We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness...

March 25, 1911

He didn't want to cry. But how could he hold back tears when his people, his people, passed him by in coffins. His people who had suffered such terrible deaths that were all his— he took a deep shaky breath.

The rain outside matched his mood perfectly, and he found himself near tears as he wondered why it couldn't have rained just a little earlier. Perhaps...perhaps if it had rained, it could have put out the fire and then this wouldn't have happened... and then he wouldn't need to be here, he wouldn't have needed to feel their pain as slowly they could no longer breathe through the smoke or even see in front of them—he, he wouldn't have seen through the eyes of bystanders, he wouldn't have seen his people jump to their deaths. But no! He was the idiot! It was all his fault! All his fucking fault! For being a stubborn, ignorant, racist, uncaring bastard. It was—

Not his fault.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter whose fault it was. It had happened.

146.

129 women. 17 men.

Dead.

The tears were threatening to burst out into his cerulean eyes. Heroes weren't supposed to cry, but, now, more than ever, he felt like a villain.

He did not know why he was walking here. He would be no help to the families to identify anyone. He could not stop the cries of pain and disbelief. He could not comfort them, for he had no words of comfort. The agony drowned him, and some bitter part of him told him that it was better that way, that he deserved it. He deserved to feel their pain.

He could not be a hero. He was not a hero.

He wanted to look away from the corpses. But he could not help it. He looked at their faces, propped up on pillows to make identification easier, and pleaded for forgiveness.

But dead have no more words. The dead cannot forgive.

He heard a cry from a corner. "Mamma!" a voice of a little girl shrieked.

He watched a the small little thing run towards to a woman's body. "Perché," the girl sobbed, touching the woman's hair gently, as she kneeled at the head of the coffin. The woman was dressed in what must have been a nice dress. The sleeves and ends were charred, but the main part of the dress, though simple, was beautiful. A small design of a wall of flowers had been sown in. No colour. Just white. The child had buried her face into her mother's hair, as though seeking some sort of comfort from the feel. A man approached the little girl. He tapped her on the shoulder, and the girl whipped around to face him, eyes wide. "Is this your mother?" he asked quietly, his hand lingering on her shoulder, as though he were trying to offer some measure of comfort. He was dressed in a long, navy blue coat and held a hat in his other hand. A police officer, Alfred thought, probably of a higher ranking.

The girl took a step back and looked at him fearfully, almost cowering behind the corpse of her mother. She looked so frightened that Alfred could not help but take a step in her direction.

But what good could he do, he thought bitterly. Regardless, he took another step, ready to step in and provide what little Italian he knew to help her.

"N-non capisco," the girl said, looking at the floor, embarrassed.

The man's expression softened as he sent her a look of compassion. Alfred felt sick, but almost happy at the same time. Yesterday, the man might have rolled his eyes at the little girl or even hit her and called her a filthy immigrant. But today... today, there was understanding. Today, there was compassion.

So that's what it takes, the voice in his head said bitterly. A hundred dead and suddenly we are all on good terms.

"Her," the man pointed at the body. "Your mamma?"

The girl nodded slowly. Her eyes still held some trace of fear, but that was quickly being replaced the sadness.

"Her," the man pointed again at the body. "Name."

"Caterina. Caterina Vargas."

Alfred's eyes widened at the name as the man wrote it down nonchalantly. Sure, in all honesty, it meant nothing. Vargas was probably a fairly common last name in Italy—but that didn't change the fact that it was Feliciano's and Lovino's last name, too. And that that woman had once been their human. And that the moment that she had come to America, it had meant that she had believed that Alfred could protect her more than Feli or Lovino. The tears threatened to fall again. Not of sadness. But of shame.

The man walked away from the small girl to another family. A man and a boy who stood at another coffin with a disbelieving look on their faces.

The girl's body shook as her eyes returned to her mother's corpse.

Now she's your human, a voice in his head told him. Alfred closed his eyes for a second, bit his lip, and then walked to the little girl. "Ti... ti bene?" he asked, unsure of whether or not he had said that correctly. He crouched in front of her, hoping he wasn't scaring her. The girl gave him one frightened, heartbreakingly sad look, and then launched herself into his chest. "Mia mamma," she sobbed, her tears wetting Alfred's shirt.

Alfred thought to himself, confused. He didn't feel good at all about this. In fact, he wanted to curl up into a little ball with the girl and cry with her. A feeling of shame washed over him. And the tears started to form at the corner of his eyes.

