Written on the idea of Gilbert disliking modern warfare (not the game, the concepts) and being poorly adjusted to his current lifestyle.

Narrowed crimson eyes flickered along the shuffling masses, observing mp3 players and cell phones with equal parts distaste and curiosity. All the kids these days were so wrapped up with their technology – it had become an almost rare occurrence to see anyone reading a book anymore. The albino slouched against the back of the park bench. Maybe he was getting old. All he could ever think about was how much better things had been a couple hundred years back.

Well, there were pros and cons, he supposed. The kids were living longer than ever before, though he wasn't thoroughly convinced that the quality of living had improved. Sure, they were cleaner these days, but who cared about a little mud? And the operations were better now, too, he supposed, and if you got a cut, it probably wouldn't kill you with infection anymore. Maybe canned food couldn't kill anyone these days, but it took the thrill out of eating the preserved shit.

Yes, that was it. Modern life lacked the thrill that had been present in his life since his birth. There were no longer real battles – real blood and steel battles – where you cut down the man before your or were cut down yourself. There were no longer rifles, muzzle-loading, breech-loading or otherwise. Such weapons had been phased out in exchange for missiles that could punch holes through the Earth. Gilbert snorted. There was no excitement in that sort of warfare – only anxiety and fear. That wasn't fighting, it was cowardice.

As he shifted on the hard, wooden bench, the former nation flexed his pale hands emptily, wishing for a brawl. He was sick to death of diplomacy, of the dodging and sugar-coating. Give him a battle any day: he'd bite and claw his way to the top. He'd die by the blade before he'd die of some damn "WMD" launched from the safety of another continent. Even if he had to eat the stupid thing, he'd destroy it and seek out his attacker armed with fists, feet, and teeth. He'd duel the bastard honorably, positioned so many paces away. Gilbert would lock eyes with his opponent and either watch as the other's eyes glazed in death or die himself. That was how he fought. The right way.

The cell phone in his pocket buzzed, drawing his attention to it. He held it in his clenched fist for a long time before flipping it open and reading his brother's text.

"dinner"

Ludwig never seemed to expend any unnecessary energy in summoning him home. Gilbert shrugged and slipped the device back into his pocket. He missed the physical emotion of messengers, the tangibility of letters, even the comfortable noise of telephone conversation. Everything now was communicated in cold, computerized font. The world once warmed with blood and human contact had become frigid and impersonal.

Maybe it was just that he was getting old, but all Gilbert ever found himself thinking about was how much better life had been in the past.

So that's it. Just another Surprisingly Eloquent!Prussia story.