Title: Children of a Common Mother
Authoress: Ankaris123
Re-cap: After England finds a lead, America encounters what seems to be a young Canada. Meanwhile, an American sailor runs aground in a mysterious port city.
A/Ns: Finally, an update! Man, these sure take time to write. For reason, the chapters I am most excited and eager to write take the longest to complete.
Special thanks to kaosparrow for beta'ing again! I need to stop proofreading in the middle of the night, I make really odd edits when I do.
Anyways without further ado, read on.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Cutting through the tall wild grass, America ploughed on through the unfamiliar foliage in search of a way to civilization. He paused for a moment to readjust Canada's position on his back. Thin legs were all he could see of his brother nation at the moment, a plain white linen handkerchief bandaged around the swollen left knee.
The little hands holding onto his shoulders clenched briefly as he heard, for the umpteenth time, young Canada's whispery apology.
"Don't sweat it, you're light as a feather," the superpower would always say in reply and the warm body clinging to him from behind would relax a little and press closer, comforted. A light fluffy warmth bubbled in his chest; it was a little surreal though, piggybacking a younger form of his brother around in the wilderness like this.
For the duration of their aimless hike through the woods, few words were exchanged. America's attempts at coaxing a little more response out of his young charge were fruitless. Apart from one-word answers, Canada was tight-lipped, preferring whenever possible to answer with a shake or nod of the head into the shoulder of America's bomber jacket. No doubt this protectiveness was taught to him by their British caretaker. Canada had always been steadfast and obedient to the Brit's teachings for as long as he could remember.
The afternoon sun was beginning its descent, the temperature steadily dropping with it. They had to find Canada's cottage home soon or else they'd need to seek temporary shelter for the night. America felt uneasy about both options, the former for who might be waiting there and the latter for the danger it posed. There was still the issue of getting out of wherever this was and returning to the real world or, if his intuition was correct, the right timeline; whichever was more accurate.
"…I know an Alfred," the soft voice said suddenly next to his ear. "…he's…my brother."
"Is that so?" America chirped merrily, eager for conversation from his little passenger.
"You look…a bit like him."
"Must be a handsome little guy, then."
America waited for more—small talk, anything—but Canada was silent once more; the youth's face buried in the black wool of his jacket's collar. They carried on for a while until either spoke up.
"We were—Al and I were, that is—we were playing hide and seek..." whispered the young nation as though sharing a secret. "Al was 'it' and I was hiding. I'm…I'm very good at hiding."
That explained why he was out so far in the woods. No one could hide like his neighbour could, a statement which was as much praise as it was remark of concern.
"I'm sure you are," America said, minding his footing as they negotiated a particularly slippery tangle of tree roots. "I barely saw you just now, up in that tree."
He felt the grip of the small hands on his shoulders clench again, a habit that he was beginning to identify as young Canada's expression of hesitation and perhaps a hint of guilt. However, America didn't say a word. He knew from experience that the British colony was like Chinese finger traps; the more he tried to pry the words out of him, the tighter the other kept his mouth shut.
"…Al always gets mad when I hide close by, even though…even though he doesn't find me. Most of the time," he added hastily. "When I go farther away to hide, Al never finds me. But…"
"But?"
The grip on his shoulders grew tighter and tighter.
"…can you, …can you keep a secret, mister?"
"You can count on it!"
A long pause and then,
"…sometimes I think…I think that, maybe," the thin airy voice quavered, lowering to a whisper, "that maybe Al doesn't look for me."
The words ran through America like a lance of ice. He forced himself to slow down after the sole of his loafer skidded across the surface of a moss-covered boulder. Canada, meanwhile, stammered on.
"B-because, I mean, maybe that's why he never finds me. Because he i-isn't looking for me…m-maybe he didn't want to find me all along…"
America felt Canada's petit form curl up against his back as much in self-preservation as in self-blame.
He also recognized this reaction of his northern neighbour.
It radiated shame. It broadcasted hurt.
"—may-…maybe…he doesn't want me around…"
America's mind took a while to register those last few words. His mouth opened, then closed, speechless.
Was this what Canada thought of him? That he didn't care?