To think that only a few months ago, he had been one of the people who was angry at those woman for striking. To think that for the past couple years, he could not help but sneer at all the immigrants and hate. To think that he had ignored them, ignored their demands for higher wages, ignored the muckrakers' radical articles and books. Ignored the smells that wafted from the slums and every nook and cranny of every Northern city. He knew it wasn't completely his fault; the thoughts of his people influenced him immensely. But the resentment he felt, it was partially Alfred, too. An Alfred that had changed after that horrible War. An Alfred that was afraid of change, afraid of someone new coming in and giving people ideas. Afraid of having even more division. Because if that Civil War had felt like he had been splitting in two, he could only imagine what it would be like to be pulled in more than two directions.

And now look at him, holding this little girl, trying to mollify her. He was like a murderer, a murderer who had come into a house shot a family and then held the survivor as she cried.

The tears had begun to drip.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, as he cradled her small frame. "I am so, so sorry."

And they both cried for two completely different reasons. But both reasons were worth crying for. Alfred could only imagine how strange this would look to an outsider. A pale, well-dressed man with light hair hugging a dirty, dark-haired immigrant girl who was probably the most different person on the face of the planet from him. And yet, and yet, somehow tragedy brought them together.

After a few minutes, Alfred stopped crying, and removed his face from her frail shoulder. "Hey, hey, it's gonna be okay. Everything will be better, I promise." He looked, his own eyes still filled with tears, willing her to understand—if not his words, then at least his tone. "I promise." The girl looked at him. She did not grasp the full meaning of his words, but she understood his tone.

"I... serà... be bene, good. I be good. I work," the girl struggled to pronounce the foreign language.

Alfred frowned, wiping his eyes with his hand. He did not want to let her go. He did not want her to face the same fate as her mother. But yet, what could he do? Send her to the Hull House, or a place like it? He could not keep her. His President would likely never allow it, and either way, he surely did not know how to raise a child. He nodded. "I do promise do," he repeated. "I'll fix this. This isn't ever going to happen again, okay?"

The little girl gave him a small smile, and gave her mother's corpse a glance. "No person... like mamma, okay?"

"No," Alfred smiled slightly. "No one's ever gonna have to be like your mamma ever again."

"Sorella!" the voice a teen cried. The girl looked away from Alfred than ran towards a boy who was dressed in shabby, dirty clothes.

"Fratello, mamma..." the girl paused, launching herself into her brother's arms, much the same way she had to Alfred. He held her tightly, whispering to her in what Alfred figured was Italian. The boy himself was crying, but he held her as though she were about to break and he were standing tall and proud.

And Alfred felt proud. Proud to be able to call that boy his. He backed away from them, hoping to capture the moment in his memory, try to remember that these were his people, his brave people who could hold back their sorrow and comfort those who needed it more. And right there and then, he made himself a promise, that if his government did not tell him that they were setting up regulations by tomorrow, then he himself was marching into Taft's office and demanding it.

Because his people deserved it. They deserved their shot at life and happiness, and Alfred would be damned if he ever prohibited them that chance just because they weren't originally his or so that some already rich bastard could make even more money. No, they all deserved it.

He took one last look at the brother and sister, who were still holding each other tightly. For them. And for every single child like them.

Author's Note/Historic Explanations:

This fic is in remembrance of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. The fire itself took place on March 25, 1911, in a time that's somewhere between what is known as the Gilded Age and the Progressive Era. It's a really sad story, and, in a nutshell, 146 people died because the owners of their factory locked the doors of the rooms so that workers couldn't take unscheduled breaks. Some people burned to death or couldn't breathe due to the smoke; several jumped to their deaths (the factory was on the ninth floor). Others managed to escape through the elevator (the only exit, really). As far as I know, most, if not all, of those who died were immigrants.

The Gilded Age itself is fairly messed up: there were quite a few very, very wealthy people and many, many dirt poor (penurious, really) people. Most those who were poor were immigrants from Eastern Europe (Greece, Italy [esp. the South], Russia, Poland, etc.) There were practically no work place restrictions: no place was required to have a fire extinguisher; you could be forced/asked to work 14 hours a day; there was no minimum wage, etc.

Immigrants during this time were especially hated since they would work for even lower wages than "Americans" and were consequently hired whenever "Americans" tried to go on strike to get better pay or more job security. That's why Alfred feels bad. Also, sometime before the fire occurred, the women who worked in that factory had been on strike for better pay and work conditions. They were treated fairly brutally; people would beat them up, and the police would not intervene. So, of course, when the fire happened and many of these women were killed, people felt really bad because if they had listened to these women then they might not have died.

In any case, this fire is the reason for quite a few of the laws we have now, especially in the realm of prevention against disasters: fire escapes, ladders that will actually reach the ground, fire extinguishers, doors cannot be locked, etc.