Operation Red Herring (Countryhumans Alternate History)

Chapter 1

"War is what happens when language fails." - Maragret Atwood

Date: November, 1940

Great Britain paced across the room for the thirteenth time, an anxious frown twisted onto his normal calm face. He was not usually one to pace- not really one to move unnecessarily at all, really. Fidgeting was unbecoming, and restlessness was not an emotion he often felt. Yet, here he was, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, waiting for a singular person to show up. Correction: A singular country. Maybe it's because he did feel like one, not that he would ever admit that aloud.

Speaking of waiting for a country, Great Britain, or technically the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (if one were to formally address him), was at his wits end.

"What the hell is taking her so long?" He muttered, glancing at the door. He stood inside the White House, in a room that wasn't white. It had a light green carpet, and walls that seemed white to an untrained eye. However, Britain's eyes were trained, and he could tell it was more of a cream color than a white (France would've been able to be more specific, given her love of painting in general). France. The thought of her sent another wave of anxious energy through the union. How long had it been since she had finally succumbed to the demon? Years? Decades? No. It had only been about seven months. Seven months since his closest ally had been taken down. Seven months he had been fighting virtually alone. Seven months wasn't a lot: Only about 153 days. Britain had fought longer wars on his own before. Yet, here he was, seven months after being left alone, desperately attempting to recruit an ally.

He regretted not pushing for this sooner. It would've been easier to convince the young nation to join the cause if France had been there. The two had an infinitely better relationship than he had with his daughter. She probably would've been able to convince her, with her seemingly effortless charm and wit. But, that wasn't a possibility now. It was just him. Him with his formal accent, stuck up attitude, and tendency to argue with the younger nation, even when attempting diplomacy. That last point was not entirely his fault though. It takes two to have an argument, and they both had trouble letting to other win.

He stopped his pacing when he heard footsteps, head turning towards the oak doors at the other end of the room. Sure enough, a moment later America burst in, clearly having run to the meeting. "Sorry I'm a little late."

Britain looked at her with an unimpressed expression, silently willing himself not to comment that she had been fifteen minutes late- which was much more than simply 'a little' late. "No worries." He said, forcing a polite smile as he went to shake her hand. She flashed a lop-sided grin in return, shaking his hand eagerly.

"Anyways, what brings you across the pond, Pops?" She asked, sitting down on one of the sofas in the room. She smoothed out her dress- a dark red thing that fell just below her knees, with white dots scattered about it. "I must say, I was surprised to hear that you wanted to see me."

He chuckled, sitting across from her. "And why would you be surprised about that? Can't a man see his daughter before the holidays?" That was the only excuse he had prepared. He was simply supposed to say that it was a visit in honor of Christmas. He knew it was a weak excuse. Afterall, it was only a few days into November. Still, he hoped she would buy it. He would prefer to have a somewhat friendly conversation before asking her the question.

America looked at him for a moment, smile never wavering. Yet, he could see the knowing look in her eyes. She sighed, "What do you want, Dad?"

Ah, there it was. He stared at her for a moment, uncharacteristically nervous. Britain cleared his throat. "Ah. Am I that obvious?"

"You never visit me unless you want something." She stated, not with malice, but just as a fact. He knew deep down this was true, but hearing it acknowledged aloud caused the smallest bit of guilt to bloom in his gut.