(Historical fiction can be a wonderful thing. Note: Hetalia is fictional [debatably] and does not belong to us. Commissioner Leonard Nicholson, a man appears in this story, was real, but he doesn't belong to us either—that would be weird.)

When Canada was Kanata, he had not looked too kindly upon the white men. They came with strange devices, strange customs, strange language—they could not even pronounce his name! But things had changed since then. In the years he spent under Papa France, and then England, he'd become accustomed to European culture. This did not mean he always enjoyed it—he could feel every battle rage in his body when his natives fought with his newcomers—though there were some traditions he usually thoroughly enjoyed. Despite this, his citizens fought, be they aboriginals or settlers. But they were all his citizens, now, and he would take care of them.

He had always taken care of his people, and he always would. Through the years, Kanata became New France, became the Dominion of Canada, became just Canada, became Matthew.

It was 1953, and the aftermath of World War II was fading for some, not so much for others. Matthew's eyesight was still damaged from the German gas used against his soldiers, and he knew that the personification of Germany—not that he'd spoken to the man since the dissolution meeting—was and would be coughing up the same gas for years to come.

Matthew had not wanted to join the war, and now that it was over and destruction had reigned the world was back to ignoring him. The problems he dealt with now were primarily internal, once again. He was occasionally bothered or helped by America, praised or chastised by Britain, but for the most part both 'Canada' and 'Matthew' were left alone.

Someone had told him, during all the fighting, to take pride in himself. He was unsure whether this was supposed to refer to his attitude toward the country he represented, or his people's attitude toward him, or even his own sentiments toward himself. However, since the silver man who had given him this advice had long since disappeared… Well, it only seemed right to honour him. So, despite the fact that Matthew would in a sense be fighting himself, here he stood in the Commissioner's office, waiting to apply to become a Mountie.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police began as the Northwest Mounted Police in 1873. Matthew could not have joined then even if he wished, because at the time… he had not looked old enough. By the year the Great War rolled around, he did pass for eighteen, although Britain forcefully expected Matthew to give his full support in the war so he had no time to devote to himself. After that he needed time to recover, and then his brother fell into a depression, and then World War II came and went in a terrifying tidal wave of 'order' and death. All Matthew could hope is that there would not be another war of this size in the next thirty years, right where it seemed due to be. Preferably, there would never be another war like these… but humans were strange and unpredictable, then predictable in the next moment, and nothing would get in the way of their hatred.

But—not to be narcissistic—that was just one more reason why Matthew admired the Mounted Police of his country. While the police forces of America especially tended to be gun-happy and reckless, the Mounties did all they could to avoid firing off a shot. They valued kindness, thriftiness, strength in diplomacy rather than brute force. Matthew too valued these things, though whether he or his people valued it first was a topic for late-night discussion.

He paced lightly around the office, wondering if his being the personification of the country would affect the application process. His 'loyalty to the nation' obviously did not need to be tested, nor did his 'citizenship'. His apparent age fit the profile now, even if his actual age was… far too old to match his body and far too hard to remember the exact number of. He considered all these things as he waited.

"Matthew Williams?"

Matthew turned to a sturdy, greying man he recognised as Provost Marshal Leonard Nicholson from World War II. He was evidently Commissioner now, and greyer than Matthew remembered but he still smiled slightly, as he must have in the days before the war. Matthew smiled back as he felt a rush of civic pride.

"Good to see you again, Williams. Seven years since we fought together, eh? You haven't aged a day."

The personification blushed a little and managed a "No, sir," before heading back with the Commissioner ito a separate office. Nicholson asked him both personal and formal questions, which Matthew tried to answer to the best of his abilities. Yes, he was technically a citizen and older than eighteen. He did not weigh more than 210 pounds (as if someone of his stature and slim build would) and was athletically inclined. He knew how to shoot, how to ride, tie knots, swim, work a typewriter efficiently and without error, take part in successful physical combat. He spoke English and French and various native tongues, though a few of those were fading due to lack of practise. Yes, he'd been taking care of himself and his family was fine. Yes... he was single.

"We do not engage married men, Williams. The job is too difficult to assume you'll always be coming back. We don't need to cause that kind of worry for anyone," Nicholson told him seriously. Matthew held back a sigh. "Yes, sir," he agreed.

"Good."

A few questions later, after affirming his nursing and detective skills, the Commissioner asked, "Say, Williams, how tall are you?"

Matthew stared at him. "...Almost five foot six, sir," he replied, and Nicholson actually laughed. "Are you really?" he chuckled.

"Yes… sir? Why do you ask?"

"We have a height requirement here for the Mounted Police. I hate to say it, Williams, but… 'you must be five feet, eight inches in height, at least'. It seems you fall just a bit short," the Commissioner was trying—and failing—to not smile as amusement touched his war-ridden eyes. Matthew was glad that he was happy, but…

"Commissioner. Are you telling me that I cannot join your forces because I'm not tall enough?"

"I'm afraid so. Eh, cheer up, Williams! I'm sure you'll hit your growth spurt in a year or two!"

After that, Matthew very kindly and politely excused himself. When the height requirement was lifted in the 80s, he became an official part of his country's RCMP. Little did the public know that Nicholson had, in fact, taken pity and made an exception for him in the fifties… if only because it seemed odd not to allow the very essence of Canada to fight for Canada.

Matthew was always a bit miffed about the incident, though. Secret policeman, indeed.

(I can confidently say that each and every one of the requirements mentioned is true—or at least as true as reported by Richard L Neuberger in Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the official website. This includes the height, weight and sex requirements [of course, anyone who wasn't a man couldn't join at all, regardless of anything else] as well as knowing English or French and being proficient in innumerable small survival tasks and such. And being single, because as the Commissioner says, "the job is too difficult to assume you'll always be coming back." Thanks for reading, leave a review maybe?)