Nations have died before. Small nations have died before. So small, not growing, they are forced to dissipate or merge with others. It's inevitable. A funeral, just because, is held. Out of tradition more than interest.

Sealand was rusted, charred, and drenched in the salty ocean. The pleas of the little boy named Peter was mute as the storm roared on. His friends mourned him. His parents, along with the rest of the countries that rested under the Union Jack and Common Wealth, blamed England. They were brothers too.

The funeral was brief, a little thing to laugh about on the news. The humans didn't see Latvia tremble as he held in sobs, his arm weak and unable to stand to attention for long. Russia dismissed him, America invited him out for lunch, and everyone else went on with their lives.

There were many micro-nations and petite countries the world did not know about. They were ignored, the last shred of humanity being not to get to close and get burned – they did not need emotional tragedy to pile up on their work.

America tried his very best to help them, everyone knew. Maybe it was more for the people who wanted to be that big bully at the playground who made kids do it his way – or maybe it was that small, small minority that still wanted to be the virtuous hero portrayed in Marvel comics.

They still died, though. He couldn't give them what they really needed. In the end, they died like the blood sucking leeches they were, cursing the name of the country who was unable to give them the vital resources.

He couldn't recognize them, nor give them land. He could only ship them supplies and pray for the best. Bring your people to my place, he said, being friendly. I promise to take care of them.

He'll get them, at one point, because no other nation will. The coffins will be shipped to rest in American soil while its fatherland drowns.