Sunlight streamed through a crack in the shutters, illuminating the room of a what, for all intents and purposes, was a typical teenaged boy. A poster of Lebron James hung over his nightstand, on which an antique lava lamp glowed dimly. On his dressers, rows of basketball trophies could be seen, as well as bobble heads from Little League, and medals from when he briefly took up swimming in middle school.

When awake, Alfred was unfailingly cheerful, active, and always willing to lend a hand. The same could not be said, however, of when he was asleep. Besides an arm dangling from the side of his bed, fingertips brushing the floor, only a mop of wheat-golden hair could be seen outside the sheets, and quiet, rhythmic breathing heard.

Pressed against his doorframe, hands clapped over her mouth to muffle her giggles, stood a young girl with wavy blond hair and pale violet eyes, waiting to pounce. She counted to ten, then charged, her bare feet padding soundlessly on the carpet, to leap onto Alfred's chest, jutting bird-bone elbows into his ribs and knees into his stomach. "Got you!"

His head raised, muscles clenching instinctively, to see her smiling face looking down at him with glee, and he grabbed ahold of her, leaning back against the pillow with a sigh. "And good morning to you, too, Madeline."

She snickered, scrambling deftly off his bed to dart towards the door. "Mom says you need to be ready for breakfast in ten minutes or you'll be late to school." And she flitted out of sight, her nightgown kicking up behind her.

Groaning loudly now that his sole audience had scampered off, Alfred dazedly went about his morning routine. He brushed his teeth, combed out his hair. It was thick and hardy like his dad's, something he appreciated since his mom and sister seemed to share the same fine brand that knotted easily and required extra care not to break.

Once at the kitchen table, he slid into his usual seat by the window. Madeline was already seated with a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, and her favorite toy, a stuffed polar bear, nestled lovingly on her lap. It was worn now, thanks to over a year of relentless hugging, but still retained its shape and softness.

Muttering "Revenge!" he reached over to give her wavy locks a tussle, causing her to puff out her cheeks and pout.

Having observed the interaction from the stove, their mother pressed a dainty hand to her mouth as she gave a hearty laugh. It was an average day, much like dozens and hundreds before it. Alfred had a plate of eggs with a side of bacon made for him special, while Madeline pretended to feed her stuffed polar bear, and then he was off to school, pressing quick kisses to his mother's rosy cheek and Madeline's forehead, and chuckling when she rubbed at it. "Be good, Mads. I'll want to hear all about your day at when I get home, okay?" And he winked, knowing she was going to blow first grade out of the water.

Alfred? Wake up!

...I don't think he can hear us.

Alfred stopped walking. He looked behind him, eyes searching for someone calling his name, but the other students bustled past without sparing him a glance. It didn't seem like anyone was calling out to him.

Strange.

He lingered for a minute longer at the entrance, letting the crowd part around him, scraping at his thoughts for any recollection of walking to school. It was as though he'd stepped out of his home to appear in front of his highschool steps, but that was impossible. He must have just dazed off during the walk or something.

Hitching his backpack, he started forward, only to accidentally collide with a shorter blond in a green cardigan. The student stumbled before recovering himself with a potent glare, made all the more effective by his massive caterpillar eyebrows, "Watch where you're going, ya git."

Frowning, Alfred tried to place the accent. "Sorry about that. Guess I wasn't paying attention." He fired off a friendly smile. "Are you a transfer student, by any chance?"

"Exchange," the boy corrected, eyeing him warily. "Shouldn't you be getting to class?"

Instead of taking the hint, Alfred, noticing the school map the boy held, offered to take him to his first class. Reluctantly, the boy agreed, handing the map over with a grimace that grew more pronounced when Alfred sunnily informed him that they shared a homeroom.

Is that supposed to be me?

We must be starting to reach him! Next should be-

The entire class had been instructed to write a 500-word report on their summers for the sake of a brief presentation they were required to give on their first day back. It had, unfortunately, completely slipped Alfred's mind.

He curled his arms around his head, feeling miserable with the knowledge that the first graded assignment of his Junior year would a big fat zero, until a light tap on the shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder, a question sitting on his tongue, when the French transfer from last year – What was his name again? – asked him what was wrong.

And Alfred blabbed everything, telling him in a hushed whisper that he'd really hoped to start the school year right, but his forgetful brain was going to make it impossible once again, even though he'd had an awesome internship in Washington that he was absolutely dying to talk about.

The French student listened, nodding occasionally, then handed him a piece of paper covered in writing. It was his summer report. As grateful as Alfred was for the offer, he solemnly shook his head. "I can't copy your work. It wouldn't be right." But the French student smiled, his blues eyes twinkling merrily, as he explained that Alfred didn't have to. The teacher wasn't grading the assignment, only completion, so if he made sure to glance at the paper occasionally, there was a good chance he'd get the full grade.

It was smart. A little deceptive, maybe, but not a bad idea.

Resolving not to breath a word of this to his impressionable little sister, Alfred thanked him, then quickly got started on outlining what he would say in his head.

He only had until the teacher reached J's, after all.

When he glanced down at the paper, however, all the words were gone, leaving only his name scrawled repeatedly in messy letters over its surface.

You're a bad influence even in his dreams, Frog.

Yes, well, at least I'm not rude.

Guys, can we please focus?

"What are you thinking about?"

What?

Alfred swiveled his head, expecting to see the inside of a classroom, the teacher steadily working her way through the roster before asking him to stand at the front and ruining his day. Instead, there was a long stretch of sidewalk, bordered on the left by lawns and driveways, and a paved road on the right.

Her curled ringlets bobbing as she quickened her pace to keep up with his stride, Madeline looked up at him, her pale violet eyes big and worried. Feeling guilty, Alfred slowed down, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish and lopsided grin.

