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1.
On his way home, America started regretting the argument he’d had earlier in the conference room with England.
Honestly, it wasn’t even that big of a deal. It was just that he’d sneakily eaten two burgers during the meeting again, and England couldn’t help but lecture him about “etiquette,” “being a gentleman,” and all that nonsense. Naturally, America fired back a couple of snarky remarks calling England “naggy” and “old-fashioned”...
Just some childish bickering like usual, who would’ve thought it would blow up into this.
Turning the corner, America deliberately slowed his pace and glanced back. Sure enough, not far off, a golden head bobbed once and then vanished into the bushes with a quick “whoosh.”
— When you can’t win an argument, you resort to stalking, huh England? Real mature.
He scoffed inside, taking a couple steps back to stop beside the bushes. Before he could peek in, the branches rustled, dry leaves falling onto that trembling, sandy-golden head.
It was both annoying and kind of funny, so he just turned away, pretending nothing happened, whistling as he walked home.
The whole walk, America felt like a rabbit being hunted by a wild dog. Even though he was usually well-trained, the gaze glued to his back gave him goosebumps more than once.
When he pulled out his keys to unlock the door, America caught a shadow lurking right behind him out of the corner of his eye and finally couldn’t hold back.
“Hey, England, wanna come in? I’ve got some leftover black tea.”
No answer.
Well, England’s been stubborn about saving face for ages.
“Alright then, I admit it’s all my fault today. Sorry, really. My bad.” America sighed and turned his head, speaking to the black shadow peeking out behind the neighbor’s bushes.
Usually, at this point, that softy would’ve cooled down, come out blushing, and apologized — gotta admit, their immaturity was pretty evenly matched.
But this time, things seemed different.
The shadow moved. From the dry twigs emerged a pair of eerie green eyes... and a dark, round gun barrel.
An M4 carbine, .70 caliber — and damn, it was made in the USA.
Seeing the red laser dot aimed straight at his chest — obviously some kind of prank retaliation — America didn’t even bother pretending to be scared. He just shrugged, hands spread.
“Really, England? I just called you old-fashioned once and you scare me with a gun you made at home? Don’t forget last time you embarrassed me in front of my boss by spilling my childhood bedwetting story — I haven’t forgotten that grudge!”
“Tch, talk too much.”
America caught that mutter just before a muffled gunshot with a silencer sounded.
A bullet whizzed past his cheek, tearing an ugly black hole in his freshly painted white wooden fence.
He stared at the hole, then the bushes, stunned for a couple seconds before realizing that if it weren’t for his battlefield instincts, the United States might’ve just “gone extinct.”
“Are you serious? You playing for real?”
He aimed at the hiding spot, ducked another sniper shot, and sprinted up to the bushes, grabbing the hands holding the rifle butt.
He eased his grip, but the ambusher looked surprised like he’d never seen America’s strength before, eyes wide.
The surprise didn’t last. Next second, a kick identical to England’s landed hard on America’s chest, forcing him to pull back.
That momentary hesitation gave the gunman another chance to aim.
— Bang.
No gunshot — just the sound of the magazine emptying and popping out.
The man’s green eyes narrowed in frustration as he patted his pockets. All he found was a tiny wrist blade.
Close combat weapons clearly weren’t cutting it against America’s brute force. No sooner had he dropped the rifle and raised his hand to sneak attack, America controlled him again.
America kicked the rifle into the bushes, leaned in, staring into those familiar green eyes.
“You come to kill me without spare ammo? You lost it, England.”
“What the hell, England?”
“Cut the crap, you just—”
Before he finished, a beep came from America’s pocket. Almost got stabbed trying to look for his phone, so he had no choice but to take off his belt to restrain England’s hands and free a hand to grab his phone.
[Still mad?]
The screen lit up with that message.
Then almost simultaneously, a new message notification and a long text followed:
[Sure, you’re mostly at fault, but I’m not completely innocent either... But! You’re more at fault! Anyway, sorry, don’t be mad... Wanna come over for ice cream tomorrow?]
