...Ummm, does anybody even remember this story, haha? I can't believe I didn't get around to updating it AT ALL during 2013! o.O I feel very guilty because I love this story and it's never far from my mind - but making time for it has been such a nightmare...

Anyway, we're here now with the prelude to the final chapter (which I hope to complete... soon). This is a flashback but VERY important so I wanted to give it its own space.

A HUGE thank you to jagaimo-chan, a native German-speaker, for translating the German for me! I didn't want Google Translate nonsense cluttering up my fic so instead you're all in for a treat of fluent, perfect German. :3 (There will be an English translation at the bottom)

Well, it's Mayuge Day in the APH fandom so I thought today was the perfect day to rise from the grave with this story, haha. So let's go!

01000001

"There you are."

America leaned around the doorframe of the huge room, cold and loud with the sound of the machine. England, cross-legged on the concrete floor with a nest of teleprinter paper strewn about him, gave him no acknowledgement. His pale lips moved silently as he ran the reams of punched paper through his fingertips. Every now and then he paused to pick up his pencil and scribble down a figure on the open notepad before him.

"Hello? Arthur?" Alfred stepped into the room, making as much noise as he could with his heavy boots. "Anyone home?"

"Go away, Alfred," England said absently.

"Hey, I looked all over for you!" America pouted. "Don't be like that."

At last England paused, looking up to meet his gaze. His expression was weary.

"I'm clearly in the middle of something." He rubbed at his forehead, muttering to himself for a moment. "Look, you're distracting me. Go away."

America did nothing of the sort, shimmying into the room. He glanced about, popping his bubble gum as his eyes settled on the biggest contender for his attention: Colossus. The super-computer filled half the room, arranged rather like a library with stacks in cream-painted steel, within which were nestled a precise arrangement of wheels and teleprinters and flashing lights. It was loud and alive, spitting out reams of encoded teleprinter paper which coiled obediently at England's side.

It made a little shiver go down America's back to see that England was hooked up to the machine again. They plugged Colossus in along his spine, the crackling wires fanning out behind him like skeletal wings, and ran the decryption process through him. He wasn't the best mathematician in Bletchley Park, hardly in the league of Alan Turing, Bill Tutte and Tommy Flowers, but his brain, being that of a nation, naturally worked differently to that of even the most brilliant human. The boys at Bletchley had figured out early on that their nation could be used as a processor faster than anything they could build.

It made sense, America knew. It didn't make him any happier. It was he who kissed the slow-healing holes along England's spinal cord, he who knew that England wouldn't admit to Turing and Flowers that it hurt.

"Arty," he said softly, crouching in front of him. "Stop for a little while." He reached out and closed his hands around England's, the paper crumpling. "Take a quick break with me, yeah? Just twenty minutes or so-"

"I'm busy." England shook himself free, smoothing out the paper.

"Tea?" America insisted. "It's not like you to refuse."

"I don't need anything." A weary glance. "Alfred, won't you go?"

"Oh." America folded his arms over his knees. "I get it." He watched England's fingertips chasing blindly over the teleprinter paper, drawing out the code. "They've engaged your wartime protocol. That's how you're able to sit here for hours, doing their bidding like a goddamned machine."

"Their bidding?" At last England looked up at him, his thick eyebrows knitted. "You speak as though I have no stake in all this - as though we haven't." He shook his fistful of teleprinter paper at Alfred. "But the fact is that the quicker I can decrypt Tunny, the better the chances our boys have on their raids, the better the chances we have of winning."

"I know that," America argued, "but you're not Bletchley Park all by yourself, Arthur. It's not fair to put so much responsibility solely on your shoulders."

England shook his head, going back to his furious work.

"We're nations," he said. "Our shoulders are more than broad enough."

America exhaled through his nose, pushing up again. He could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with him: in this state there was very little of 'Arthur', England taking up almost every shred of space of that body with its broad-enough shoulders. The same was true enough of any nation locked within their wartime protocol: activated by the blood of a monarch or leader, this was a system which nullified any and all human needs to create an efficent, robot-like super-soldier. It would be hopeless to tempt England with tea when his need for liquid was non-existent.

"I guess I can't even interest you in a smoke, huh?" America knew, of course, what the answer to this would be; he half-heartedly fished out the crumpled packet of Lucky Strikes from the pocket of his bomber jacket.

He held it out hopefully. England looked at it in disinterest.

"Go," he said coldly.

"Fine." America wilted, turning away. "I'll, uh... catch up with you later."

"Yes, do that." England sounded distracted; when America looked back, he could see him bent over his notepad, pencil scrambling over the paper. He had a sudden frantic look in his eyes - as though the information was coming faster than he could keep up with. The muscles in his hand corded with the effort.

