A shimmering portal crackled open, spitting out a bewildered America, his usual sunglasses askew. He'd stumbled into the Witch's Grove, a place of whispering trees and glowing herbs, ruled by a stoic England, his eyes blazing with emerald fire.

England: "You weren't invited, Colony," England hissed, gripping his gnarled staff. America raised his hand.

America: "Whoa there, Witchy! Just thought I'd drop by for a spell."