Office work was the last thing Alfred wanted to be doing, but with the president out reading books to small children, he was the highest on the political chain and he was the one who had to do the filing and the speech-writing that was 'too official' for the people who were assigned to do the job. But what he had to write the speech about, he wasn't entirely sure. He had taken his work to New York, where a meeting would be held shortly. He checked the clock; it read 8:45 in the morning. That was too early to be thinking up speeches! Far too early! He wished he'd had a more sufficient breakfast, an Egg McMuffin, large fries, and chocolate shake was all he could get with the cash on hand, and the inter-ac machine at the location was busted. That would need to be looked into, if they wanted to stay open. He was considering the travel time to a nearby by sandwich shop when he coughed. It was unexpectedly violent and he didn't have the time to bring his sleeve up to his mouth, so he coughed into his hand.

He pulled his hand away and looked at it, one of the odd idiosyncrasies of human nature, expecting to see mucus or phlegm. That was what would normally happen, right? He had felt something come up, but wasn't sure of what. What he saw wasn't mucus. Or phlegm. It was red.

Blood, his instincts told him. It wouldn't be the first time he had coughed up blood, but it was normally when he was in pain and he felt completely fine. It had most often been during periods of war, when something important was destroyed. That police riot in Vietnam had really been a killer, so many people lost, but this was so different. It was sudden, but small. The police riot had been much more violent, drawn out. Maybe it's ketchup, he thought to himself, checking the clock. 8:46. Ketchup that I ate almost an hour ago… A sharp pain quickly grew in the pit of his stomach immediately after he thought this. Concerned, he put the back of his hand to his forehead, but he wasn't warm. No warmer than usual anyway. He stood, subconsciously doubling over slightly, his body's natural reaction to the pain, and moved to a small trolley in the corner of the room, filling a glass with water and downing it in one gulp. He felt something well up in his throat and he spat it into the empty cup. More blood.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, trying to get a grasp on the situation. He put the cup down and turned back to his desk, facing a window with the blinds up. Was it maybe something he ate? He hadn't eaten much that day so maybe it was that? But no, that didn't make any sense. In any case- wait, what was that?

Alfred ran to the window, ignoring the growing pain that was spreading through his stomach, his eyes focusing on the huge cloud of smoke that was quickly filling the sky. More importantly, the building it was coming from. The North Tower of the World Trade Centre. Alfred took off his glasses and polished them, blinking hard. Maybe it was food poisoning and he was hallucinating. Did food poisoning do that? He put his glasses back on. Yes, yes there was an enormous cloud of smoke coming from the Tower. He shook his head in short, quick bursts, not believing what he was seeing, then turned and sprinted from the office and into the halls of the building. Various guards and other important businessmen watched him go, some trying to speak to him, but he ignored them all. One arm was firmly wrapped around his stomach, he knew exactly what was wrong and he knew it would only get worse. There would be fire, and explosions, people would die, this was bad. Very, very bad. He checked his watch as he burst through the main doors of the building and onto the sidewalk in a desperate attempt to reach the Towers. He had to know what was happening before things got worse.

8:55 AM.

Just once, once, he wished the meetings could be in Ottawa, or Toronto, heck, even Charlottetown would be better than having to fly to New York at four in the morning. Matthew hadn't slept that day and the jet-lag (even though it wasn't that severe) was best-beaten cold turkey.

It was 9:00 according to the small digital clock on the table beside the sofa in the hotel room. Matthew was seated on the sofa, flipping through channels on an excessively large television, as he had been for the past ten minutes. Alfred, full of American pride, had booked rooms for every country who accepted his offer. Matthew had been too polite to refuse, and who would turn down a free hotel room? The meeting itself was to take place on the 13th, but Matthew didn't have much choice in the matter. The only plane that would get him there on time was scheduled to arrive on the 11th. He didn't mind entirely, it gave him some time to get used to America- the country itself, not the person. He never really would get used to its big, crowded cities, and the people were so different. But it was still worth a shot. If there was noting on television he would probably go for a walk.

The channel selection started again, at channel two, and Matthew saw something he had never expected to see. It was an aerial shot, seemingly from a helicopter, of a building on fire. No, not just any building, one of the Towers in the World Trade Centre. Canada half-rose from the sofa, dropping the remote, all other thoughts flying from his mind. He watched in horror as the tower burned, flames spreading through the entire building. While he was watching there was an enormous explosion as a plane crashed into the second tower, and the woman in the helicopter shouted in alarm.

9:03 AM.

