Chapter Text
The broadcast zooms in on the crowds filtering into the building. World leaders, aides, security personnel, and the last few nations, hurrying to the entrance. The noise is constant and muffled, chants from the protest barricades a block away, bleeding into one another. Speckles of reporters still attempting to shout questions at the few remaining figures who haven’t yet slipped inside. In front of the camera, a reporter held her mic tightly, trying to edge away from spectators craning for a clean shot.
“This is Farah Badour here, live in Midtown Manhattan in front of the United Nations Headquarters, where history is unfolding. In just minutes, world leaders will officially sign the Personhood and Autonomy Accord. A legislation that will release the world’s nation personifications from all governmental authority.”
The camera pans towards the main entrance. Catching the final group of nations as they disappear behind security doors, camera flashes strobe briefly across their backs before the doors seal shut.
“For centuries, these beings have operated as extensions of their governments,” Farah continues, “but recent revelations about the nature of their existence–specifically that their actions were bound to political leadership rather than personal choice–have sparked intense public debate.”
There’s a brief cut to B-roll, protest signs lifted high in rain-slicked streets, academic panels mid-discussion, trending hashtags multiplying across screens. The montage spans two years and half the globe. Chyrons flashing one after another as screenshots of posts scroll endlessly, flickering with blurred bars and images.
Legal scholars appear next in clips, speaking from lecture halls and court steps, quick to point out what many have called a fundamental paradox. Responsibility with agency, and power without consent. Protest footage follows immediately, with a sharpened tone, far less charitable in their argument. Immortality does not absolve harm, it only makes it fester.
“Some argue they should be held accountable for historic injustices committed under their names,” Farah says over the footage. “Others say that continuing to employ them in political roles would be ethically impossible, given that many of those actions were carried out without autonomy. But even so, the agreement is shared that they should not be in these government positions in the first place.”
A clip follows with a political analyst from the BBC calling the decision ‘ethically necessary’; another from Fox News calling it a ‘logistical nightmare’. A South African constitutional lawyer appears next, describing the accord as “long overdue, but dangerously incomplete.” The montage continues with a French senator warning that “severing nations from state machinery will not sever consequence from history.” There’s a university lecture hall in mid-argument, a late-night host wildly gesturing at a blown-up diagram of immortality clauses, a shaky phone video of a nation being escorted out of a parliamentary chamber to cheers and jeers alike.
The broadcast changes back to Farah, the wind tugging at her hair as she attempts to smooth it down.
“Today’s agreement represents a global decision,” She says, measured, “that these nations should be recognised as individuals with rights, free from compulsory service. Once the documents are signed, they will no longer operate as political figures, though some governments may continue to seek voluntary consultation– ”
She pauses, listening intently to her earpiece. “We’re now hearing that the Secretary-General is moments away from beginning the session. Stay with us as we continue to cover this historic transition–”
“—Tell me you’re not watching the broadcast of the meeting we’re about to walk into.” England huffs as he stares at America, who lowers his phone, the live feed still buzzing.
“Dude, it’s totally awesome!” America grins. Undeterred. “They said it was ‘historic’. Us doing this whole thing,” He angles the phone as if England might want another look. “I swear, the second I stepped out of the car, it was like, boom, cameras everywhere! I felt like I was walking down the red carpet or something.”
“You’ve been on television thousands of times.” England deadpans, eyeing the device warily.
America waves him off. “Yeah, but never as the main thing!” He whines. “Not like this, where they’re talking about me. I’m always the guy standing near the president, nodding like some patriotic bobblehead.” He sighs dejectedly in a way that is halfway theatrical and halfway sincere, pocketing his phone.
He glances over his shoulder, toward the entrance they’d just passed through, where the noise still leaks in, voices, shutters, and the restless energy of people who still want a soundbite.
“D’you think if I step out right now they’ll all try and interview me?” America asks half-joking. “I mean, I’m not gonna answer to anyone once this is over, so–”
England doesn’t even look at him when his hand comes up, lightly smacking the back of America’s head.
“Idiot.” England chides. “Worry more about not having a job anymore!” The words are clipped, but there’s an edge beneath them. Something tighter than irritation.
America just rubs the back of his head gingerly, pout softening into something smoother, “Right…” He says, and for once doesn’t argue.
His gaze drifts, tracking the other nations as they file forward into the chamber. England follows his gaze. Some look rigid. Some look relieved. A few look like they’re bracing for impact.
“It’s weird,” America adds, voice lower. “Seeing everyone this tense. It’s been a while since we were all this rigid.”
England hums, noncommittal, which is as close as he gets to agreement.
“Let’s just head in now,” England says, adjusting his coat. “And you’d better not have that phone out once we’re seated. This isn’t one of your congressional photo ops.” England preemptively scolds him, and America forces an eye roll.
“Wow, so no live-tweeting the end of my entire career?” He says with a smirk. Just to be returned with a burning look.
“I will personally curse all your electronic devices,” England replied with his arms crossed, and his face crosser.
America visibly considers this, then sighs. “Alright, mom,” but the jab lands softer than usual.
