Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia... Well. Let's just say that for all the fangirls, it's a sad thing I don't. XD

This chapter has been redone! All of the news... stuff, comes from actual news coverage I found on YouTube, at the time that this was actually happening.

I would love for you to comment, especially because I re-did this chapter. I want to know what you think. Any comments bashing the war, Bush, Americans/America, Muslims, Christians, Jews etc, or supporting conspiracy theories will be deleted. Please be respectful. :)

Lastly, in addition to a couple of other headcanons I'm incorporating in this fic, one of them (a very common one) is how the personified countries have that "feeling" that they are a country, that extra little bundle of emotions from their people. And also, (this might count as a 2nd headcanon but it's super common as well) the countries feel it physically if they are attacked, although it doesn't take much of a toll on them unless it were to be, say, the bombing of Japan.

Enjoy!

~Xsnow~stormX~

"It's 8:52 here in New York. I'm Brian Gumble. We understand there has been a plane crash on the southern tip of Manhattan. You're looking at the World Trade Centers. We understand that a plane has crashed in the World Trade Center, we don't know anything more than that…"

Alfred stared at the TV, horror-struck. This is awful… But he kept watching, now mesmerized by the news castors rattling off information as it happened.

"Obviously a major fire there, and there has been some sort of explosion. We don't fully know the details. There is one report, as of yet unconfirmed, that a plane has hit the World Trade Center, and you can see there is smoke there coming out of at least both sides of the building…"

Alfred flipped through some more news channels for a few minutes, listening to the reporters and the eye-witnesses speaking of the crash. He grimaced. He would have known about it anyway. That pang in his chest, the inexplicable fear inside him, yet not belonging to him, would have told him.

Then the unthinkable happened.

"So you have no idea—"

"Oh there's another one! Another plane just hit! Oh my gosh, another plane has just hit a-another building, it flew right into the middle of it! Explosion. My God, it flew right into the middle of the building."

"It went into the East tower?"

"Yes, yes. Right into the middle of the building.

Numbly, Alfred changed channels again. His hand, as though it had a mind of its own, crept up his chest as though he could possibly hold and soothe his heart. The pain and fear—he couldn't tell anymore if those feelings belonged to him, or to the people—ran deep into his bones, now.

"It does not appear that there is any kind of an effort yet. Now remember—Oh my God!"

Alfred vaguely felt tears wetting his face, hearing the gasps and cries of the studio workers.

"That looks like a second plane! That is just—"

"I just saw the plane go in, it looks like it exploded."

"We just saw another plane coming in from the side."

"Yeah (unintelligible)"

"Yeah, so that's the second explosion."

The blonde readjusted his glasses and scooted to the edge of the couch. Anger rose in him like acidic bile. His emotions were so mingled with those of the general populace that the line between "Alfred F. Jones" and "America" was gone.

"It seems to be on purpose."

(Background: "Oh my goodness, was that a plane?")

"It's obvious now, I think, that there's a second plane just crashed into the World Trade Center, I think we have a terrorist act—"

He turned off the TV.

America's pain was so great he thought he might die. But his rage was greater. He wanted to kill, and kill, and torture, and keep killing. Of course this would accomplish nothing, without a specific goal. Already he was analyzing, strategizing, conning and blaming.

But America's compassion and concern for his people was greater than any of his most vengeful feelings or thoughts. He quickly threw on a fire fighting uniform and grabbed a gas mask. He would save as many as he could now. Retaliation could wait.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't yet know of the Pentagon, or flight 93. He raced out the door, wiping tears of pain and rage away from his eyes. He struggled against the nausea writhing around inside his stomach. As he dashed out the door, he held his head up high. It was an attack yes, but this was no reason to lose himself completely. There was always, always the future.

Because he, Alfred F. Jones, was and is, the United States of America.

Thank you for reading! Please review! I've slightly redone chapter 2 now as well, so tell me what you think, yeah? :)