From his memories of childhood, America recalled nothing that could shed light on this situation. As sibling countries and fellow colonies, they had gotten along quite amicably. Rather, the sharp contrast in their personalities balanced out the negative aspects in each other. It was certainly true that in their earlier days as dominions under the Empire, the British North American colonies were not close. Having been ushered into official nationhood by their respective colonizers, the two of them had been separated for a long time and there were few chances to see each other, especially when England and France were at odds with each other overseas. What had been forgotten from the more innocuous times prior to the European landings had been steadily regained and strengthened in the few years they spent together before the advent of America's fight for independence.
But for their relationship to have been this bad? America just couldn't wrap his mind around it.
"…I-I try not to get in the way, I really do, I know I can't do things as well as Al a-and I'm slow…and I guess I took up a lot of Mr. Eng-…I-I mean, Mr. Kirkland's time when we first started living together…b-but…Al shouldn't be angry with me about that anymore…'cause," the back collar of America's dress shirt grew warm and damp, young Canada's fair hair tickling the nape of his neck, "…Mr. Kirkland…Mr. Kirkland doesn't want me either…"
Without warning, America dropped to a crouch and slid the crying boy off his back. He stood to turn around, kneeling so they were face-to-face. What he saw nearly broke his heart.
Already possessing a small stature, Canada appeared even tinier with his shoulders drawn together and back hunched, creasing his white linen shirt harshly. The back of his hands were wet with tears as the little boy rubbed at his face vigorously. Fat drops of hot tears dripping from the youth's chin fell steadily onto his pale knobbly knees and the makeshift handkerchief bandage had slipped down to hang loosely around the young nation's ankle, exposing the scabbing scrape.
Seeing the miserable sight before him, the initial outrage he felt at young Canada's false accusations melted away. He reached out and tenderly pried the trembling hands apart. Thick tears continued to stream down Canada's plump blotchy cheeks, his red-rimmed eyes squeezed shut.
"Ca-…Matt."
"...I-I'm sorry! …I'm sorry…please d-don't tell them I said that…" hiccups mixed with his words as he choked them out. "I-I didn't…I didn't mean any of that, I just-"
"Matt."
"—'m sorry-"
"Matt, listen to me," America said firmly, brushing the small nation's hair out of his face. He struggled to find convincing, soothing words to help ease his brother's condition without giving too much away. "They need you. Alfred and Mr. Kirkland, both of them need you."
"…they don't need me-"
"Of course they do!" His outburst temporarily derailed Canada's rambling. He continued more tenderly, "You're…you're family, right?"
This was all wrong. Canada hadn't showed any signs of being isolated and unwanted in his recollections. As a colony, America had indeed resented his newly acquired sibling for a time, but as England's visit grew more and more infrequent and he himself had grown more independent, these selfish feelings faded away with his youth. If it hadn't been for Canada's presence in his life, he may have never stopped being entirely dependent on the Brit who had been his sole family member and friend up until then. And even though the North American brothers had lost contact for a period of time after the war of Independence, if it hadn't been for Canada, England would have taken longer to recover emotionally, if at all, from the aftermaths of that battle. They may have seemed insignificant, but the little things added up.
America felt fatigue settle in his shoulders where the anger had drained away. Traces of these negative feelings lingered as he was still offended and hurt that Canada thought so little of himself and of them, that the young colony was so guilt-ridden for being honest about his feelings, and, most of all, that his younger self hadn't paid close enough attention to notice this.
"There's no way they wouldn't need you," America said. "You're a part of them. No one can replace you."
It didn't seem like Canada believed his words, which was understandable since he was technically a stranger, but he seemed to have calmed down a little as the tears seemed to lessen as well.
The superpower carefully wiped away the salty wetness on his younger brother's cheeks. He regretted not having a napkin or a packet of tissues with him as the teardrops continued to roll and his hands, though large in comparison to Canada's round babyish face, were already slick with warm moisture. He wanted to brush the tears away and rid him of this anguish and pain, but like his wet, calloused fingers, his efforts only caused the little nation to wince as they swept over his tender red skin.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
In a daze, America found himself at the edge of a clearing some time later. In it there stood a large one-storey cottage home, cute and quaint as a postcard image. Young Canada, tuckered out from his little episode earlier, was sprawled across his back, asleep from exhaustion.
He approached the building, numb to the sensation of walking, deaf to sounds. The bright moon illuminated his path and strange details about his old home. Next to the kitchen's side door was a closed window; a muddy leather ball squashed the petunias in the garden box affixed just under it. On the thatched roof was a wooden hoop America had once cherished, abandoned. Unravelling one of his arms that had been curved behind his back to support the slumbering boy, he grasped the handle on the heavy wooden door and pushed. It swung open easily.
