Alfred huffed irritably as he continued walking through rows of cotton, grimacing when he was scratched as he walked by. There was no sign of the mystery child wreaking havoc on the plantations and businesses in the area. There were stories about the child playing with slave children, stealing food and ransacking stores not to mention letting loose horses and other livestock. The personification of America had a bad feeling about all of this which was why he was getting involved in such a trivial search in the first place. He could sense it nearby: the aura of a fellow country. Honestly, it scared the shit out of him. If this mystery nation was in his territory, then that could spell trouble. He had enough enemies to deal with at the moment, and he didn't want another. Plus, the way things were going, he was about to have a war on his hands.

He was headed back towards the plantation home, past slaves and over-looking foremen. Then he noticed what was happening on the plantation house's porch. There were several house slaves chasing a flash of white out the front door. The owner and his oldest son were soon to follow, barking orders and trying to grab the little creature. At first, Alfred thought it was perhaps a cat or a goat that got loose, but as he got closer, he noticed it was actually a little girl. She was pale with long, tangled white blonde hair and startlingly dark blue eyes. They were almost violet.

"You cain't make me!" the child snapped as she ran, her accent thick.

"Get back here!"

"No!"

The little girl was heading for the yard gate and sweet freedom, but America blocked her way at the last second, using his body as a blockade. That was the first time she looked at him, and that's when he knew she was the country. She was startled as he made a grab at her, but those blue eyes had cunning in them. She narrowly managed to avoid capture as she ducked and raced away in another direction. Now Alfred was involved in the chase. They ran about the yard as the little girl ran back and forth in circles and zig-zags—anything to try to shake off her pursuers. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be so easy anymore now that America was involved. The chase dragged on, but to the little girl's obvious displeasure, Alfred was able to stay on her tail.

"You, go around the house and cut her off!" The owner was ordering his slaves. "Hurry up, goddammit!" The sound of a whip made Alfred turn, giving the girl a chance to run. She was able to safely make it up an apple tree in the garden. By the time he reached the tree, the little girl was out of his reach. Time to try a new tactic.

"Hey," he said cheerfully. "What are you doing up there? It's dangerous for little ones to climb trees, y'know."

The child just glared at him.

"Your feet look pretty bad. How about you come down so I can clean them up? My name is Ame...Alfred."

"No!" She snapped. "You'll have to keel me first!"

America laughed. "I don't want to do that. You're too cute. You want something to eat?"

Her eyes lit up as she warily looked him over for signs of food. The owner who had been a few feet away, caught on and started sending the slaves to get food from the kitchen as it was just past lunch. The slaves brought out bread, chicken and a few tea cakes. America took the cakes first, knowing most—including himself—loved sweets. He walked to the trunk of the tree and lifted the sweet up high. When she took it, he intended to grab her.

He watched as she warily started inching closer, her little hand cautiously reaching out towards him. Alfred slowly began lifting himself up into the tree as she reached, being careful not to startle her. As soon as she grabbed it, Al grabbed her arm and jerked her out of the tree. She screamed as she was pulled from the tree and started trying to get away again, biting and kicking and scratching whatever and whoever she could reach.

"Don't I at least get a thank-" Thunk. "Jesus Christ!" Alfred barked in pain as something whacked him between the legs. As it hit the ground, he realized what the projectile was: an over ripened apple. By the one arm he lifted her up off the ground to dangle as she snarled and fought like a wet cat in a rucksack. "That wasn't very nice."

The child froze and looked at him like he was the dumbest thing this side of the Atlantic. "It wasn't meant ta be. You half nigger or somethin'?"

Alfred laughed. "You've got a mouth on you, huh? Where are you staying?"

The girl grimaced and tugged on his hand that held her dangling in midair. "You hurtin' me."

"Oh, sorry," he put her down and knelt in front of her. "So, you living with anyone?"

"I stay with Elam."

"Who's that?"

"A slave."

Alfred frowned. He knew of the conditions these slaves lived in, and he knew it was wrong. But it most certainly wasn't a place for a little girl. The floors were covered in dirt and shit and piss, and the wood shacks were rotted. Hell, some didn't even have doors to keep out the cold.

"Is this your daughter, sir?" The owner of the plantation yelled, coming up to him in a fury.

"Uh…yeah…sure. Sorry about that, sir."

"Sorry ain't gonna pay for reparations, young man. Next time, I'll set the dogs on her."

Dixie lazily opened her eyes, glancing at her living alarm as he licked her foot and bit her toes. "Stonewall...Christ's sake," she groaned.

She'd gotten the bloodhound puppy two weeks ago. He was only seven months old, and he was an unending ball of energy unlike her other eight year old bloodhound, Ulysses, who had always been a very mellow dog who preferred sleeping. She gave a frustrated groan, slowly lifting herself up from the soft mattress to pick up the small dog.

"What're you doin'?" she cooed in a childish voice as she raised him up over her head, careful to keep a good grip with her constantly trembling hands. He wriggled and growled as he bit at her hands, never quite reaching with anything but his paws. "Cain't get me now can ya, tough guy?"

She looked over at Ulysses, who was just opening his eyes on the other side of the bed, sprawled out so he took up the majority of it. Dixie smiled and sat Stonewall on the floor before she spooned the massive dog. He groaned as the bed shifted and stretched out his legs. "Mornin', big guy. How's my handsome ole man doin' today?"

The dog lifted his head to lick her quaking hand once before laying his head back down with an old man grunt. Dixie smiled and laughed to herself before sobering as she sat up on the edge of her bed where Stonewall was playing tug of war with her quilt. Today was another day of hate and scorn and mocking. She knew what everyone thought of her, especially those who knew their true identity. They thought she was cold and unfeeling. To an extent that much was true, but it was also very wrong.

