The room, if not for the hundreds of buttons flashing in an array of various patterns, would be completely dark, with no windows, no cracks to welcome the light of day (was it day?). Even if there were windows or cracks, they would be of little use; they are several miles beneath the surface of the Earth, the mass of tons of soil and rocks, grass and trees, people and cities, resting above them, however silent.

Yes, the soil and rocks do not turn and smear beneath footsteps, the grass and trees do not blow in the wind- they wait with baited breath under a sky that does not dare to look below the clouds- and the people of the cities and suburbs and farms- how they have trusted and worked, but now they huddle and cry with little hope.

The world is suspended between night and day, dark and light, death and life, for their fate does not lie with them, not like man hopes it does. Instead, their fate rests in two steel keys. Both have similar, intricate ridges and markings, like the true asymmetry of faces and the real chaos of civilization.

There is nothing special about these keys. They are both metallic and clean, attached to a long chain and only now touching air for the first time, away from the bolted suitcases they once called home for nearly a century. But what is really the striking difference between these two keys is not in their purpose (for they are the same), or their structure (also, identical), but in the reflection that looks back at itself in the glossy metal.

"I don't want to do this, Russia," America does not draw his eyes away from his key, cannot look the only other man in the room in the face.

Russia is scrutinizing America's every move, he can feel it, his key lying weightless in his large palm, his face lax and unfeeling. America knows that if he dares bring his gaze up, away from his own distraught expression in the key, he won't be able to do it. Perhaps the mere thought of the man standing before him, who loomed several inches over him in stature, might stir uncontainable rage and fist-clenching fury, but beneath his gaze, he can not willingly do what was expected of him.

"Neither do I."

America scoffs uneasily as his reflection wavers in his trembling hand, "You're not the one put up to this task, commie." He tries to laugh a little, but it comes out as a choking sound, "Why'd they give you the other key, anyway? It's not like we're actually going to need you as a back up."

"No, not backup," Russia's voice is soft, unnervingly calm, "I will not be putting this key in the slot in this room."

America finds himself standing before the panel, a perfect match for the key that is now smeared with his own sweat. The pale blue light of the slot blinks before him, casting color on his pale face, deepening the dark crevices with shadows.

"What for, then?" America manages to find his voice, but he is not looking for an answer that he already knows.

He jumps a little when he hears Russia's voice just behind his right ear, "I am here so that I do not interfere, America. Isn't that odd?"

It is odd, but he knows that Russia has yet to tell him why, so clearly, it must be far less strange than he anticipates. Here he is, with the key to the end of the world, and yet the man- the nation- he is ending stands beside him with an identical key.

Though they are the only ones in the room, probably the only ones on the planet who are talking, Russia still finds reason to whisper in a way that is both cheerful and apathetic at the same time, "It's because they don't want me to save anyone. Isn't that nice of your boss?"

Suddenly, America's throat is very dry, and he can only croak out a brief protest, "Russia, that's not my fault-"

"I know it's not," Russia puts his hand on America's shoulder, and the latter freezes in place, as if he is being touched by ice, "I am here with the man with the key, and yet it is more of a threat to remain in my homeland and possibly save a child or extinguish a fire. The irony is within you, America- you're the land of the too-free and the home of the too-brave."

Swallowing thickly, America steps away from Russia's grasp, "We might not be doing the right thing, but at least we're doing something," He finally gathers up the courage, and meets Russia's gaze. The expression is unreadable, no matter if they are in the dark or the light. There is nothing to see on Russia's face, for it is a blank pallet of human features, giving away not a single emotion.

"Must something be done?" Russia asks, tilting his head back slightly.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Why?" Now it's Russia's turn to face away from him. He folds his arms behind his back, making him somehow appear taller than he already is. America feels like he's shrinking every second. He blinks, hoping that when he opens his eyes, he'll be a speck on the ground, and he won't have this responsibility. Why does he have this responsibility?

Russia continues, "Is the situation really far too tense to continue to appease me? I'm not the one who is conquering, and it's not my people, either. Are they the ones who really must suffer?"

America looks at his feet, mumbling the words he's been told for months, "It's the only way."