Shuffling through the kitchen, America navigated through the familiar household. The scent in the air of charcoal and oven-burnt bread wafted around him in a way that suggested, as it always had in his childhood, comfort and innocence. It was odd as no one appeared to be home at the moment considering how late it was. Just where his younger counterpart was, America hadn't the foggiest. He wondered bitterly if his young self had really forgotten about Canada or had given up the search. Considering how long ago this was, he couldn't very well rely on his memory.
Eventually he reached the last room at the end of the main hallway. The door was ajar, revealing a relatively plain space inside that had once been used for storage. It was Canada's old room.
A heavy travelling trunk sat at the foot of the single bed with several old but well-loved dolls and stuffed animals perched on the lid. Toys and schoolwork cluttered the top of a mahogany study desk that took up a large section of the room. A neat stack of paper and exercise booklets laid on the polished wood surface, the top sheet displaying the young nation's efforts in penmanship and English literature. In the corner wedged between the desk and the wall was a roll of forgotten wallpaper. Stacks of storage boxes and other such objects had been shoved into another corner, a white sheet draped over all of it in a feeble attempt to hide their bulk from view.
Sidestepping the hand-woven rug, America walked up to the child-sized bed and tucked the sleeping Canada in. The little boy shifted and whimpered in his sleep, a fistful of America's dress shirt grasped tightly in his small hand. Prying his fingers off with care, the superpower straightened up and observed the dozing figure with a troubled expression.
Tiny little Canada looked so peaceful and without worries asleep in his bed, yet was utterly out of place surrounded by furnishings obviously designed for adults. The patchwork quilt pulled up to his chin was so thick, so heavy, that the rise and fall of the little boy's chest accompanying each shallow breath were rendered indistinguishable. It seemed to confine him, suppressing him.
Everything was wrong, so wrong.
Yet it didn't actually matter. America couldn't bring the young boy Canada was currently with him but at the very least he had fulfilled his promise. He brought Canada home.
Home.
He almost laughed.
Slowly but surely America managed to pull away, to turn his back on his brother for whom he had searched so fervently, and strode out into the hallway. The house felt muggy instead of warm and inviting as he had remembered it; the dense atmosphere clung with a deceptive allure to his form as he rushed blindly out the open kitchen door. He had to get away; he had to get out of there.
Cool evening air prickled his skin as America plodded down the hard dirt path leading back to the expanse of the forest. His shoulders felt heavier without the reassuring weight of the little nation clinging to them. Although the hole inside him had been filled the moment he had arrived here and Canada had come back into his life, America was fully aware, now more than ever, of the inadequate stitching of the seams that held the missing piece in place.
Ahead of him, shrouded under the boughs of evergreens, England looked out at him with an age-weary expression and stepped back to let him into the shadows.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Silver moonshine set the clearing softly aglow, further strengthening the cottage home's fairytale-like image. America knew better though, and despite this knowledge he couldn't tear his eyes away—as though it was a problem he could solve if only he spent enough time on it. He also couldn't bear to look England in the face, not right then.
A hesitant hand touched his shoulder briefly in a gesture of pity, or perhaps sympathy. The implications, however, were clear enough.
"How much did you hear?" America said curtly.
"…not much, it's not exactly polite to eavesdrop," came England's reply. It seemed he picked up that this wasn't what the superpower had wanted to hear as he then added, "…I heard enough."
Nightlife stirred around them, bushes rustled, wings fluttered. The two nation personifications, however, were silent and motionless, both staring out into the clearing and at the quaint dwelling that stood in it.
All America felt was regret and a touch of guilt.
"There was so much that I wanted to say," America said after a while. So much to say, about how much he missed his northern brother, about how much he was needed, about how much pain and hardship the superpower had been through looking for him, "but…he wouldn't have understood."
"No, he wouldn't."
Behind him, he heard the Brit shuffle his feet in the damp grass.
"Where are we? Did we go back in time or something?" America asked. A third unspoken question rang in the air: If so, what can we do now?
"We're inside the core of the spatial plane. Sorry to disprove your time-travelling theory, however, I can confidently say we did not experience any shift in time frame, a key factor is the lack of physical displacement-, er, well, just trust me on this one."