Her smile rarely broke free from its mold anymore. Dixie picked up Stonewall and buried her face in his soft puppy fur. Swiping at her hair playfully, he ducked out of her arms and rolled onto his belly, expecting attention. Dixie laughed as he quirked his head towards her. If only people could see her like this, her true self, but she knew how things were, where she stood in the grand scheme of things, and it's likely that her dogs would be the closest thing she would ever get to a love life.

Hell, she still loved the same idiot that she did 150 years ago, never once considering another. They never so much as kissed. Her dreams often consisted of what it could possibly be like if they were together, of a love that is timeless, forever. Part of her—the cynical soldier—told herself how stupid it was to hold such fairytale ideals about love. Part of her—the Southern belle—told herself that it was foolish not to. In reality though, her world was guns, uniforms, and blood. She was a killer…a sinner. Feelings meant absolutely nothing on the battlefield, but why did the battlefield always have to follow her? In truth, she was his bitch. Not a lover, not a friend, not an equal. She was his little watchdog, keeping him on track, protecting him, giving everything to him. She has nothing without him. Of course, no one saw such torment, passion and desire. They only saw the mask.

Dixie stood slowly, stretching as she started walking to the bathroom. Her dark blue eyes stared back at her in the mirror tiredly from under her white blonde hair that stood up at radical angles. Her hand wandered down to the long scar that wrapped around the front of her throat before starting to get ready for the day. When she was done in the bathroom, she removed her night shirt and was going to grab for her clothes when she heard her phone playing the military's rendition of "Dixieland." Odd...who would be calling this early in the morning?

Her dogs followed after her like ducklings as she went to get her phone off the table. "Hello?"

"Dude, Dix! I, like, seriously need your help!"

Dixie's eyes widened in alarm. "Was there another attack? Are you hurt? Where are you?" Dixie asked, going towards her remote to see the damage.

"No, no, nothing like that. I just seriously need help getting my world report together. I totally forgot it was this week."

Dixie relaxed visibly and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Jesus, Sir, you almost gave me a fuckin' heart attack."

"Sorry, but seriously, you can help me right?"

Dixie couldn't help but smile softly. She didn't want to tell him she had already been typing up his speech. It'd just make him feel bad. "I'll do what I can, Sir. Have you booked a room for the meetin'?"

"Yeah," he mumbled grumpily. "We got paired with France and England."

Dixie smirked as she grabbed a handful of salt and vinegar chips from a bowl on the counter. "You called last minute again din you?"

"Yeah," he grumbled under his breath.

She sighed. "Sir, you realize procrastination ain't gettin' you-"

"I know, I know. Jeez, you sound like Artie. So, uhm, wanna meet at the Brewbacca's Cafe? Y'know...to talk about the meeting?" It was one of his favorites in New York City.

"Of course, Sir. I'll be there in two hours."

The sun had yet to rise over the Big Apple; another two hours would see it peeking over the skyline, bringing weak, wintry light to the waking population. For now, the majority of the city slept, though many were just rising from their beds, flooding the windows of their homes with light as they got ready for the day. On a flat rooftop, lying prone within a thick black coat, a man watched one such window through military-grade binoculars. Dark brown eyes followed the movements of the occupant through the lenses.

"Good morning, dearest," he murmured. "How good to see you again." Lifting a hand from the binoculars, he picked up the pen lying on the pad of paper at his side. Nearly numb fingers shook only slightly as he wrote 'Rises 4:30 a.m.' "Right on time," he murmured. His hand paused in its writing, his eyebrows lifting with a broad smile as something caught his eye. "What have we here..."

The woman stood with her back to the window, shoulder length, choppy hair loose while she headed towards the bathroom. Her watcher's smile grew even further. "My, my, that's quite the burn scar you've got there, dear. I wonder how you got it."

After emerging, he watched as she shrugged into a clean shirt, and then her head came up sharply, and she moved out of sight. He reached over to scribble 'full-back burn scar' on the paper. "Now, what's gotten your attention so suddenly," he said, half to himself. There were two windows to his subject's apartment as well as a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony that probably couldn't hold more than one at a time; his eyes darted from one window to the other, noticing the massive bloodhound as it wandered after her, a puppy biting at its heels.

For a while there was nothing, but abruptly, she appeared again, a cell phone pressed to her ear as her shaking hands struggled to button up her shirt. The man stared at her, at the way her lips moved as she spoke, at the way she ran her fingers through her messy hair as she continued to get ready and eat something in her hand. She looked serious as she spoke to her caller, a neutral expression.

"Oh my." His heart raced at the sight of her lips curving. The smile wasn't meant for him: it was private, fond, and amused, all at once. No teeth showed, but the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. To be privy such a private moment and so subtly violate it thrilled him. The woman took the phone from her ear, sitting it on the table as she moved to the kitchen to fill two separate dog bowls before going deeper into her apartment. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, he periodically lost sight of her as she moved about, getting ready for the day, until finally, the lights were extinguished.

Setting the binoculars aside, the man army crawled to the ledge of the roof, peering into the street below. Snow crunched under the woman's boots, less audibly so beneath the paws of her dogs as the three emerged. He could see her dual shoulder holsters under her Confederate coat as she headed north at a sedate walk.

The man watched her go until she turned a corner and disappeared. "Taking the dogs to work today, hmm? How sweet of you. Have a nice day, Miss Bohannon. I'll see you soon."

-/-/-

The flashback at the beginning of the chapter occurred in 1767. In that year, the Mason-Dixon line was founded and would later be considered the symbolic separation between the North and South.