Chapter One: A Battle Long-Lost

[A/N: I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia; England, America, or the War of 1812. I DO own the setting of this story, more or less, but feel free to use it if you want.
This story is rated T, for violence, cursing, and a wee bit of suggestive banter.]

A chill hung in the air, seeping its way through the tears in England's red uniform. He watched the land retreat from the deck of the Indomitable, a sick knot of fear twisting in his guts. Carrion birds circled high in the cloudy, gray sky. Blood hung in the water of the Mississippi River, and corpses in red and blue sprawled along its banks. The cold, salt smell of the sea lingered in the air, sending a shiver down his spine.

It was sunset, January eighth, in the year of the Lord 1814. The Battle of New Orleans was over.

He had lost.

America had made a fool of him again. It wasn't enough that England had had to lose the first bloody war, oh, no. America had to torment him again. All because he wouldn't see reason. It was no use expecting Alfred to be reasonable, but Arthur had to try, if only because he didn't want to give up on the brat.

England bit his lower lip and paced the deck, letting himself wallow in self-pity for a while. A cool breeze whipped his bangs back and made his massive eyebrows bunch together for warmth. Images of the battle hovered behind his closed eyes.

He saw America leading the charge over the redoubt he'd captured. In his mind's eye, Alfred's face was gashed, dripping blood down his cheek, and his eyes were wild. His dingy blue uniform hung off him like a torn sack, and he waved a howitzer in the air, swaggering like a common thug.

"C'mon, boys, let's get 'em!" he'd yelled.
England couldn't think of Alfred as anything but a sweetheart, but in that moment, he'd seemed to be a demon.

He saw other images, too. All around him, his men fell to the ground. Legions and legions of redcoats dying like so many flies, and a sharp pain in his gut every time one of them fell. The blue-coated Americans moving like monsters in the fog. A gout of fire coming from America's flamethrower-

Wait a second...
England snorted.
He cheated! That little git cheated!
He opened his eyes, waking from his reverie, and strode over to the bright red switch on the Indomitable's cabin wall. It looked hideously out of place- it was made of plastic, and its smooth curves fitted the thirtieth century far better than the nineteenth. Yet, oddly enough, none of the crew seemed to notice.

There was no good reason why they should. After all, they weren't real.

England pulled the switch and the world faded around him. One second, he seemed to be standing on the swaying deck of a ship that hadn't existed for a thousand years, and the next, he was lying on his back, in the deceleration chamber of the Diana's games room. The artificial gravity made him feel ill, as always.

America lounged on the other couch, looking over at him. The bigger nation's blond hair was a tousled mess, and his eyes were bright with amusement.

"Have a good nap, Iggy?"

[And that's it for now. ^^ Where are England and America, and how did they get from the War of 1812 to the thirtieth century? All these questions will be answered in part 2 and Final of Rules of War.]