"Yeah. Sure." Obviously, England heard the lack of humour in his tone because he carried on with his explanation in a more sombre fashion.
"From my observations, I would say this is a recreation of Canada's memories. True memories cannot be altered and thus cannot be interacted with. The surroundings are adapting and changing to accommodate what Canada remembers. And judging from…your exchange with him, while these recollections are being recreated his memories of his 'future' are erased, or at the very least repressed."
"Why?" Desperately, America fought to transform the dreadful feeling in the pit of stomach into strength to drive him onward past this unexpected experience. It was getting harder and harder to do so, what with all the dead ends and disappointments he'd experienced thus far. He turned around to take in the Brit's explanation with his full attention. He must succeed; he couldn't give up after coming so far.
"Other than it being a condition for an optimal memory recreation, I have a theory which can be easily tested if we could secure a method to quicken the process or to skip ahead in the recreation, I suspect that They've placed Canada in a loop-"
Creeeak, click.
The two of them froze stock-still as the sound reached their ears.
America scoured their surroundings with a nervous eye for the source. He recognized the noise, and it seemed England did too, so if they were not mistaken—
A footstep, then the faint outline of a man materialized behind England.
"Don't move," dictated the man, the pitch of his voice low but immediately identifiable. Another step forward and the stranger was visible under the moonlight.
America watched the surreal scene unfold before him as a gruff England in eighteenth-century garb raised a full-cocked flintlock musket and pointed the muzzle at the back of his twenty-first century counterpart. The man's narrowed eyes kept a close watch over America's movements.
"You sirs are trespassing. What business do you have here?" His tone indicated that he had already had a good idea of what two strangers whispering in the dark outside an apparently empty house intended to do.
"…none. We were lost and came upon this cottage," America said carefully, crafting his excuse with ease. The years of exposure to Improv seemed to be paying off. "There wasn't anyone home so we decided to wait for the owner to return."
"I see…"
The musket's aim remained steady.
"You," the man butted the back of England's head with the tip of the musket barrel, "turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."
Raising both hands to demonstrate his innocence, England flashed America a panicked glance as he revolved gradually on the spot. Allowing the two of them see each other face to face was clearly a bad idea.
Without another thought, America lunged to the left, drawing the other England's attention and fire.
This was going to hurt like a bitch, America thought.
Just then a small distraction burst through the thick undergrowth.
Dirt-smeared and covered in scratches, young colonial America stumbled into the crossfire. In the nick of time, the North America nation managed to throw himself to the side, avoiding a collision with the little boy.
"Ca—…wha…who're you…?" child America choked out in surprise, his pre-pubescent voice a touch hoarse, wide eyes glistening. Even in the dim light, America could see the tear tracks on his younger self's face, mixed with earth where the boy had tried to scrub them away with muddy hands.
"Alfred, go inside. Now!" barked the gun-toting England who had managed to hold back from pulling the trigger at the last moment.
The bewildered child shot America an inquisitive glance then dashed off towards the house as according to his guardian's orders.
Watching his pre-Independence self disappear through the kitchen door, America felt an enormous surge of relief. Young him had been looking for Canada all long.
This feeling was, however, brief.
"Turn around."
Hearing the no-nonsense tone so low it was almost a growl, America complied having no other viable option. He made to rise to his feet when he was forced back down from a rough jab to his shoulder with the muzzle.
"Did I tell you to stand up? Stay down."
Awkwardly America managed to turn to face the musket-wielding man without getting up, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyebrows furled. Something was wrong with this picture.
There was only one England.
"I do not know what trick your friend did there but I will not make the same mistake twice."
The remaining England loomed overhead, focusing his primed weapon between his captive's eyes.
Staring up the barrel, a dozen thoughts crossed America's mind, none comprehensible as he saw the finger reach for the trigger.
Sparks flew. America's mind went blank in one final desperate measure to somehow survive on pure instinct.
The world around him seized up in a tornado of light and colour.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
England woke with a start, a thin layer of cold sweat coating every inch of his skin. The erratic heaving of his chest slowed as his body calmed down from the aftermaths of the intense dream.
It was a dream, wasn't it?
Pushing himself to sitting position, the Brit pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to recall his dream through the blooming hangover that was making itself known to him. Bits and pieces came back in short vivid segments that were sadly insufficient in rebuilding the entire story. America was in it at some point; England was somewhat confident about this slightly troubling detail. There was always trouble when his former colony was involved.
