I'm sorry people who were following A New Mansion. I was getting kind of tired of it and couldn't get motivated. So, it's just an empty husk of a story now. So, my new line of concentration is this little piece right here.

I got the idea from this when I was reading the Elevator scene in the book Divergent (Anyone? Any clue what I'm talking about?) So, eventually this decided to crawl out of my brain juice.

Italics are the OCish person thinking back on her . . . experiences.

Please, enjoy. ^J^

It all started when I got promoted. Yup, usually you would be fine with getting a better job, better hours, more money, and a nice, penthouse office, to top it all off. Well, that's fine, but my new office is on the hundredth floor of an international building where world conferences are held. It's a massive but old building that took pride in antique technology, like the ancient elevator I'm supposed to trust with my life, which moves at a sloth's pace. A hundred floors worth of elevator travel. Yup, this is always interesting. Of course, between the main lobby and the hundredth floor, I have gotten to meet nearly all of the representatives from each country.

And it's not very fun, I can tell you that much.

These psychopaths are everywhere. EVERYWHERE. They are wedged into every corner of this building, and every day I got to meet a different one.

Needless to say, after a few months of this, I went to my boss and quit.

"B-but," he objects, "You're so good at your job! We need you here! You are very important! These people can't see their VP just give up!"

"Do you know the hell I've been through since I got here?" I ask, leaning over the desk. "Should I enlighten you on just what I have had to endure since I got here?"

So, to help him understand my predicament, I recalled the first day I came here, the first insane elevator ride to the hundredth floor that, for whatever reason, did not stop between here and there. A hundred stories with . . . him.

I stood in the elevator, thoughts racing, everything a slight blur in my excitement to be near so many important people. In fact, such a blur that I didn't even notice when the blond in the bomber jacket got in the elevator with me, not until I could hear obnoxious chewing. I blinked out of my daze and looked around. I suddenly acknowledged him.

"Hey," he nods towards me, swallowing an inhumanly large amount of a hamburger. "I'm Alfred F. Jones, but you can call me America."

He holds out a black glove to me to shake. I start to reach to shake his hand, shocked into silence that I'd already met one of the country embodiments, when he takes his hand away. "Oh, to slow," he starts laughing obnoxiously.

I tilt my head. What the . . .

"I'm . . ." I start to introduce myself.

"I know," he says, "You're the new VP!"

"Yea . . ."

"Wait 'til you meet the others! They're pretty cool, but they aren't as cool as me!" America starts laughing obnoxiously again.

"And why do you say tha-"

"'Cuz I'm the hero!" A flag appears out of nowhere, flapping behind him, magical wind picking up. I look around the old elevator, looking for the source of this . . . strangeness. He looks at me. "Oh, I stunned you into silence. I tend to have that effect on people." The flag returns to where it came from and the air returns to normal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see we're only past twenty floors. I find myself wishing this old piece of junk would move just a bit faster.

"Um . . . America?"

"The one and only!"

"There is a human embodiment of every country, right?" He nods and starts to say something but I cut him off. "So there's a UK? And a Canada?"

"Who?"

"Canada . . ." I shake my head. "So, um, how old are you guys?"

"Well, you see, I'm physically about twenty, but technically . . . let's see . . . When did Iggy find me?"

"You mean the founding of America?" I murmur, stunned.

"It's been technically a bit over four hundred years, maybe five hundred, since I appeared. Iggy found me on the four hundred side of that . . ."

I take a deep breath, knowing I'll probably regret it. "Who's Iggy?"

"Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom," he says. He sits on the floor. Floor thirty greets the needle indicating the floor. "You know, I grew up fast. Really fast. Barely a century after Iggy started taking care of me, I was a teenager . . . and . . . stuff happened . . ."

"Stuff?"

"The American Revolution . . ."

Suddenly America got all mopey. "You know, he always makes me feel bad about it. He says the taxes were even worse in the UK, but they were richer . . . it was hard on me, on America . . ." he sniffs. Awkwardly, I sit next to him. I reach to pat his shoulder, then rethink, then rethink again, and sort of pat his shoulder.

Suddenly he bursts out crying, sobbing entirely uncontrollably, grabbing me and squeezing the life out of me. Damn, this guy is strong, especially for someone who came in eating burgers . . .

"Um, America?" I choke out. He lets go of me, and stands up suddenly, saluting. "America, what the-"

"Floor fifty," he says. "I always salute at the fiftieth floor." I look at him. "For the fifty United States." I nod, starting to fish in my purse for some pain killers. I swear, I had some ibuprofen here somewhere. . . "What're you looking for?"

"Pain Killers," I openly admit, knowing his voice won't get out of my head.

"I know, being in the presence of such a hero might not be what you expected, and you might be shocked, but you don't need to drug yourself up," he says in an arrogant sort of kindness, reaching out to take the pain killers away from me.

"Yes, I need them!" I say, turning away, protecting them.

"NO! Don't fall to the pressure of medicine! You can be strong! Since I'm the hero, I can help you!" He reaches over my shoulder, grabbing at the bottle. I pop a few in my mouth and swallow dry. Floor 55.

"So?" my boss shrugs, "That's how he usually is."

"Usually is?" I ask. "Of course this is how he is! This idiot is supposed to represent my home country? How do you think I feel about that!"

"Well, I can assure you . . ."

"You can assure me nothing! And I'm barely half way through my lovely hundred floor ride with America!" I fume. I suppress the memory of a crying America when I say he's not the hero, when I ask something about some historical event, crawling out the elevator that's practically flooded from his Texas sized tears . . . "Oh, and don't even get me started on what happened with France!"

Probably isn't what you'd want to here . . .

So, stuck in an old elevator with France, coming up next!