"Arty..." Cigarette between his teeth, America paused in the doorway. "You're... okay, aren't you?"

"Never better." A bit of a nosebleed. "I've got something, you see... it's coming terribly quickly, must be urgent..."

"Your nose is bleeding." Alfred frowned, discomfited. "Is that normal?"

"Luftwaffe squadron ZG52, coordinates SW14B." England wasn't listening anymore, instead rattling off his translations as he wrote them down.

America had never heard him do that before.

"Squadron ZG141, coordinates SE22, south over Paris." The tapping of his pencil was like Morse code. "RAF Squadron No. 94, coordinates unknown, defence over Dover. Order: intercept."

"Great," America sighed. "Shall I go tell-?"

"Repeat: intercept." England suddenly sounded strange and wooden. "Intercept." A peculiar pause. "Abfangen. Befehl: Zerstören."

His back against the doorframe, America looked at him; he had the oddest feeling inside him, clammy, heavy, suddenly weighted. He had never known terror quite like it.

"Angriff über den französischen Küstenlinien, Koordinaten SW12, Schwachstelle in der Normandie-Verteidigung." His crisp accent didn't cling to the jaggedness of the words, rattling oddly about them. "Schwadron ZG101 bereithalten zum Einsatz. Vorgesehenes Ziel der RAF: Dresden."

"Arthur, stop it!" America came to him, seizing the hand which bore the pencil. "Are you listening?!" He shook him. "Why are you speaking German?!"

"Verteidigt Dresden um jeden Preis." England looked at him blankly, limp in his grasp. "Diese britischen Bastarde haben uns Coventry nie verziehen."

"What are you saying?" America demanded. "I know you're talking about yourself!"

Nothing. England couldn't hear him, thrust into a sudden semi-conscious state in which his only language seemed to be German, the tongue of their enemy. His nose continued to steadily bleed as he looked dully, unseeingly, at America.

"Arthur!" America gave him another frustrated shake. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Schwadron ZG101, sofort ausschwärmen!" England seemed suddenly panicked, his eyes wild. He trembled under America's touch, going very stiff. "RAF und USAAF in Zangenformation, errechnete Koordinaten zwischen SO26-28. Verstärkung dringend erforderlich! Wiederhole: Sofort ausschwärmen!"

He coughed suddenly, blood bursting from his nose, sliding thickly over his lip as he shuddered; his eyes rolled back in his head as he swayed and slid out of America's grasp, toppling to the concrete. America recoiled, his hands open. He hadn't a clue what the hell he was supposed to do: England was lying in a twisted heap amidst the reels of teleprinter paper, his eyes unseeing, his bloodied lips moving without sound. The wires and cords coiled out over the concrete beneath him, a map to the monstrous machine beyond. Colossus was going crazy, shrill in its demand for attention that England could no longer give.

America looked at Colossus, then at England; and then ran to get help, his heart alight with anger. He wanted England disconnected from that horrible machine this instant.

Tommy Flowers came hurrying from his lunch; and he took a brief look at his nation comatose on the concrete, America flapping helplessly at his side, before agreeing that disconnecting him was the best course of action.

"You've never seen him do this?" America looked at Flowers accusingly.

"This is unusual. Colossus has never had such an effect on him before."

"He was spouting German." America crouched next to him, reaching out to give him a shake. "Arthur?"

Nothing.

"Lift him up," Flowers said briskly.

America did so, taking him under the arms and hefting him to his knees; England slumped lifelessly against his shoulder, blood blotching along his spine where the plugs went in. Flowers twisted them out one by one, tossing them to the floor, and when the last plug came out England gave a sudden gasp at America's shoulder and revived. He clutched at the leather sleeves of America's jacket, panting for breath.

"It's okay, you're alright now." America held him tight, his voice low in his ear. "I've got you."

England nodded. He was shivering uncontrollably.

"Go and clean him up," Flowers said, gathering up the wires; he picked up England's notepad, too, looking at it briefly. "I'll report to Turing."

"Alright," America said coolly. He glanced at England. "Can you stand?"

"I think so." England's voice cracked a little. America held him around the ribcage and helped him push to his feet; he was still shaking and America didn't know if he was cold or not but was quick to shrug off his jacket and drape it over his shoulders, wrapping him in it. England nodded his thanks, clutching at the edges of it.

"I'll leave it to you, then," America said.

"Yes." Flowers held up the notepad. "Arthur, I think Turing should see this."

"Of course he should." England looked at him rather tiredly. "Isn't that the point?"

Flowers frowned.

"You know he doesn't like mistakes."