That awkward tone and endless circling phrasing was totally...
America unlocked the screen, double-checked the sender’s name, then glanced down at the struggling man on the grass fumbling for his dagger.
Their eyes met. The man rolled his green eyes in the most “England” way possible.
— But obviously, this wasn’t England.
Damn it. Who the hell was this guy?
2.
Right now, Arthur Kirkland was going through the biggest fiasco of his hitman career. No, scratch that — the second biggest.
Since he first met the blonde blue-eyed man five days ago, his luck had gone south — first, the plastic explosives he threw two days ago got soaked and became duds; then yesterday, the mask he used to hide his face got stolen by some neighborhood kids playing Batman; and today, he forgot to bring spare bullets...
Don’t laugh — please don’t doubt Mr. Kirkland’s professionalism! He really was a professional hitman.
Having never failed in nearly ten years on the job, and with impressive skills, his peers nicknamed him “Mr. I’ll Kill Anyone for Money.” Okay, not very classy, but Arthur loved it because he really had no principles: from prime ministers to street vendors, as long as the price was right, he’d kill anyone for you.
So, five days ago, he got a lucrative contract. The deposit alone could buy him a house with a pool in this city, plus enough leftover to plant a rose garden.
And all he had to do was pull one bullet.
It was an ordinary Saturday night — infiltrate the target’s company, disable cameras, knock out guards, wait in the office, then send a fresh aluminum bullet into the target’s brain...
Everything went incredibly smoothly.
Before retreating, Arthur wiped blood off his gloves, stared at the fat, greasy head of the billionaire he just blew open, imagining his happy life after getting the payout.
Just as he started debating whether to get a cat or a dog for his new mansion, a figure suddenly appeared out of the darkness.
“Boss, I finally finished the documents you wanted—”
Before Arthur could slip out the window, the guy barged in loudly.
Staring at the bloody mess, the young clerk froze, dropping the papers into the blood pool on the floor.
First rule for a hitman: no witnesses.
Though reluctant to kill an innocent, the situation left Arthur no choice but to pull his semi-auto pistol, aim at the guy’s head, and squeeze the trigger—
“Whoa, dude, thank you!”
Unexpectedly, just as Arthur was about to shoot, the blond man stepped forward, grabbing Arthur’s gun hand and shaking it hard.
“Really, thank you! You don’t know how much this idiot boss forces me to work overtime for free! I haven’t rested in two months, coding day and night, but he’s still never satisfied, always making me fix this and that, leaving me no time to eat. Meanwhile, he’s off jet-setting and keeping three or four mistresses... I thought I wouldn’t get Thanksgiving off, but you went and killed him!”
Arthur tried to cut the guy off several times, but the man just kept going, talking as fast as a machine gun, tears streaming, making it impossible to speak or even move professionally.
The man poured out his overworked life story, blue eyes shining like puddles of water, and Arthur imagined a husky running wild in his dream mansion — yeah, decided, dog it is.
Finally, the guy finished and casually threw an arm around Arthur’s shoulder: “Thanks so much, you’re a real hero for the people!”
Now Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. Index finger hooked the trigger, gun pointed at the guy.
“I’m no hero! Can’t you tell? I’m a damn killer!”
He scrunched his nose like a monster. The man looked at his face but laughed and exclaimed “Whoa” again. Not only that, he reached out and inspected Arthur’s pistol with zero survival instinct.
“This gun’s so pretty and solid! Looks different from what my hunter uncles use back home. Where’d you buy it?”
“Buy? It’s my custom-modified model with a silencer!”
“Cool! Wow, Mr. Hitman, the explosives on your backpack are awesome too. First time I’ve ever seen real bombs!” The man’s blue eyes almost sparkled.
That admiration perfectly hit Arthur’s inflated ego: “Cool, huh? I paid big bucks for those from the mafia!”
Arthur lifted his chin and only then realized how dumb the scene was — a professional killer casually chatting with his next target? Ridiculous!