Alfred was sprinting through the streets, nearing the Towers, when he had to stop. It felt like he had pulled a muscle in his leg, and he fell to one knee, holding himself up with an arm and a foot. People brushed past him like he wasn't there, something he wasn't used to at meetings but used to in New York. But these people were coupled with a sound, screaming. There was screaming. Yes, they must know about the Tower. All the more reason for him to get there.

He struggled to him feet, but quickly fell against the wall of a nearby deli, bile rising up in his throat and forcing its way through his hastily closed mouth. It flew from his throat, splattering on the pavement in front of him, a rank mixture of vomit and blood. He hardly took notice, completely focused on the intense pain that had filled his torso completely. It surpassed anything he had ever felt, like his organs were being torn up inside him. He sank into a sitting position against the wall of the deli, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to contain himself, even his sanity seeming to deteriorate in the vicious physical assault he was receiving. He could feel the vomit threatening again, but he choked it down, he had to hold it in. Someone would notice soon, right? Right? He was the United States of fucking America, there had to be someone who would-

"Oh thank god I found you."

His thoughts were cut short by a quiet, but urgent voice. Alfred hardly looked up before there was a hand on his arm, pulling him up and supporting him under his arm.

"Who…?" Alfred managed weakly before his vision blurred and his threw up again. His movement was so violent that his glasses flew off, landing in the bile in front of him, cracking against the pavement. The arms holding him were stronger than he expected, and part of him that was still thinking clearly was almost certain of who it was.

"Woah now, alright, it's alright, I've got you."

"Mat?"

"We can't have you wandering the streets."

"What's going on?"

Alfred was not blinded without his glasses, though his vision had gone frustratingly blurry, just enough to block him from seeing clear shapes. His prescription had never been very strong.

Matthew didn't answer right away, just hoisted up Alfred so that he was carrying more of the weight. Canada too, was unnaturally strong for his body type, and was almost carrying Alfred's entire weight on one arm. "A second plane has crashed into the Towers, the South one this time. I saw it on the news."

Matthew's final words were almost completely drowned out by Alfred's moan of pain and despair. Matthew all but ignored it, focused on not letting Alfred get any worse before he got somewhere safe. A hospital at the moment was completely out of the question and Alfred wouldn't last long enough. The hotel was a 15 minute sprint from where they were, Matthew could only hope the situation didn't get any worse until they could get back to the hotel.

Matthew struggled back the way they had come, and Alfred wasn't exactly helping. Of course, Matthew couldn't blame him; the heart of his country was being attacked. And if it wasn't the heart, it was certainly the lungs. He quickly decided that it wouldn't do any good to get him to a hotel. He had to contact a hospital.

"I can't- I can't see…"

"I know Al, your glasses fell off. I'm going to get you to help."

"No, I can't- it's all black, there isn't-" He stopped, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Alright, that's fine, I'll get you help.

Alfred began to protest, probably that he was America and that meant he could deal with it, but was choked off by a violent cough followed by a wheeze. Matthew frowned and rummaged in his pockets, the cursed himself for leaving his cell in the hotel room.

"Alfred, can you talk? Are you alright?"

Alfred didn't reply, and that was enough of an answer for Matthew. He would have stopped supporting the man already, but there was nothing to put him on besides the ground.

"I'm going to get your cell, I'm calling a doctor."

America tried to protest again, but went limp, falling unconscious. That was a bad sign. A very, very bad sign. Matthew propped him up against the wall of the deli and began going through the numerous pockets of his aviator jacket. A small, but growing, trickle of blood was dripping from Alfred mouth. It was internal, the bleeding, the wounds, they were all on the inside. That made sense. Alfred needed to get to the hospital, right now.

Finally, Matthew found the phone in the breast pocket of the jacket. The clock on the screen read 9:40. He quickly dialled 911 and held up Alfred. The phone rang three times before he got an answer.

"911, what's your emergency?" said a feminine voice with a very forced calm. They must be flooded with calls right now, but Alfred needs his help. Hoping that the system was the same in America as it was in Canada, Matthew spoke with a calm, confident voice that was rarely used.

"Alfred F. Jones- America, is in serious need of medical attention. This is Matthew Williams, Canada, his brother. Please trace the call and send an ambulance."

There was silence for a second on the other end of that line, and then, "Yes sir, help is on its way."

The line went dead and Matthew sighed. 'On its way' wasn't promising, but it was the best they had. Something else occurred to him, he should contact the president. No doubt Mr. Bush would have heard of the attacks, but whether or not he was aware of Alfred's condition… To be quite honest, the current president didn't seem to think very quickly. Nevertheless, he should know.

Matthew flipped through the phone's contact list, finding what he assumed to be Mr. Bush labeled under 'Prez' in the phone. He hit 'Call' from the options list and held the phone to his ear.

