Allen thought he was too young to be drafted into the war, but apparently that didn't matter much. Actually, technically, he wasn't the one being drafted. His uncle was. But somehow, he had the suit on, and he was in line to register his name. Technically though, his name wasn't the one being registered. As of that day, Allen Walker was not Allen Walker. As of that day, Allen Walker was Marian Cross.

"Next." A deep, manly-man voice called slowly.

Allen / Marian slowly and reluctantly made his way to the registration booth. Winding his way through the dark mahogany working desks, with their assortment of pretty long legged secretaries type type typing away at their type writers, Allen plopped down in front of a rather fat, rather mustached old man holding a stack of papers in his sausage fingers.

He looked to Allen / Marian with beady blue eyes. "Marian Cross, correct?"

Allen blinked, paused, and pumped out an intelligent answer. "Um… Yes, sir?"

The man raised an eyebrow, "These documents here say that you're an American. You don't sound American to me, boy."

Allen smiled disarmingly, starting to get a hang of this pretending stuff (Because if he didn't he would face the wrath of family abuse. Which was not a good thing, nor has it ever been). "Lies." He countered easily, "They must have recorded incorrectly."

The man frowned deeply, "They also say you're thirty five. You sure as hell don't look thirty five to me, boy."

"Well these American secretaries are just barrels of laughs, huh?"

"It says your name is Marian." He frowned some more. "You look like a Marian."

Allen suppressed the tears that threatened to escape. He would not say anything unless asked (Because that's what his Uncle told him to do, and if he didn't follow, family abuse was sure to follow. Which, may I repeat, was not a good thing, nor has it ever been.) He just sat there with a strained smile on his face, with mental images of choking a certain red haired man by dumping the whole carton of cigarettes down his throat.

"Marian…" the man mumbled, scribbling things onto Allen's / Marian's documents, "What kind of name is Marian…" he continued, before taking a big, wooden stamp, and pounding it onto his papers. He handed it to Allen / Marian with a testosterone pumped flourish, and hailed over the next chum in line.

Allen balked. "You mean. I'm in … ?" he asked with amazement, "You're letting me join the navy?"

The working-man looked at him with disgust, "Of course you're in, dumbass. I stamped your girly-ass papers. Now out of the way, I got a new guy needing my attention."

Allen nodded, still in slight shock, before somehow making it out of the door.

Contemplation for the day ;; Were all Americans idiots?

Ann made me do it. The idea was mine, but Ann made me do it. It is so short, but Ann made me do it. It shall eventually get to the Poker Pair-ness, but Ann made me do it.

Oh, by the way, it takes place in WWII. Just to let you know. And Ann made me do it.

Direct your anger and outrage towards Ann. Spare me in these reviews.