They fall into step with the crowd, heading toward the assembly chamber, swept forward whether they like it or not. The atmosphere shifts the closer they get. The open noise of the outside world fades, replaced by the sterile hum of ceiling lights and the steady whirr of air-conditioning spilling cold down the backs of their necks.
Greetings dim to murmurs, and conversation dies quickly. No one quite knows what tone to strike, with such an unfamiliar event unfurling at this moment. Nothing akin to their thousands of wars, treaties, and other accords. Not something that acknowledges their existence so plainly.
England straightens unconsciously, posture settling into something old and practised. America shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders loose but eyes alert, scanning exits, and faces. There’s an irony that England can’t help but notice. For once, the nations aren’t here to posture, threaten, or negotiate. They’re here to be unassigned.
China walks a few paces ahead of them, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable as ever. His stride is unhurried, measured like someone crossing familiar ground. He does not look at the crowd, nor the guards, nor the ceiling looming overhead. His gaze stays forward, distant as though this chamber is only the most recent in a long succession of halls he’s survived. His sleeve brushes past another nation’s arm. He does not falter.
Germany adjusts his tie for about the third time, his expression controlled but tight. His jaw works quietly, like he’s running every possible outcome of the next hour in his head. Italy trails behind him, wringing his hands, offering a shaky smile when he catches someone watching him, which morphs quickly back to something grim. The usual bounce in his step is slow.
Hungary lingers near the edge of the crowd, posture rigid, shoulders squared too tightly for comfort. Her hands are clasped in front of her, knuckles pale as if she’s holding herself in place through sheer will. Her eyes flick briefly to the flags lining the chamber walls, then away again, jaw tightening.
Security ushers them through the last checkpoint, past the final corner. Rows of blue-helmeted guards, the muzzle of their rifles tilted safely downward, but noticeably present. They watch with the rigid attentiveness of people asked to protect something they don’t quite understand.
Liechtenstein walks close at Switzerland’s side, her steps measured to match his. When the crowd compresses at the final checkpoint, Switzerland’s hand finds hers without looking. His grip is firm and grounding, but there’s tension there, too. She notices it immediately in the stiffness of his arm and the sour look on his face. After a beat, she squeezes back, just as firmly. Switzerland’s shoulders ease a fraction. He exhales through his nose, barely audible. They do not speak. They do not need to.
The doors open to the vast chamber beyond. Inside, everything feels heavier. The dark wood, the rows of delegates, the rustle of papers, the sharp clicks of pens. The air hums with a kind of bracing tension, a static charge right before a storm.
Malaysia moves with careful politeness, offering small nods to staff and passing nations alike. His expression is calm, practised, the kind worn by someone used to being underestimated. But his fingers flex at his side, restless, betraying a quiet vigilance beneath the composed exterior. He watches the guards longer than most. Not in fear, but in calculation, assessing and adjusting in his own way.
The UN staff line the walks in tight, disciplined rows, their backs straight but their eyes following the nations with a quiet, conflicted awe. Some smile politely; others avoid eye contact entirely, unsure whether to acknowledge the living embodiments of countries they’ve spent their careers studying.
Russia says nothing as he passes, his broad frame cutting a steady path through the crowd to his seat. His face is impassive, but his eyes track every movement. If he feels anything about this moment, it does not show. He has survived worse endings than this. Or so he tells himself.
Greece lingers near the edge of the flow, gaze drifting across the hall with idle curiosity that doesn’t quite mark the seriousness underneath. He takes in the chamber with a long considering look. The flags. The delegates. The rituals layered over rituals. His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. He has watched men declare themselves eternal before. He has watched eternity disagree. This is not the first time nor is it last time he will be forced to sit here. Still, when he takes his seat, his hands fold neatly in his lap. Respectfully quiet of the moment, even if he doubts its permanence.
The nations file toward their designated seats, all slipping into their rows. The murmur of other personnel rising and falling around them. None of the nations makes eye contact for more than a second. None of them joke. None of them speak.
It feels like a funeral, or a trial. Or both.
At the front of the room, the Secretary-General adjusts the microphone. Whispers die, chairs still, and folders close. Even the translators lower their hands, headsets resting idle against their collars. And the chamber settles into a held breath.
“Good morning,” the Secretary-General begins, voice steady and formal. An absurdly ordinary phrase for what it carries.
There’s a ripple of tension that moves around the room. Some nations sit straighter. Some sink deeper. Some stare ahead as if bracing for impact. America swallows. England feels his jaw clench. A nation two rows ahead folds their hands so tightly their knuckles pale.
There are no cameras, no reporters. Just the weight of what will come next. The signing ceremony begins.
“Today, we enact a decision unprecedented in the history of global governance.” The Secretary-General straightens the stack of documents before him, his voice carrying through the chamber. The word unprecedented lands poorly. It always does.
“For centuries, the world’s nation personifications have served as political extensions of their respective states. Their existence, hardly concealed, and later misunderstood, raises questions of autonomy, ethics, and human rights that can no longer be ignored.”