"The President cannot speak at the moment, he is busy," said the gruff voice of a man who was likely one of the presidents bodyguards.

"Alfred F. Jones- America, is awaiting medical attention and needs to-" Matthew glanced at Alfred uncertainly, "have contact with the President."

"Who is this?"

"Canada."

"Mr. Harper or…?"

"Actual Canada. Matthew Williams. Please put the president on."

"Just a second sir."

It was amazing. The countries would be treated as average people until they mentioned that they were, in fact, avatars of whatever country. And then suddenly, there was endless respect for them. The way people saw them changed. They weren't just people anymore, they had to be handled like glass ornaments; countries couldn't be killed that easily. Matthew's thoughts were interrupted by the Texan voice of George W. Bush on the other line.

"This is the president."

"Mr. President, my name is Matthew Williams, I'm sure you know Alfred? America? I'm his brother. Canada."

"Of course." He didn't sound too happy about it. It would always be hard to accept that there were people running about as countries.

"And you've heard about the attacks on the Twin Towers?"

"The Pentagon was attacked as well," George said after a slight pause. Things were starting to make sense, why Alfred's health had declined so rapidly.

"Listen, Mr. Bush, Alfred is not doing very well, to put it lightly." Matthews voice was heavy with sarcasm. "His health is reflected by the health of the country- and right now America is in crisis. I need you to up security in the airports right now." His inner-tactician was coming out, the confident and forceful man that rivalled even Alfred.

He hung up before the president could respond, seeing an ambulance fighting its way through the traffic. He checked the time on the phone again. What a way to start a morning. The ambulance parked in front of them and paramedics rushed out of the back, loading Alfred onto a stretcher.

9:58 AM.

Alfred had always considered himself a fairly healthy man for 237. The last time he had felt this much pain was during the revolution, maybe. But that had a positive outcome, no matter how painful it was, no matter how much he had lost, he gained it all back and more. This? Nothing good could come of it, and it had to top the charts.

It felt like everything was on fire, like flames surrounded him and his blood was made of lava. He knew exactly why, he could feel it. Not only were the Towers hit, but the Pentagon as well. His entire weapon supply, the financial centre, how would this affect the country? Everything went blurry when his glasses fell off, but he was comforted to know that Matthew had him. There was no one he'd trust more than Canada to help him, except maybe England. But Canada was closer. His actual brother. But everything went black as the buildings burned, his imperfect vision clouded over completely. It wasn't soon after that he fell unconscious, and he fought it the whole way through.

Swimming through the murk that was his subconscious, he heard voices, screaming at him, wake up, your country is under attack, you need to wake up. NOW.

But he couldn't. His body wasn't letting him; he couldn't feel anything but pain. Quite suddenly, through all this mist, his eyes flew open and his sight was better than it had ever been. He knew exactly what was happening, he was on a stretcher. But his chest, it was tight. Not in pain, just tightness. His head was buzzing, his lips tingling. He tried to move his hand, his right hand, to wipe his mouth, there must be something on it, but he couldn't. There was no feeling. His ears were ringing, everything moving too fast for him to see and focus.

He started to make out noise, shouts, and the commanding voice of someone whom he should remember, but who? Who was that?

"I'm get…the...back…" it said, he couldn't hear the whole sentence.

"Yes…ir…" said a second voice he didn't recognize.

"He's… a… troke…" said a third voice. Damn, how many people were there?

More yelling, muffled and unclear.

9:59 AM.

A stroke. At the exact same time and a rush of hot air and ashes blew through the streets. Shouts filled the air as the dust settled, the North Tower has fallen, thousands of men and women crying for people the may or may not have known, and Alfred lost his right side. Matthew watched the paramedics loading Alfred into the ambulance, and then climbed in himself. He put a hand on the back of his head, his vision going blurry for a second. This was affecting Canada as well. He wondered what was happening to the other countries.

He knew why Alfred was in such a way, and he was praying that this wouldn't get any worse. For the sake of not only Alfred, but also everyone else. He found himself clinging to a desperate hope that the second tower wouldn't fall, that no one else would die.

The ambulance sped through the streets, weaving through congested traffic to what Matthew assumed to be the private hospital Alfred claimed he had. Matthew had never been too sure; he used the public hospitals offered in his cities. But a private hospital would be helpful, without the crowd of people that would certainly be rushed through because of the Towers. Alfred needed immediate care, something that he may not get if he were to go to a public hospital.

"How's he doing?" Matthew said quietly, his confidence fading as the excitement and urgency levels lowered. One of the paramedics looked up, acknowledging him. The other continued his examination of Alfred's vitals.

