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Chapter Text

“We came into this world with nothing…”

There comes the sound of mud hitting the sodden ground behind me. I recoil.

“…And we will go out with nothing. We need nothing more than the soil we shovel and the sun we toil under. Y’hear me?”

I flinch yet again as there comes another thud of sopping wet soil meeting the ground.

“That—“ Uncle Spain huffs, the cigar clenched in between his chapped lips shifting as he speaks. “That is the skeleton of our society. We pour our blood, sweat, shit, piss and tears into our work, and the Silvers come bearing gifts. Y’get it?”

“Yes, Uncle Spain,” I nod, wiping rain and sweat from my brow.

Thunder claps and I damn near jump out my skin whilst Uncle Spain shanks the edge of the shovel into the ground once more. With a stifled grunt of effort, he digs into the earth and throws another shovelful over his shoulder. I play with my hands, uneasy without my own shovel to hold.

Finally, Uncle Spain hands me back my shovel, but before I can take a jab at the ground with it, the Chimes go off, piercing the scorching, humid summer air with their familiar song. Men around us heave their way to the sheds to drop off their shovels and gloves, if they are lucky enough to have gloves, and then go down to Gray’s Hall for our meager supper.

Gray’s Hall is no grand thing. It is the size of a tinkick field, and thus, it is not large enough to house all the Grays. If you are unfortunate enough to not make it inside before everyone else, you have to sit outside the building to eat, where the rain pours and pours, unless it’s the rare occasion we have shine. There we eat our meals, which consist of bread, potatoes and whatever meat scraps the Blues don’t want. 

Feet sinking into the muddy ground with every step, I follow Uncle Spain to the shed to drop off our shovels. We do not have gloves. From there, we scramble after the rest of the men towards Gray’s Hall. 

The place brims with chatter and energy, despite the arduous labor of the day behind us. Women wearing gray, flowy skirts down to their knees and men still in their muddy work clothes dance with one another as cheery music made by improvised drums and guitar fill the dining hall. Though the exhaustion of the workload weighs heavy on our shoulders, the excitement of dance and song lifts some of that tiredness. 

The Grays, though dirt poor, are a people of joyful song and boisterous laughter. Once, a Silver by the name of UN expressed an envy for our people. 

“How joyous it is to see your celebrations. I must confess— I have an envy for the rustic nature of your happiness. Simple drink, fare, song and dance. How I wish I were so entertained,”

It is true. We are a simple people. We toil the day away, us men in the fields and the women in the village, and once the Chimes sing the end of the workday, the thud of dancing feet and the chorus of voices and music fill our evenings.

“America!”

My head jerks in the direction my name was called, and a warm smile graces my lips. My mother comes rushing over, arms readied wide for an embrace, which I stand from my place on the bench to meet her in.

“Uncle Spain wasn’t too harsh today, was he?”

“So so,” I answer honestly. It’s often when he goes off on his rants about our place in society as Grays, but our family tolerates it. Though I can’t say I mind being a Gray, I can’t stand Uncle Spain’s long-winded rants. Once he gets going, he gets scary.

My mother looks as though she wants to say something more, but Uncle Spain comes within earshot before she can speak again. Instead, she gives me a ginger pat on the back and gestures for me to take my seat once more.

Soon enough, the rest of our family finds each other at the table. My brothers, who are still too young to work in the fields, take their seats beside me. I feel out of place next to them. My sister, New Zealand, is seated across from me. My father is beside my mother and my uncles sit a little further aways down the table. 

“You are God’s mistake,” I overhear my brother, Canada, quip through a mouthful of baked potato.

“Yeah, yeah— We get it, Nada, I’m a stupid infant and I deserve to ‘pack my ass full of gunpowder and squat over a campfire,’” my youngest brother, Australia, hisses, though his malice is more comical than threatening. 

“Language, Aussie,” our mother squints at him. He frowns.

I find myself stifling a laugh underneath my napkin. Uncle Spain shoots me a look, much like Mother did to Australia a moment ago. I go rigid.

Before Canada can fire another insult at Australia, the Chimes go off again. The dancing stops. The drums and guitar go silent. There is no longer the thunder of feet and joyous song, but instead, there is silence, accompanied by the pound of rain on the roof of Gray’s Hall. You could hear a pin drop.

The confusion dissipates as a figure emerges from the stage-like structure at the front of the room, where whippings and hangings usually take place. This can only mean no good.

It is a Silver. 

“Greetings—“ he titters. “And well wishes to the Grays of Sriyla,” his voice, deep and fruity, sounds like butter. Not that I’ve ever seen butter. 

It takes me a moment, but I eventually come to the realization I have heard of this Silver before. Never have I met him, but I have heard of his blue skin, black eyes and silver cheekbone sigils in stories told by elders by the fire before nightfall.

He is the European Union. 

“Esteemed churners of the earth, dear Grays, you are the lifeblood of our society. There is no us without you. I come here to announce that although the times to come will be challenging, the Silvers and Blues cheer you on from the sidelines.”

There’s a swell of pride in my chest. I’m a Gray, an esteemed churner of the earth, a valuable asset to our society. There is honor in Grayhood.

The European Union flashes us that toothy smile. His teeth are unnaturally sharp and are like that of a shark, yet he is majestic, a god among men. 

“I come bearing news.”

Uncle Spain’s rant at the field flashes in my mind. I cringe internally. 

“There draws near an important event on our calendar, Grays of Sriyla. Your elders may recognize the name of said event. Every so often, there comes a time when you Grays must see the suffering that comes without Order,” the European Union’s gaze flickers over the sea of Grays before him. His smile is neither welcoming nor condescending. 

Despite the heat, the air goes frigid.

“It is my honor to announce that beginning this following weekend, the Resurrection begins.”

I half-expect Gray’s Hall to fill with murmurs of confusion, but everyone is as silent as mice. I lift my gaze from the Silver at front and I see Uncle Italy with his head in his hands. Something stirs in my gut.

And just like that, the Silver is gone. It is then when the confused, discordant whispers begin. I glance at my mother, whose expression is unreadable. 

“Mother?”

My mother pays no attention to me. She raises her fingers to her lips and a sharp whistle pierces the air, violating my eardrums. The drums begin their rhythmic thud again, and the guitar soon catches along. People get up to dance and sing. There’s the pound of feet on the concrete floor of Gray’s Hall.

It is not until the nightly fire when I learn what the Resurrection is. 

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it is that I am my father’s son.

When he died, I did as he asked. I did not cry, not even when they televised his death over the news and painted him the colors of a rapist. My father was many things. A cynic, an alcoholic, a calloused and dogmatic cutthroat, an egoist— but he was not a rapist. 

My sister is also many things. She is a vindictive liar, someone who will always get back at you, no matter how small your offense was. She is fussy, and like our father, who she claims assaulted her, she has strong views and opinions and will not allow you to disagree with them. 

My other sister, Belarus, didn’t cry either, but not because Father told her not to. She hated Father. After Lithuania, my brother, declared independence and my other siblings followed suit, Belarus stated that our father was a coward and a fool. 

His hanging replays in my mind as I clutch a framed picture of him in my hands. I am my father’s son. I still don’t cry.

There comes a knock at my bedroom door, three short, staccato strikes. I already know who it is.

“Piss off,” I shout from my place on the bed.

The door swings open and I scramble to set the picture frame back on my dresser. The bed beneath my knees squeals with the motion. 

“I made you breakfast. Come eat.”

Belarus stands before me, donning a stained apron. Her shoulder-length black hair is pulled back into a sagging ponytail and the creases under her eyes are more apparent than ever. The blue sigils on her cheekbones don’t glisten like they used to.

I swallow. “I’m not hungry.”

“You say that every time,” she hisses, propping herself up against the foot of my bed. She yanks the sheets away from me. “Come eat. You can’t get any thinner.”

I do not respond, instead sitting there on my bed with a dull expression. It is a few moments later when Belarus suddenly lurches forward to grab my arm and drag me out of bed. 

“Let me go!” I seethe, resisting her pull.

She does not listen. She yanks me out of my bedroom and pulls me down the hall towards the kitchen, and no matter how much I tug back, she continues to pull me forward.

“Eat,” she sits me down at the table. A plate of bacon and eggs sits on the table in front of me.

I lean forward, resting an elbow on the table as I pick up my fork with my right hand. My left hand cradles my chin. I say nothing.

Ukraine, my vindictive sister who lies to get what she wants, sits across from me with her own plate of food. She eyes me wearily. “Good seeing you again.”

I make a noise of acknowledgement to her. 

“Russia, greet them. Be nice to your sibling,” Belarus says from the other side of the kitchen, where I assume she is making her own breakfast.

I do not greet “them.”

The whole “they” thing is a ploy to get sympathy and attention, just like the lie about our father sexually abusing her. Not only is Ukraine a pathological liar, but she is also an attention whore. Her demand to be referred to as something more than she was assigned at birth and her slander directed at our father reflects poorly on her character-- that she is the epitome of attention-seeking.

I scarf down my eggs and bacon like a starving dog in an alley before I rise from my seat, only to be shoved back down. Belarus is behind me, her hand on my shoulder. I can see a glimpse of the blue sigil on the back of her hand, a triangle with geometric wings that matches the ones on her cheekbones.

“Stay a while,” she says. 

I shake my head, shrugging her hand off my shoulder as I make way back towards my bedroom. I need a fucking drink.

Chapter Text

The Blue city of Sriyla is one of parks and pavilions, gardens and fountains, and skyscrapers that reach for the sun. It is something spectacular, something poignant.

I’ve lived my whole life here, in the same home, and I’ve worked in the same garage, where I build playthings for Silvers, like flying cars. I work under the blue-skinned and black-eyed European Union, and I am revered as a Blue who works for one of the Silvers. 

Do not be fooled. I am still a Blue, as proven by the sigils on my face and on the backs of my hands, though this I do not mind. So long as I have my workbench, my tools and my garage, I am jolly and all things glee.

I am thankful for my position. I get to leave the city of Blue to travel further up north, up into the countryside to visit my Silver boss. Border control knows me by name. I don’t even have to present my driver’s license to get through.

That is where I am now, at one of the gates where the city I live in comes to an end, where I prepare to enter the lion’s den.

It is a privilege to do this, and yet it is a scary privilege to have. To be a Blue walking through Silver territory alone is to have a deathwish. That is why instead of entering the Silver countryside by myself, I wait at border control for one of the European Union’s minions to come pick me up. I leave my car, which I built, in a parking spot my boss reserved for me.

Again, do not let this gesture fool you. The European Union is not a kind or a generous man, but instead a snobby, impetuous Silver who will only have it his way.

One of his minions pulls into the parking lot in a black car I recognize— I built it. As he steps out of his car, I notice his skin is a lighter shade of blue than the European Union’s. He is not smiling, but he seems as though he should be, as there’s a spring in his step and little tension in his shoulders.

“Germany, are you?” I hear from the other side of my window as I press the button for it to roll down. 

“Yessir, this is he,” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

His eyes are friendlier than the eyes of my boss. Instead of the deep, inky black abyss I greet twice monthly, I see sky blue irises that twinkle with bits of gold. He’s neither short nor tall, but he is very thin. Scrawny, even. His silver colored sigils glisten in the sun. He finally smiles and I see that his teeth are serrated, much like the teeth of the European Union. I assume it is a trait found in most Silvers, though I can’t say I’ve met more than a handful of them, so I’m unsure.

I follow him back to his car. It feels strange slipping into one of my own old creations, and I remind myself that it is merely a car and not my child.

The ride to the European Union’s office is silent. There aren’t many things I mind, but I can’t stand pure, utter silence. Even when it’s just me in my garage with the cars, I have a podcast playing in the background, or I have Russia with me to keep me company. In my mind, I briefly toy with the idea of turning on the radio. After all, it is my car. 

No, it is not. I gave it up the day the European Union bought it from me.

“Welcome,” the United Nations hums, pulling the key from the ignition. I cut that key.

I gingerly swing open the car door and set foot on the pavement outside the office complex where the European Union and his people work. Despite the number of times I’ve been here, the nerves always get to me— as they should. After all, I am a mere Blue in a place where a Silver should be. 

“Greetings, European Union,” I greet my boss as the United Nations lets me in.

The European Union’s gaze is cold as it meets mine, but it immediately warms once it flits over to the United Nations.