He winced at the cracks and creaks produced by his body as he stretched leisurely. Swinging his feet off the bed, he located his bedroom slippers and, without another thought, shuffled off to the adjoined bathroom for a quick shower.
As the water beat down rhythmically on the tense muscles of his back, England contemplated the fragments of his dream. Regaining complete recollection of it felt imperative to him, though the reason behind it eluded him. Whatever it was, a sense of urgency was laced throughout the whole experience.
The brass knob squeaked to a close. He drew the heavy shower curtain aside and seized a bath towel from the aged silver towel bar. The cold water seemed to have eased his headache a little, his thoughts becoming somewhat clearer and less painful.
A white area, a forest at night, America, a young…boy? A familiar young boy at that.
He shook his head and promptly regretted the action. Still, there was something important he was forgetting.
Massaging his forehead with one hand and straightening the stiff collar of his fresh button-down shirt with the other, England glanced towards the patterned glass window. The warm golden glow of the gauzy white linen indicated that he had slept well into the afternoon. He really had to find a better stress relief method that didn't consume so much of his time and intelligence.
Right, the dream. What had happened? Was there an important message?
Threading his belt into his grey trousers, England entertained the idea of retrieving his tome on dream interpretation from the workshop in the cellar. While it wasn't his area of expertise or interest, the Brit did know a thing or two about symbolic dreams. Perhaps the contents had been prophetic in nature; however, foresight was a tricky business that even he as an avid believer and practitioner of mystical arts tended to disregard as a viable magical practice.
Remembering vaguely that he had placed his mobile on the side table before passing out, he returned the bedroom to retrieve it. Sure enough, his cellular phone was there next to his day planner under what appeared to be a cluster of dust bunnies.
Feathers, he discovered upon closer inspection, soft tawny-olive feathers. His eyes caught sight of the small dream catcher hanging from his lamp. The old twine binding the wood into a circular frame had snapped, unravelling enough for the handcraft to become deformed. Like a collapsed spider web, the string webbing hung loose and tangled beyond repair.
Since when had he placed this trinket here—
Ding-dong went the doorbell.
Rushing downstairs, England prayed desperately he hadn't forgotten and slept through some pivotal social event or important meeting. Raking his fingers through his slightly damp hair to make it presentable, he opened the door to reveal an anxious Japan on his doorstep.
"Japan? What are you doing here?" If he remembered correctly, the meeting between their respective government officials was scheduled for tomorrow.
"I apologize for coming here unannounced, Mr. England, but once I saw the news I thought it would be best to contact everyone. Mr. Germany and Italy however haven't been responding to my messages…," the Asian man trailed off in dismay. Something serious must have occurred for Japan to allow his distress to show through his usual imperturbable demeanor.
"News? What news?"
Japan looked up in surprise.
"Have you not seen the news yet, Mr. England?"
"No, not yet, I've been a little preoccupied…, what happened?"
"I believe it would be best if you saw for yourself, it is quite unbelievable," Japan said simply, unfolding a copy of the Times he was carrying tucked under his arm. He held up the newspaper so England could read the headlines.
"What…what is this…?" said England, taking the paper from the other's hands and rereading the front page headlines.
"Many television channel and news websites have an ongoing feed following this story, I've been trying to keep up to date myself," explained Japan with a grim smile. "The situation in America hasn't improved but there has been talk on the internet about mobilization of the army."
This was too ridiculous to be real. England raised his eyes to look at Japan, hoping he'd tell him this was all a joke. Glancing back down at the headlines and still being unable to fully accept it, the Brit turned on his heels and raced to the sitting room.
By the time he turned the old television set on, Japan had joined him on his two-seater. Every channel he flipped to, a frantic newscaster covered the same story; dozens of incredible yet incredulous images flashed across the screen.
One image in particular caught his attention: Rainbow Bridge.
Then suddenly, he remembered.
He remembered about the dream, the drunken night in the attic, the attic ghost—
Slowly he fell back against the two-seater, one hand pressed to his brow. The fading pain in his temple from his little one-man party the previous night came back with alarming intensity as the memories piled up on top of each other. All England could do was shake his head, eyes clenched shut against the onslaught of centuries of missing memories and experiences.