He shook his head, shaking off the thought, then put on his hitman’s cold, mission-ready expression: “Cut the crap, you have to die today.”
“Ah? No! I haven’t taken a single day off since joining this company. Finally free, please let me enjoy life a little!”
The man hung his head, sulking a bit, then looked up at Arthur. His tear-filled eyes blinked, nose sniffled: “Mr. Hitman, do I really have to die today?”
“W-well... it doesn’t have to be today...”
Damn! As soon as the words slipped out, the clerk was already jumping up, cheering, and running out the office like a kid.
Arthur was about to chase him, but the guy suddenly came back and gave him a big, solid hug.
In that moment, feeling the warmth of his chest, Arthur’s gun quietly slipped from his hand onto the floor.
“Oh right, forgot to tell you — here’s my number, feel free to call anytime!” The man smiled, shoving a small paper slip into Arthur’s hand, his face inexplicably blushing, “And, Mr. Hitman, you’re really cute.”
“Cute my ass! Are you nuts...”
Arthur cursed under his breath but carefully folded the note and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, watching the would-be assassination witness vanish into the city night.
Don’t get me wrong — Arthur’s not going to call that guy. At least not until he’s ready to become a laughingstock in the industry!
Maybe it’s karma. Ever since meeting this “Alfred” guy, every mission that should’ve gone smoothly went south: the explosives got ruined, the mask was stolen, the spare bullets forgotten — and every time, Alfred’s piercing blue eyes kept popping into Arthur’s mind, breaking his focus.
— Damn it, I gotta kill this bastard.
After dreaming about Alfred’s goofy, grinning face again, Arthur couldn’t take it anymore and came to this conclusion.
Maybe luck was on his side — just as he worried how to find Alfred without dialing that number, the guy showed up in front of him.
Uh, so this corporate drone’s muscles are pretty built, huh? Whatever, definitely the same face, no doubt.
Staring at the blonde blue-eyed man walking out of the office building, Arthur gripped his rifle tightly and followed close behind...
3.
Then Arthur got caught — subdued by that guy who looked exactly like Alfred but moved like some kind of superhuman — and was tightly tied to the leg of a dining table.
What a disgrace!
For the sake of his assassin pride and reputation, Arthur seriously considered biting his tongue right then and there. But hey, better to suffer on — after all, the fat paycheck from his last client just landed, and dying before spending it would be a total waste.
“Hey!” So Arthur yelled at the guy sitting there chomping on a burger.
Wait, what was that guy’s name again — America? Seriously, what a sissy, dumb name. Didn’t he just say his name was Alfred a few days ago? Is “America” even a real last name?
But desperate times called for desperate measures, so Arthur put on a fake obedient face.
“Mr. America, could you please get me some water?” Arthur forced a smile. “Please, I’m really thirsty.”
The self-proclaimed America swallowed a bite of burger, gave him a slow, fake grin, and said, “Sure thing. As long as you tell me who you really are.”
“No way!”
“Hehe, then you can just die thirsty.” America turned away, crunching on his burger while smugly sucking down a big gulp of ice-cold Coke.
“You’re—”
His trick exposed, Arthur cursed under his breath and clenched his fists in frustration — except his arms were tied up in rope, so no chance of a tantrum.
Rule number two for assassins: keep your identity secret and emotions locked down.
Living by that rule, Arthur sat there stoic as a movie tough guy, enduring hours of this.
Meanwhile, the guy tying him up was having a blast: ordering pizza, three tubs of ice cream, eating to his heart’s content, then getting bored and watching Disney cartoons like he’d totally forgotten the “guest” on his couch.
Arthur licked his lips and picked at a peeling patch of dead skin with his teeth. Dehydration was brutal — he was so thirsty the blood trickling from his lips tasted sweet.
He couldn’t take it anymore and finally lost his cool, yelling at the guy lounging on the sofa, “Alfred! I spared you last week when you caught me on a job, and this is how you treat me?”
“Alfred?”