“Dearie, come to me, won’t you?” he extends his arm out to his work partner, who adds length to his strides to meet him. 

I stand there, hands clasped in front of me.

“Germany,” the European Union then says after he’s had his moment with the United Nations. “Germany, Germany…”

His tone is unreadable. A shiver shoots down my back and to my knees, which threaten to buckle. Even still, I keep my composure.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” he clicks his tongue patronizingly. He looks at me with those cold, black eyes. I wish for a sinkhole to swallow me whole.

Perhaps I missed an email. Surely, he wouldn’t be thrilled at that, but I doubt I’d get lashed for it. Blues seldom get lashed. That punishment is usually reserved for the Grays.

“So busy, in fact, that I’m sure you missed the news.”

Yes, indeed. I did miss an email. 

It pains me to meet his gaze, but I maintain eye contact. Composure is key, I repeat in my head.

“I’m afraid I did miss the news,” is all I say.

“My, oh my!” the European Union titters, leaning back in his chair. His gaze does not tear away from mine, not for a second. “This is not news you would want to miss.”

Silence. I hate the silence.

“The Resurrection is this weekend,” he finally releases his iron grip on my ability to breathe. My lungs deflate and my shoulders sink.

“May I ask what the Resurrection is?” I ask, willing myself to mask the relief in my voice.

“Oh, I forget. You’re young,” he shakes his head, tut-tutting to himself. “There is a tradition here in Sriyla. Every so often, the dead return so the Grays can see the suffering that comes without Order.”

“How so?”

“Ahah,” the European Union huffs. “What makes you think I’d tell you? Now, let’s get to business. Let me talk about the car I commissioned you.”

The European Union both dresses and lives lavishly, like the rest of the Silvers do. He clothes himself in fine suits, custom jewelry and designer watches. During the early days of my work with him, he wore designer shades, but he’s since taken to showing off his eyes as he’s aged. He eats caviar with slices of bread, drinks fine wine and watches golf games from his balcony. He is the embodiment of wealth and allure.

I say this because as he rattles on about the car he commissioned, my mind wanders to how easy he has it. He does not stand here, fretting the day he is lashed and beaten for missing an email. He instead goes on and on about how he wants a new car, wants a turbo engine this time, wants a better paint job, yada yada yada…

“—like last time… Hello? Earth to Germany?” his voice drags me back down from my thoughts.

“Yes, sorry, I spaced out for a moment there. Sincerest apologies.”

The European Union frowns. I swallow.

“Perhaps I should let you go,” the Silver says and my heart stops. He seems to notice me go rigid. “I’m not firing you, Blue. You’re dismissed.”

My heart starts beating again. I dare crack a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

I let myself out one of the open French double doors, the United Nations following behind me. It is only when I am back in my own car when I can heave my sigh of relief.   

Chapter Text

Tomorrow we’ll work and groan and toil like slaves, but for tonight, we clap and sing and holler like fools. The dancing and singing of our people, my people, goes on until sundown. We dance until we drop like flies, one by one, out of Gray’s Hall and towards the garbage bins that we fill with trash and set alight for our nightly bonfire. 

The golden glow of the fire warms my face and hands as I stand before it, arms outstretched in front of me. I look down at my feet. The soles of my boots are worn thin in the heel and the rubber is peeling off in a thick layer. Soon, I will need a new pair, but I’m unsure if I’ll get that privilege, since my father can no longer toil in the fields with his bad knee and my uncles are paid so little. I’m not paid at all. I’ll have to beg another family for the money or, more shamefully so, steal.

After every Gray settles on the logs circled around the bonfire and the elders finish telling their stories, the elephant in the room is finally addressed when New Zealand blurts, “What’s a Resurrection?”

We all go silent. After a pregnant pause, my eldest uncle, Italy, speaks up. His wrinkly, gnarled fingers curl around the knob of his cane and he grimaces. 

“I have lived to see only one Resurrection,” he begins, lifting one hand from his cane to gesture vaguely at the air as he speaks. “It ended well for no one.”

We are all still silent, waiting patiently for Uncle Italy to continue. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, but he does eventually get going again.

"The people from—" he swallows. "—the Wholesale Killing, they came back. They incited violence among our people and tried to stir us all into war. It was not pretty."

The air around us seems to grow thick with tension at the mention of the Wholesale Killing. I was not even a thought in my mother's brain yet when the Third Reich rose to power and seized control of Sriyla. He took the entire country by the reins and dragged them to Hell and back, taking the lives of many with him.

This was before Grayhood, before Bluehood and Silverhood, before we lived the way we do now, separated by colors. I know little of it, since there are no schools in the Gray section of Sriyla, and the meager information I have gathered is from stories from the elders of the Grays. Even then, there is little recollection of the Wholesale Killing, as the survivors’ memories were wiped clean after. All I know is that we are safe this way.

Before our society was sorted the way it is, it was chaos. Countries and humans lived together. Countries and humans of different colors lived together— Yes, Silvers would marry and start families with Grays. This mixed all the blood, resulting in many mixed hues and different shades, and some cleanup had to take place in order to fix it. Now, things are peaceful, as they have been for years. 

And here comes the Resurrection to fuck everything up.

I can’t say I’m pleased at the thought of my dead relatives returning from the afterlife. The order of things could be meddled with, and my only solace in this cruel, unforgiving world is being a Gray. My Grayhood brings me worth. If someone were to change the paradigm, I— no, we— would be utterly fucked.

A sudden cry pierces the night and I jump, as do many others. It came from somewhere near Gray’s Hall. I turn to where I expect my mother to be seated, seeking comfort, but she is not there. Something rises in my chest.

“You can’t!” a voice I recognize sobs in despair and terror. “You can’t! My kids are hungry!” 

It is my mother.

My father scrambles to his feet, recognizing her voice at the same time as I do. Despite his bad knee, he abandons his cane to rush to Gray’s Hall, but little is too late.

The Chimes go off, signaling for us all to gather at Gray’s Hall. I hear faint whispers from the adults about what may have happened to cause this, but there is no definite answer.

As soon as we are all seated, we learn of my mother’s crime.

She stole a few slices of bread.

Chapter Text

My mother is to be lashed forty times before us all. 

“To Order!” the Silver at the gallows calls. Her long black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head, and it is pulled so tight that her eyebrows seem to scrunch together. “Without law, we would be animals! Without order, without discipline, without repercussions, there would be no us! Cursed and broken is the creature who breaks these compacts. To Order!”

Other Silvers stand from the nosebleeds, watching as the woman strips my mother down to her undergarments and straps her down to a metal box. In her eyes I see panic, terror, and a sadness I have never seen before. Feverish excitement glimmers in the eyes of the Silvers, including the woman at the gallows. 

The woman raises the whip and the lash cracks through the air. Myself and the other Grays flinch. She strikes once, testing the waters. My mother screams bloody murder.

Before anyone can stop me, before I can even think to hold my tongue, I shoot up off my place on the bench and weave my way between tables and benches.

“Your Excellency, give me her punishment! Please, please!”

The world falls silent at my words. The woman who lashed my mother lifts her gaze to meet mine, and I see her eyes are golden. They are beautiful, but in the way that a bird of prey is beautiful. A shiver rolls down my spine.

“…No tree willingly succumbs to the flames of the forest fire,” the woman cracks a smile that is beautiful in the same way her eyes are. “Relish the sight, Silvers and Grays. You’ll not see it again. Come, Gray,” she lowers the lash and beckons for me to draw nearer.

My mother begins to weep as I trudge up the steps, one by one. The groan of the floorboards is agonizing.

The Silver unstraps my mother from the box, shoves her clothes into her arms and practically shoves her down the steps. My mother’s hand grazes mine as we pass one another. A sob wracks her body.

The woman makes a spectacle of me as she strips me down, chucking my clothes unceremoniously onto the ground by the box as she does so. I’m shivering by the end, though it is not cold. It is summer, and it is humid and insufferably hot.

“Even the young, even the beautiful, even the strong cannot escape the hand of justice,” is all she says after she’s strapped me down to the box. The metal is warm and wet with my mother’s sweat.

There is a moment where the world holds its breath. The woman behind me slowly cracks her knuckles, one by one. She is taunting me. 

I almost feel relieved, as if I suddenly think the lashes won’t come, but they do.

They are far from soft. They can’t be. The lashes bite into the flesh of my bare back, emitting a keening noise as they arch through the air. I scream. I wail. I make a fool, a show, a complete jackass of myself as my people watch. I can’t see straight by the end of it. I pass out, only to be shaken awake and whipped again. It is half way through the second whipping when I realized that she’d started over.

My people are offended to watch a child be bloodied and beaten. There are cries of anguish as the Silver unfastens the straps. I do not get up. She has to grab me by the armpits to lift me off the whipping box. I am limp in her arms, half-conscious.

I wonder if they’ll still make me work tomorrow.

Chapter Text

It is a pitiful sight to see. 

It is as if I am watching a car crash in slow motion, watching the driver fly through the windshield, and I can’t tear my gaze away. It sickens me to watch— and yet, I do not stop looking at the screen.

It reminds me of the time they televised my father’s hanging, only this time, no one dies. It seems like the boy on screen does, though, because after he takes his mother’s lashes, eighty in all, he lays limp in the Silver’s arms, barely conscious.

I rewind the television to watch it again. I don’t know why. It does not please me to see a child being hurt, though it does intrigue me.

“To Order!” the Silver woman calls, raising her hand in the air. I recognize her flag, which is that of a golden emblem of paddy stacks in the middle of a red circle on a dark blue background. “Without law, we would be animals! Without order, without discipline, without repercussions, there would be no us! Cursed and broken is the creature who breaks these compacts. To Order!”

She is speaking more formally than usual. I realize this is because both the United Nations and the European Union are watching from a nosebleed-esque structure that hangs off the wall in the building. Other Silvers watch from their own respective places in the nosebleeds.

I watch yet again as the lashes wail into the boy’s back. I watch him writhe about on the box; I watch him scream in agony. Truly, this is sick.

Belarus enters. She gawks. 

“Tell me you’re watching a film.”

I shake my head. “Kid took the lash for his mother.”

Belarus furrows her brows. “What did the mother do?”

“Stole some bread,” I say.

“That seems— rather excessive for theft,” she takes a seat beside me on my bed. 

The Silver woman at the gallows— who I believe is named ASEAN— is right. “Without discipline, we would be vicious creatures.”

“And what we just saw isn’t vicious?”

“We just saw things come to Order. Without Order, we’d live in shambles. It’s our fight for peace.”

“Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity,” she hisses. “Do you care not that a child was just beaten for all of Sriyla to see? Have you no sympathy?”

“I have no sympathy for thieves, nor for their sons.”

Belarus rises from the bed and leaves my room, slamming the door shut behind her. Jesus. 

My gaze flits over to the framed photograph on my dresser again. I stare at that picture at least five times a day, and each time, it grinds the stake even further into my heart. I am my father’s son. I do not cry.

Scooting closer to the headboard of the bed, I pick up the photograph. I hold it gingerly, as if it’ll come apart in my hands if my touch grows too rough.

My father is much younger in the photo. The creases under his eyes aren’t as visible as they were when he grew old, and his left eye is still in its socket. If not for the blue sigils on his face, one could mistake him for a Silver, for his stature is grand. 

Like how I rewatched the whipping of the Gray boy, my father’s death recounts itself in my head. We both died that day. The only difference is that I'm here and he's not.

As soon as Ukraine told Belarus our father had abused her, Belarus took action. Belarus tiplined Ukraine and within a few months, an investigation had taken place and my father was convicted, then sentenced to death.

It’s my sister’s fault he’s gone. If she’d kept her mouth shut, if she’d just quit being the little attention-hungry brat she’s always been, my father would still be alive. I want to hit something, want to hit someone, want to hit Ukraine. Alas, if I do, Belarus will wring my neck and mount my ass on her bedroom wall like a buck. 

Ukraine will not walk free while our father lies dead. That is not a threat. It is a promise.

Chapter Text

The boy’s whimpers as I tend to his back are nothing short of heart wrenching. Each cry wracks his hunched frame as he weeps into his mother’s hands, and I will myself not to weep with him. I have a job to do.

Like the rest of the Grays, I watched the whipping. Each crack of the whip echoes in my skull, ringing in my eardrums, and I imagine that if I am haunted by the event, the boy must be traumatized.

