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Britain stood on the bow, looking out into the vast blue sea, as the wind swept the sweat off his forehead. It was a sunny day, but his skin wasn't boiling. The waves crashed lightly onto the hull of the boat. Seagulls met the busy sailors, some of them fighting for their food.
Then he saw it—the barely visible top of the mountains of nearby land. He alerted the sailors, and they were confused. They weren't supposed to arrive at their destination for another 5 days. Did they bump into another nation? No, they were deep in the ocean. They were miles away from the nearest shore.
The nearest known shore
Could this be it? Did they discover new lands? Spirits were growing amongst them, and they engaged in deep conversation about what they'd do when they got there. Would it be empty? Would it be occupied? Would the natives be friendly? Did someone else discover it too? Could they make it a colony?
They got nearer and nearer, and the view of the island got clearer and clearer. It was beautiful. It had white, sandy beaches and a lush forest beyond them. There were colourful flowers never seen before tangled with the knee-high grass. A mountain stood tall and green, reaching far past the clouds.
They reached the shore, and sailors started walking to the island. They offered to row Britain to the island to not get him wet, but he insisted on going through the beaches with his men. He walked down the ladder, but stopped at the last step. The water was clear; he could see sand and small schools of fish swimming under the boat. He reached his foot down into the clear water, and—
EH
EH
EH
EH
EH
Britain wakes up in a jolt, his eyes darting around the room to find the source. It's his alarm clock, blaring that grating and repetitive noise that never failed to scare him into waking up. He bitch slaps the clock into submission and sinks into his bed as the realisation hits.
It was a dream.
Of course it was. His days of discovering new land and expanding and defending his empire are long gone. Every inch of the world has been discovered, and his empire doesn't exist anymore.
He hasn't left bed, and yet his day is already ruined.
He rolls out of bed and gets ready for another day. He fixes his hair as he walks down to the dining hall, where Harry and William are already beefing with each other over the phone while everyone else is desperately trying to ignore them. Britain is much more interested in the breakfast served to him. Bacon, eggs, and some beans. Not bad, he thinks. If there isn't so much noise, he would've enjoyed this morning for just a bit.
William huffs, exacerbated, "Tommy," he calls, using a classic nickname of Britain, "which care bear is better? Tenderheart or Bedtime Bear?"
"Bedtime." Britain says mindlessly through a mouthful of food. He thinks it would settle their argument, but Harry starts screaming through the phone about how they had terrible taste in care bears.
“I bet you only think that because Meghan likes it too!” William yells.
“Well, Mummy liked Tenderheart Bear more. Really losing your resemblance to her, eh, Willy?!” Harry retorts.
“Here you go again, Mr. Freud, bringing mummy into everything.”
“SHUT UP!”
God, this entire damn family needs to see a therapist! he thinks.
His chair fart-slides as he stands up abruptly. He picks up his plate, and stomps away from the dining room. He eats in a living room, having to sit on the carpet to comfortably eat on the tiny table. " Royals these days. " he mutters. He hates that phrase and all its different variations. It brings down the younger generation, after all, and being a countryhuman requires him to be open-minded. But he reckons its appropriate for those two. Since Miss Wallis Simpson the second barged into our lives, it's been racism and mummy dearest since.
Or maybe Meghan didn’t start it. Maybe Diana, Charles and Camilla did. Or maybe miss Simpson herself did. Or maybe it started all the way to William the First. Fuck if he knew, he just wants some peace and quiet.
He hands his plate to a footman that had followed him to the livingroom and goes back to his room. In the closet is about a hundred copies of the same blue-white two-piece suit and red tie, and he picks the first one he finds. He goes through some underground tunnels to take the underground to the Palace of Westminster. The EU countries agreed to lessen their carbon footprint, they were all millionaires after all. Although Britain left by then, he kept like he had to uphold their agreement. He couldn't just die if the world turned into a wasteland, that's a privilege only normal people had. Either way, he likes the freedom. It makes him feel like an average person.
Britain arrives just in time for a meeting in the House of Commons to help mediate any conflict. And… The was quite a lot of conflict.
As agonising as it is to handle Royal drama, at least the worst consequences of it are bad coverage from the press and social disorder. It’s mostly contained and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. With the House of Cunts , is dealing with people who run the damn country, and in turn dealing with the world's most powerful circus.
“God damn you all! Jon Snow is clearly the Azor Ahai, and you woke trans clowns need to accept that!” One MP argues, and the Tories roar in agreement.
“No he’s not, are you stupid? Daenerys is.” Someone else says.
“Who fucking cares who the Azor Ahai is? We’re the damn government, need to talk about the important things here!” Britain cries, and the room hushes.
Finally, someone speaks out. “You’re right, sir. We need to talk about a much more pressing issue I’d like to address.” The new Prime Minister, Elizabeth Truss, nods in agreement, standing up. “I think Tyrion Lannister is Aerys Targaryen’s son.”
