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Open Mic, Chapter FiveEngland was the first nation to recover, having stereotypically very few emotions to begin with. He crept back into the empty room and greeted the fairies and unicorns that had supposedly been there waiting for him.
After waiting for a moment in silence, his sights fell to the abandoned microphone. Without giving it a second thought, he tore off his uniform, revealing the baggy T-shirt and jeans he wore underneath. He put on sunglasses and a backwards baseball cap, and grabbed the mic.
“Flying Mint Bunny,” he said. “Drop me a phat beat.”
Flying Mint Bunny swirled around England, beatboxing into his tiny little paws. England nodded to the beat. Then he raised the microphone to his mouth.
“My name is Britain and they call me Great,
France will try to outdo me, haters love to hate
I’m a rapping nation, bet you didn’t expect
And if you want to get to know me, then I’ll tell you direct
My heart is ambitious,
Open Mic, Chapter FourPutting his pants back on for the third time that day - or maybe the fourth time - France pushed between America and China. He plucked the mic from America’s hands as if picking a delicate rose. Then he sauntered across the room.
“My brothers in arms,” he said. “And, my lover in bed,” he added, with a wink toward England. England scowled and turned away.
“I, France, the country of love and romance, will show you what to do with a microphone.”
“I hope this does not involve sesame oil, aru.”
But, much to China’s relief, that was not what France was planning to do. France snapped his fingers and the lights went dim. A single spotlight shone down on him, as did a rain of sparkles and bubbles. In a voice as rich and silky as liquid dark chocolate, France began to sing:
“Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en ro-o-o-ose
Il me dit des mots d'amour
Open Mic, Chapter ThreeWhen the dust settled, America raised his arms over his head in victory. In his hand was the microphone. England pulled a hamburger out of his pocket and used it to distract America while he retrieved the mic.
“That’s quite enough of that,” said England. He set the mic back down in the middle of the table. “Let’s start with the first issue of today.”
“But of course,” said France. “The most important thing we must discuss is No Pants Day.”
“No Pants Day?” the other nations chorused.
“Yes,” said France. “This is following up from my proposition last time - ”
“No, you git!” shouted England. “I meant we need to talk about important things!”
“But Angleterre, this is important.”
“Honestly,” England said, sighing in exasperation to an empty space beside him. “Can you believe what I’m forced t
Open Mic, Chapter TwoRunning like a wild stallion, America tore down the hallway and burst into the room. He leapt over a chair, cleared the railing, and landed on the other side. Letting himself sink to his knees, he slid to the blackboard and tagged it with a hearty slap.
“First!” he shouted. “I’m the first one here!” This garnered a sigh of annoyance from England, who had been waiting for quite some time for the others to arrive. He was already halfway through his second cup of tea, and he had reread his notes so many times he had practically memorized them.
“Really, America,” England said. “Must you always make such a spectacle of yourself?”
America didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he plunked into the chair next to England. Then, he took a hamburger out of his pocket and began to stuff his face. England looked in America’s direction, raising a remarkably thick eyebrow. As he w
Open Mic, Chapter One“Time to review the plan!” Germany shouted at his troops. Japan and Italy straightened up and saluted.
“Yes, captain,” said Japan. “The plan I have devised to spy on the Allies is to put a sound transmission device into their meeting room. The device will pick up everything they are saying, and we will hear it on this machine.” Japan opened his hand toward a small wooden box with a dial and two speakers on the front of it.
“Good,” said Germany. “Italy, is your part of the mission complete yet?”
Italy looked up from a piping-hot plate of spaghetti. He slurped in the last noodle, letting it flick his face and leave a streak of tomato sauce along his cheek.
“Dammit, Italy! Are you paying attention at all?”
“Yes, Germany,” said Italy. “But then I was distracted by this pasta, so maybe you could explain it again for me.”
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