"Come out of there, Alfred!"

"No, Ma! I saw the Scary Man!"

Mother sighed, kneeling before the sliding doors. On the other side her son, a big boy named Alfred F. Jones, was weeping. She could hear his barely suppressed sobs. She placed her hand against the white wood, her browned fingers spread. Her nails, perfect ovals, curbed ever so slightly to tap against the wall. Alfred knew the sound and was tempted to venture out. Mother kept her long black hair tied back, so her ovular face was exposed. She seemed made of the soft, imperfect shape. Her eyes were pretty, large ovals and her lips pale and gently curved. Alfred pictured her face before him. Comfort, like lukewarm water, flooded his system. Eventually he touched the doors and pushed them away.

With his back against one of his winter coats, Alfred remained seated in the small rectangular space. His legs were spread out before him, clad in red shorts. His toes wiggled beneath an array of his clothing. Mother leaned in and pulled Alfred to her chest. She petted his hair, her long fingers running along his scalp, as though calming each nerve beneath the thicket of blond hair.

"Alfred, you need to understand that no one will hurt you. The Scary Man is scary, perhaps, but he won't hurt you. You're nearly eleven years old. Alfred, a part of you will grow up anyway." She whispered into his ear. Alfred nodded slowly, drinking in the sweet scent of her blouse. It was freshly washed. The scent of lemons and lavender settled into Alfred's mind and gradually hardened into unmovable stones. He wouldn't forget the simple scent or his mother's touch for as long as he lived.

The Scary Man was a hallucination, Mother thought. Alfred was not quite as over imaginative as most children. Yet he managed to fathom a man with sunken eyes and cheeks, teeth that pushed out of his lips and eyes dark as death. At least, when Alfred described it he used simpler words. Mother could imagine the man for herself.

"Ma, I'll try." He said. He was no longer crying. Anytime he witnessed said Scary Man he would burst into a manic assault of tears. He wouldn't relax until he had hidden someplace quiet for several hours. Eventually Mother had to pry him out. When he was ready he came on his own, of course, Mother believed that he had to have some sort of rope to latch on to.

"Good. Let's get you some dinner. Did you finish your homework?"

"Yeah, Ma."

"Don't lie." Mother said firmly. As she stood, like a mountain pushing through the earth, Alfred began to cower.

"No, Ma."

Nine Years Following

Alfred, now nineteen, nearing twenty, walked through the park with one of his old school friends. The two had met in middle school about the time Alfred's mother began to display signs of sickness. His name was Sam Virginia. Sam tucked his hands into his pocket.

Autumn swept through their small city like a hand spreading cards on a table. The trees turned red and orange, giving off a faint gold from the setting sun. Chilly air crept up, dragging winter in its wake. Alfred looked at Sam, who was nearly a foot shorter than him, and grinned.

"You can't be cold now, can't you?"

"So what if I am?" Sam said weakly. His sickly shadow stretched behind him. His bony nose barely held up his wire-framed glasses.

Alfred patted his shoulder gently. He knew it cost Sam a good deal of energy to even walk through a park. The city was not even as polluted as most others, Alfred reasoned, it would be easy on his lungs. Besides, he needed to walk a little. Sam's thin wrists shifted in his gray coat. He kept his head bowed, as if walking to the electric chair.

Sam tilted his chin up, as if sensing Alfred's glance. His lips parted into a grin. "Don't stare at me like that, Al, it makes me sad. I don't want to be sad."

"Yeah," Alfred laughed. "Not yet."

Sam nodded. He raised a fist and tapped his knuckles against Alfred's beefy bicep. Alfred believed in keeping his muscles toned, even if his diet could fall off the pinnacle of health by a single breeze. Alfred and Sam continued to walk slowly through the ebbing sunlight. The stones beneath had been swept clean. A family sat in the middle of the park, having a picnic while exchanging stories.

"Alfred." Sam said, coughing."

"Yes?"

"Let's go there." Sam ceased coughing with a final hoarse cry and then pointed at the brink of the park, where a barbed wire fence stood open.