"You countries, your health can change so quickly," the paramedic replied. Was it just him, or was the paramedic, slightly accusing? "If the state of this city means anything, I don't know what to say. An average person? I'd say they have a lot of will to live. But America? I don't know. There's no way to predict how his condition will change."

"Alright. I'll- I'll stay with him."

"Of course. Mr. Williams?"

"Yes?"

"I am certain you will be feeling the effects of this as well. May I ask how you're feeling?"

Matthew was caught off guard, an American doctor concerned for him? Every other time he had been in America he had been either mistaken for his brother or, more likely, completely ignored.

"I'm fine for now," Matthew said, eyes fixed on Alfred. "No guarantees."

"Good, that's good."

Matthew could tell the paramedics mind was elsewhere. Not only was he caring for America incarnate, but there was sure to be more patients on the way.

10:10 AM.

They arrived at the hospital, rushing in Alfred on a stretcher, hooked up to an oxygen mask. Matthew was close behind. To think, today had started so normal for the twins, one doing office work and the other thinking about the caretaker he had found for Kuma.

Now one was hooked up to several potentially useless life-support machines while the other paced urgently in the waiting room, muttering to himself. A paramedic entered the waiting room, advised by his partner to check up on the other country.

When he saw Canada pacing so urgently he felt a pang of worry. The nation should be seated, if he had felt the effects of the towers burning himself. "Mr. Williams, I think you should take a seat."

The country turned to face him, looking rather pained. "Hmm?"

"You should have a seat."

"Oui, oui tu as raison. Je devrais s'assoir…" He took a seat in one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands.

"Um, could you repeat that? In english?"

"Quoi? Oh, je m'exc- I mean, sorry. You're right, I should sit. When I get stressed I speak in french."

"I noticed. You're feeling alright?"

"Yes, got a bit dizzy a few minutes ago but nothing worse."

The paramedic nodded and turned to go check up on America, when he was called back.

"Um, doctor? Is he doing alright?"

"As far as we can tell. If anything gets worse, it'll be beyond our control. All we can hope for is that the country as a landmass recovers."

With that he opened the door and re-joined his partner.

"How's the Canadian doing?" his partner asked.

"Much better than Mr. Jones, that's for sure."

The Mr. in question was sleeping rather fitfully, his body's natural reaction to what had happened. The right side of his face sagged from the stroke, but otherwise he looked fine. On the outside.

"On top of the stroke," his partner informed him, "we've got cracked bones and internal bleeding, mainly from the lungs. Now that he's on life support we should be able to operate, but I can't imagine what we would be able to do. This'll bowl over when the country recovers."

"You say that like it will."

"One can only hope."

As soon as his partner said that, the heart-rate monitor picked up, flashing. The two of them immediately went to work, trying to control the situation as the heart beat became irregular, speeding up and slowing down to extremes. The man in the hospital bed jerked violently, his face contorted in pain. His body continued convulsing as the paramedics searched for sedation. It had been a long time since they had to use this hospital. Blood poured from his nose and mouth, choking off a scream that threatened to come through. The paramedics loaded syringes with sedatives and managed to restrain him before injecting the drugs into his system. He calmed slightly, though still twitching slightly. Drugs didn't have the same effects on countries as they did on humans.

10:28 AM.

The meeting had been called off, courtesy of Canada. The top contributor and host country was out of action, which was a slight problem. Matthew had spent much of his time either on the phone or at Alfred's bedside, watching his twin attempt to recover. Jean Crétien had assured him that things were going fine in Canada, well, as fine as they could be going. On the 15th of September, Matthew was once again sitting at Alfred's bedside, hoping against hope that he would wake up soon.

In the mind of the American, everything was sluggish. He had vaguely recognized the days passing, and that he was extremely hungry. Every time the room had come into focus all he could hear was the humming of fluorescent lights and a blurry outline of a ceiling fan. Otherwise, there was nothing but dark. He was vaguely aware of the pain slowly fading, though a dull throbbing was ever-present. He continually went over memories of the past few days, most of which were of red, black, pain, or smoke. He remembered writing speeches, coughing, Matthew showing up out of nowhere, an ambulance, but only little snippets. He felt like he was blinking hard, but the right side of his body had almost no feeling.

He struggled against his body for several minutes, trying to open his eyes at the very least. As he did, everything started to come into focus around him, sounds and feelings, the smell of a bed that had been slept in for days without changing, he knew what was happening but his eyes wouldn't open.

C'mon man, he told himself, you've got to open your eyes. There's stuff you've gotta do, people to save. That's what a hero does. So open your eyes. Be a hero, that's what you do best!