America sits on a bench that serves as a bed in our infirmary, his back facing me so I can clean and apply antiseptic to his wounds. He holds his mother’s hand, crying into it like no tomorrow.

I wring out the cloth into the bucket of water on the ground before me. Red-tinted water seeps from the cloth, dripping down my hands and forearms into the bucket below. 

“You’re so brave,” I console him as I squeeze some antibiotic ointment onto my fingers. I rub the pads of my fingers together, warming the stuff before I apply it to his back. “So brave…”

France sniffles and starts to weep again. I suppress a sigh. 

I am Poland, Gray nurse of Sriyla. Although I am a man, I do not toil in the fields to the clap of thunder under the beating rain. I man the infirmary, take care of our few elderly, and help the sick and injured. We have few elderly because our life expectancy is low. Those who survive long enough to count their gray hairs spend their days in the boredom of the infirmary. I try to make the remainder of their lives more interesting and lively by bringing in our most revered guitarist, Mexico, to play for them, and by taking them to the nightly fires when they’re up to it. Still, even I get bored a lot of the time. I’ve counted the boards of the ceiling numerous times, and I can confidently tell you that there are seventy-nine of them total.

It has been a while since I’ve had to tend to the wounds of someone who faced the whip. I keep a mental tally in my head of the days we Grays go without a lashing, and each time, it pains me to reset the clock in my head. 

A pure coincidence: We went seventy-nine days without a lashing. When I recount the boards of the ceiling, I will be reminded of the fateful day I watched a boy no older than fifteen get the whip.

As soon as I finish caring for America’s wounds, I send him off to his home with his mother. I sigh as I watch them leave, leaning back in my seat for a moment, but for only a second do I rest.

I rise to approach the curtain that keeps Italy’s bed separated from the others. I rap my fingers against the flimsy plastic, to which he hums in acknowledgement in response, and I enter.

Italy is the eldest of the Grays. He is seventy. It is remarkable he has lived this long. He looks much like his other siblings, and for a man, he looks rather feminine. His mouth is small and his nose is sharp. I cannot see much of his skin, for he usually wears his sleeves long, but I know from helping him bathe that the left third of his body is light green, the central strip is pasty white, and the right third is blood red. 

As I set out medicines, Italy tells me tales about his days playing tinkick and tag as a child and his first few weeks working in the fields when he was young. It is a series of stories and recollections I’ve heard a thousand times before, but I do not mind. Any story told by Italy is a good one.

By the time I’ve finished, Italy’s talked himself to sleep and the sun is long gone. I peel back the curtain to head towards my own bench and as I do, I turn out the lights to the infirmary. I lay myself down, tug the thin sheet up to my chin, and I drift off into a light, dreamless sleep.

I thought the lashing of the boy was bad, but the worst had yet to come.

Chapter Text

Desolate, one could call it. 

That was the word one could use to describe the vast, empty expanse that is my home. It is silent, and as I stated earlier, I hate the silence.

I traverse my way through the kitchen, stopping at where the kitchen meets the dining room. After a beat, I begin circling the table, my hand sliding across the wood of the backs of the seats. My dress shoes click clack against the tile floor.

One, two, three… I circle the table three times, imagining myself wandering aimlessly in my own head. That is what I am doing, spare for the walls of bone that would surround me if I truly were to take a walk in my skull. I am stuck inside my own little bubble, and I am alone. 

I was not always alone. This home was not always so empty, so quiet, so bleak.

There was a woman who lived here, and I was married to her. I was her husband, she was my wife, and we were going to start a family together. We were going to have one child to start with, and once we got our bearings as parents, we were going to bring another into this world. All seemed to be headed in that direction. 

I heave a sigh through my nose, switching directions. I walk clockwise around the table instead of counterclockwise. Click, clack. Click, clack. I am thankful for the sound of my shoes against the ground. It fills the gaping silence.

Then the Silvers passed the Inter Act. It forbade romantic relationships between humans and countries— something to do with keeping the blood pure. Refusal to comply was punishable by any means seen fit, including hanging.

She refused to let me go. I’ll let you assume what happened next.

I sigh again, this time through my mouth. 

I loved her. I loved her from the moment we first laid eyes on one another, back in that library, from the moment her hand grazed mine as we reached for the same book.

“I see you’re a fan of Petroski,” she cracked a sheepish grin.

“Why, does it seem so?” I dropped my hand to my side, releasing the book. “Go ahead, all yours.”

“No, you take it.”

“I insist—“ I said, taking the book down from the shelf. I held it out to her. “I’ll find another copy at the other library downtown.”

Those soft, doe eyes seemed to fill with gratitude as she gingerly took the book from me. “Thank you,” she smiled even wider.

Right from then, we were conjoined at the hip. We attended conventions and conferences together, went out for coffee every morning, and eventually, she moved in. It moved so fast, but I think it is true when they say time flies when you’re having fun.

I circle the table a final time before I turn down the hall and shuffle past the carpeted entryway, where I then stand in front of the door. I lift my hand to the wood. On the other side, we had a fancy door knocker that was shaped like the tire of a car, reminiscent of our nerdiness. I can’t remember if it is still there. I stopped looking for it the day the Silvers robbed her from me.

It is so tiring to live in solitude. I scarcely leave the house, usually only for groceries, parts for my projects or for meetings with my boss. The only person who keeps me company sometimes is Russia, and to be frank, he is merely a tool to fill the silence of the garage. The man can jabber on for ages, but he is not a true friend, though you will never catch me saying that to his face. He is too valuable of an asset in my life to throw away so foolishly.

Most of the people I’ve met feel like assets rather than people. Even my boss and his work partners, whom my world revolves around, as I depend on them for my status, feel nonhuman and unreal to me. My ship has capsized and I am sinking into a sea of solipsism.

The wood of the door is cool and smooth. I run my fingers over it, taking in the texture. 

For a moment, I consider the possibility that I really am alone. Even with my high position, there is no one to congratulate me, no one to envy me. Not that I need either, but it would be nice to have someone to tell me I’m doing a great job. 

It is true. I am lonely. 

Chapter Text

I am still sent to the fields the following morning.

My back howls in agony as I jam the shovel into the earth and heave soil over my shoulder. I want to rest, but I fear what happens if I do. I do not plan to run the risk of taking another whipping.

I cannot say I regret taking my mother’s lashes, though I wish I was stronger-- strong enough to bear the pain underneath my shirt. My back is marred, according to Poland, and I know it is no exaggeration because I couldn’t sleep a wink on my back last night. 

¨Watch where you’re throwin’ that shit!” Uncle Spain hisses from behind me. I turn to see him tossing seeds into the holes we’ve dug.

We Grays are cultivative people. We grow food crops for the other Colors in our society. There’s corn and potatoes in the sections I’ve worked in, but we grow carrots on this side of the fields, too. Other crops are grown on the other side. The fields stretch as far as the eye can see. If the sun’s rays bless it every day, we grow on it. The more we grow, the merrier.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

My uncle’s words ring in my head. “...We pour our blood, sweat, shit, piss and tears into our work, and the Silvers come bearing gifts…”

I wonder what we’ll earn at the end of this season. The more we grow, the greater the rewards we receive. If we do not grow enough, we receive nothing. Maybe I can get a new pair of boots at the end of this season if our harvest is plentiful.

I miss my days playing tinkick at the playing field with my siblings, but alas, I’m fifteen and too old and busy for games. Men start work at thirteen. My siblings are all younger than twelve, but one day they will join me in the fields. We’ll have more workers and we’ll grow more crops, and then we’ll reap better harvests and earn greater pay.

By the time it is noon, the sky is concealed by dark, terrible gray clouds. Within an hour, it is pouring buckets on us. Thunder roars in the distance. Lightning streaks across the sky. I jump every time the thunder crashes. The rain beats down on my aching back, making the stinging sensation worse. 

When I gander at my uncle, I see his work written on his face. The creases of his crow’s feet are strong and on his right cheek, there curves a bold scar. It trails from the gray sigil of his cheekbone to his jawline, where it abruptly stops. I do not know where the scar is from, though I remember it being there my whole life. 

One day, I will look like him, scarred and aged. 

I will myself to ignore the looks of pity as I enter Gray’s Hall for lunch, but to no avail. I flush at their stares. It is humiliating to think about the night before. I feel like a walking, talking spectacle. To exist as myself at this moment is unbearable.

I sink into my seat shamefully as I wait for the rest of my family to gather at the table. Everyone shows up, spare for my oldest little brother, Canada. My mother is the first to notice his absence.

It takes us a moment of panicked searching, but we locate him. The panic rises once we spot him.

There, at the stage-like structure that serves as the gallows, the place where I was whipped, my brother stands atop the whipping box, the whip in his hands. He stares down at it, and I feel my chest tighten. He races down the steps, down towards the fireplace, where he pauses. He still holds the whip that lashed my back.

Canada chucks the whip into the fire. 

I hear my mother cry out to him. My heart drops to my feet.

A Silver guard steps out from his place behind the stage. My brother failed to realize that we are constantly monitored by the Silvers. They know when we step out of line. For this little act of rebellion, they will have him by the neck. 

That last line is not a metaphor. 

Chapter Text

I hate the postman.

As he hands me the mail and greets me with his cheery, sing-song voice, I have to bite back a snarl. I snatch the stack of envelopes, mostly junk, from him before turning on my heel, but before I can make my escape, he starts talking.

Had I any more patience, I would wait for him to say something stupid before I spit at him and storm off, but my patience runs thinner than the runners of the Kenyan track team. 

“—and then she said she loved me like the stars love the moon!” South Korea beams, but then his expression drops as his hand comes to his chin. “…Whatever that means,” he goes right back to smiling like the idiot he is. “I’m so in love with her, Russia!”

I have no idea what girl he’s rattling on about. He’s had more girlfriends than I can count on my fingers and toes, so who knows which lady he’s gotten himself attached to this time.

“Shut the fuck up. Just shut— the fuck up,” I hiss, bubbling. “I haven’t got the time for this.”

The joy fades from his eyes. The once youthful and bright South Korea now looks like I just shot his entire family in front of him. 

I’m gone before he can run his gob again. I set the mail on the counter for Belarus to deal with and then I’m out the back door, where I hop the white picket fence and book it through the backyard of whatever neighbor lives behind me to hop the fence again and race down the street. 

My side of town isn’t nearly as striking as the other half, but it is quite the attraction nonetheless. I live in suburbia, where each house is lined with spotless, white picket fences and every winding path down the front lawn looks the same as the next. The shutters of the windows are all the same, as are the doors. My friend had a personalized door knocker ordered from elsewhere, but the Silvers did away with it after they did away with his wife. 

I’m off to see that friend. Part of me considers shooting Belarus a text, but another part of me shrugs it off and decides that I’ll explain myself once she calls.

I make a turn without stopping to look both ways at the intersection. A car screeches to a halt to avoid hitting me.

A few minutes pass as I make my way to my friend’s house. I soon arrive at his doorstep after walking up the pathway to his porch, the same path that every other house here in the Blue city of Sriyla has. My eyes flit to where the tire-shaped knocker used to hang, and I raise my fist to knock at the wood.

No answer.

I press my finger to the doorbell and I hold it there, counting for five whole seconds. One long, shrill note rings throughout the house, likely to wake Germany if he is sleeping.

“Do you fucking mind, Russia!?” I hear from inside the home. I chuckle to myself.

Germany peels back the curtain from one of the long, thin windows by the door and squints at me through the glass. He mouths something indiscernible before letting go of the curtain to let me inside.

“Greetings,” he huffs.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s genuinely irritated at me, and just like I dismissed my worries for Belarus earlier, I decide I care not. I am the only constant in my own life. Other people’s feelings and opinions do not matter to me, though Germany’s smile as I greet him soothes the little part of me that cares, so I forget about it as soon as I set foot in the door.

As we enter the garage, Germany rolls up the sleeves of his stained work shirt and cracks his knuckles as he prepares to resume work on his latest project, which is a half-finished car in the center of the room.

“Did you see—“ I start.

“Yes, I saw the boy get lashed. A terrible thing. A shame, really,” Germany cuts me off, selecting a tool from his workbench, which is really two sawhorses holding up a wooden plank.