At this, Russia laughs. At first, it's a chuckle between breaths, but soon his voice, deep and sing-song in nature, rings through the room, howling, barks of a rampant animal. His laughter brings Russia to bend over in absolute manic hilarity, and America cannot tell if Russia is facetious in his mockery or genuinely amused.

"Only way, America?" Turning on his heel sharply, Russia sneers, "Sending nuclear missiles from the comfort of your mountainous bunkers is the only way?"

Again, America finds no ability to speak, for his throat is pin-hole tight and his face burns. Once again, among his history of affluence and eloquence, he has said the wrong thing- America always says the wrong thing.

At his full height, with his long coat sweeping the floor around his feet, Russia is a beast to be feared in his might. Though his facial features are soft and round, they are ghosted by scars and shadows that America can see in meticulous detail as Russia leans closer towards him.

A noise emits from Russia's throat; maybe it's a laugh of insanity, a chide to himself, or perhaps a growl in the basin of his lungs out of pure hatred for the other nation that has been his rival for supremacy. A gentle smile that resembles something only reserved for family creeps over his lips, "America," he says, "I do not think you truly understand why I am here."

America stares at him blankly, all color having now left his face. This situation with keys beneath Colorado and flashing lights and bated breaths has been promised to him since tensions began to tighten on the rope to war, should the need arise. Now that he's here, with the man he's supposed to be destroying, America isn't so sure that he has the aptitude for this. But Russia is a threat, he knows that, he's been told it since this whole mess started. His boss is hungry for power and lands that have long since achieved sovereignty, and dammit!- they don't live in a world like that anymore. Imperialism and destruction are no longer acceptable, yet Russia is promising just those things.

"No, Russia," America swallows thickly, dares to meet the enemy's eyes, "I guess I don't know why you're here."

"See how easy that was?" Russia claps his hands in joy, and the sound reverberates around the tiny room, "It's nice to know you, too, can be honest at times."

America winces as he continues, "I am here under quite a pretense, and it seems that your people and you, Alfred, yourself, have been fed a lie. No one kidnapped me, no one is forcing me to be the second key in affirmation of my own death- though you do seem to be fond of irony, don't you? No," Russia closes his fist around the key, holds it to his chest and sighs warmly, "Tell me, America, are you familiar with the term Mutually Assured Destruction?"

"Oh, my God," he responds, his voice weak as his head throbs suddenly with clarity, "Oh, my God, holy Hell-" He puts his hands on his head in panic, not caring that Russia is standing before him, watching shamelessly.

"Yes, America. This key is in no way affiliated to your nuclear systems. They are of my own." He spins the key around on its chain, smiling as he watches it make wide circles, "Clever, no?"

"But how does that make any difference?" America shouts, returning to his senses. Surely without a slot to put the key in, it made no difference that he had a key to his own weapons, despite the promise of instant retaliation.

Russia opens his coat and reveals a small plastic cube attached to his suit pocket- virtually undetectable beneath the thick wool trench coat he always donned. He traces a finger around the box, smiling to himself, then dances the key around his finger.

"Don't you dare put that in," America warns, his voice wavering dangerously.

"Or what?" Russia rolls his eyes, his voice rather forceful now, far from its formerly light tone, "Even if you do manage to rip it from me with your pathetically weak frame, I can assure you that I'm not the only one with a key."

"That's cheating!" America screams, his voice rising in hysteria, "You know only we are supposed to have the keys! You can't give them to your bosses!" Sweat has begun to form on his forehead, rolling down his cheeks in the hot and sweaty room. He can feel his chest heaving with painful breaths, caging for function like a car's failing engine.

A scoff leaves Russia's lips, "You speak as if you follow all the rules, friend, but truly- since when are politics fair? A million alliances, treaties, and pacts have been broken throughout history, but it seems you are far too young to know that life itself cheats you. Life is a dirty dealer, America, and when he gives you the wrong cards, you must play equally dishonorably." He pauses briefly and opens his palm to look at the key, "You're about to end the world, or at least give it the means to end, and yet you care that I have bent the rules. This is still my key, mind you."

Suddenly light-headed, with an empty, yet lead-heavy feeling in his gut, America swallows and sighs, feeling once more like a child. England treats him like this, as if he were still young and naive (which he supposes he is, now), and so he turns away from Russia. "If I don't use my key- that is, if I don't fire the missiles- will you not fire yours?" It's a shot in the dark, literally, and Russia's mouth opens as if he is about to speak, but he remains silent.