A few more seconds of struggling followed this before he actually managed to open his eyes. The effort took a lot more out of him that he expected, and if it weren't for sheer stubbornness he would have succumbed to the dizziness that filled him. After the blurriness was gone, for the most part, he took a breath and looked around, starting to recognize that there were tubes in his arms, oxygen in his nose. He glanced around, realizing that he couldn't actually see anything clearly without his glasses, and wondered where they were.

"Hey now, careful, you've got some brain damage" said a soft voice to his left. He turned, seeing a blurry outline of what his instincts told him was himself, then realized was Matthew. "Here, your glasses. I had to get you a new pair, you have the same prescription as me, right?"

Alfred felt his hand close around something that felt like glasses and unfolded them, putting them on. "Yeah, you do. Thanks Mat," he said as everything came into sharper focus. His voice surprised him, hoarse and quiet. Almost like Matthew's, but if Matthew had a really bad head cold. The words hurt to say, like they were gravel against the open wound of his throat. It was a wonder that Matthew understood him, so rough was his voice.

"Of course. I would ask how you ask, but that might be a waste of time."

Alfred would have laughed if he thought it would be painless. Instead, he took on a much more serious tone that was quite unlike him. "How're things out there?"

Matthew took a second to answer. Of course he did, he had to be concerned about his country too, he couldn't track what was happening in both America and Canada. "It doesn't look good, but people are coping. You Americans are pretty resilient."

"Anything more specific?"

Matthew swallowed. 'Nothing good. Meetings are being held, but that's all I can tell you. I'm not really allowed into the American government, being, y'know, Canada. I know there's been a lot of funerals, people are missing. I can't really say anything good Al, the US is in a bad way. I'm sorry."

Alfred frowned, taking that in. The planes, there had been four of them, he could tell, but only three had hit buildings. The fourth had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. He wasn't entirely sure how he knew that, but it was something that came with being a country. But the planes, he couldn't quite tell where they'd come from. It was so near the border to…

"Good."

"What?"

"I said good. I'm glad you're sorry. Those planes came from Canada."

Matthew was speechless. Sure, they had been close to the border but… "No, no they didn't. I would have known if they did."

"So you're telling me that I didn't notice that there were terrorists in my own airport?"

"You've got a lot of airports, and the border isn't clear-"

"You should scan your airways better, Canada!"

"Alfred, calm down-"

"You're the reason I'm here right now! In this fucking bed, hooked up to dozens of machines, trying to keep breathing, my country's in a complete wreck, because of you!"

Matthew had jumped from the chair he was sitting in, pain and shock written on his face. Alfred felt nothing but rage, more than half the country was now placing the blame on Canada, and more would follow suit. If Matthew didn't leave his country right away, he would jump out of the bed and beat the kid to a pulp. If he could re-jain the feeling in his legs.

He almost didn't hear Matthew's next words, the blood pounding in his ears, his breathing as heavy as it could be in his state.

"Alfred, please calm down. I don't know what I did, or why you think I'd send terrorists into your country, but I'm sorry. You're wrong."

"Just get out. Get out of this room, this hospital, get out of my country Canada."

"I'm the one who got you here! If it wasn't for me, you'd be dying on the street in front of a deli right now!"

"I'm a country, I can't die."

"But if the country itself does?"

Silence, long and painful silence followed these words. Alfred gritted his teeth, unable to meet his brothers pitying eyes. "It's not going to. Get out Canada."

Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but the look in Alfred's eyes must have stopped him, because he closed his mouth and left, a chilling breeze sweeping past Alfred as he went. Fucking Canadians, they're all so cold. Alfred took his glasses off and shut his eyes, fighting back tears. Part of him knew it wasn't Matthew's fault, but that didn't stop him from being angry. Someone to take the blame, that's all he wanted. But he brother couldn't take the blame forever. No, fuck it. It was his fault. When he got out of this bed and was back on his feet, he would need to talk to the President. Where was his phone?

Alfred Freedom Jones was confined to a wheelchair for several weeks after he got out of the hospital. And after that a walker, followed by crutches. His organs had been pumped full of metal tubes to keep them running, and an oxygen tank had become a necessary and permanent accessory. He tried to keep from speaking to Matthew Williams until a new president had been elected, the only contact made over the phone, requesting troops to take to Afghanistan. Canada had reluctantly agreed, then hung up after the short, slightly curt words. Somehow, that only made it worse.

FUNFACT!: A lot of Americans blamed Canada for the attacks, because the planes came from somewhere near the border and it wasn't clear, in the hustle and bustle, of the time where they came from. I thought, despite the bro-ness they probably have a lot of the time, America would be looking for someone to blame.