The Hours That Remain

Chapter 1: Ticking Away the Moments

A mild chill settles quietly on the city of Brussels. Its winter sky, painted with broad strokes of grey clouds, offers no sunlight this evening. Streetlamps flicker ghostly light across the old, stone sidewalks. Citizens bustle about; some are eager to get home and tune into the nightly news.

Today is 31 January 2020... and in exactly six hours, Brexit will be finalized.

England makes his way towards the Europa building, the main headquarters of the European Union. He checks a leather-banded watch on his wrist as his footsteps echo against the cold ground. It's 6PM. By now, most of the office building will be empty and he won't have the unfortunate luck of running into anyone he knows. All he has to do is get in, grab his remaining belongings, and leave. Simple and straight-forward.

The Brit pulls the green scarf around his neck a little tighter. It really isn't that cold, but the action helps him feel more secure. As his destination comes into view, he sees that the Europa's signature lantern is lit, bathing glass windows in a warm orange hue. "The beating heart of Europe" indeed. More and more, England's feet start feel like solid lead.

After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the main door and hesitantly pulls out his key card. Suddenly, a thought crosses his mind. Will his card even work? Until now, England hadn't considered the possibility that it may not. Surely, Germany won't revoke his access until midnight, right? If not, then at least this excursion will be mercifully short. With a small twinge of hope, he taps his card to the security lock. The imposing door opens with a sharp, electronic beep. Well, there goes his last excuse.

Making his way through familiar hallways and corridors, England eventually comes to several rows of glass doors. Each one is an office; the doors are embossed with the name of each respective European Union member on the front. He approaches his own little private room. The words "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland" are partially scratched off of the glass door. It seems that the custodians have already begun the work to remodel his office. He enters and flicks on the overhead light, glancing around his beige, windowless room.

The wooden bookshelves are bare and the filing cabinets are empty. Thankfully, most of his rubbish is already back in London. There are only a few knick-knacks still left. Some loose files piled on his desk... A fake, plastic plant he got from Sweden... A photograph from the Y2K party that Spain hosted... A Pride pin that Netherlands gifted to England after he legalized same-sex marriage.

Quickly, England shoves all those memories down into the bottom of his heart and gets to work. Not even bothering to remove his coat, he hastily begins tossing his belongings into a worn cardboard box left behind by the custodians.

England imagines this is what being fired must feel like for the average bloke. Packing up everything they built over so many years and cast out into the unknown future without any sense of direction or purpose. Every accomplishment, every personal connection is just dumped into a bin and carried out the door. Really though, he shouldn't complain. In the past, he's suffered far worse. Getting booted out of the Union is nothing compared to some of the other events in his history. Life is filled with loss, after all. He just has to grit his teeth and get through it. So, this is fine. He'll be fine. Just like he always is.

A headache begins forming somewhere around his left temple as England adds an Italian-English dictionary to his cardboard box. Each object he places inside it weighs more than the last. He can't believe that he actually has to carry all this back to his hotel and somehow fit everything in his suitcase. And he has to do it without bumping into any other nations, lest he die of shame. However, the more he presses himself to just get it done, the more his head throbs. England takes a seat in the rolling chair beside his desk, allowing himself to stare up at the plaster ceiling and just exist for a brief moment.

If he's honest with himself - which is rare - he knows he could have done more to prevent this. That, right there, is the true reason why he shouldn't complain. Sinking into his chair, the Brit runs through all the terrible decisions that led up to this point. England had countless opportunities to course correct before Brexit was locked-in, and he didn't take any of them. Maybe if he told Germany that he was having second thoughts, none of this would've happened. Instead, he bit his tongue and let his daft politicians run amok as they attempted damage-control. How bloody stupid did he have to be?

Minutes slip by as England mentally throttles himself for his own short-comings. The soft ticking of his mechanical watch is the only sound that fills the hollow office. Eventually, the quiet noise gently creeps into the edge of his mind, a constant reminder of what little time he has left as a member of the European Union. Sluggishly, he checks the little device. It's 6:49PM.

"How the piss did that happen?" he mutters. He pushes himself up and continues to pack. With that needling headache still nagging at him, England tries his best to ignore it and keep working. When he finally finishes and the place is bare, he picks up his tattered cardboard box in both hands and hobbles towards the door. It opens with a push of his shoulder and he gives the space one final, regretful glance. Then he turns and takes off down the hall, attention dragging behind him.

At least it's done now. All that's left is to get back to his hotel room without any unexpected encounters. Then he'll get room service to deliver him a stupidly expensive bottle of gin so he can drown out this bothersome headache.

As he rounds a corner, a figure suddenly enters his line of sight, snapping England out of his thoughts. He halts, nearly stumbling right into the individual.

"Ah! Pardon, je n'avais pas remarqué que vous étiez là," says the familiar voice. "Je ne m'attendais pas à ça qu'il y ait quelqu'un ici..." The French speaker cuts himself off as England meets his gaze. Blond curls, blue eyes, and an immaculate wardrobe straight out of a Dior catalogue. Who else can it be, but the most irritating man in the world? "Oh," France remarks. "It's you."

Bollocks.