CHAPTER ONE – On the other side of the world

April, 2232

The trees were starting to fall. First they dried up, from the top branches spreading down to the roots, then they went hollow as their insides rotted, and finally they creaked and toppled. Into streets, into back gardens, into lakes. It occurred every few years, while new trees would attempt to grow and thrive, only to fail in the cruel, dry London air.

The sight was depressing, an ugly reminder of the outside world, a sign to stay at home and try to forget one's troubles. Unfortunately, some people had a duty to uphold.

It's only one day of the year, England told himself, one sodding day when I have to go outside and meet people. In short, one World Meeting every year.

The streets were in disarray. Some cars had been turned over, the cobbles around them glittering with broken glass. He heard a soft squelching underfoot, and looked down in disgust: a patch of blood sat congealing on the pavement, not washed into the drain. England looked up at the sky, squinting at the painful sunlight glare. It was bright, dry, but bitingly cold, with a searing and ceaseless wind. Never thought I'd wish for rain. It was five in the morning; any leftovers from the fighting last night had yet to be tidied up.

There was a time when England might have taken a certain wistful pleasure out of walking the streets of London before the city was awake, but that time was past. Right now all England was thinking, as he made his way to the port was why does it have to be in bloody Australia?

England's personal hovercraft was waiting for him. It was a modest thing, cramped, unfashionable and uncomfortable, but at least it was something. The journey would be long and boring, and it was too early for any of the newsagents to be open yet, so no Sudoku either. England sighed and wished for the day to be over as quickly as possible.

Ah well, he thought, ever the optimist, at least the climate's nice.

Australia and New Zealand were both lucky, as far as he was concerned. The worldwide Depression was doing no nations any favours, and they were no exception, but still… They didn't have to work until they were numb just to keep every mouth fed. They didn't walk through riot-wracked streets every other week. Even global warming had been kind to them. As far as England could see, all it had done was make a lovely climate, well, lovelier. He thought of the creaking of falling trees in his own country and gritted his teeth.

It was because they lived so far away, blissfully untouched by conflict. Loneliness has its perks.

England stepped out of the hovercraft, and was greeted by a face full of enthusiasm so bright and a smile so wide he was taken aback.

"England! So glad you could make it, mate!" England smiled weakly in response, and shook Australia's hand.

"Good to see you well, Australia."

Australia laughed, and patted England on the back, asked him how he was, suggested a game of cricket some time. Then she directed England to the building only seven meters away, where the meeting was being held. The corridors were grey-carpeted, peppered with direction-signs for the meeting and the murmur of quiet discussion from other rooms. The situation was unexciting, boring, and normal. For a moment, England forgot his problems and smiled. There was still some sanity left in the world.

There were already some nations inside. France sat near the head of the table, Baltica and Poland were conversing a little, and Japan sat beside them, quiet and ruminating. England tensed up instinctively, before slumping into the chair next to France, who raised heavy-lidded eyes to him.

"Angleterre... How are you, my friend?" The utterly familiar voice set England's mind at ease a little. This was a man he could properly talk to. Whether it was discussing immigration or fighting over territory, there always seemed to be common ground between them.

England gave a small grimace. "Better than most, economically. At least that's what I'm telling myself. You?"

France let out a huff. "Swimming in debt. And I spent all last week reading transcripts for the rioters' cases." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "After the seventieth, the words on the pages stopped making sense." England gave an appropriately sympathetic laugh, and then caught himself.

Try. Make it how it used to be. You know what to do.

"In debt and illiterate. Anything new to report, France?"

"You. How dare you! It's too early in the morning for this kind of disrespect!"

All it had taken was a little insult. A glint had appeared in France's eye, and his posture became more confident.

England leaned back in his chair a little, relaxed and somewhat pleased with his ability to lift the mood. "A riot happened last night, at my place. The air stank of blood this morning. Not one person awake in London. Not the first time it's happened. I'm not even sure I care anymore."

France smiled lightly. He no longer kept himself the way he used to, England noticed. Maybe it was due to the jetlag, but France hadn't bothered to make himself up or do his hair that day. There were bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. "That's a fine attitude. We should take our imminent deaths with dignity, right?" England winced, but the comment held no threat. It was a fact. They were fading, slowly and painlessly, but fading nonetheless. The way England saw it, the best they could do was stay as true to themselves as possible. He would always be the pessimistic and cynical one. France would always be the more light-hearted and soft-hearted one. How else could they go on?

England nodded. "We've been here a while," he admitted. "At least when our time's up, we will still be ourselves. Not horribly changed like… Some others…" Torro. Muscovites. Wei Yao. Panem.

France snorted. "Who says they were horribly changed?" he asked. There it was. France's blasé attitude towards absolutely everything remained intact.

England wanted to get angry with France for it. He wanted to punch him like he would have done a century ago, for hiding from the truth in such ways, for refusing to deal with his feelings. Both of them were only barely able to stand it, perhaps France even less than him, no matter how flippantly they commented on the situation. Had England the energy, he would have taken the initiative to call France out on it, to discuss the problems properly, but he was too tired. Shouting and violence took effort that England could not spare.

"Alright, everybody..." Australia walked into the room, accompanied by Edelheim with Italy. Several other Europeans – Switzerland, Belgium, a couple of Nordics – followed. India was last in, and she took one of the many empty seats reserved for the Asian nations. She explained, quietly, that Pakistan was suffering a plague right now and wouldn't be coming.

No one asked where the others were. Australia began the meeting.