“Yeah! Didn’t you tell me your name was Alfred last week? And even gave me your number to call you? I can’t believe I actually believed you…”
Arthur’s voice softened involuntarily, blushing a little as he remembered Alfred whispering “You’re so cute” in his ear.
America sat up, crouched before Arthur, and looked him dead in the eyes, as if trying to see through him.
What’s the worst that could happen? So Arthur stared right back without flinching.
After a while, America looked away and said thoughtfully, “So let me guess: you’re an assassin, and the person you want to kill is named Alfred?”
Arthur was a little confused. “Yeah, didn’t you know that already last week? Wait… you’re saying you’re not Alfred?”
Seeing Arthur’s lips cracked and blue-purple, America hesitated, then untied his hands.
“Mr. Assassin, I didn’t meet you last week. If you want, I can have my secretary confirm that. I’m America’s national consciousness — no human name,” America said with a genuine smile this time.
“Looks like we both got the wrong guy.”
4.
“So I look exactly like your colleague named ‘England’?” Arthur said, taking a big sip of the hot milk America handed him.
Sitting on the soft couch now, Arthur didn’t even care where this guy had hidden his rifle and explosives. From their half-hour conversation just now, this America didn’t seem dumb like Alfred, but he didn’t seem hostile either.
Besides, as much as Arthur hated admitting it, without his gun he really wasn’t a match for this super-strong weirdo — so he figured he might as well roll with it.
“Right, and I look exactly like that little office worker named ‘Alfred’ who you want to kill,” America said, raising one eyebrow.
After confirming they’d exchanged all the info they knew, America asked, “By the way, why do you have to kill him? From what you said, he doesn’t sound like the type to spill the beans…”
“I never leave witnesses,” Arthur replied coldly.
“Well, what if I offered you some money to spare him?” America sighed. “I don’t want to see a corpse that looks exactly like me. Gross.”
“I’m an assassin. I kill whoever I want.”
“Five million?”
“I kill, I don’t save.”
“Ten million?”
“…”
America smiled slyly. “How about adding another two million, cash upfront?”
— Screw the assassin code.
Arthur pictured a truck piled high with cash dumping all fifteen million dollars into his new garage, firmly shook America’s hand and said, “Deal. If I don’t see the money in three days, I’ll kill you.”
“Wait, there’s one small condition.”
America’s blue eyes flashed with mischief. Arthur caught the sly grin in a blink: “You’re such a pain in the ass! Spill it, and I’ll think about it.”
At least Arthur was certain now — he’d almost killed the wrong guy.
That dumb programmer Alfred, who got exploited by his boss, definitely wouldn’t be so loaded as to name a figure like ten million — and then dare to bargain after the deal. But what America said next nearly made Arthur spit out the milk he just drank.
“You have to call that Alfred guy and ask if he wants to go on a date with you.”
“What?”
“I want you to call Alfred. You don’t have to actually date him, just ask what he thinks,” America repeated like he was just asking Arthur to grab him a burger.
Arthur stared into those bright blue eyes, using his assassin instincts to see if this was a joke — but there was none. “Why? What kind of condition is that? You’re way overstepping.”
Under Arthur’s gaze, America said nothing but blinked seriously. His look wasn’t like Alfred begging for mercy days ago — it was commanding, even non-negotiable.
Arthur’s gut said no matter how much he said no, this guy could come up with more conditions to make him say yes — though they shared the same face, this guy wasn’t that dorky programmer Alfred. He was more like a shady arms dealer.
Remembering Alfred’s warm hug a few days ago, Arthur’s cheeks suddenly flushed. “I… guess that’s okay, but it’ll cost extra.”
5.
When Arthur agreed with a hesitant tone and rosy cheeks, America couldn’t help but think of England.
Though England was way better at negotiations, in diplomatic settings he always acted the same: no love, just money, circling and scheming to maximize his own benefits — and of course, a couple million wouldn’t even come close to buying him off.