"Sam…?" Ever since Alfred could remember, Sam had been the one who kept him out of trouble. He was the one who prevented Alfred from ending up in prison a number of times. Alfred was the one who was supposed to point at the fence and risk jumping it. Now it was Alfred's turn to waver. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"We're adults. We can do whatever the hell we want." Sam said with a tense nod of his head.

"Then let's."

Alfred couldn't help feeling the desire to exit the park. He followed Sam as he cautiously crossed a patch of concrete and gingerly pushed the fence further open. He slid past, dissolving into a mass of trees. Alfred followed. Aside from several pines clumped together, the other side of the fence was deserted. A mass of empty gray asphalt pooled before them. On the far side several trash bags and boxes had been collected. Alfred and Sam walked through the center, examining the area.

Overhead several electrical cords swung in the air. Birds perched on them before fluttering off. Most of the birds were ravens. An expanse of prairie was before them and to the left, where the wildlife stopped, a warehouse stood. It seemed neglected, but not abandoned. Several cars were parked in the front. The owners were at home at the time, with spouses and children, probably. The door was pulled shut. At the corner a man sat, crouched on the floor.

"Kind of a creepy place, isn't it?" Alfred said, whistling. He felt his nerves sizzle with electric adrenaline.

"The place you'd get hurt in." Sam breathed. He leaned against the fence, closing his eyes. Alfred waited for him to rest before they continued on. "What do you think they do here at night?"

Alfred shrugged. "Maybe they play chess."

The two walked by the man, who wore an ebon black suit. Alfred tensed as he passed. The man's right arm shot out and grabbed Alfred by the wrist, tugging him to the ground. His grip was intense and Alfred felt his wrists crack. But the man did no such thing. He remained quietly sitting there, his straight eyebrows contracted and his long nose turned upwards, as if sniffing. His suit was finished off with a red tie against a white shirt. His shoes were shined to a gleam and on his hands, which crossed over his knees, held several fine rings and a watch. Alfred wondered what a man of obvious wealth was doing behind a warehouse.

Sam didn't even seem to notice him. He was examining a red flower poking through the cracks in the ground. Or maybe he was resting again. Alfred couldn't tell. His deadpan meant anything at times like these.

"Hello." The man said. Alfred stiffened. He turned slowly and met the man's gaze.

"Hello."

The man slowly stood up. When Alfred took a better look at his face all doubts vanished into vapor: this was The Scary Man. He had the same sunken eyes and broad teeth, but he wasn't terrifying anymore. He was just a man that, from afar, could scare a kid. He had a strange, distant look in his eyes. Alfred felt a twang of fear crack through him, but in a moment it faded too. The man was a well-kept businessman and he was addressing Alfred. Alfred blinked. The man had spoken and he hadn't heard a word. His hand was outstretched. Between the ring and middle finger a business card stuck out, a magician's ace of hearts. Alfred nodded and took it. He ran his thumb along the name Charles Barley. It was a simple first name followed by a strange last name. Inevitably Alfred would forget all but the fact that the man had a name that was akin to plant of some sort, as far as Alfred knew.

"I'm Alfred Jones." Alfred said, sticking out his hand after pocketing the card, "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure," Barley said, grinning. His teeth were even but atrociously large, jutting out and even making an imprint on his lips.

Alfred felt like he was making a business deal, for what, though? Alfred was still only a college student. He had taken time off to care for Sam in his omnipresent demise. Alfred turned to look at his friend, who had noticed Alfred was speaking and made his gradual walk over.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Alfred asked.

Barley ran his palm against his flat black hair, as if to prepare for a speech. "Not exactly, but there is something I can help you with, am I correct? Usually I don't work outside of my office. Today I made an exception. I could sense you two would be here at the same time here."

