings: Character death (mercy kill and suicide), including death of a small nation child.

He had decided, if he were to ever go home again, he would strike the month of June from the calendar entirely. Last June, he had been voted to death under the pretence of mercy by his podmates, and those he loved had suffered for it. He still had not forgiven those responsible, and England knew himself well enough to be certain that he never would. Not when there was a constant whisper of what he heard on that operating table lurking in the not-so-far recesses of his mind; imprints of those terrified screams lingered in the grooves of his subconscious, just waiting to echo back to him when the needle of a dream scraped along in the darkest hours of the night. Nothing anyone could say would ever excuse those cries.

So, of course, it was only fitting that this June, he would be condemned to another death. But there was no one else to blame for this, and no audience that would bear the heaviest weight of the burden. There was only England and the one he would be taking down with him — the centre of his world, his sunshine, the one person he couldn't pull the trigger on even when he was angry enough that his finger itched to do it nonetheless. America wouldn't be staring the gun down this time, though. On the contrary; this was a silent assault, one that not even the victim would be aware of, if they even realised they were a victim. Though England held the gun, no one would ever know where the shot came from, save for him and their dearest head administrator.

He had considered enlisting someone else for the task, but Ruana had made it very clear that only one person would fulfil the criteria, and England knew that there was no one closer to America than he. It would have to be him, or America would continue to become a monster when the sun went down and took the glamour of relative security with it. He couldn't allow that — it had been weeks since England had first been attacked, and though knowing that he had already killed America once spread a frost of cold dread through his chest, the possibility that America could have been made to kill him was so much worse. He had already hurt many others in this time, England was certain of it.

And, for that matter, America wasn't the only one. If his colony had been a monster this whole time, then there was no way England could have been falling asleep next to him every day since the attack without fail, as his memory was insistent upon. This wouldn't be the first time he had been fed manufactured memories in this fucking cesspit of a tower, though it was in the running for the most insulting. Allowing himself to become one of Ruana's little pets was one thing, but letting America rampage about was worlds away from his own situation. America was full of optimism and love, innocent even in spite of being a nation stuck in the Tower of Animus, and yet he was going to have to remember the feeling of tearing someone apart between his monstrous teeth. England felt ill at the idea that he would awaken these dormant memories by doing what he was about to do; at the forefront of his mind, though, he knew that America would remember anyway, even if England took the cowardly way out and turned a blind eye to the game. The least he could do was give America less to remember at the end of the day.

He emerged onto the eighty-seventh floor with America cradled in his arms. Vibrant crimson poppies filled his vision as far out as he could see. He had to bite back a deprecating scoff as he stepped off the staircase; it was insulting to maintain so many vast illusions of the outside world when the reality was that England would eventually hit a wall on this floor if only the film wouldn't keep him in place as he walked. At least the flowers would serve their function in this instance, despite being little else but a field full of psionic bullshit. It was pleasant enough for a nap, even disregarding that he felt sleepy just by stepping off the staircase.

"Here we are," he announced quietly to his tiny travel companion. His voice was quiet with contemplation, though it was easily mistakable for one simply trying to foster sleep. Not that he needed to try too hard — they would fall asleep here even if England shouted his intentions to the administrative levels. It was a perfect place for what he had to do.

Comments

[keepscalm]

England's eyes were still fixated onto some nondescript point in the glamoured sky, staring far into a distance that even the vast city down below couldn't afford him. He wanted to close his eyes — he was tired, and not just because of the poppies. He was tired of this Tower and tired of living in it. The only thing keeping him aware was America (how long had it been since he'd heard America tell him he couldn't fall asleep first, anyway?), and even then, it was so hard to resist the pull of the poppies.

"That sounds splendid." With far too much effort for a simple motion, he lifted his head to meet America's eyes. "Perhaps a story. What do you think?"

If he had a story to focus on spinning, it would be easier not to fall asleep.

[colonial]

America's eyes lit up, though with his increasing exhaustion, his face looked more similar to delight at the prospect of a bedtime story than it should have been when it was still so early. America shifted, sliding off of England's chest to settle against his side--a more comfortable listening-to-story position.

He began pulling at poppies idly, chaining them together into a crown out of habit. "I wanna hear a story! Story time!"

[keepscalm]

England let America move around, adjusting his arms to accommodate the young colony's new position. He searched his brain for a story, waded through the tropes and clichés for something that would keep America interested enough not to complain but not too invested to fall asleep. He had exhausted most of his story supply since America arrived here; he couldn't exactly say the place was very inspiring regarding stories that were safe to tell a child.

From a deep trench in his recent memory came a thought — 'I'll save you.'

After another moment, England began to speak.

"Once upon a time," began the story, as so many others did. "There was a little boy who lived in a city that thrived with happy, energetic people. He lived alone in the tallest building of the city. He very much liked to watch the city people, but the building was meant to house people with very powerful magic. He had very powerful magic, so evil forces kept him trapped within the building."

[colonial]

Now settled, America listened with rapt if tired attention. He'd always loved England's stories, and usually England had new ones, which was always exciting, too, especially in a tower where so much was the same or too dangerous for him to be allowed to explore.

"He was all by himself?" America frowned at the idea--someone locked up alone, only able to watch people, would get terribly lonely! "Who were the bad people? Were they real strong, too?"