"Dear lord," he croaked, "what on earth is happening to us?"
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Barely any time passed before the world solidified and America was deposited into a crowded city street. Conscious of the suspicious stares he was attracting, he pushed off from ground which had transformed beneath his very fingertips from firm dirt to dusty cobblestone. It was daytime; late afternoon to be more precise, as the sun was already dying the heavens in warm evening hues.
He hurried along without destination to get out of the spotlight and blend into the moving throng of people. As he made his way down the street, America contemplated his next move.
Something had happened to the real England back there. Whatever that was, one thing was clear to the superpower; he was on his own now, and if the European nation didn't show up again, the rest would be up to him.
America tried to recall England's last words prior to his untimely departure.
Memory recreation, a loop…
Before he could even question the possible meaning behind it, America found himself only a few feet away from himself.
Young memory America whose appearance was closer to Independence age stared back with a mixture of stupefaction and recognition, his eyes clear and bright in the absence of his glasses—Texas. The newspaper in the teen's hands slid out of his loose grasp and fluttered to the ground.
This would not end well, the superpower was sure.
Meanwhile, the surroundings began to blur, dissolving into thick coloured mist.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
England watched the same interview for the umpteenth time that day, a heavy crease forming between his knitted eyebrows. All he could hear of Japan was the soft tapping of the keyboard next to him, his eyes never leaving the luminous screen.
"—honest to god, I was just as shocked as any of you," rambled an elderly fisherman, reproachful of how eager the microphones were pressed towards him. "We were heading on home and I thought it would be a good idea to cut through the clouded zone to save on time and fuel when all of a sudden the boat ran aground—"
He hit the channel button on the remote control.
Click.
"—emergency meeting at the United States Capitol several hours ago. General opinion in the local press suggests that mobilizing the army remains highly probable with the Navy already—"
Click.
"—nation-wide hallucinogen. It's a laughable explanation at best, Karen. The satellite images do not lie, millions of people all around the world who have their eyes on us right now, through the news and the internet, seeing the same evidence we are seeing, can't all be fooled—"
Click.
"—police. As you can see behind me, the situation is starting to escalate. Some protesters have already been subdued with pepper spray after repeated warnings to stay away from the barricades. Already understaffed—"
Click. Click. A relatively tame news channel came on, the sound muted for the benefit of his poor abused ears. The quality on those live on-site video streams was horrendous and everyone seemed to have forgotten what volume control was in the midst of all the chaos.
"Anything new, Japan?" England asked, exhausted physically and mentally. He tried to relax without much success, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the pain between his eyes from staring at the screen for so long.
"Nothing the news hasn't already covered," replied the Asian man, one hand on the laptop's touchpad and the other holding onto a smartphone which he checked frequently. "Still no word from Mr. Germany."
With a deep exhale England turned back to the T.V. set and watched a time-lapse series of satellite images appear on screen of the North-Western Hemisphere. The new addition, a familiar and recognizable shape, reflected in England's troubled green eyes.
A crimson news ticker at the bottom of screen read: Clouds Clear to Reveal Unknown Landmass in the Arctic Quadrangle Immediately North of the United States.
Underneath a thinner ticker streamed smaller stories, all seeking the identity of the mysterious landmass. Unbeknownst to them, England, drained and sick of all the unnecessary drama, answered that very question in an exasperated sigh heard only by the man himself.
"Canada…"
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
A/Ns: As many reviewers have guessed, yes, the port the sailor ran his ship into last chapter was indeed part of Canada. The details will be discussed in a later chapter.
I hope that the flow of the chapter worked out. There was a lot more action this time around and I find pacing is very important to write it effectively. Any and all advice on ways to improve it is welcome and encouraged. It's still not something I'm comfortable with and since there will be more action in later chapters as well, I hope I can improve on writing action sequences before then.
Also, I noticed ffnet's layout update and the addition of book covers…I'm a little curious to see how that will turn out (I might even find some time to draw up one by the next update but who knows).
Foot notes:
Arctic Quadrangle — The Arctic Quadrangle referred to in this fic is this universe's name for the area Canada should've occupied, drawn from the Bermuda Triangle. From what I know, this term has been used in real life for other things (such as a geological region in Alaska), just note that the use of it here doesn't refer to those.
Thank you for reading! Feel free to drop me reviews with comments or questions, I enjoy them very much. Until next time!