He had a smooth way to his talking, a charming way that could get anyone to obey him. He radiated power and control. Alfred licked his lips, trying to think. His brain had met a standstill. Although he could perform feats of science and mathematics to stun professors, he was awful at interacting. His brain shut off and he felt nervous. He averted his gaze from the man's eyes and stared at his shoulder instead, noticing how there wasn't a single fleck of dust. "I don't think I understand." He managed to say. "What do you sell?"

"I don't really sell, I exchange. If you want something, you give me something back of equal price and I'll make it happen. I don't accept money though."

Was this just a crazy guy who escaped from an asylum? No, he was too clean for that. Alfred licked his lips again. They had gone suddenly dry. Alfred breathed heavily and tried to relax. Sam stepped up for him.

"Sir, we're not interested." He placed a weak hand on Alfred's shoulder, attempting to turn him back.

"You're sick, aren't you? You're very sick." Barley said.

"Yes, I am. I would like to be sick in peace." Sam said in a quiet voice, but still sustaining a hard center of confidence.

Barley shifted his gaze back to Alfred, who had relaxed somewhat. "What would you do to make your friend better? How much does he mean to you?"

Alfred's lips parted, on the verge of forming a word. "I would do anything." He said at last. "He means a lot to me."

"I'm flattered, Al," Sam said, still quietly, he wouldn't have raised his voice at anyone anytime. Alfred was the only person he could muster an authoritative note in his voice for, nothing more. "But let's get going, I need to take my medicine."

Alfred wouldn't listen. He focused intently on the man before him. "You can make him better?"

"Yes, but I would need something in exchange."

"What would that be? I'm a broke college student, you know."

"I already mentioned that I don't take money. You can only get a life for a life." Barley paused, adjusting his tie and brushing off an invisible speck of dirt from his knuckles. His nails were trimmed and neat. "So, Alfred, you would need to give up your life for his. You wouldn't die, of course, but you would go somewhere else for a little while. In exchange your friend here will be cured absolutely and live a long life."

Alfred couldn't comprehend what was being said to him. He continued to stare at the man's shoulder. Sam sighed and tugged at his sleeve. "Come on, I really need to sleep." The sky began to drain of color, showing a starless night sky.

"Think about it, I'll call you later for your final choice."

Sam tugged him away and they made their way back through the fence and to Sam's apartment. Once there Alfred managed to supply Sam with his medication and a supreme level of comfort. After a session of video games, Sam went to bed. Alfred offered to give him tea or something else. Sam sleepily refused. As he walked away, Alfred took a long look at Sam's stature. He was thinning. Sam had always been a lanky boy, and now he was devoid of any excess flesh. His muscles were weak and he hardly moved. His head was bowed, his hair thinning like an older man's.

Alfred recalled how Sam had comforted him when his mother passed away. He recalled how Sam tutored him through history class. He recalled how they worked on their college applications, on how they got in trouble as kids, on how they watched movies together, on how they trusted one another, and how he knew all of Alfred's secrets, never letting one slip.

Alfred bit his lip and swallowed back tears. No, he would do anything for Sam. Sam already did so much for him. Alfred continued to breathe quietly and calmly, hoping not to cry. His cheeks were enflamed and his fingers twitched in his lap. The moonlight spilled into the living room, catching on the TV's screen. It created broken shapes on the hard wood. Alfred felt tears fall out despite his efforts. He wiped them away with his wrist and lay down, trying to quiet his weeping. The last thing he needed was for Sam to hear him.

The following morning Sam was picked up by his sister to go to the doctor. Alfred watched them leave, wondering what he would do that day. His weeping session remained shamefully in his mind. He attempted to clear it while cooking breakfast and listening to the news. Neither the flavor nor the week's events remained long in his consciousness. Alfred sighed, washing the dishes and setting aside his clothing. Soon he wouldn't need to care for Sam anymore, but he hoped that soon was further away than it really was.

He cleaned up the apartment, vacuumed, and washed the bathrooms. Sam's sister usually did this. Alfred felt like giving her a brief break. Once he finished, Alfred slumped down on the couch, his phone on his lap. He felt weak, like a tree without anything inside, and somehow not falling over. Alfred considered this metaphor when his phone buzzed. Its screen lit up with an unknown number. Alfred knew it was Barley. He picked it up.

