Memento Mori -ussrxuk-

maid of bond street

mmmmmm bowie title next time brits here i might do a beatles title

Britain's POV:

March 31st 1954

Dear Lilybet,

I hope this letter finds you well. When it finds you. I'm not too sure how this will be delivered.

I do hope you're alright, that the work you're doing isn't too much for you. I know it's been nearly a year since it started but I still worry.

I miss being able to speak with you freely. Perhaps when my work is finished here in the States we could arrange a small meeting?

Please send my regards to everyone at home...

I put down my pen and sigh. What can I write that I haven't said atleast a hundred times already? My letters must bore the poor woman, yet she still responds.

I rest my head in my hands. If I put my head on the desk, I'd most likely smudge the letter and get ink all over me. And I'd probably break my glasses. Yes, I have those on right now. My office is rather quiet today. No one has needed me for anything for once. I've even managed to finish my work for the week.

The silence doesn't last long unfortunately. A faint knock at my door makes my head snap up so quickly that I hear the joints crack. The door gets knocked again. Now I know that it's not just someone being stupid.

I stand up and walk over to the door, rubbing the back of my neck. Those joints cracking actually stung a little. Do you ever just stand up and you suddenly get a headache? Yeah, me too.

Wait.

Why am I talking..? Thinking..? To myself?

I don't even know.

I slowly open the door and look out. France stands in the hallway, with a nervous expression on his face. He's holding a small paper tightly in his hand, it's even a little scrunched up too. He sees me in the crack of the door and clears his throat.

"America needs us,"

He stares directly at me, a splash of seriousness crosses his face.

"What's happened?"

I ask. He holds out the paper he was holding towards me. I slowly reach out to take it. I unfold the paper.

On it, written in America's messy yet somehow legible handwriting, is a single phrase.

Code Red.

"Bretagne, what do you think has happened this time?"

I shrug. If it's a code red then it quite literally could be anything. From America wanting to complain; to a nuclear threat.

I pull out my keys to lock my office door. I have everything I need: keys, wallet, notepad and a pen. I think that's everything. It better be. This is important.

France walks down the hall and I follow behind. He walks so stiffly, he must suspect something bad's happened.

It strikes me as odd that I didn't get a similar message to France. Of course, it could involve something that concerns France but not me. But then why the Code Red? I take a deep breath.

"I swear, if this is a false report- Amérique will taste my shoe," France complaining about the idea of him wasting time on something that isn't important? Wow, nothing new here.

Not that I blame him though.

"I wasn't doing anything important, so I don't mind,"

France shakes his head and scoffs. He doesn't say anything.