England turned away again.

"It's not a mistake," he said.

"God," England grumbled, wrapping his hands around his mug of tea, "I need a bloody holiday."

America inhaled on his Lucky Strike, nodding.

"I feel like I haven't slept in ten years," he agreed. "Tell you what: after the war's over we'll get in my car and do Route 66, yeah? Just get out on the open road without a care in the world between us, live on junk in roadside greasy spoons and make love in cold motel beds, a different one each night." He grinned, thinking of the sweat and the dust and the sky. "Sounds like a dream, huh?"

"The American Dream, in fact."

America pulled a face.

"Even so, whatcha think?"

"I'll admit it doesn't sound half-bad." England smirked at him. "It can't be any worse than this."

"Well, gee, that's the spirit." America tilted his head. "You feeling better?"

He enquired after this now that England's wartime protocol had been disengaged; he was eating as though he hadn't in days - which he probably hadn't - and there was still a faint orangeish stain from the blood on his face.

"Much, thank you." A frown. "I really don't know what came over me, my control is usually much better. It's the first time that's ever happened."

"It was really weird to hear you speaking German."

"I can speak German," England reminded him. "I've had plenty of German monarchs."

"Well, yeah, I know that," America said, "but at a time like this-"

"I can't just unlearn it, you know. That would be asking me to forget a part of my history. It's not that simple."

"Of course it isn't." America gave a smoky exhale, looking to the window.

The sun was coasting low along the black horizon, a warm orange dusk settling in over the gravelled woodlands surrounding Bletchley Park. It was like a mouthful of honey, sticky, oppressive; it made him remember that they could make all the plans they wanted but they would never be free. Of course, he was mature enough now to realise that his enemy in 1775 hadn't been the man opposite him at all - but his government, his king, his humans.

"Arthur," he said, resting his chin on his knuckles, "when did you realise you were in love with me?"

England, snapping a biscuit in half, paused, blinking at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said when did you realise you loved me?"

England arched his eyebrows.

"No, you said in love."

"If you heard me, why did you make me repeat it?" America looked moodily at his cigarette.

"Well, I confess I wondered if you would repeat it word-for-word- which you didn't. Curious." England took a bite of his biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. "They're not the same thing - but of course you know that. And you must know too that I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. It's completely unconditional."

"Like a mother's."

"Well, yes." England frowned. "Now being in love is trickier to pinpoint. I suppose I don't know precisely. ...Perhaps the Great War?" He shook his head. "I shouldn't like to put too much of a label on it, really."

"That's okay." America felt a little embarrassed now; England was watching him expectantly. "For, uh... for me it was... um, the Revolution."

England arched his eyebrows.

"Really? That early?"

"Because I saw you," America said. "I saw the war machine underneath - and the war machine saw me as a threat, as a nation."

"I see. You didn't say anything until three years ago."

"I thought you hated me." America tapped off his ash.

"I thought I did, too," England admitted. "But I couldn't shoot you that day, could I? That has to speak for itself, Alfred - because I had wartime protocol engaged. Nothing should have clouded my judgement - especially not you, the way you just stood there, unarmed, as though you'd been expecting it. I should have just pulled the trigger and been done with it." He shrugged, looking at his tea. "...But I couldn't do it."

"Because you loved me."

"Apparently so." England frowned again, looking up at America. "I say, Alfred, what's this about?"

"Ah, nothing really." America took a last inhale on his smoke and stubbed it out. "I was talking to Mr Roosevelt a while back. He asked if nations can feel love. I said I was pretty sure we could, though it might not be the same way that humans feel it. I mean, almost all living creatures can feel love, right? Like a mommy cat will love her kittens, stuff like that. Overall, I said that if he was trying to gauge how human we are, love probably isn't the best indicator. ...How do you even describe love, anyway?"

"Well, quite." A pause. "And why is Mr Roosevelt so interested in that sort of thing?"

"Oh, they've been doing a few tests with me," America said airily. "Just this and that, you know. Stuff to do with... uh, the bomb."

"Ah. Nothing too intrusive, I hope."

America looked at him over his glasses.

"Arty, your guys stick plugs into your spine."

"I know," England said despairingly, "but I'm the only one with the capacity to keep up with Colossus. I can't very well refuse."

"What were you babbling about, anyway? I couldn't understand a word you were saying - well, except RAF and USAAF. You were talking about yourself at some point, too, right?"

"I said the British haven't forgotten Coventry - which we haven't."

"Oh, yeah, that's the city the Germans bombed into a hole in the ground, right?"

"Indeed." England looked distractedly out of the window; at the tall shadows stretching over the driveway. "...I was deciphering an encoded message about the bombing of Dresden."

