Chapter Text
He knew he was dreaming.
Not the occasional doubt that haunts you when you are awake. Definitely dreaming, for otherwise how could you read thousands of years of experience like a book?
It was a raw-edged book with fuzzy letters and ink stain, though. He couldn't even see where it began, or where it ended. The first thousands of pages seemed all the same. Stuck in the jungles, fighting beasts and cannibals. Yanking out bone arrows with tiny, trembling hands. Survive. Yet not let survive. Assembled in tribes, fighting each other. Sailing across the channel, fighting continentals. Conquer. And be conquered. Civil war. Men of their own interests tearing the land apart. Bloodshed. Demagoguery. Printed and handed down to generations after generations.
Is this how life is? He couldn't remember how many pages he'd been through. He felt tired, yet kept on searching.
Sailing out the ocean to conquer some more.
And then there was him.
A little boy bounced across the meadow, leaving a dark green track behind. Honey blond hair messy in the wind. Big blue eyes matched the cloudless sky. Chubby face caressed by breeze, pink with tiny, rolling droplets.
And the lovely creature smiled.
"England! You are back!"
"Yes, I am, my dear America, poppet."
He sailed out the ocean once again. Not only to conquer, but also to protect.
He went through the embarrassment to ask the tailor to make boy's fine clothes, even if they would not fit in a few months. He stayed up late for weeks only to clumsily pare pieces of wood into little toy soldiers. He even picked up long-abandoned knowledge of maths and physics, hoping to cultivate the boy right.
He would give everything to that bright, bright smile.
He had never dreamed of that day.
He skipped that page, for it had been painful enough to experience, now too painful to recall. All he remembered was a cold yet youthful voice soaked in grey, biting rain.
"I want independence from you."
"I'm not your little brother anymore."
And
"You used to look so great."
Things began to blur after that. He was busy running his flourishing country, waging wars, defending colonies, promoting industry and trade. There was the blinding glory that no former empire had dreamed of. There were two world wars in which his people were weakened yet stayed strong. There was the toppling of a certain wall which brought hope of eternal peace, which then turn to disillusion.
And then, there was another front that he had to attend to. And there were they, standing side by side facing the scarred, terrifying war field. America let go of his hand. Seized by a strong impulse, he reached out, grabbing the other's forearm, pulling him down so their lips met.
"Promise me you will come back," he breathed.
"I promise," America said softly, then gave him a big grin before climbing onto a fighter plane, waving to him until the door closed.
His sight blurred.
And then there was darkness.
He woke up.
He woke up.
He knew he was not human—I mean, if you can be conscious like a human while being conscious with the fact that you are not human, that is.
His brain functioned well, though the hundred-year-dream seemed to be the only content in his brain and it seemed to occupy the location where the memories should be. He could remember every detail of it. What made him feel not human was not what he was lacking, but rather what he was capable of.
He could see what was going on in his people's life.
Now, if he concentrates and locates any spatial-temporal entity in his country, he could see it. He could see a fierce debate taking place in a meeting room in what seemed to be the relics of the White House in a war-torn Washington D.C.. He could see a baby weeping in a stroller while her mother and the nurse were discussing something involving nuclear radiation in a state-run hospital in California. He could also see thousands of bodies being washed ashore in a wasted coast in Rhode Island…Wait, was this what his country looked like now? He searched his memory but could find no answer.
"Mr. America."
He looked up from the bed which he hadn't been noticing he was lying on until now. He also had a suit on. In the light of a sharp, cold lamp, he recognized a woman coming at his direction. She had medium build, chocolate skin and dark, curling hair. Few wrinkles, which suggested her age being at most 40. She looked tired but amiable. Not too bad a situation to wake up to, America thought.
"I'm Julia Oliveira, United Nations Secretary General," She reached out a hand, shaking America's forcefully, "Glad to meet you, Mr. America,"
"Nice to meet you, too, er…" America stuttered, not use to socializing after sleeping for God knew how long.
"Miss. Just call me Julia. If you don't mind, now it's about time to meet your colleagues outside. Come with me." Her high heels started clicking toward the door. America suddenly felt a flash of uneasiness, he opened his mouth, wanting to ask something. Julia turned around, smiling,
"Don't worry, I'll fill you in there. On everything."
America jumped out of bed to follow her. However, he just couldn't get an image out of his mind: a little girl alone in what used to be a park, now a grey mess, holding the barrel of a wasted tank gun, spinning round and round and round.