I, of course don't own... anyways please review and enjoy! and I appologize for it's shortness. And for timeline inauccuracies. I think that's it, so without further ado...

"You want what?" Alfred yelled. "Don't I pay you enough already! This is completely outrageous! I don't have the economy to support this!" Arthur graced the man he had raised with a bored look.

"I defended you during the French and Indian war. Now I have debts to pay. You weren't much help then so you can pay." The European country said pointedly.

"No." Alfred bit out. "You fought over me, not for me, so don't you dare pull that on me! I don't need you to rule! This is the last straw. I tried being cordial, but these acts you keep sending are stupid. Why should I have to house your soldiers?" Alfred turned his back on his "brother". "I was dragged into that war, and my people are the ones who suffered. You and France shoud keep yourselves out of my country!"

Arthur looked at the country before him, suprised. He had never looked at it from that point of view, but, still, Alfred was his territory and he did need some help with the payments...

Alfred glared at the older country. "I'm through with you." he said, his voice utterly serious. "Take your stupid taxes and leave. You've caused more than enough trouble" Inwardly, he cringed. He was still a fledgling country; he hadn't made a name for himself yet. He would be incredibly vulnerabe without England's protection, and he knew it. But he was still determined to show the older country that he was not just another holding; he was America and the Englishman would do well to remember it.

Arthur shook with rage. He defended the younger country-territory- from France's advances and what does he get in return? "You ungrateful git! You'll pay!"

"No, I won't" Alfred muttered. He turned smartly on his heel and stormed away.

Alfred's figure just grew smaller and smaller as the young territory-he still was, Arthur had to believe- stalked away.

*line break*

Splash! The first barrel of tea hit the water. It was followed by the splashes as more of England's tea was cast away by the angered Americans. England watched from onboard a different ship. He sighed and chalked this fiasco up to teenage angst. America came up behind him, his face hastily smeared with Indian warpaint, feathers sticking up from the back of his head, apparently thrust into his hair.

He was upset, and rightfully so. England was bullying him to force him to agree to the taxes. Most of Boston was now under military control- military governor and all. That danged European country had kicked out the American's government officials and replaced them with his own. On top of that, Arthur had passed an act allowing the homes of American civilans to be used by British military forces. The British military was not as noble as Arthur made them out to be either. some kids, angsty teenagers most likely, had thrown a couple of pebble-laced snowballs at some Regulars, harmless, really. And what had those soldiers done? They had retaliated and when some civilian men got involved, those British soldiers had shot at the crowd. Five men lay dead from that debacle; all of the Americans, all civilians. And of course, there were taxes- always more taxes. They had expanded to include paper, glass, lead and-tea. Which had led to this...annoyance.

"We are sick of your taxes. Sick of your acts. You attack me in Boston, you won't obey my laws- laws that you agreed to abide don't even care about me anymore! You never visit, and you ignore me when I say I need things. I'm just another acqusition to you! I thought you cared, I thought I was important to you, but I have never been so wrong." The young American's face looked both sad and angry at the same time.

Arthur glowered. he wanted to yell at the boy, maybe smack some sense into that thick skull. but he didn't. He had made some mistakes, yes, but he had apologized-for the most part- and he still cared about his territory. Despite that, he believed that strict disipline and enforcement of rules was the way to get the teenager to submit to his will. And the boy would. So he let him rant and toss his tea in to the frigid wasters of Boston Harbor.

Shouts of "Who wants your stupid tea!" and "No taxation without representation!" rent the night air. The Americans rallied behind this cry. And began drinking coffee.

*line break*

Two groups faced each other across the span of a small stone bridge. One group stood in bright red uniforms, shiny brass buttons and polished boots, holding their rifles, awaiting the order to fire. The other group was rag-tag, farmers in their flannel shirts, dull muskets and scarred leather boots. But they were not going to hand over their weapons.

"Look, Alfred, hand over your stockpile." he held up a hand to halt the angry request he knew would be forthcoming. " No you don't have a choice."

"You've gone way to far Arthur! These are my weapons, my militia. You have no right to interfere with my military! Get out of here!" He yelled and shook his musket. He was tense, somewhat nervous, but this was his land and he firmly believed he was within his rights. These were his lands, his people and Arthur had overstepped his bounds by trying to control them.

He could tell Arthur was just trying to exersize his rule over the rebellious territory, but this was too far. He had explored this land, poured blood, swat and tears into it's rich soil. He had felt it's potential, felt its vastness and beauty and was awed by the fact that it was his. He was not about to let some other counrty interfere with his land- even if said country was his parental figure, even if said country had raised him and nutured him in his early years. He was on the cusp of expansion and greatness- he could feel it. And England just didn't understand.

Arthur sighed and brought his own musket to his shoulder. If the kid really wanted this, he would oblige. Why couldn't the git just listen! He knew the younger country was upset, but this... this was uncalled for. He wasn't ready to face all the wold alone; not yet. He wasn't ready to go off and expand; not quite. He was still a kid, really. A kid with great potential, but a kid nonetheless. And it was his job as the boy's caretaker to protect him until the boy was ready to be let go. And that time hadn't come yet.

Alfred froze. "Arthur..."

"No, Alfred." He placed his finger on the trigger. Alfred hastily brought his own musket up and glared at Arthur, anger and confusion sparking in his eyes. Mostly anger.

Arthur placed one immaculately gloved finger on the trigger and pulled. It was meant to be a warning shot, just to scare Alfred into submission. Instead that bullet rang out and forever altered the future of the world. That one shot, that one trigger, had set in place an irreversible chain of events; a young nation had begun his trial by fire.