“I wonder why the mother stole bread, then, if she knew what would come of it. Had she waited until the following day, I’m sure she would’ve gotten some more,” I lean against the wall, pulling a cigarette from my jacket pocket, along with my lighter. I light the cigarette and bring it to my lips before drawing in a huff.

“No smoking in my garage,” Germany frowns, his gaze meeting mine. He looks back down at his work right after we make eye contact. I do not put out my cigarette. “The Grays don’t have it like us, Russia, and desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Desperate times, my ass. If she were more patient—“

“If this conversation continues, you’re out of my garage.”

I squint, huffing smoke out from my mouth. Germany does not look up at me. 

“If you dismissed your wife like this all the time, like you’ve done to me, then perhaps it is best she is gone,” I spit.

Germany freezes. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are a thin line. He looks up at me, pointing to the door with a shaking hand. “Out.”

I do not hesitate to disappear from the bastard’s garage, but not before kicking over his lamp on the way out.

Chapter Text

The smallest coffins are always the heaviest.

We bury our dead far out in a cemetery that rests near the border. A great, thick concrete wall separates us from the rest of society, and by that wall is where the cemetery lays. We are not allowed to put flowers on graves or decorate headstones, but we are usually permitted to bury our deceased. We are not to hold funerals or any celebrations of life. Doing so can be punishable by joining the people of the cemetery.

Like how my people were offended to watch me be whipped, they are horrified and downright disgusted by the display that went on as they hanged my brother. They beat his body with a new lash before they set him up at the gallows, and as they whipped him, he screamed and cried and writhed about on the whipping box, smearing blood all over the metal surface. 

As they whip him, I want to come forward to take his lashes, to lighten the load, to make his death easier on him and my people, but I know I can’t take it— and Father would take me down to the gallows to hang me himself if I did. 

I will myself to tear my gaze away from my dangling brother, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t watch his final moments. He’s suffering, I think to myself, and it is my job to watch.

Our mother can’t bear to look. She instead stares down at her feet, and for a moment, I think her a coward, until I realize that if I were in her shoes, I’d do the same.

My father and Uncle Spain hoist the wooden coffin into the hole in the ground. Despite the laws forbidding it, Father places a flowering weed on the top of the coffin before kicking dirt over it with his good leg. It’s not illegal if nobody sees, I imagine going through his head. 

It’s unjust. My brother died for a harmless act of rebellion, for a statement against the Silver who whipped me bloody. What threat does an eleven year old boy pose against the Society and the system? 

It’s a demonstration of power, I realize. They can do whatever they want to us and they can get away with it. It’s a game of merit won by birth. You’re either born blessed to be a Blue or a Silver, or cursed to be a wretched, filthy Gray. And yet? I blame not the Society, not the Silvers, but instead myself. I blame myself for taking my mother’s lashes and instigating my brother’s rebellion and therefore causing his death. He is gone, and it is my fault.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” a young man, Sweden, approaches. One of his brothers trails behind, kicking a small rock around as he stares at the ground. 

I recognize the other man to be Finland. Finland lost his wife not too long ago, a year or so back, much like how I lost my brother. She would write songs about the Silvers and the Society, get herself into trouble, and then as they whipped her for her wrongdoings, she would sing the songs she’d written. It always felt useless to me. If singing changed anything, they’d make it illegal.

They got tired of her songs after a few months. “Hang the bitch lest she continue to howl,” the European Union demanded of ASEAN, and then she was gone.

Nonetheless, I admired her gumption, and I still do. She saw through a different lense than I— She saw our society as something I’ve failed to see until now: a cruel, unforgiving place where we live on the bottom despite giving life to the top. 

“It’s fine,” I swallow what feels like a rock in my throat. “We’ll manage.”

“The loss is immeasurable, but so is the love left behind,” Finland pats me on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, America.”

And then I begin to weep.

I feel like a helpless child again, when I should not. I am fifteen. I am a man. I toil in the fields and work to feed my family. I do not cry. And yet? I sob. I wail. I latch myself onto Finland, who welcomes me with open arms. 

“Shhh…” he holds me tight, gently swaying side to side. “You have lost so much,” he validates.

I nod, sobbing into his raggedy work shirt.

“Trees lose all their leaves every autumn, like you’ve lost your brother. But trees still stand tall and wait for better days to come. Do the same.”

I nod again, hopeless. My sobs can be heard for miles, and it makes me look like a child, but I care not. There I stand in Finland’s arms, where I weep for a few moments longer before I pull away.

“There, there,” Finland hands me a handkerchief from his pocket. I take it, but I don’t wipe my face with it. I feel the fabric with my fingers, taking in the rough texture. It is grounding. Then Finland speaks again. He holds out his hand for me to take.

“Come.”

Chapter Text

“Pain is the parent of revolution,” Finland says as he leads me away from the cemetery. We trudge along the muddy ground beside the border wall. “It is pain we engage with as a motive, and it is pain we cycle into burning passion and desire.” 

There are still tears in my eyes, though I’ve pulled myself together some since I’ve cried into Finland’s shirt. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “You tell me this because?”

“Pain signals potential harm to the brain, and therefore, it attracts attention and motivates action, which brings change. This pain could be the falling domino that knocks the entire line down.”

I still understand not. “What line? What’s changing?”

Finland does not respond, instead lifting his booted foot to a crevice in the wall before hoisting himself up.

Crossing the border without permission is prohibited, punishable by death. A pang of fear rises in my chest. “Finland--”

“Come and look,” he takes my hand again. Despite my better judgement, allow him to guide me up to a cranny in the massive wall. 

My breath evades me. 

A city sprawls out before me, extending far beyond the eye. I thought the fields I toil in were large-- the city in front of me is massive. There are no visible people, which Finland says is because we are so far from the residential zone, but he explains that the city is heavily populated with Blues. 

I’ve never seen a Blue. I’ve seen Silvers in the nosebleeds of Gray’s Hall, but never Blues. 

“It is we who give life to the Blues and Silvers, and yet? We live in The Fields, while they live in the comfort of Sopson and Onioron--”

I have never heard such terms in my life. “What’s that?” I interrupt.

“The territories of Sriyla. We Grays live in The Fields, where we toil and slave away, whilst the Blues reside in the city of Sopson, and the Silvers live their lavish lives in the countryside of Onioron.”

I stand there, aghast.

“We stand starving amidst the wonders we make possible. Without our muscle and moxie, not a single table would have food on it, and not a single wheel would turn. We have it in our power to begin Society over again, yet we suffer under the brutal hand of the Silvers. Why?” Finland asks me.

“Why?” I manage through my astonishment.

“We’re blissfully unaware of the splendor we slave away for.”

I am infuriated. We toil, we work our fingers to the bone, we sweat blood-- to maintain the foundations of this empire we aren’t allowed to thrive in. I swallow.

“This… This is our land…” I hiss through my teeth, ruffled as dammit.

“Through our work it was made so,” Finland agrees. 

“What will it take to reclaim it?”

“Bloodshed.”

Chapter Text

Even a day later, I am still fuming.

Russia is the most out-of-pocket, impetuous and annoying bastard I know. Why I tolerate him, I’m unsure, especially after the offhand comment about my late wife. I would never wish harm on most people, but it is times like these that try my heart and make me wish more people understood how it feels to lose someone you love.  

I rise from my bed, slipping out from under the sheets and making my way to my closet. As I do so, I pause to uncap the marker on my dresser and to strike through today’s box. I stand there for a moment longer before I scribble “Resurrection??” on tomorrow’s date.

Have I any foggy idea what tomorrow is to bring to me? No. Am I afraid? Yes.

I fear what a week of repentance and compunction entails. I consider ringing up a friend to see what other folks know, but I throw the idea away upon the realization that I have no one to call.

Except Russia.

Fucking Christ. I grab my cellular off my nightstand, unplugging it before swiping my thumb across the home button. It reads my thumbprint and unlocks. My finger hovers over Russia’s contact for a hesitant second.

Give me patience, I think to myself as I press the button to call Russia. It takes a few rings, but Russia picks up.

“What?” His voice is thick with sleep.

“Hello, I just—“ I huff. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the Resurrection.”

“Mghhrgh...” Russia makes a guttural sound before speaking again. “Dead people come back. It’s weird.”

“What dead people?”

“Dead countries. Who else?” Russia titters through his grogginess. “…Can I go back to bed?”

“Yes, you may, sorry for wa—“ 

I’m cut off as he hangs up. I let out a small sigh, lowering my phone from my ear.

I change into my work clothes, a stained shirt and a pair of jeans, before I leave the room and make a beeline to my garage. On the way, I turn on a podcast, one I’ve been getting into lately. It’s a political podcast, and although I’ve never been one for politics, they make excellent points and provide many different perspectives. It’s by a woman and a man, both Blues, and the woman happens to also report for the local news.

This episode is about the whipping of the boy that happened a day or so back. As I work and listen, I am horrified to learn there is more to the story.

“—just to hang an eleven year old boy for a statement? I think not,” says the woman. “What do you think of it, China?”

“I think—“ the man pauses. “I think he had it coming to him. The Grays know when they step out of line that they should expect consequences, even the children. Even the young are no exception to Order.”

My eyebrows furrow. I can’t believe my ears— To defend the hanging of a child is unacceptable. Moral compass violated and frankly, disgusted, I want to pick up my phone to switch podcasts. Even still, I continue listening.

“This isn’t the first Gray the Silvers have hanged for nonviolent resistance. I belie—“

The man cuts her off. This is unlike the rest of their episodes, which are peaceful and without argument. 

“Don’t tell me you have sympathy for the Grays.”

I cringe. I feel the woman do the same through the phone.

“I haven’t any sympathy for anyone. All I’m saying is that the ruthless hanging of an eleven year old boy does not sit right with me.”

“You should watch what you say, especially on air.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“Don’t sympathize with Grays.”

I shut my phone off. This is too much for a Saturday morning.

Chapter Text

What I want is change, and I want it abruptly and without hesitation. I want a world where I can thrive in the country I helped build, where I can maintain the foundations of a society and participate in it at the same time. I want freedom, and I want justice. Not only for myself, but for my late brother, whose death will not be in vain. I want it for my people, who slave away in the fields to the rhythm of the beating rain, suffering in the heat and humidity.

“We’ll use the chaos of the Resurrection to our advantage and incite a riot. From there, we’ll sow the seeds of a revolution,” Finland tells me.

I am horrified at this sheer stupidity. 

“A rebellion would be squashed within days!” My eyebrows furrow. “Have you got a death wish? We’ll become the newest additions to the cemetery if we follow that plan. We need support from not only our fellow Grays, but from the Blues in the city. We need-- to show them the brutality of being a Gray.”

Finland is at first taken aback by my words, but he cracks a smile.

“...You’ll make an excellent revolutionary.”

The Chimes go off, signaling lights out. I begin to clamber down from the wall, only for Finland to grab my hand. My gaze lifts to meet his.

“Stay,” he asks me.

If we are to stay here any longer, the Silvers will find us and have us flogged for all to see. I want to show the Blues just how brutal the boots we lick can be, but not like this. 

“I can’t take another lashing just yet,” I slip my hand out from his hold, continuing down the wall. “Besides--” I call from down below. “The Resurrection is tomorrow. We mustn’t be without rest if we want to take advantage of it like you say.”

“Fair enough,” he looks to the city, then back to me. “I think I’ll stay a moment longer. You go on ahead.”

I make my way back to my home, where the rest of my family is already in bed, spare for Uncle Italy, who sleeps in the infirmary. The lights are out, and Australia never puts his boots by the door where they belong, so I nearly trip on the way to my bunk. My mother weeps in her own bunk, which is next to mine.

I fall asleep to my mother’s cries, and when I rise from bed the following morning, she is gone.

I slip into my boots and throw on some clothes, then go after my mother. I know exactly where she may be.

My mother’s thin, wiry frame hunches over Canada’s grave as she gently weeps. It is sprinkling rain. I imagine the skies have opened up to shed tears of remorse for the loss of such a young life. 

It pains me to watch my mother cry, and I sense she wants time alone, so I trudge back through the mud to Gray’s Hall. The rope they hanged my brother from still dangles from the gallows, long and fat, like a snake.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Uncle Spain greets me after swallowing a sip of his water. He sets his cup on the table. “Ready?”

