82 - Super soviet🇺🇸

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by UpInSaturn

by UpInSaturn

I watched MiB I and II and I wrote this. I present to you, Soviet and America as superheroes:

After Canada left, America went up to his room, grabbing his phone. He checked it for notifications and saw a lot from—unusually—Soviet.

American
American, answer
Shit
Now, America!
Fuck, I'm going to die and it will be your fault
Shit, answer once in a Blue Moon, will you?
Now!
American!

America rolled his eyes and texted back

what do u want

Immediate reply.

Finally.
I need you help.

America was confused. The great Soviet Union, asking for a "puny American's" help?

why

Because I'm about to die

America sighed, hit his phone against his forehead, and texted Soviet back.

fine.

Soviet was soon sitting on the floor of America's room, a cup of tea in his hands. He was looking at the floor, unfocused. He was mouthing words in a quiet whisper, America couldn't tell what he was mumbling. Soviet was rocking slightly, back and forth.

"Something is happening, American," Soviet said quietly. "Something's changing."

America cocked an eyebrow.

"I can feel it," Soviet mumbled. He looked up with tearful eyes, "You have to help me. They're trying to get me."

America looked at Soviet, weirded-out and confused. "There's a mental health clinic a little ways away. I'll take you, if you want."

Soviet dropped the cup, spilling green tea over the floor. He grabbed America's collar, "You feel it too. I can tell. Help me, America, and I'll help you."

That's all America remembered. But, he does remember waking up on the floor, Soviet over him, looking worried.

Soviet had changed. His hair, usually crimson, was now black, his eye a soft grey. Swirls of dusted grey coated his neck, and sides of his face.

When America jumped up, and got a good look at Soviet, his breath left him.

Soviet stood up, still tall as hell. A long, grey jacket, not unlike his usual brown one, hung from his shoulders, ending at his knees, swirls of black decorating the dark fabric. The sleeves cut off above his elbow, giving way to arm guards. He was shirtless beneath the coat. He had black pants with a grey belt, and boots that reached his knees. His colour palette, being mainly shades of grey and black, was a drastic difference to his crimson skin.

America blushed slightly and looked down at himself. The pastel-yellow top only covered his chest, coming into a turtle-neck. A gold belt made way to a skirt draping behind him, stopping at his knees. It was dark-orange with gold, ancient-looking designs scattered over it. He had white pants stuffed into tall, orange boots that hovered over the ground. He also had arm-guards on his forearms, also dark-orange with gold patterns.

America rushed to his washroom, looking into his mirror. His eyes had turned completely yellow—not unlike the sun—and he had ancient ruins on his face and arms in yellow which were glowing. His hair was pinned back by a gold headdress with gems glittering inside.

"Jesus Christ," America breathed, running his fingers over the ruins. "Do we get powers?" He asked turning to Soviet.

"I'm just as confused as you are, sweet stuff," Soviet scoffed. America blushed some more, smiling.

America tested some of the power ideas he read in comics. He tried lifting up something heavy, resulting in a broken bedside table, and America pouting. He tried running, which was pitiful to watch.

Then, Soviet learned what he could do. He could control shadows and darkness. Explains his outfit. A wisp of shadow coiled around his arms, making the taller giggle slightly.

America crossed his arms and sat on the couch. "I want a pet shadow-thing!" He pouted. Soviet said beside him, gently pulling America head onto his chest.

"You will find you power soon, handsome," Soviet said, running his hands through America's hair.

"Is this you confessing your love to me?" America asked, snugging into Soviet's warmth.

"Maybe," Soviet hummed. "Maybe."

Words: 679