America's brow scrunched in puzzlement.

"What bombing of Dresden?"

"The one that will take place between the 13th and 15th of February, 1945."

"...It's 1944."

"Yes." England seemed terribly interested in his tea. "It hasn't happened yet."

"Wait." America held up his hands. "Are you seriously telling me... that you saw the future?"

"I didn't see it, I decoded a message about it."

"How could there be a message about it if it hasn't happened yet?!"

"Colossus is a terribly powerful machine," England said absently.

"So powerful it can read the goddamn future?"

"Well, I suppose if you think of time as a permeable system of data, it makes sense that a decryption programme like Colossus would break down the "barrier" of what hasn't happened yet, you see." England looked at him, biting at his bottom lip. "I see it like this: decoding messages requires a decryption of the scrambled letters overlaying the proper text. Once it's decoded, you can read it in perfect German. If you consider the fact that the Dresden bombing hasn't happened yet to be the encryption, if you use Colossus to decode it, then you have access to it. It's simple enough."

"Arthur..." America was grinning at him. "That's incredible."

"Yes, I suppose it is." England straightened suddenly. "That does not leave this room," he added sharply. "Do you hear me, Alfred?"

"Like I'm gonna go blabbing that!" America shook his head. "It's too crazy to believe anyway!"

"But you believe me."

"Of course I do!" America combed his hands through his hair. "Well, damn. You always say don't get on well with new technology and then you figure out how to use Colossus to see the future."

"I didn't figure it out," England said primly. "It just happened. I expect running a super-computer through a nation's brain is extremely dangerous; I shudder to think what else I - or any other nation - could do with it if we really tried."

"Maybe it's not Colossus that's the terribly powerful machine," America mused.

"No," England agreed. "...I rather think it's us."

Colossus was the world's first (semi) programmable, electronic, digital computer, designed and realised by engineer Tommy Flowers in 1943. It was created to help decrypt the encoded teleprinter messages of Nazi Germany, which were encrypted using the LorenzSZ40 (known as Tunny to the British codebreakers, as they had never seen one). The Lorenz was similar to Enigma (cracked by Alan Turing) but more advanced; it used 12 wheels to encode messages and ran through a teleprinter instead of Morse Code. Colossus worked using a method of probability to work out the start position of the wheels; this was possible only because of a mistake made by a German operator, offering Bletchley Park a "key stream" and allowing mathematician Bill Tutte to deduct the physical pattern of the Lorenz (again, no-one in Britain had ever seen this machine before). It's amazing to realise that the world's very first computer was designed based on the understanding of a machine no-one had seen!

Of course, this is the briefest of overviews! If you are interested in the Bletchley Park codebreakers and Colossus, I highly recommend the BBC documentary Codebreakers: Bletchley Park's Lost Heroes (easily found on Youtube - I put a link but FFNet ate it). This is one of the best documentaries I have ever seen; it's partly what inspired Shatter, in fact. The information, narration, experts and even the editing are all top-notch. Definitely worth a watch if you have an hour to kill! :3

The original English text:

"Intercept." A peculiar pause. "Intercept. Order: destroy."

His back against the doorframe, America looked at him; he had the oddest feeling inside him, clammy, heavy, suddenly weighted. He had never known terror quite like it.

"Engage over French coastal lines, coordinates SW12, weakness in Normandy defence." His crisp accent didn't cling to the jaggedness of the words, rattling oddly about them. "ZG101, stand-by for deployment. Suggested RAF target: Dresden."

"Arthur, stop it!" America came to him, seizing the hand which bore the pencil. "Are you listening?!" He shook him. "Why are you speaking German?!"

"Defend Dresden at all costs." England looked at him blankly, limp in his grasp. "Those British bastards haven't forgiven us for Coventry."

"What are you saying?" America demanded. "I know you're talking about yourself!"

Nothing. England couldn't hear him, thrust into a sudden semi-conscious state in which his only language seemed to be German, the tongue of their enemy. His nose continued to steadily bleed as he looked dully, unseeingly, at America.

"Arthur!" America gave him another frustrated shake. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"ZG101, deploy immediately!" England seemed suddenly panicked, his eyes wild. He trembled under America's touch, going very stiff. "RAF and USAAF pincer formation, calculated coordinates between SE26-28. Back-up urgent! Repeat: deploy immediately!"

Once again, thanks so much to jagaimo-chan for her kindness in helping me out with the translation. I really appreciate it!

...I really hope I can finish this story soon, omfg. I've had an idea for a sequel for about a year and half, would you believe...

Happy Mayuge Day!

(P.S: The title is binary.)