The game was rigged from the start.
In the past, Reich wouldn't have admitted it, but 80 years running around in weird yellow corridors trying to escape a spindly black thing made you think. And the truth was that there was no way he could have won.
His thoughts were interrupted by France taking the United States' seat. Must be his turn to watch over him.
France sat on the chair backwards, one leg propped up, balancing the chair so that it would stand on its hind legs only, arms holding his weight against the table. He stared silently, as if soaking in Reich's appearance. Reich had the distinctive feeling of his bright blue eyes scanning his soul.
"What," he asked, feeling unnerved.
"I used to fear you," France simply answered, less as a confession and more as a statement.
The thought was flattering, but absurd to Reich. Really, he feared France. The nation was a deadly combination of effective, determined and reckless, making him a powerful foe. He could have fought God and won, and Reich wouldn't have been surprised.
"It's kind of silly now, considering how much you relied on meth and luck. You're not that good at being a nation, really," he continued.
"Excuse me," Reich answered, offended.
François quirked his head to the side, leaning it against his clawed hand.
"You've done horrible things to me," both glanced at the thin scar going up his arm. "I feared you. But then you decided to invade Soviet, and then I realized you are incompetent as a countryhuman, so I just hate you instead,"
Reich remained silent.
"I mean, you keep underestimating everyone, you overestimate yourself, you planned to invade a naval power despite them outproducing you, you-"
"Yes, yes, I got it," Reich grumbled.
France hummed a response, then seemed to engross himself into toying with the strings of his eyepatch.
Reich hoped he'd never have to interact with France ever again.