I shrug, grabbing a roll from the center of the table and cramming it into my mouth. “Guess so,” I manage through my mouthful of bread.

The Chimes go off, but it is not the end of breakfast. A Silver, the same one that announced the Resurrection a day or so prior, comes forward at the stage at the front of the room. The entire dining hall is teeming with anticipation. I shift in my seat.

“Greetings and well wishes to the Grays of Sriyla,” the European Union greets us the same way he greeted us before. “It is my honor and pleasure to announce the beginning of the Resurrection! I hope you are ready to…” his nose crinkles and he squints. I cringe. “…learn.”

The returning of the deceased is not as dramatic as you would imagine. Yes, families are reunited, circles of friends meet once again and amends are made, but all is good and well. There is song and dance, as well as the sharing of our meager breakfast with the dead. 

My brother looks different from how he did when he was alive. He is still the lanky, ungraceful eleven year old boy I know and love, but he gives off a different air. I guess being beaten and hanged changes a man.

This seems not like a lesson, but like a gift. We are graced with the blessing of meeting our deceased relatives and family members, and we are exempt from work for a week. All is well.

Chapter Text

I am not where I am supposed to be. 

Instead of congregating in Gray’s Hall with the rest of my people, I stand in the entryway of the infirmary, counting ceiling boards. I know I said there are seventy-nine boards that make the ceiling of the infirmary, but do not be fooled. The infirmary is no large thing. The ceiling boards are all short and thin, and therefore, the infirmary is small. Luckily, we haven’t had many get sick this season, so space is not as much of a problem as you would imagine. 

Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight… My gaze flits over to the next row.

It is times like these when I feel so alone, especially after tragedies like the one of last night. A part of me died as I watched that boy dangle and dance in the air at the gallows, and although I want to say his death wasn’t for nothing, that he didn’t die in vain, I’m not positive I can say that and feel as though I have spoken the truth.

How do the Silvers sleep at night? How do they rest easy knowing they have beaten children bloody and robbed us of the lives of our loved ones? How does it feel to be child abusers, murderers, tyrants? These thoughts roar in my head as I try to focus on counting the boards.

Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one… There are footsteps from outside the still ajar door behind me. Despite the fleeting thought that it could be a Silver coming to find me, I do not turn to face the doorway. 

One moment I’m upright on my feet, and then the next I’ve hit the floorboards. A weight struggles on top of me as my chest sinks into the floor. There comes a searing hot agony in my back: deep, pressurized and repetitive motions in the meat of my shoulders that eventually make their way to my sides. Warmth pools beneath me, and I smell iron. I open my mouth to let out a scream, but nothing comes out. There is the squelching of something on wet wood, and then I am moving. I cannot see. There is darkness— then a moment of silence. 

I open my eyes to see a vast, blank expanse before me.

It can only be described as emptiness. It is a white, endless void, and I am lost in it. I feel as though I am floating, though I look down and see my feet are planted firmly on the ground. 

I turn around, and I see a desk with a human woman sitting at it. I scramble over to her, and as I do, her gaze flits up to meet mine through her round glasses.“Welcome. I’m Dea--” she begins, but I cut her off. 

“Where am I?” 

She frowns, then begins click-clacking away at her computer for a moment. She looks back at me. “…I’m Death’s receptionist,” she finally says. “How may I help you?”

“Dea--” My jaw hits the floor. 

“How may I help you?” she repeats, burning holes into me with her stare.

“I…” I swallow, shifting my weight from my left foot to my right.

“You?” 

“Where am I? What happened?” I inquire. 

“You’re in Ufetory. I assume by the sigils you come from The Fields, yes?” The woman is click-clacking away at her computer again. 

“The Fields?” I have never heard of such a thing.

She clicks her tongue patronizingly. “You’re a Gray, no?”

“...Yes. I am a Gray,” I say. I glance at the emptiness around me. There is nothing to be observed, other than the cold, white walls. There aren’t even any tile joints on the floor, for the ground seems to be a singular solid piece. “What happened to me?” I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.

“Dunno, I just work here,” she shrugs, not even looking at me as she speaks. 

I stand there as she continues to type at the computer. It is a few moments later when she suddenly rises from her swivel seat and gestures to the emptiness behind her. I approach her as she creaks open a door out of the nothingness of the void and swings her arm, motioning for me to enter first. I stand still, hesitant.

“Go on, it doesn’t bite,” she hums, though her tone reads impatient.

I duck into the doorway and skitter into the next room, if you could call the previous space a room. 

“Right this way, sir,” the woman guides me across the room, which is just as empty as the space we were just in. Her heels make a click-clack against the ground and for a moment, I wonder what the floor is made of. She points to a row of black chairs lined up beside each other, the only discernible part of this room. “Have a seat. She will be with you soon.”

“Who?” 

The woman has already disappeared out the door, where I assume she’s resumed her position behind the desk in the vast expanse outside.

Then I hear the yelling.

“Keep my name out of your thin fucking mouth, you scrawny motherfucker! If I wanted to kill myself, I’d tie your willowy neck into a knot and hang myself with it!”

Then comes a slam. I sink into the cushion of the seat. 

A door opens out of nowhere and out pops a little woman with a set of teeth only comparable to the Silvers back in Sriyla. They’re jagged and serrated, much like those of sharks I’ve heard of in stories from Italy. 

“Welcome!” she greets me. “You are Poland?”

“Yes,” I rise from my seat, approaching her. Surely, she must have an explanation for all this. “Where—“

Before I can finish my question, the little woman grabs me by the hand and practically drags me through the doorway into the next room, which is just as blank as the previous two. The beginnings of a headache form in my temples.

“Please, what is the meaning of this?” I beg as she plops me down into a chair in front of a mahogany desk.

“You’re in Ufetory, Poland,” she offers no elaboration, no explanation, no context. 

I swallow. “What happened to me?”

“You don’t know?” She sits in her own seat behind the desk and begins to fiddle with a pen. It clicks once, then twice, then thrice, and so forth…

“No, I know not. Please, fill me in,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“You’re in Ufetory!” 

I stare at her until she continues.

“…You’re dead,” she eventually says after a pregnant pause. She sighs. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t in the Chart— We didn’t see it coming, so there was nothing we could do—“

“Dead?” My heart sinks to the floor. “As in, deceased?”

“Yes, what else would I mean?” 

I frown. There we sit, silent as mice, until I speak again. 

“Can I go… back?” I lean forward apprehensively. Something tells me the answer is no, but I still ask. 

“No.”

At least I can say I tried.

“Well—“ she hums, bringing the pen to her mouth and tapping it against her lip. “There is a way. Perhaps something could be arranged.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. It’s up to the Chart.” 

“You’re kidding.”

“I am,” she throws me a wink. I cringe internally. “You need to do something to prove that you belong back in Sriyla, something to prove your worth.”

“And that is…?” I gesture for her to continue, but she shrugs.

“Dunno!” she smiles, revealing that set of shark teeth. “It’s up to you to decide.”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Bustling folks crowd the city streets, and as I look upon them from my place at the intersection, I wonder how I’ll cross the sea of Blues before me. It is a churning ocean of choppy, frigid waters, and I am a swimmer without a life vest. 

I have not left my house in ages. The outside world of Sopson feels foreign-- terrifying, even. I want to curl inside of myself like a turtle tucking into its shell. Instead, I set foot into the street, mentally preparing myself to embark on a hellish and hectic journey through the streets.

All of this for groceries. 

My car is left behind back in the Junction, where suburbia meets the city. Because traffic from the suburbs to the city is so horrendous, the Silvers called for the construction of several sprawling parking lots for folks to park their cars so they can walk into the city on foot.

The music of the city— indiscernible chatter amongst the Blues scrambling about, the drone of the engines from the cars in the streets, the whistles from the cops managing traffic— is discord and everything I hate. The grocery is only another half a block away. Half a block, I repeat in my mind. Half a block.

I come to the storefront and swing the door open to escape the excitement of the city streets. 

The inside of the store is much calmer than the adrenaline rush of the outside world. My fingers brush up against the tags stuck to the shelves as I walk down the aisles. I draw in a breath, then let it out.

“Hello!” a voice calls from across the aisle. “Is there anything I can assist you with today?” a person wearing a red shirt, the signature color of the store, asks me as I gaze at a row of cans of soup.

I freeze. There is no malice written on their face, and yet my heart is pounding a mile per minute. 

“…No?” I manage after a moment of stagnant silence.

“Very well, then,” they throw me a smile before turning to walk away. “Have a good day!” 

Then they’re down the next aisle, much to my relief. I let out a sharp exhale, gingerly raising a can from its spot on the shelf to read the printed label. It’s plain, ordinary, store-brand tomato soup. After I glance over it for a moment, I set it back down and continue on my merry way.

Blues can hold almost any job they so desire, spare for positions of great wealth or extreme power, like chief executive officer or administrator. We’re the meat of the Society— the engineers, like myself, the teachers, the receptionists, the store clerks, but even in Sopson, the city of Blues, Silvers hold the higher positions.

I mind this very little. It is only when I am faced with people outside of my own work when I think about my place in the Society. That is partly why I rarely leave the safety of my own home. I do not particularly enjoy contemplating my place.

Despite the fact it dictates the direction of our lives, the Society is scarcely discussed. I only hear of the Grays when they’ve stepped out of line or dallied and had a poor harvest, and I only know what I know of Silverhood because I work under a Silver. Even then, my knowledge is limited. I know not why we are segregated, and I know not why it is so unsafe to walk the roads of Onioron as a Blue.

My gaze flits up to a television hanging from a nook above. 

There I see the same woman I see every morning when I watch the daily forecast— a head full of black hair, brown eyes, and a red circle in the center of her white face. She also happens to be the woman in the podcast I listened to yesterday. 

My thoughts wander to the Saturday in my garage, when I listened to a man defend the hanging of an eleven year old boy. I swallow, suddenly overwhelmed with disgust.

“…I think he had it coming to him. The Grays know when they step out of line that they should expect consequences, even the children. Even the young are no exception to Order…” the man’s words ring in my head, echoing like an organ in a cathedral. 

Even the young are no exception to Order. 

What even is Order? We call the laws, rules and standards of the Society the Order, but is it really law? Or is it outright brutality? We Blues have certain standards set for us, and yet— the Silvers have not the same standards for themselves. We set the bar for the Silvers so low they could trip over it, and yet here they are, limbo dancing while we watch like fools. 

The woman’s gaze flits away from the camera for a moment to gesture to an image on the green screen. I grimace. It’s an image of the boy dangling, his brown hair caught midair and his arms tied behind his back. His legs kick as he struggles against the noose, and it is then when I realize this boy did not die immediately, as his neck didn’t snap when the trapdoor beneath him opened. He struggled like a fish flopping on the deck, gasping for water and drowning in the air. 

How can they show this shit on the news? Again, Order— Is it law? Or is it blatant disregard for the livelihood of others? Is it savagery? Is it relentless cruelty? I huff through my nose, turning away from the television. 

People make me sick.

Chapter Text

It rains.

The rain comes down in torrents, ceaseless and without mercy. Though it is heavy and infernal, we make it to the makeshift fire pit, which resides under the cover of a canopy, safely shielded from the merciless rain.

Mexico gives his guitar a tentative strum, then looks to his father, Uncle Spain, who nods for him to continue. A warm smile graces his lips as he begins the song he always opens his performances with. 

It is a song of our people, a song of turmoil and times that try our hearts, as well as a song of festive jubilation. Though it is joyful, there is no dance. We clap our hands to the beat, thumping our feet and singing along, but we do not dance. We are not allowed to dance to this song. We may sing it, and we may listen with grins creeping across our mouths, but we cannot move with rhythm. I used to think nothing of it, but since Canada’s death, I assume it is another demonstration of power: a law enforced not for safety’s sake, but to show us who is in control. 

My gaze flits to the folks singing around me, scanning for familiar faces. My mother has an arm looped over the shoulder of Canada, holding him flush to herself, as if she fears what will happen if she lets go. Uncle Spain stands beside Mexico, who strums his small guitar. The strings are uncut at the edges, so they curl, wiry and bent around the headstock of the instrument. I look to the fire.

Bright red-orange flames reach for the canopy above, though there isn’t enough trash in the garbage bin for the fire to climb to it and spread. It burns with a glow and moves, seemingly dancing to the music Mexico plays. Even if we can’t dance to this song, the fire will do it for us as we dance in spirit. 