But thinking about it, America didn’t really need to buy off England. Outside diplomacy, a few kind words from him were usually enough to get England to do whatever he wanted. Even after centuries of life and no need for care, England still cared for him unconditionally, sometimes blushing and stuffing snacks into his hands...
Actually, America had always kept all England’s favoritism and tolerance in his heart and did what he could to protect him. But because of their special status and long history together, whenever those sweet words were said, they ended up sounding like childish bickering...
— Just like this morning.
Thinking about England’s apology texts, America spent all afternoon unsure how to reply. But looking at the face in front of him — the same as England’s but less worn by time — he suddenly felt brave enough to be honest.
“Actually, I lied. England and I aren’t just colleagues.”
America dared not look at Arthur’s expression, rubbing his forehead as he continued, “We’ve known each other for years. Since I was little, we ate together, vacationed together, celebrated nearly every holiday, did almost everything together. He’d soothe me to sleep, and I’d fight by his side… By your human standards, we’d be friends, or something like that…”
“By our human standards, you’re basically old married,” Arthur said, mouth agape but tone flat.
“Don’t joke about that!”
For the first time, America’s face showed a simple, understandable expression — embarrassment. Arthur thought, but since he still hadn’t gotten back his rifle, he shut up and hid his snark, listening on.
“But maybe because we’re so close, England and I can’t move past this. We end up bickering all the time... Though we never fight for real and always apologize, I can’t explain my feelings properly to him. In fact, we had a fight again just this morning over some trivial thing... I wasn’t doing it on purpose, I know he cares about me, and I care about him too.”
Arthur remembered earlier, when he was sniping in the yard and this guy awkwardly apologized — not so straightforward, huh? Looks like America isn’t much smarter than that idiot Alfred.
“Sometimes I wonder, if we were just ordinary people with only each other and limited time, maybe we could be more open?” America smirked bitterly.
“So really, it’s not you I want you to ask Alfred about — I want you to ask England if he’d go on a date with me or something.”
Having finally spilled his heart, America expected more reaction, but Arthur didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Arthur put down his mug, pulled out the paper with the phone number from his coat pocket, took out his phone, and started typing.
After a moment, Arthur stopped and handed the phone to America with a businesslike tone: “Here’s the message I drafted to Alfred as you requested. Please review.”
America looked down and read the text:
“Hey Alfred. I’m the assassin from last Saturday. Someone’s paying to keep you alive, so I won’t kill you for now. Be honest — do you want to go on a date with me?”
That brazen wording made America laugh. He grabbed the phone, deleted the “someone’s paying to keep you alive” part, and handed it back.
Arthur hit send, then raised an eyebrow, looking sly: “Client, I showed you my privacy. What are you trading me?”
“Fifteen million not enough?”
“Misunderstanding,” Arthur said, pointing at the phone in America’s pocket. “I just want to see if England really looks like me. Can you show me a photo?”
America eyed him suspiciously but opened his album and picked a random picture — well, his phone album was basically full of England’s face anyway — then tossed the phone to Arthur.
“Wow, they really do look identical.”
Arthur sighed fake sympathy, swiped the screen a couple times, and handed the phone back.
After all this, Arthur stood up quickly, grabbed his coat by the door.
“Fifteen million, three days to deliver. Don’t forget! Bye, national consciousness dude!”
Before America could reply, Arthur was already out the door.
What a weirdo — just like England.
America thought as his phone beeped again — a new text from England:
“America, did a door hit your head?”
What the heck?
America hurriedly unlocked the screen and stared at his chat history with England, stunned into place.
Between England’s new message and his apology earlier that morning was a message he sent out. It was so short, it barely took half a second to type:
— “I love you.”
“Ah!?”
America gasped, fingers flying over the keyboard to type a reply. Before he could send it, the phone dinged again.
Still from England. Just as short:
— “Okay, I love you too.”
Glancing at the texts, blushing, America dialed the number he’d memorized long ago.
As the voice came through the receiver, he looked out the window.
But Arthur had already picked up his rifle and explosives from the bushes and vanished without a trace.
The End