The room explodes into all sorts of cheers and boos and groans. Britain sinks into his chair and face palms. “We already TALKED about Tyrion’s parentage.” Britain screams, “He’s a Lannister! A PURE BRED, GOLD SWINGING, BLOOD FUCKING LANNISTER! It wouldn’t make a shred of thematic or logical sense for him anything BUT Tywin’s son. USE YOU’RE FUCKING BRAINS YOU TWAT!”
“Well, to be fair, blood fucking, gold swinging, pure breeds do apply to Targaryens as well.”
Before Britain can bash someone’s head in with the “order” hammer, someone throws a molotov in the middle of the room and a fire bursts out. They’re all evacuated safety and the fire is extinguished quickly. Britain cancels the meeting. He’d rather jump into the fire itself than have to listen to the MPs fight over stupid fantasy novels by famous American writer George R.R. Martin for the 15th time in a row like a bunch of redditors.
He checks his schedule. He has 2 hours of free time before a charity event. Britain takes a walk around Westminster and finds a bench, his favourite bench, in a park where barely anyone passes through. He stays on that bench for most of the 2 hours, taking up the entire thing and mindlessly listening to British rock while smoking his lungs into oblivion. It's his go-to "hobby" in his free time, and he has a lot of that since the empire has been dissolved.
Britain gets lost in the scenes in his head. He reminisces about his childhood. The comrades he will never talk to again, the misadventures he’ll never find himself in, the scenery he’ll never see again, and the emotions he’ll never feel again. Countryhumans are prone to losing many things, it’s something Britain had to get used to years ago. He tells himself there’s no point in dwelling on something that's already happened, but today he decides to do it anyway.
Before he knows it, he'd lost track of time too.
He puts on some perfume so as to not smell like a forest fire, and goes to a hospital to support a charity for lung cancer. He puts on some extra perfume before going in. In there, he does what he always does, which is to please the audience. Shake the right hands, kiss the right asses, make the right jokes, and act the right way. Acting like his authentic, sardonic asshole self isn’t a good look for the representation of the UK.
After the charity event, he walks back to Kensington Palace. He would've changed clothes to go incognito again, but a handful of paparazzi just wouldn't leave his trail. Britain this, Britain that—no matter how hard he tries to ignore them, they wouldn't get the hint.
But one middle-aged paparazzi took it a bit too far.
"How do you feel now that the empire is gone?"
A violent surge of dread shoots through his chest, as if somebody had shot an arrow full of pure, unfiltered annoyance, hitting a bullseye straight through his heart. Britain stares at the man, an oblivious grin innocently marked on his cheek. That's the worst part of it; he doesn't even know what he's doing is wrong. He's standing and smiling there as if he wasn't stalking and assaulting him with a bombardment of personal questions for the last 5 minutes.
Whatever control logic had in his head was slapped out of it like a wig, and 30 something years worth of shit finally broke through the filter clogged up in his throat. He analyze the paparazzi man, and recognized him from his facebook account. He has a habit stalking people’s pages, and he had an argument about whether or not the 1st Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie is the best one out of the trilogy while using a burner account.He dug around his memory for anything he could find, and he strikes gold when he remembers—
"How do you feel now that your hairline is gone?" He says, raising an eyebrow. The man and his bald ass head goes slack jawed, but he interrupts him before he could even clap back. ''Sorry, perhaps I asked too personal of a question. How about your wife? Your 4 year old son? Your dog? I mean I might've lost my Empire, but at least it took decades. It's less of a humiliating loss than losing your entire bloody family in one night. Oh! Sorry, let me correct myself; it mostly ruined your life. After all, you still have your daughter. Although, with the severity of her brain damage, she's more of a pet rock than a daughter. It's honestly quite poetic how your life had been ruined in a car accident, considering what happened 25 years ago. Hey, don't look at me like that, mate. Maybe if you'd stop posting every bloody detail about you on your very public Facebook account maybe it wouldn't be so bloody easy for me to find your deepest darkest tragedies, Paul . Well, at least you're consistent with your job. I mean, for a man who invades people's privacy for a living, it's only natural you give yourself some as well. So good on you for sticking to your beliefs—actually, no, scratch that. You paps certainly don't have a sense of what privacy really is anyway."
All the major holes in Paul and his fellow stalkers’ faces grow so wide and horrifically cartoony that Britain had to curl his lips to stop himself from smiling. In an instant, Paul starts crying and running away. The other paparazzi run back with him, fearing that Britain could psychologically murk them too. With them gone, Britain bursts out laughing and continues his walk back home. It feels cathartic finally being able to let all the emotions he'd bottled up for the day out without needing to get hammered...
Wait, he thinks, stopping in his tracks…
Those bloody paps caught it on camera.
Dread hits him like a tank, it almost knocks him off balance. The street is empty, so he feels comfortable enough to walk into an alley and bang his head onto the brick walls. When his forehead has been scratched up to oblivion and a lethal amount of blood spills all over his face, he drops to his knees and curses himself.
How could he be so stupid?! Lashing out at the paparazzi? They are the LAST people anyone could lash out at. He can already see the flood of tabloids Tomorrow, the video spreading around the internet like wildfire. He can already hear people say "SEE??!! BRITAIN'S FINALLY LOST IT! HE REALLY HAS FALLEN FROM HIS FORMER GLORY LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Damn bro, calm down."