The song concludes as Mexico mutes the final chord. Cheers erupt from the people around me and I smile. There’s a tap on my shoulder.

I whip around to see Finland. He silently motions for me to follow him, and without a word, I do so.

As he leads me away from the canopy, the rain abates some, coming down on us with less intensity and vigor. I spot a man standing underneath the protection of a looming tree. Finland and I join him.

“America,” the man, one of brawn, built tall and with the stature of a Silver greets me. “We meet.”

I blink, taken aback. “You know me?”

“I know of you. Finland spoke highly of you earlier,” his gaze is trained on mine, focused and unrelenting. I mask my nervousness behind a grin.

“Did he?”

“I did,” Finland pipes up from beside me. “America, meet Norway. He’s one of my brothers.”

Norway holds out his hand, which I gingerly take in my own and gently shake. He’s one of the Resurrected countries, I note in my head, so I’ve never seen him before. 

“He said you would help us change the world,” Norway smiles.

“Oh,” I chuckle sheepishly. “I’m— merely a snowflake within the expanse of a blizzard.”

“Even the strongest of blizzards begin with a single snowflake,” Norway tells me with a chuckle flowering at the edges of his voice. I flush.

“All this talk of me changing the world— It’s overwhelming,” I admit without thinking. I regret it as soon as the words escape my mouth, but instead of laughing at me, Finland smiles, warm and bright.

“The future will always seem overwhelming when you’re thinking about it all at once. We only have to take it one step at a time. Live day by day.”

I pause, silent for a moment, then after a beat, I nod. “That is true. I suppose you’re right there.”

“I know I am. Now, allow me to—“

“America!” My father’s voice yanks me from the conversation. I turn to the direction I heard my name from to see my father hobbling through the mud with his cane, waving a hand to me frantically. “Come to me! Now!”

I exchange an apologetic glance with Finland before I rush to meet my father. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Poland—“ my father begins. “—is dead. They found him face-down in the infirmary with several stab wounds in his back.”

My heart hits the floor and shatters. 

Chapter Text

The reunion with my father is nothing like I imagined it to be.

There are no hugs, no words of reconciliation, nothing of the sort. Ukraine vomits in the kitchen sink the second Father enters and then she darts off into her room. Belarus moves to go after her, but Father brings her to a grinding halt as he greets her.

“Belarus.”

“…Father.”

Silence. I shift my weight from my left foot to my right as the two stare each other down.

Belarus is half the reason Father was executed, and my Father knows it. Something much like bitter, resentful anger burns in his gaze. He stands tall, taller than I remember, and the blue sigils in his cheeks glisten under the kitchen lights. 

After a painstaking pause, Father turns to me. 

“Russia.”

I swallow. His piercing gaze unnerves me and I remind myself— I am my father’s son. I do not cry. There are things that pain cannot touch and my dignity is one of them. 

“Father,” I repeat Belarus, unsure how to greet this man. 

He extends his arm for me to shake his hand and I gawk, bug-eyed and rigid. His hand returns to his side, and then he folds his arms across his chest. My gaze flickers up to his face.

It’s as if I am staring into a limpid mirror, and in the reflection, I see cowardice and resentment. I see an unequivocal bastard and callousness, and I see petulance and disdain. I see a blubbering drunk-- a dogmatic cutthroat, a liar, an egoist who believes the sun shall rise and sink past the flushed horizon with his every command. I see astringent cynicism. I see hellfire overhead, climbing the walls like tendrils and lapping at the ceiling, incandescent and undying. The ceiling bows, succumbing to the flame as the realization strikes me like a sledgehammer to the face-- I did not miss this man. 

I am left reeling by this disturbing realization. I missed not the man before me, but the role he held in my life. I missed the comfort of the presence of my only parental figure. I missed having a father to idolize, to look up to, to throw up onto a pedestal and admire the traits that I wished he had. 

All those wasted years I’ve spent in turmoil over my father’s death, all those empty bottles I nursed to numb the ache, all those ugly words I lobbed at my siblings-- My malcontent was in vain. I hurt over a man whom I never truly loved, never truly knew, never truly understood. When Father insisted that I not cry when they called him to Order and hanged him, it was not because he wished me well, wished me not to feel pain, wished me to not process the loss. It was out of the callousness of his own heart. 

Something within me clicks. Burning tears well in my eyes, and suddenly, twenty years of searing hot, repressed anguish come forth from the depths of my viscera. I lift my gaze from my father to Belarus, and before I can make an even greater fool of myself, I rush out of the kitchen. 

My legs carry me to my room and I throw the door open. My body moves with sharp, near-robotic and jerking movements as I rummage through a drawer, searching for something.

I know what I’m doing. I know what I’m about to do is downright vile, downright disgusting, downright reprehensible, and yet? I continue.

I make my way down the hall, avoiding the kitchen as I go to Ukraine’s room, where without even knocking, I barge in and brandish the gun before myself. 

A scream. A gunshot. A thud. 

There’s frantic footsteps from down the hall. There’s bewildered shouting, cries of confusion and fear. I blink, look to the gun in my hand, then to my sister on the floor. A rich, deep pool of crimson grows around her. I blink again. 

I feel my breath course through my lungs, feel my heart thud inside my chest, feel my blood rush from my head to my toes and then to my head again. I feel all these physical sensations, though I feel nothing in my head, in my heart, in my gut. I am numb.

I turn the gun on myself. Another gunshot pierces the air. 

Chapter Text

The man at my doorstep has a familiar face, though I could swear I’ve never met him before in my life. 

He stands at a not-so-grand five feet, and he just barely meets my shoulder. He dons a trenchcoat, despite the hot weather, and it cascades down to his knees, hugging his frame at the torso and folding sharply at shoulders.

“Greetings,” he hums to me.

His voice is slick, silken with oil, though it rubs me the wrong way. There’s something so strikingly familiar about it, about his voice, about him, and yet? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Thoroughly unsettled, I frown.

“Who— are you?” 

“Surely, you remember me!” 

I shake my head. “I am afraid not.”

“Ah, I see. So it goes. I might shed a tear. After all, crying is the nosebleed of the heart.”

“Wh—“ he cuts me off.

“I can’t help but feel— this waking sense of betrayal. As you opened your mouth to partake in my fruit, you’ve bitten the hand that feeds, for perhaps the meal I provided was insubstantial. You are my kin. My flesh and my blood and my bone— And yet you stood to rend me from yourself like rancid meat from one's bones,” he sighs, extending an arm out to prop himself up against the column of my porch. “How could you have forgotten your own father?”

I go stiff. “…I beg your pardon?”

“Beg,” the man hisses. “You beg my pardon. You don’t want any pardon from me— You’ve thrown me down a grimy well for me to rot. I rest with the maggots and flies, savagely contorted with decay. Torture me a moment longer, would you?”

“I’m sorry, sir, could— Did you say you were my—?”

He cuts me off once more.

“To torture me like this is to show no respect to the man who gave you life. If not for myself, you wouldn’t stand here today. You rive me. You wrench my heart into pieces to chuck across the ground. You spit and stomp on the remains like a man putting out a fire, but you will not stifle my flames. I am undying and effulgent, lucent with the vitality of a thousand suns. I am the epitome of recalcitrance and your disrespect towards me is almost laughable. I will not sta--!”

“You’re my father?!” I cut him short.

“—and… What? Yes, didn’t I say so?” He stares at me, patronizing. “You should pay better attention, Germany.”

I blink. “You’re fooling me.”

“I am not,” he says. “I am many things, but a liar is not one of them.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I narrow my eyes with a squint. “I do not believe you.”

“I care not what you believe, for I know our truth. Your opinion is mere to me. I come to you not seeking your belief, but seeking refuge. Would you be so kind as to allow me to reside inside your house for the week?”

“Absolutely not!” I nearly spit. “I don’t know you!”

“Rest assured that you know me. I—“ 

“Prove it,” I interrupt the man before me.

“What shall I do to plead my good will, to show you I am warmth, to prove I am your father?”

I shrug. “Up to you.”

“One moment, if you will,” he holds up a finger, then rummages through a pocket within the interior of his trench coat. 

We stand on my porch a few moments longer and as I move to slam the door in his face, he whips out a small paper, his movements swift, and holds it out in front of me.

Breath eludes me. My chest tightens and my gaze flickers from the paper he holds out to me in his hands— which is really a photograph— to his face, and then back to the photograph.

Within the photograph, clear as day, is a baby me within the hands of the man on my porch.

Chapter Text

Even Death has a heart.

This I know for certain. She gave me a chance to prove I am equipped to return home, and she allowed me to not begin life anew, but to return to how it once was. For this, I am so thankful. Not even the greatest of poets could begin to describe my gratitude. 

My appreciation extends beyond that— Death even took it upon herself to reserve me a space to stay in Ufetory while I work on proving myself to the Chart. My little area is not much, but it’s better than the so-called room I first awoke in. It’s furnished with pieces of furniture I’ve never seen before-- I sit on a cushioned couch instead of a bench and I watch television instead of counting ceiling boards. I reheat food from the food court in something called a microwave. It is something foreign, but the new things I encounter are mostly welcome. 

As I dine in the food court, I am introduced to a variety of foods. I am shocked— startled, even— at the textures and flavors that exist. There is so much beyond bread, meat and the vegetables we grow in the fields. It leaves me bewildered and overwhelmed, I will admit, but the new experiences aren’t inherently unpleasant. 

I see many people, all of which are— brace yourself— Blues.

It’s been a jarring adjustment to see Blues, and to see so many of them at once leaves my head reeling. They bustle about the food court, either operating the shops or purchasing food. Discordant chatter fills the court. I spend my meals by myself, and when I finish, I return to my room to rest in solitude. 

The most difficult part of this whole ordeal hasn't been the new technology or the food or the staggering number of Blues rushing to and fro— It’s been the isolation. I spend my days alone, without a friend to turn to. Knowing that I died and not knowing how I did is a burdensome weight to shoulder. I have no one to borrow wise words from, to shoulder the responsibility with me, to simply enjoy the company of. I haven’t even spoken to Death since that meeting in her office. My world turned to hell in a matter of seconds only a week ago, and yet? It seems as though it’s been ages.

Even still, I am thankful for a chance to go back to my home. Hope is not my favorite plan, but it catches you when you stumble during hard times. There’s no magic in it, but when you use hope to engage with pain as a motive and bring about change, it is almost magical. 

My pondering of hope and loneliness is interrupted as there comes a tap on the table I’m seated at. My gaze flits up to a man standing before me, and I blink. 

“May I sit here?” he asks me.

I look to the tables around myself, note that they are all occupied, then nod. “You may.”

Without thanking me, the man huffs and plops into the chair. After a moment of quiet between us, I speak. 

“I’m Poland. And you?” 

The man gives me a brief stare, blank, and then finally tells me his name. “Russia,” he says.

“What brings you here?” I ask him.

Another pause. “Death, I suppose.”

I let out an awkward chuckle, unsure how to respond, but to end this conversation would hurt more than to continue engaging in it. I need this social interaction more than I need air. 

“Ditto,” I say. 

Silence. Pitiful silence.

“How long have you been here?” My voice wavers.

“Just came in. And you?”

“A while.”

“Damn. How come?” he leans back in his seat, rapping his fingers against the table. 

I haven’t the faintest idea where to begin-- As much as I don’t want to pour my heart out to this stranger, I need to tell someone, share the stress, lift the burden. And so? I do. 

“I haven’t-- I need to prove myself to go back. Something happened, I don’t know what, and I wound up here without a plan other than hope.”

“So you’re stuck?” Russia breathes out a condescending titter. “Sucks to suck, does it not?”

I frown. “There isn’t a need to be rude--”

“Oh, I am sure it sucks to suck. When I think I’ve got it bad, I take a look at some pitiful fellow who has it worse than myself, and I thank fate that I am not him. That is why I do not worry, and I do not fret,” Russia smiles, derisive. “Yes, I am dead, and I have answered to Death, who is not as merciful as the folks whom I lived with in Sopson, but I am not you. And that— is good enough for me.”

His voice dances across the tabletop, hops up onto my hand resting on the table to climb up my arm, and then strikes me right across the face. I huff.

Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength. It masks insecurity behind layers of bitterness and resentment, but to one who sees rudeness for what it is, the insecurity stands in broad daylight. That is why this man’s words leave me only somewhat miffed. Indeed, his voice grates my eardrums and tramples my nerves, but deep down, I see— this man has felt great pain, and has subconsciously taken it upon himself to show the world the same treatment fate gave him. 

“Thank fate that we are not each other,” I shrug. “Fate gives us only what it knows we can handle. Had I been given your problems, I would suffer tenfold, and the same goes for yourself. You could not handle my predicament, as I could not handle yours.”

“All this wise-talk and you can’t get yourself out of the rut you’ve found yourself in,” Russia clicks his tongue. “I expect nothing less from a Gray.”

“What does my Color have to do with anything?”

Russia looks away. 

“Well,” I rise from my seat, extending a hand for him to shake. He ignores it for a moment, then gives it a ginger shake. “I’m on the fourth floor, in the room closest to the elevator. Feel free to stop by anytime. I could use the company.”

I walk off.

Chapter Text

Poland said I was brave.

As he dressed the wounds of my back that night in the infirmary, rinsing the blood from the gnarled flesh and applying antibiotics, he told me I was brave. I thought nothing of it— simply because I did not feel brave. I still don’t. 

Whether or not I believe I am brave matters not. That is not the point of my contemplation. What matters is that Poland believed I was brave. I left an impact on him with my actions, and he left an impact on me with his own. The difference is that he had to die for me to see the footprints he left. 

Those footprints he left inside my heart, inside my head, inside my gut— They make up winding a trail that climbs up the side of a steep mountain— and they spiral down, down, down the other side and lead into a sprawling field, where flowers blossom and shrubs flourish. Trees stretch to the sky in the distant lands past the field, their gangly limbs reaching up, up, up into the blue expanse above. His mark left behind, his impact, his reverberation is all things gorgeous and only comparable to the natural splendor of wildlife and nature. 

As two men lower Poland into his grave, a hand clamps down onto my shoulder and I jump.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Finland apologizes. He pats the shoulder he grabbed, which I’m sure is supposed to be soothing. “How are you faring?”

“Not great,” I admit. 

“As expected,” he nods. “You knew him, yes?”

I shrug. “Somewhat. He dressed my wounds. He said I was brave.”

“Mhm,” Finland looks to the sky. “You are.”

“I think not. I am beyond petrified,” I say, lighthearted and not expecting much of a response. Alas, Finland responds.

“Bravery is not a lack of fear, but the choice to keep going or to do the right thing, even when you are afraid.”

“What right thing is there to do? What am I to keep going at?” I sigh. “I am so tired of trying to make sense of such unspeakable losses. I am so tired, so tired.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again— The loss is immeasurable, but so is the love left behind.”

“Yes, but because they are both immeasurable, the love cannot outweigh the loss,” I spit bitterly. I mean not to speak so venomously, but I still do. Finland blinks.

“Then make it so it can.”

Make the love outweigh the loss. How does one do that? Finland answers my unspoken question himself.

“Do you remember what I told you after your brother died?” He asks me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Pain is a catalyst for change. It is pain we engage with as a motive and cycle into passion, into burning, strong-flowing currents of desire,” he then asks me to clench my hand into a fist.

“What for?”

“Go on. You’ll see.”

I do as he asks of me.

“Your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. Ones fist brings pain when swung and the heart is a symbol of love. They are the same size, and thus, they cannot outweigh one another. I think it is time we change the paradigm.”

“So much has to change,” I say, unsure. “Will I have to change, too?”

“Grief does not change a man, America. It shows him the strength he already had.”

Chapter Text

Grief is evil.

It yanks me by the reins and drags me every which way, except for the correct direction, and when it is finished, it throws me into the street. As I crawl away, it stomps my face into the curb and sends my teeth across the asphalt. Here I am, now, still picking up my molars to put them back into my face.

As I cram my teeth back into my mouth, one by one, grief looms over me, watching and judging my every move. To escape grief and its grueling stare, I clambered into Death’s lap and took Ukraine with me. 

Ukraine. I killed Ukraine. 

To be frank, I still don’t know why I killed her. It was an act of animalistic impulse— just like my suicide, except I know why I blew my brains out and left my body on Ukraine’s bedroom floor for my father and Belarus to find.

What was my reasoning, you ask? There was no reasoning, per se, but rather a visceral urge, and when I face an urge as seductive and compelling as that one I had that night, there is no resisting. It was a matter of lack of forethought and lack of self-control— but it was also a matter of self-preservation. To remain in that position a moment longer would’ve been another form of suicide: the suicide of my dignity. 

There are things pain cannot touch, and my dignity is one of them. This I remind myself as I lay in bed in my small, lonesome hotel-like room in Ufetory, staring off at the ceiling and pondering my predicament.

Grief is evil, but Death is persistent. She insisted I go back. Alas, I refused to sign the consent form, and thus, here I remain in Ufetory, where I suppose I’ll stay forever, or until I’m forced home. Either way, I’m likely to stay here for a long time— and if I’m forced to go home, I’ll just kill myself again. 

She, Death, insisted I return home to face the consequences of murdering Ukraine. That is not why I refused to sign the consent forms. To return home and face my father, the man who I once idolized and put upon a pedestal, the man I tore myself apart over— would be such a shame. I cannot face him, especially not after what I did. 

I did something vile. I did something downright repugnant, and anyone with the slightest of moral uprightness would sink in shame at the acknowledgment of my actions. I did something disgusting, and now, I feel disgusting. 

Do not be fooled. I feel no remorse. Remorse is something I’ve never felt. Do I have regrets as to where my actions led me? I do, yes, but remorse is not a regret over subsequent consequences. It is a regret over motive. I had no motive— other than self-preservation, and I couldn’t bring myself to regret saving my own ass even if I wanted to. 

Grief is evil, Death is persistent, and disgust? Disgust is a narcissist. 

Disgust is so self-indulgent and self-referential. It rattles on and on about itself, its words ringing inside the cavern of your skull until you can’t take it any longer. It squeals like a trolley wheel when provoked and rages like a hurricane when criticized. It is the epitome of impetuous and explosive. 

I need someone to throw all these thoughts at. I need an ear to listen— not a shoulder to cry on, no. I am still my father’s son. I do not cry. 

I rise from bed, haphazardly kicking off the sheets before tugging my shoes back on. Fourth floor, the room closest to the elevator, I remind myself.

I take the elevator down from the sixth floor to the fourth, and then when I step out into the hallway, my gaze flits up to the first door I see.

I raise my fist to the door, hesitant. After a beat, I knock.

Despite it being such an ungodly hour at night, he comes to the door almost straight away. I nod at him as we lock eyes.

“You came to me,” Poland’s lips curl at the corners, delighted. “What brings you here?”

“Death, I suppose.”

Chapter Text

The man who once stood on my porch now stands in my kitchen, rummaging through my fridge as I stand off to the side, gawking like a fool.

“Well, haven’t you got a wife? This house is awfully empty,” he says, spreading mayonnaise across a slice of bread. His gaze flits up to meet mine when I don’t answer. “What?”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” is all I say.

“Ho, ho, ho!” The man cracks a wry grin. “Denying me the answer— is the answer of a homosexual.”

“I’m not—“

“Surely, you must be, if you haven’t got a wife yet! Believe me, Germany, this is not the life you want to lead. When you are old and gray and beyond your days, will you look back on your past— a life without the warmth of a woman— and feel graced with pride? Tell me. Do—”

“I—“

“—you resent the agony of repressed heterosexuality? Or do you enjoy it? Is there a sick satisfaction achieved by these means? You are a washing machine, frothing with not bleach or detergent, but rather blood. Scalding hot blood flows throughout the network, the myriad of canals that make up your circulatory system. Your vessel is a warm, frothy drum, spinning and forever churning, washing clothes with ick and muck and all things disgusting. You’ve disowned your heterosexuality. To say I’m disappointed— would be an understatement.”

“Do you ever quit your rattling?!” I seethe. “You speak and you speak! You talk my ears off! How much could one man need to say?!”

“Ah, I see. I’ve hit a nerve,” the man leans against the counter, propping himself up against the edge of the granite. He takes a bite of his sandwich and I watch him chew, take his sweet time, and then swallow. “You truly are a homosexual.”

“My wife is dead!”

Silence.

I stand there, fists clenched and teeth gritted, teeming and shaking with rage. Before I can think to speak once more, he opens his pretentious mouth and gets going again. 

“Dead wife… A dead wife. I am relieved. To think my son to be a homosexual? Unspeakable. Now, your late wife’s passing is unfortunate, though I’d say it is preferable to the alternative. How did your wife die? A car accident?

“As I said, I am unwilling to disclose such information—“

“Ah, yes, a car accident. And you were the driver! In your frail mind, you retell the tale to yourself in the late hours of the night, dolefully wishing you’d done something differently— You swerved to avoid a deer, perhaps? And as you swerved, you barreled into an oncoming semi, killing your wife instantly!”

“No!”

“She was pronounced dead at the scene. A tragic and untimely demise, if I do say so myself—“

“The Silvers hanged her!” 

He raises a brow. “Ah. Hanged. For what?”

“None of your—!”

“Murder? Theft? Parking violation?” the man pries. “Don’t tell me you courted a criminal. I fear the worst of you, Germany.”

“She— No! She wasn’t a criminal!” I cry. “I lost her to the Inter Act!”

“Ah, the Inter Act,” he hums, tilting his head with a squint. “I beg you, remind me what that is?”

“You— What? You don’t know?”

“I know not,” he deadpans. “I died sometime in the eighties. Is this something that came around after my death?”

“…How old was I when you died?”

“Four. You were four. Barely older than a toddler.”

“How?”

“How what?” he blinks.

I hesitate. “…How did you die?”

“Why, I’d say it is none of your business. Quite foul to ask me such a thing, Germany,” he sneers at me.

I frown. “You’re one to talk.”

“Your business is my business, Germany. I am your father. You are my son. My, oh, we have so much catching up to do! Tell me, what happened after I traded my mortal vessel for that of something greater?”

“I…” I pause. “I know not.”

The man folds his arms across his chest, setting his sandwich down onto the counter. “You know not? How could a man forget his childhood? You’re fooling me. No more funny business. Come on, who raised you?”

“I don’t know!” 

“Lies! I will not tolerate such disrespect and lack of reverence in my household!” He hisses, jabbing at me with his finger. “Answer me!”

There comes a sharp, searing pain in my sternum, and it shoots down past my chest to fire into my gut, where it festers. Before I can stop myself, I am choking on tears. 

“Oh, cry me an ocean! Shed me a sea! I offer you nothing but resentment. When you are finished, may you drown yourself in the sea you’ve wept for me,” his words, abrasive and bitter, fuel my tears. “And if you struggle to throw yourself into the churning waves, I shall hold you under!”

I turn away, wiping my flushed face with the back of my hand. Sobs wrack my furled frame as I weep. I shed him a sea; I cry him an ocean. I am drowning in the lurching, choppy waters, and I didn’t even have to throw myself in. The tide rose and swept me away, dragging me under. My head is below the surface and I am sinking. I succumb to the sea as it drags me to my demise.

He grabs my arm, yanking me towards himself. I struggle against him for a moment, and because he is so much smaller than I, I manage to shove him away. He stumbles back a pace, then hits the counter. 

“Go back from whence you came!” I roar at this vile figure in my kitchen.

Reeling, he pulls himself up off the ground and shoots me a look before rushing out of the kitchen. I follow him to the front door, where he races out of my house and goes down, down, down the street and disappears. 

Shaking, I lift my gaze from where he once stood at the intersection and stare down at my feet. 

And then I weep.

Chapter Text

Growing pains are a constituent part of growth. Without pain, there can be no gain.

This I tell Russia after he spills his story to me: a tale of self-sustentation and living in a past that never existed.

“I can’t go back. It’s not that easy--” he hisses.

“I never said it was easy,” I say gently. “I said it was vital.”

“Vital or not, I can’t go back. There is no going back. Admitting he isn’t who I believed him to be--” Russia pauses, staring down at the carpeted floor of my room. I wait. “...It feels like giving up what little there is left.”

“It’s not giving up, Russia. It’s growing up.”

Russia’s gaze meets mine for a fleeting moment before flickering back to the ground. He shifts in his seat at the foot of my bed. “Sure. Growing up fucking sucks, then.”