"Sorry, Mads." He shrugged. "I guess I've got a lot of my mind." A thought occurred to him, and he relaxed, smiling more naturally, "How was your first day of school, munchkin?" He glanced down, expecting her to be bubbling with tales of her new friends, but she averted her gaze, shifting uncomfortably.

Not a good sign.

"The other kids say I'm too old to carry a doll around," she mumbled into the bear's fur. "They called me a baby." Her eyes flashing, she lifted her head and blurted, "I am not a baby!"

"No way," Alfred agreed. "You're one of the coolest kids I know." Her scrunched-up scowl eased slightly, the death grip she had on her bear loosening. In the distance, a young woman in yoga pants and a sports tee rounded the corner with her dog on a leash. Looking at her, Alfred thought of something that might help."Everyone does things at their own pace." A quick check. Good. Madeline was definitely listening, at least. "It's part of what makes us different, and being different is what makes us special."

"What if I don't want to be special?" She bit her lip. "What if I want the other kids to like me?"

Privately, Alfred lamented that she was heading to the tough questions before learning how to write the alphabet, but tried to draw on his own brushes with being not-quite normal. Stopping, he knelt down to her level, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Unfortunately, Mads, these aren't choices I can make for you. It's up to you to decide whether you want to be friends with kids who expect you to change, or wait to find someone who likes you the way you are now." With a wink, he added, his tone brimming with sincerity and fondness, "And trust me, sis, there are plenty of first graders out there who are dying to be your friend."

She giggled, squirming beneath his grasp. Then threw her arms around him, briefly letting go of her bear. "Thanks, Al. I feel a little better."

A series of barks and a startled shout caught their attention, and they looked to see a dog sprinting at them, its owner giving chase. The dog bent, picking the bear up in its jaws – "Kumajirou!" – and swerved, heading into the street. Madeline broke away to follow, not realizing there was a car speeding down the road, and Alfred acted.

Knowing in his heart that what he was doing was right, that he'd do it a million times over if he could, he reached, pushing her forward and out of the car's path.

The world exploded.

Muscles seizing, America's eyes flew open with a garbled scream. There were faces hovering over him, their faces pinched with worry, but the details were blurry.

Green. Blue. Violet.

There was something in his mouth, some kind of breathing apparatus, and he tore it out, tasting iron. Soon, his vision cleared enough for him to know he was in some kind of a lab, lying in a capsule.

He knew the young man staring down at him with a pinched expression, the older gentlemen with busy eyebrows, and the man with bright blue eyes and blond curls, much like… "Mattie?"

Matthew grabbed his hand, grounding him. "Yes, America. I'm here."

"Where's Mads?" The three shared anxious looks over his head. America began to panic. They didn't seem to know who she was. "Maddie, my little…" And then it struck him, like a shard of ice in the heart. Something shattered. "I don't… have a little sister, do I?"

At that moment, the door to a glass room swung open, and a portly scientist tumbled out, looking harried and somewhat out-of-sorts. America listened, detached, as the human railed against Canada, France, and England for interfering with the experiment, for rendering nigh on a decade of research useless. Rage contorted England's features, fire sparked to life in France, and Canada… there was a quiet, cold fury hidden beneath of veneer of calm. On a normal day, the sight would have made America shiver. Instead, he barely felt anything.

But he would. He was certain of that.

Pushing himself out of the vertical capsule, he tiredly interrupted the human before the hole he dug could get any deeper, if that were possible, "You gave me a dream I didn't ask for, but it was nice while it lasted." Already, the artificial memories were fading. America bowed his head, thinking of the mother he'd never see again, and the sister he'd left behind. None of it was real, so why did it hurt so much? "I'm going to give you until the count of three," and he stared at the scientists as they filed out of the observing room, alien and unblinking, "to get out of here, before I do something I'm sure I'm bound to regret." They didn't move, speaking amongst each other in hushed voices.

"Didn't you hear him?" England barked.

France winked, adding pleasantly, "Run."

And they walked briskly for the exit, glancing apprehensively over their shoulders for as long as the nations could see them. Once they were gone, America attempted to step out of the capsule. His knees went weak. He swayed, only to feel an unexpectedly strong grip steady him. "Alfred?"

Concern bleeding through like ink on parchment, Matthew peered at him, but all Alfred could see were pale violet eyes. He reeled, lurching away from the contact. "Don't!" It hurt to breathe. His chest wasn't working right. His heart beat too fast. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry.

When he managed to look at Matthew again, the heartbroken expression on his face made America wish the ground would open up and swallow him. He'd deserve it. "I'm sorry, Matthew." The name felt strange on his tongue. "I just… I need a minute."

He put some distance between them, turning his back so they couldn't see his face.

He'd meant what he said. He only needed a minute, but then, unexpectedly, Matt was at his side, looking at him with the knowledge of centuries, wise and sad, and America let him put a hand on his shoulder, let himself lean into the touch.

France and England watched the exchange without commenting, taking in the sight of America hunching in on himself as his body began to shake, and Matthew pulled him closer, assuring him that after they've overcome so, so much together, they'll certainly overcome this, too.

Once America was returned to his home, Matthew saw to it that he went to bed, before being ushered off to bed, as well. In the morning, the news played a story on how a mysterious fire burned down a local Behavioral Sciences laboratory to the ground. Though there were no causalities and no perpetrators caught on tape, it was speculated that the fire may have been caused by whoever anonymously dropped several USB's full of evidence pertaining to illegal human experimentation at a nearby precinct.

Neither France nor England appeared surprised by the news at breakfast, and Matthew and America agreed without words never to mention the smears of ash on their faces and dust on their clothes.