"First, I'd just like to say how wonderful it is to have all… most of us here at my place. We can't solve our economic issues by ourselves, you know. It's only by working together that we can solve the World's Problems."

Good Lord. England covered a snigger with a snort of breath. A few laughs echoed around the room. Edelheim put his head in his hands.

"Ja," he muttered, "That seems like a joke now, doesn't it?" It did, particularly with the way Australia said it, like there was a virtual trademark sign at the end of it.

Australia looked around indignantly for a moment, before speaking again. "Well, since I actually don't have much to complain about... Is there anything anyone has to say?"

Everyone had something to say. Everyone had problems that they wished to share with everybody, be it economy, the environment, or just about any other nation who was annoying them slightly.

"You've all borrowed some amount from me lately, and none of you have paid me back. I'm going to ask politely one more time that those who owe me pay up. I have barely enough to feed myself."

"That's total bull. None of you know real hunger! None of you!"

"Baltica keeps looking at me funny. He's plotting something, I know he is."

When had a World Meeting ended in any other way? The arguments were as archaic as the land itself, and in times as troubled as the twenty third century, they felt more like sources of comfort than real issues. Starvation and global warming were terrifying, unbearable, so to complain about such things with the same levity that one might complain about an untidy neighbourhood felt like a release of tension. The illusion of relaxation became so strong that a few would forget where they were.

"And I tell you, Spain should be a part of the G8!"

"The G8 doesn't exist anymore, France. And neither does Spain."

"Oh. Of course."

Some time into the discussion, Japan raised his head. He kept his mouth shut during impolite argument, and would open it at just the right moment, to stir up whatever emotion he felt. Manipulation was his tool. Not, thought England smugly, that he had ever been susceptible to it. He eyed Japan curiously. What controversial statement would come out of his mouth today?

"I thought it would be important to note," he said, quietly, his dark eyes meeting England's, "That Panem is having the same amount, if not more troubles that we are having right now. He is currently dealing with an uprising."

Oh, damn. Of all the bloody things to say..!

At the mention of Panem, the room fell silent and the illusion shattered. It was only Poland who eventually spoke in response.

"Oh, really? Well, that's hardly surprising, I mean, I would definitely rebel if all my kids were being forced to kill each other."

Baltica and some other European nations tittered at that. England looked down at his lap, refusing to meet anyone's eye. Fucking Japan. He dearly hoped that the next argument did not feature Panem as the subject. However, Poland did not seem finished.

"But really, Panem is not the big problem. I have been trying to say this for a while now." Poland's half lidded green eyes became wide and excited. "My boss was hanging around that huge wide space where the Muscovites lives and he heard some pretty interesting stuff to do with them."

They just had to start talking about the wayward nations, didn't they? As if England's day wasn't depressing enough.

"He said that Muscovites is forming armies. He said that he's planning to become a super-power again." Poland sat back in his chair. "Cool or what?" Forget France's nonchalance. Poland could watch the world burn to a crisp, whistle and compare it to a scene in a video game.

There was a long silence. Eventually Baltica said, in his hybrid accent of Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian – "How – how can you say that? And how come you didn't tell me this before?" Poland raised his arms up in apology.

"I swear, I was going to, but it sort of slipped my mind! And come on, they're all anarchists, it's not as if they'll just attack –"

Knock.

All eyes turned to the door. "Come in?" Australia called uncertainly. The knock hadn't sounded like a human fist, though, it had sounded like metal. Like something metal hitting the wood…

The door creaked open, and England's blood ran cold. A dark figure stood there, hovering in the doorway, with a long iron pipe in one hand. The hair fell in thin, silver tangles, the clothes were tattered, and red scars stood out on the face. He stood with a slump, his free hand leaning against the door for support, and, when he looked up to face them, he beamed benignly.

The Muscovites drifted into the room and surveyed it. The nations, despite themselves, flinched. The observation burst through the rising panic in England's mind: Even when he is reduced to a heap of anarchists, his very being radiates fear and power. Muscovites noticed Australia among everyone who stood – her perfect blush blanched slightly now – and nodded, politely. He recognised his hostess. The room remained completely silent, everyone too shocked even to move their feet, as what used to be the great Soviet Union advanced upon them all. A part of them – a truly wistful part – assured themselves that this was a World Meeting – Muscovites could not harm them here...

"I knew you would be here. I noticed Poland leaving with Baltica, so I figured that the best place for a World Meeting would be here. So calm, so free of damage."

Not a word was uttered in response. England set his jaw and kept his eyes lowered. He would not be frightened by anything or anyone. Muscovites continued.

"I apologise for my lateness. No one bothered to inform me about the meeting. I had remarkable timing though, didn't I?" A small giggle, slightly cracked and frail. Miles away from the menacing chuckles Russia might have used to intimidate his fellow countries at another World Meeting. "I would have preferred you not to hear my little secret from Poland. I was not afraid of being confronted by you about it myself. I don't believe we should be fighting at all, to be honest."

Muscovites' grey and dark hands slowly lifted the faucet in front of him, so that even England and France reeled back in their chairs quite a bit, and Switzerland, perhaps out of pure habit, raised his hands in front of him in defence. "I believe in unity among the nations," Muscovites went on, softly. "So…"

Through the mind-numbing dread, England's thoughts went into contempt. Oh, no, not this cliché. He closed his eyes and relaxed his jaw, braced himself for it –

"Become one, da?"

Several miles away, the last tree in London crashed to the ground. England felt it like a pain in his ribs.