"Hello."

"Hello." Barley's voice flowed from the other end. "Have you made your choice?" There was no extra padding, straight to the point.

"Yes. I will do it." Alfred said. Last night's crying wouldn't go in vain. This wasn't only for Sam, but for his mother. He wanted at least one heroic act in his life, even if it was his very last.

"Then it's settled. Thank you for your business."

"Wait—what am I giving you exactly?" Alfred said quickly. He sat up in his bed, his heart pounding.

Barley paused. "You've made the deal, so I believe you need an answer. You are giving up this life. Shortly you will be transferred into another life, where you will suffer the same hardships. I understand this is atonement, isn't it?"

"Will I ever see Sam again?"

"Perhaps, if you take the right steps, you will."

"Thank you." Alfred said. He knew when Sam heard of this he would smack Alfred upside the head for being compulsive. He would have the strength to do it. Alfred smiled. The phone clicked off and he settled in his couch. He placed his fingertips against the screen and gazed out the window. A hint of rain lingered in the sky. As he began to drift into a light doze, a single thought, like an air bubble in the sea, drifted to the surface.

He never gave Barley his phone number.

Alfred wanted to wake up and call that number again. Maybe he had accidentally committed a crime in a mad spree of compulsiveness. Alfred gnawed on his lip, wanting to dial for the man. No part of his body could move. Even his eyelids wouldn't open. His fingers refused to stir. He was in paralysis. He felt nothing except for a tangible darkness wrapping around him like a snake around a rat. He could feel it constricting, breathing, pulsing. He could feel the blackness leak into his system and pull him apart bit by bit albeit painlessly. Slowly, until no part of him was left…

A heavy hand thumped Alfred's back. He started awake. He thought at first it was Jacob or Amy who had hit him, but he realized the scolding was not in the voice of anyone he knew. He opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness, and found a hard wood table beneath his head. His arms in a white dress shirt were under his head. Oh, that's right, I'm in a meeting, he thought. He perked his head up and pushed his hair and glasses back, yawning.

"Get up, this is a meeting." A voice, distinctly British, and the owner of the hand the slugged him, said. Alfred stared. He had never seen this man before in his life. Before he could comprehend the situation, his lips spread open and he began to say something about being bored. It was all far ahead of Alfred's brain. He felt like his body had hopped on a train and rushed forwards, leaving his mind far behind.

"You've never slept so deeply in your life, have you?" A French voice chimed in, belonging to a handsome man with flaxen hair. "Good thing we've barely started."

Alfred sat up. He let his body move ahead, far away from his mind. This was the other life he was supposed to lead, wasn't it? He was a nation. The idea burst in his mind. He agreed with it. If he could make a deal with the Devil in this world, he may as well be a country, too. Being a country he would suffer war and immortality. Sam would live on. He would have a history on his shoulders and Sam would be happy. Sam would marry a woman, probably named Opal, and he would then open a homey diner. He would never forget the man who sold his soul and entered a different world so he could live, so he could repay his mother. Alfred leaned forwards on the table and pitched some nonsensical idea fed by the Machine, as it was called.

As Arthur, the Brit man who thumped him, continued to look at Alfred, he noticed something was different. When he saw Alfred before he slept, he was lively and bright. Now, Alfred was lively and bright. Except now Alfred was lacking something fundamental. His eyes were a void, they were separate from his being. This wasn't their Alfred, but he functioned, looked, and acted just like him.

If this was the Alfred from Sam's world here, and that Alfred was dead, then where did the original Alfred, the USA America? Where was the real America? Arthur felt unsettled by these questions. No doubt the universe was big enough to accommodate for another one. Maybe his Alfred was disposed of, thrown into the abyss. Arthur had lived long enough to consider this, he only wished that Alfred hadn't been so young. Then again it was only a hypothesis. Maybe he was only seeing things. After all, Alfred had just woken up from a long, long dream.

I do not own Hetalia