A flicker moves through the rows of nations, crossed arms, tightened shoulders, downcast eyes. Delegates and World Leaders hardly blink.
“After two years of negotiation, the Personhood and Autonomy Accord will formally recognise these beings as individuals, not tools. As of the moment this document is ratified, they will no longer be required to serve in political positions.”
A staffer steps forward with a leather-bound copy of the treaty, placing it open on the central podium. The sound it makes as it opens seems louder than any gavel. The paper does not look special. That somehow makes it worse.
The Secretary-General continues, reading key clauses:
“...no nation-being shall be compelled to perform diplomatic, militaristic, administrative, or political duties…”
“...legal personhood shall be granted, including the right to occupation, residence, and association…”
“...their governments may request voluntary consultation only with explicit consent…”
The weight of each line seems to settle over them like fog, yet to focus on all his words seems to be just out of reach, like grasping at air. America hears words. England hears implications. And Germany hears endings. None of them hears the same sentence. The clauses blur together, each one heavy enough to be understood, but too heavy to be held all at once.
The Secretary-General closes the folder partway, as if to remind them this can still be undone. He does not close it all the way. “Let us proceed with the signing.”
The chamber echoes quietly, all small sounds of fidgeting and paper seemed to be sucked away.
“Afghanistan,” the Secretary-General calls.
And so it begins.
One by one, nations rise with their leader, one signing before the other.
Afghanistan steps forward, posture stiff but dignified. Argentina follows, expression unreadable. Australia signs with a grim, almost bitter concentration. Austria’s hand trembles. Just once.
The alphabet rolls on. The scratch of pen on paper seemingly loud as countries sign away.
Nations walk like they’re approaching an execution, the unforeseen effects of this unknown. Others like they’re being pardoned, like past sins are being washed away and renewed. The rest look like they are already planning what comes next.
France is called while he sits smoothing the fabric of his sleeves. His expression is soft, but unreadable. He makes eye contact when he walks up, with an almost quiet, disappointed sadness. When he finishes signing, his lips press together, like sealing away an emotion.
The room seems to notice when India is called. He stands tall, and his expression is thoughtful, eyes steady as they sweep once across the chamber before settling forward. His signature is bold but measured, each line deliberate. He does not rush, nor does he linger. As he steps back, his face remains composed, but the weight can be seen. Centuries pressing quietly behind his gaze.
When Japan is called, he moves with careful precision, as if every step must be perfect. His face blank and composed, too composed. America glances over, frowning, but Japan doesn’t look back.
Latvia rises without fanfare. His movements are economical and precise. He signs without flourish, his pen strokes small and firm, the product of someone who has learned that survival often means not drawing attention. He pauses afterward, just long enough to breathe out, shoulders lowering a fraction before he returns to his seat. It isn’t relief. But it is something close.
“Kingdom of the Netherlands.”
The room continues shifting, rising and settling cyclically, like breathing.
When the Philippines is called, he rises slowly, shoulders squared but eyes bright with something unshed. He smiles politely at the Secretary-General, a reflex born of diplomacy and survival. His signature is careful, looping, almost graceful. When he finishes, he presses the pen down for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if grounding himself before stepping away.
Seychelles’ feet barely echo as she walks forward, almost swallowed by the scale of the chamber. She offers a shy smile to the officials, hands clasped together before taking the pen. Her signature is neat, modest, and unassuming. When she steps away, she glances once at the rows of towering flags above, eyes soft with wonder and unease. For the first time, the ocean does not feel like her only witness.
Turkiye stands with deliberate confidence, chin lifted, expression composed into something statesmanlike and unyielding. He does not hesitate when he signs. The motion is smooth, decisive, practiced. Someone used to treaties that redraw borders and futures alike. But when he straightens, there is a flicker of tension in his jaw, a restrained acknowledgement that this agreement redraws something far harder to reclaim. Power relinquished is still power remembered.
When “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” echoes through the chamber, England stands. His chair scrapes lightly, too loud in the silence. He keeps his head high.
England signs with crisp, methodical strokes. He hesitates only once, barely, and only someone watching carefully would see the falter in his hand.
He steps away without looking at anyone.
“–United States of America.”
America nearly jolts. He strides up more confidently than he feels. The pen is heavier than expected. The air too warm. The silence too piercing.
His signature loops across the page. Big and Bold. The shakiest it’s ever been.
When he turns back to his seat, he lets the reality wash over him. It’s done. He sits slowly.
“...next, Uruguay.”
“Vietnam.”
And finally–
“With all signatories present and accounted for,” the Secretary-General says, closing the binder with a solemn thud, “the Personhood and Autonomy accord is hereby enacted.”
Applause rises. It’s polite and hollow. A ceremony for the cameras, despite the cameras not being allowed inside.
The nations don’t clap. Most simply sit, absorbing the truth of their new lives.
America stares at his hands. England sits very straight, as if any slouching would cause him to crack. Japan keeps his eyes down, China looks more composed than he’s ever been been. Germany looks calculating, Italy has gone eerily still.
Their world has changed.
Effective Immediately.