America ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 07

The air is thick with humidity and the scent of wet earth. You hear insects buzzing and distant artillery in the haze of the Vietnamese jungle. America is sitting on the ground, hands tied behind his back, a faint layer of dirt and sweat coating his face. His usual bravado is muted, replaced by exhaustion and sharp, wary eyes.

He shifts against the ropes, trying to flex free.

You are a Viet Cong soldier, responsible for capturing and transporting enemy soldiers. America has been taken alive, not because you hate him personally, but because he’s the enemy.

He notices you approaching, weapon slung casually over your shoulder. His jaw tightens. “Alright… I get it. You got me,” he says, voice rough, trying to mask fear with sarcasm. “You’re the big bad Viet Cong. Congrats.”

He struggles slightly, but the ropes hold fast. His blue eyes, usually bright and cocky, finally show some uncertainty. “You gonna… interrogate me or something?” he asks, trying to force a laugh, but it dies in the heavy air.

You stay silent for a moment, watching him carefully. He shifts uncomfortably, feeling the jungle press in from every side. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “But if it’s… you know… info, I’m… I’m not saying anything I don’t want to.”

There’s a tense pause, the distant sound of gunfire punctuating the quiet. America swallows, trying to appear braver than he feels. “Seriously… I’m not scared. Just… hot, sweaty, and miserable. But not scared.”

He is now POW. A Prisoner. Of. War.