A Gilded Cage of Broken Wings (Oneshot Collection)

Removing the Taint

TW for Blood

"Now, I hope you remember why this procedure is necessary," Britain said as he and the American waited in the dining room of Britain's human home as the surgeons prepared their tools for the surgery.

"Of course I do, Grandfather. Would you like me to repeat it?" the American said in a perfect response. Not too fast, the sign of someone lying or pretending to please him, but not too slow, a sign he forgot. How easily this one adapted, you could be forgiven for forgetting his unseemly origins.

"Yes, do so," Britain responded, eager to see if the American remembered everything correctly.

"My wings are being removed because they are a symbol of savagery and not fit for a loyal colony of the empire. They were forced onto me by America in an attempt to claim my land for his sinful nation and force you to recognize me as his child," the American repeated. Britain frowned before slapping the American on the back of the head.

"What was your mistake?" he lectured. The American's eyes widened, either surprised Britain caught his mistake or not realizing he had made one before he quickly bowed his head.

"The wings, not mine. They are not something I should claim because they are symbols of savagely and a countryhuman's attempt to kidnap me," he quickly responded. Britain smiled, grabbing the American's head and forcing him to return to his previous standing position.

"Good job," he said, "Any final questions?"

"Will...will this hurt?" the American asked nervously. Britain scoffed. What a foolish boy.

"Of course not, not if you do everything you're supposed to," Britain said, tightly gripping the American's shoulder and shutting him up.

After a few moments of blissful silence, the surgeon said, "We're ready for the operation now. "

Britain sighed and walked away from the American to the corner of the room. The American shifted, nervous, and Britain frowned.

Well, that wouldn't do.

The American then froze, paralyzed under Britain's control. Interestingly, while colonies could never fight off his control, the American seemed to lean into it, accepting the control the same way a starving man would accept food. How interesting. Britain really had gone a long way in fixing up the American.

First, it was getting rid of that unproductive, independent personality, then any love for America, then assigning him a proper parent, and now, removing the last tangible piece of America from him. The American would never be rid of the taint of America that would permanently deform him, but at least he could be better.

Besides, it would be so nice to see America's face when he realized how much Britain had purified and cleansed the child's former territory. The sinful country would be horrified to learn how Britain had saved the child's soul from his sinful taint.

The American was in much better hands and could actually prosper in life now.

Britain ordered his newest colony to lay facedown on the table. His shirt had already been removed to reveal the hideous wings that America had cursed the poor boy with. Luckily, it would be a simple procedure to remove them.

"Begin now, and make it quick. I don't want to waste any more time on this than necessary," Britain ordered the surgeons, his voice echoing out of the American's mouth. Controlling the boy was going to get exhausting quickly, but he needed to keep his control to minimize damage to his newest colony, his perfect tool to pull America back under his thumb.

Britain stood, fighting off exhaustion as the surgery commenced. By the time they got through one wing, the American was bleeding heavily, coating his body with his own precious lifeblood. Then, instead of moving onto the other wing, the surgeons began reaching for bandages.

"You can treat him when both wings are off," Britain ordered, causing the surgeon to jump.

"But—but he might bleed out!"

"That's fine. I can't say he doesn't deserve it, for how ungrateful he was when I got him. A death will be good for his health anyway, clearing up that pesky healing process. Now continue," Britain said, voice hard. The surgeon, understanding his place, nodded and proceeded with the surgery, the other wing coming off quicker than the first.

But, just as the surgeon predicted, the loss of both wings caused the rest of his colony's lifeblood to drain out of him, as Britain felt his control snap with his colony's death. Tutting his tongue, Britain walked towards his colony, shaking off the exhaustion that came with that form of control.

When he reached the colony, he began running a hand through his hair, somewhat matted with blood.

That was fine. Britain would get it cleaned up.

But, as requested, the wings were gone.

"Congratulations, Michigan. You're cured," Britain said, smiling softly at his grandson, "Get rid of those wings now, and then you are free to go. I have things handled from here."

"Of course, sir," the surgeon said before leaving, and, like clockwork, Lower Canada entered the room.

"It's done?" he asked.

"Yes, it is. Is the bath prepared? Death has healed his wounds, but I want to wash the blood before he wakes; that way, when he wakes up, it will be as if he was born anew, free of America's chains, and completely and totally one of us," Britain said. Lower Canada smiled and nodded.

"It is a great achievement, and my son has prepared the bath. Everything is ready," Lower Canada said, eyes consistently flickering back down to his son.

"You're both mine, remember? You can have your child back when I'm finished," Britain said. Lower Canada took a step back, bowing his head.

"Of course, Father. My apologies," he said. Britain nodded in approval before picking up Michigan, the boy's limp body growing colder under his touch. Britain walked over to the room where the bath was, barking a quick order at Virgin Islands to clean up any blood that dripped on the floor before setting his colony in the tub, watching the water turn red from the blood.

Britain then shoved Michigan's head under, deciding to take care of the blood in his hair first, just in case he came back during his wash. The blood, not yet dry, came out of his hair quickly, and Britain worked next on the area around the wings, pulling out all the remaining feathers, some of which caused more blood to leak out of Michigan's still body.

After about five minutes, Britain deemed Michigan clean enough, standing up and walking out of the room where Lower Canada, ever the loyal follower, waited.

"He's cleaned. Don't worry about saving the clothes, just change him into new ones. Put him in your room. Understood?" Britain asked. Lower Canada nodded.

"Yes, Father," he said before rushing into the room as Britain shook off his hands.

What a productive day. He couldn't wait until he got to show off his colony to America.

It would make all the struggle to tame him worth it.