I look him in the face and his eyes meet mine again, but only for a second. I clear my throat.

“The pain of growth-- is nothing compared to the agony of staying stuck in the past,” I tell him. “You have outgrown this reality you’ve constructed for yourself. Stop trying to hold it together. Break free.”

“I need to preserve what is left,” Russia says with no hesitation.

“Left of what?”

There is a moment of astringent silence before he speaks.

“Myself. I am plagued with-- a visceral and poignant emotion like no other I’ve felt before. It carries the weight of grief and the burden of murder. I understand little of it: only the way it aches, how it seeps from the depths of my chest, and how keen it is, but not what it begs to express,” he blinks between words. “I do not know how I feel.”

“Guilt?” I offer.

“Absolutely not,” Russia objects as soon as the word leaves my mouth. “Guilt is weakness.”

“Guilt is human,” I respond. My voice is firm, but does not carry the anger that Russia’s does. “You, Russia, even underneath that cruelty you wear like a second skin, are human. Allow your humanity to flow. It is strength, not weakness.”

“But… I fear guilt.”

His confession raises my brow. “How come?”

“I… I can’t…” he grapples with language as expression eludes him. After a moment of stammering, he puts briefly, “My actions have been nothing but wicked.”

“There is always a chance to rectify what you’ve taken, Russia,” I assure him. “If you feel as though you’ve been wicked, make it so you are wicked no longer.”

“How?”

“Consider returning home. Face the consequences of your actions and take any punishment deemed appropriate. When you can, apologize, but do not expect forgiveness. It is earned, not given.”

There is another pause, and after a beat, Russia buries his head in his hands.

“I’ll have to start over,” his voice is weak.

“We go away so we can return, so we can see the place from whence we came with a new gaze, and so the people who saw us leave may see us differently. Coming back to where you began is not always the same as starting over,” I contend, scooting forward some. Gently, I bring a hand to his shoulder. He stiffens under my touch, but soon accepts it. 

“You are too patient with me,” is all he says.

“Hating a man does not make him less angry,” I reply.

Russia collects himself on the foot of my bed for a moment. To my surprise, he does not shake my hand from his shoulder. We sit in silence for a few moments before Russia hooks a loose arm around my shoulder and gives a brief, ginger squeeze.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Poland’s death is the final nail in the coffin for my patience. I order Finland to arrange a meeting between ourselves and anyone he trusts, which he does with enthusiasm. 

“There’s no knowing exactly where we are going,” I say to a handful of Grays standing before me. Most, if not all-- of the faces in the small group are unfamiliar, being Resurrected friends and kin of Finland. Finland stands at my side, beaming. “But I know we are not staying put. This is no way to live.”

Our assembly behind Gray’s Hall goes smoothly, for there are no watchful eyes in a place we are assumed to not gather at. Everyone seems to agree with my loose plan, but when I announce that I am open for questions at the end of my pitch, every hand before me shoots up in the air. I acknowledge Norway’s hand in the front row as my chest tightens.

“What if we are caught?”

I pause for a moment, then I speak. “Then we are caught.”

Silence.

“I cannot say what our future holds, other than change. I guarantee not an uprising, but a chance at one,” I continue. “If we are caught entering the city of Blues, then we’re caught and punished. If we are alive after said punishment, then we may try a different plan. As long as I breathe, I will keep fighting. What I ask is that you fight with me.”

Soft murmurs rise from the small crowd as the attendees chatter amongst themselves. Finland steps forward, raising his hands into the air. 

“You’ve heard us. Now, do you stand with us?” he asks them. I tense.

A variety of responses erupt from the gathering. Most are doubtful and even worrisome, but a woman at the front, near Norway, steps forward with a grin. I realize her identity when Finland cracks a smile at her.

“I stand with you!” Estonia’s shout lifts the spirits of the rest of the folks gathered around, and soon enough, various exclamations of loyalty and jubilance ensue. My heart soars as a smile dares to toy my lips. That smile only grows as more and more voices speak up in agreement, and soon, a face I recognize comes forth from the back of the crowd. It is my younger brother, Resurrected and donning a determined grin.

“Where do we go from here, Ame?” His nickname for me warms my cheeks.

I am unable to respond over the excited chatter of the crowd. Finland shushes them so I may speak.

“We must decide who goes into the city. I elect Finland to be among them,” I announce, motioning to Finland, who brightens at the idea. With a smile so wide it must hurt his face, he thanks me. I nod at him in acknowledgement, sharing his smile.

“And you, Estonia,” I add. “You hold yourself upright with such credence. Paired with Finland, you can take on whatever lies ahead. And Norway, you--!”

“Surely, you haven’t forgotten yourself!” Estonia ascertains. “You cannot exclude yourself from such an exhibition.”

Several other voices pipe up in agreement. I go stiff.

“You…” I swallow. “You believe so?”

“Your wit and gumption granted us this opportunity in the first place, America. I’m honored by your desire to send me into the city, but I must say--” Norway clears his throat. “There is no rebellion without you. Come with us.”

My heart stutters within my chest. As my gaze flits over the gathering ahead of me, I swallow and adjust my posture. That smile from earlier has hardened into something worried, but as I see the faith my fellow Grays have entrusted me with, my lips curl back up.

“Very well, then. I will join you.”

Cheers expel from my people and I swell with pride. Canada claps me on the back, to which I respond by drawing him close and giving him a heartfelt squeeze. His laugh graces my ears.

“Come! Sopson awaits!” I release Canada, gesturing for those I selected to follow along.

Off to the border we go. We dart through mushy, muddy land towards the wall where Finland first revealed Sopson to me mere days ago, and when we make it there, we hunch over as we gasp and heave for breath. Giddy, I tingle with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. My stare flickers over each member of our party before it comes to an abrupt halt at my brother, who I realize followed us here.

“May I…?” he starts, but Norway cuts him off.

“Absolutely not,” Norway shakes his head, to which Finland nods in agreement. I stand there, unsure. Fortunately, Estonia speaks before I make a fool of myself.

“He’s just as determined as the rest of us, if not more. Allow him along,” she smiles wide, her voice firm and her stance adamant.

I repress a sigh of relief, looking to Finland and Norway before turning to my brother. “You may.”

“America--” Finland urges me, but I shut him down.

“You heard Estonia,” I smile, taking Canada’s hand in my own. “He comes with us. With his gut and bravery, we can make it even further. Come, Canada. Over the wall.”

Finland looks to Norway, who does not meet his stare. Instead, he comes forward to assist me in getting Canada up into the cranny above. We work together to get the whole party into the crevice, and once we are all gathered within the cut of stone, we gaze in awe at the city outspread before us. 

It is appalling what splendor we have been denied for so long. Soon enough, I reassure myself, it will be ours. We will thrive in the world we made possible. Freedom awaits.

Chapter Text

Guilt is human. 

It yanks me by the reins and drags me every which way, but I will allow it to do so. It will tear me up as it drags me to hell and back, but in the end, it will take me somewhere I belong. It will guide me-- rather roughly, yes-- and it will hurt, but after what I’ve done, I need to hurt. Pain is a catalyst for change and it is pain we engage with as a motive, cycling it into impassioned desire. Pain changes the most stubborn of men, and I need to change.

I am greeted by searing light.

It scorches my retinas, scalding and blinding my eyes. I blink as rapidly as my weak, struggling body allows, and as my eyes adjust to the light, my vision clears some. 

My head throbs. Horrid agony weighs my body down, like lead. Gradually coming to my senses, I pick up a faint chime from somewhere beside me. I spot a figure to my left, hunched over a few feet away. I blink more, willing myself to move, to speak, to act and to come to reality.

A chesty cough wracks my frame and utter excruciation sets my body aflame.

The figure to my side jolts upright at my cough. I struggle to lift my head and gain a greater bearing of my surroundings, only to give in to the agony and allow my head to drop back against something soft underneath-- My foggy mind somehow connects the dots and I assume it to be a pillow.

“Russia?” 

A chill shakes me to the core. My heart skips a beat inside my chest as a realization strikes me across the face-- I know this figure. I grapple with my own thoughts for a moment longer before the figure speaks again.

“Russia!” 

I cough again, and as I do, my body trembles with terrible, wrenching misery. My eyes fly open, further than they opened before, and reality slams me in the gut.

My act of self-preservation, the animalistic impulse I acted upon with no regard for the outcome, the terrible and utter deed of destruction that ended the life of my sister and myself-- It all comes back to me. Waves of something akin to the supposed “guilt” I described to Poland previously wash over me as I raise a trembling hand up to my face.

“Oh, my god. Fuck, oh, fuck!” The voice from a second ago, which I now assume belongs to Belarus, violates my eardrums. I don’t have the energy to snap at her. Instead, I groan.

Belarus rushes out of the room and returns with a woman dressed in scrubs. I rub my aching face, only to wince and moan as the pain only grows. 

The entirety of my head feels as though it's on fire. Engulfed in suffering, I bite back tears and bleats of anguish. Belarus, however, does not contain herself.

“Can you hear me? Russia!” She manages between cries. Somehow, I cringe further.

“I…” I furrow my brows. More pain shoots up my face. “...Hurt.”

A moment passes where I hear nothing but Belarus’ cries and hurried shuffling. 

“Administering morphine,” says the woman in scrubs. Something cold rushes up my right arm and I emit yet another sound. 

“Russia, fuck, I’m so sorry--” Belarus sobs, standing at my bedside. Her hands are clasped together at her chest, and although my vision is still blurry, I can make out the shape of her hair and basic facial features. If I squint, I can see her sigils rested upon her cheekbones.

I turn my head some, only to regret it and allow my head to remain in place. “No… “ I murmur.

Belarus leans in. Her facial features become more apparent as she does so. Her face is flushed and tearstained, beyond inflamed with her crying. Part of me is irritated, whereas the majority of me feels that feeling that has hung heavy over me for the past few days, the feeling that I have refused to fully acknowledge-- Guilt, I force myself to say in my head.

The word feels too heavy in my thoughts. Guilt is human, I remind myself. Poland’s words ring within me as I conjure up a sentence to verbalize. Apologize when you can, he says in my mind. I have to say something before it’s too late.

“I… I--” I grunt, squeezing my eyes shut for a second before forcing them back open. The lights are still so bright. “...No.”

Belarus sniffles, tilting her head. “No, what?”

“I’m…” There we go. Halfway there. Two more syllables.

More silence. My body cries in agony.

“S--... Sorry--”

Not a word leaves Belarus’ mouth as she stares at me, her expression unreadable. I panic for a moment and the chiming in the background picks up speed. Belarus looks to the source of the chiming-- a heart monitor, I now realize-- then back to me. 

She doesn’t acknowledge my attempt at an apology, stunned beyond belief. Something within me sinks.

“You… Fuck. I thought you were-- gone. Fuck, fuck…” She starts to weep again. This time, my gut reaction is less frustration and more of that feeling I hate so deeply. Guilt, I tell myself again. Guilt is human.

Something hot wells in my eyes. I blink it back, only for it to return, to my shame. A monstrous surge of that feeling rises in my chest with a brute force like no other, and with it, a garbled tumbleweed of sordid, horrible anguish rakes across the expanse of my mind. Before I can think to restrain myself, words come forth from my mouth.

“I-- I… Sorry…” 

My sentence is meager, but even still, it drains me to say and instead of continuing my efforts to speak, I shut my mouth and allow myself to weep. I shed my skin of cruelty, leaving my humanity vulnerable and bare for Belarus to lay her eyes upon. No matter the agony it bestows, guilt is human. It is so unbearably human. It is raw and poignant-- Freedom from guilt and the agony it causes is a spur for change, and to escape its iron fist, I must change. 

“Save your strength, Russia. I have to go call Ukraine,” Belarus tells me as she wipes her eyes and picks her bag up off the floor. The last I hear of her as she walks out is a faint sniffle.

Her words are a blow to my gut. A gruesome image of Ukraine collapsed upon her bedroom floor, heaving and bleeding out in a terrible sea of red-- It plays in my mind, but only for a fleeting moment, until a much worse reality hits me.

A sick, acrid taste fills my mouth and suddenly, I swallow down a mouthful of bile. I shot Ukraine, yes, but I did not kill her. 

My guilt is immeasurable.