Britain whips his head back and sees a homeless-looking mf staring back. They're wearing a hooded cloak, obscuring their faces.
As if this day couldn't get any worse.
Britain huffs, rubbing the blood off his face and flicking his hand. "What do you want?"
"Are you... Britain?" They ask, handing him a rag. It looks clean and doesn't smell like shit, so Britain accepts it.
"No, I'm Na’vi." He presses the rag on his forehead. "So, how much money do you want?" He asks.
From the awkward pause that follows, Britain thinks he's confused them. Were they willing to keep quiet? Did the thought even cross their mind? But it's too late to take it back when a smirk creeps up on their cheeks. "I won't take money, and I want you to buy something from me." They say.
"Alright, what do you take, then?" Britain asks.
"Cheese." They say, "About 2 big blocks of 'em. In exchange for a 'product' I've been working on."
"I don't have cheese on me, but I could mail it to your place, if you even have one." Britain says, looking around the dark and dirty alley that smelled of rotting cheese.
The hobo scoffs, "Of course I do! You're in it right now!" They rant, holding out their arms to really emphasise how big it is. Britain looks unimpressed. "What? Don't look at me like I'm the weirdo! You're the one who waltzed into my flat and banged your head on the wall. What if I walked into your fancy castle house thing and banged my head on the wall?! And just because you live in some fancy castle doesn't mean you get to criticise my flat. It's not my fault I couldn't afford one!"
Britain sighs, "Right, I apologise. Now what are you selling me?"
The hobo backs up and rummages through the trash bin until they pull out a rusty cage with two rats in it. "Opium rats!" They say enthusiastically.
Britain yelps, backing up to the wall, "What?! You can't be serious! I can't keep those things!"
"Don't call them those things, loser. They're called OPIUM RATS."
"I don't care what the hell they're called, I don't want them!"
"What?? Are you scared?" The hobo mocks. They move the rate closer, making Britain's expression sour even more.
"Jesus Christ— what if I give you 100£? Or 10 blocks of cheese, even? Will that convince you to keep your rats?"
The hobo contemplates it for a moment, "Look, I know you, Britain, I had to do a whole presentation about you in high school. And you know what I think? I think you're a man who feels like his life has been devoid of all meaning. All your life, people have really hammered in your head that this empire is your life's work. Now that that's gone, you've been feeling lost, like you've fallen from your former glory and don't have a life's purpose anymore. I mean, sure, the British Empire killed a shit ton of people and royally screwed over multiple countries, but you feel like if it came back, everything would be so much better."
Britain squints his eyes. "The fuck you said about the British Empire—"
"Well, I think these rats could give you a purpose in life. You could take care of them, bond with them, and watch them grow up. You could even make a rat empire with them! And they have an amazing ability no other rat could have, and I think you'd really benefit from it!"
Britain looks less happy than he was before. "First of all, you don't know me. You did a project about me once and had a 5 minute conversation with me. And quite frankly, I don't appreciate people playing armchair psychologist on me. Second of all, all the bloody rats in the world aren't going to fill the apparent 'gaping hole in my heart'. Seriously, you must have something else you want me to buy."
"Nope, this is the only bribe I'll accept! Take it or I'll tell all of my hobo friends about this!"
Suddenly, a realisation dawns on Britain. Why should he believe some wild accusations about a low-life hobo? Why should anyone? If some cracked up bum tells you the personification of the United Goddamn Kingdom waltzed into their alley and banged his head on the wall, nobody's going to believe that. The only thing he should be worried about is those bloody paparazzi.
He takes off the rag on his forehead and rubs it. It's smooth, so it seems it has healed up already. Good thing this kind of injury is quickly fixed by a countryhuman's regeneration. "Eh, tell as many people as you want, mate. I don't want to take care of—"
The hobo suddenly bursts into tears, wailing like an eagle. They fall to their knees, grabbing onto Britain's ankles. "PLEASE DON'T GO!!! I REALLY NEED THIS CHEESE!!! BUSINESS HAS BEEN PAINFULLY SLOW AND I HAVEN'T EATEN IN DAYS!! I'M BEGGING YOU, SIR! BUY THE RATS AND I'LL NEVER BOTHER YOU AGAIN!"
"Alright! Alright! I'll buy your damn rats! Just be quiet for fuck's sake!" Britain blurts out, too desperate to calm them down to think the things he's saying through. The hobo looks up at him with a hopeful expression. At least Britain thinks so, as their face is still obscured.
"R-Really?" The hobo says, wetly rubbing the snot off their nose.
Britain throws his hands up and says, "S-Sure, I guess. Whatever makes you happy." He huffs. The hobo shoves the cage of rats on him, which he instinctively catches.
"Thank you so so so so so so much! I can't thank you enough!"
Britain walks out of the alley and calls a taxi to drive him back to Kensington. At first, the driver refuses to let rats into his car, but after offering a more than generous tip, he begrudgingly drives him back.