"Will you, or will you not?!" America seethes. His teeth are clenched and his jaw aches, his heart and head pounding with anger and panic blooming like flowers.

"Does it matter?" Russia muses. He's not talking to America, he's speaking to an audience, to himself, "If you don't now, then you will fire them later, or my boss will; America, there is no such thing as brinksmanship, for every day since you dropped those spheres of death upon Japan, you have stepped closer to this day. There is no brink of war, there are only the events leading up to war, and then war."

America winces at the sound of Japan, for the scars are still white lines on his pale back.

Russia continues softly, his voice giving no hint at to what he is feeling, "The day you coined 'Mutually Assured Destruction', you have assured that you will destroy me, and I will destroy you."

He grins eerily, and America feels his body go cold.

"It's inevitable."

For a while, they are silent, the sound of nothing ringing in his ears. America cannot hear his own heartbeat or breath, nor can he hear that of Russia's. The tiny box strapped to Russia's chest is glowing with the outline of a pulsing red light. The slot is illuminated with the same light, carved into the shape of the key that invites it in. He should have known that the Russians would think of something like this, cheating their way to the top; at least America has treated his people right, making them the land and politics and economy, not some tyrant at the top.

"Really, America, you couldn't have thought that I would submit so easily? Think of it as revenge," He promenades the small perimeter of the room, "Revenge for the way you humiliated and beat me down, and turned the world against me."

"You deserved it."

"Did I? Did you ever stop to learn what communism really is? Your people seem to be particularly fond of it, romanticized it."

America scoffs, clenching his fists at his sides until his knuckles turn white, "Fond, in theory. But they know it doesn't work, and they write about it and hypothesize about it all they want, but in the end, they're glad to come home to a place where they have the chance to work hard and achieve, and that's where we differ, Russia: you've never allowed your people to dream, and in America, we are literally founded on the notion that you can be whoever you want to." His throat feels dry as his voice rises, "I was born the American Dream."

"But nonetheless, the underlying theme in communism is true equality. You Americans have warped the definition into something unrecognizable, where it's only equality if you play by the rules, the rules that the fortunate make. One could argue, however, that I am no better, and while that's probably true, at least I can admit it: my children no longer grow up blind to the rest of the world. I could discuss the implications and philosophies of equality here with you for hours, but the real point here is…" Russia spins the key once more, then grips the metal handle tightly. "We will destroy each other with equal fervor."

Fuming, seeing the dark room in a million shades of red, America clenches his key and leaps at his own slot, jams in the key, and turns it so hard that the metal nearly bends. Simultaneously, Russia slides the key into the box on his chest and rotates it easily, and as their keys have done their jobs, they turn to each other and stare for the longest minute in human history, America's ears burning with the roaring sound of silence.

To break the silence, Russia begins clapping. At first, America thinks it's an alarm, but one look at Russia's face and he knows his enemy is applauding him wildly, the kind of applause that dictates encore! and bravo!.

America swallows harshly, "What are you clapping for? We've just destroyed the world."

Russia smirks and rips the box off his chest and whips it at the ground with so much force that the metal breaks into multiple shards. America recoils, taken back by the loud noise.

"Oh, America, I'm so very pleased that you are just as much of a child as when I first met you," Russia taunts, "Just as paranoid and confused as you were during the Cold War- I'm astonished, really."

Glancing down at the broken box and key, then at his own in the control panel that's whirring with life, America knows what he's done before Russia explains.

Russia leans in towards America's ear, whispers very softly even though no sound will ever escape this room: "My box was a fake- the key had no effect."

America whimpers, the implications pouring on him like a waterfall.

"Congratulations: The United States of America has launched unwarranted missiles at the Russian Federation, just as you planned."

America falls to his knees in defeat, Russia seeming taller than ever before. The turn of the key will create a world that will never be the same, it will cause a ricochet of events and warp history forever, but all was going according to plan- at least, as he had initially been ordered.

And so likewise, it was inevitable.

A/N: I'd say this takes place a hundred years in the future or so. Please let me know if all the details made sense to you. Thank you for reading.