Marissa Panette gave her most pert smile, her most tolerating and mild smile, when she entered her office on the highest floor to see the boy sitting at her desk. He was out of place in her chair, musing over various pictures splayed crudely about the desk's surface and over the flooring. He was humming, and if he took notice of her, he didn't seem to want to show it. Marissa cleared her throat, shutting the door behind her with as little sound as possible, and strode nearer to the desk.

Silent, she opened the newest beige file and plucked out a few more photographs—all of which had very little in common. The subjects were all different, different sizes and colors and shapes and names and persons; in the photos they were close or distant, in focus or out of focus, alone or among many others. The angles from which the photos were taken seemed odd and sloppy. They were definitely not the work of a professional photographer, but of someone desperate to merely catch the respective person in the photo without their notice. People? Well, I suppose one could call them that, Marissa supposed as she set the photographs down in a neat line before the boy's hungry eyes, Subjects, perhaps, is a more appropriate term.

The woman was calmly irritated as always—she really did have more important things to attend to than collect information on these peop—no, subjects, as they were, and so did the sickly-looking boy at her desk. But he didn't much like other matters, and the only time Marissa saw a little interest shining through the cracks of his stoicism was when she brought these pictures to him and they were able to look at them together. If it could be called that. Mostly the boy took his time with it, finding it impossible to tear his eyes away. And the woman was taciturn and solemn and if the boy had bothered to look, he would see a constant impatience boiling under her matronly surface.

They made quite an odd pair, but from what Marissa could tell, bosses and nations had often been like that. Nations, perhaps, were just strange in and of themselves, and the boss responsible for them had no choice but to play the sane, stern man. They generally had their interests aligned, however, and that was why a nation and a boss also often made a good pair, all oddities aside.

She cleared her throat again as her nation pored over the new pictures—from what the lady could tell, they mostly featured a young man with auburn hair, walking down streets or in bakeries or in parks, quite careless and cheerful by the look of it. She studied it half-heartedly. She usually didn't bother to even peek at the pictures until she brought them to the boy. Initially at the point of three months ago, Marissa had been intrigued with the pictures as well, but she soon realized they didn't mean anything to her, not really. They seemed like normal people in the pictures, and certainly no one she would recognize. She did see a couple of strange, eye-catching things: a well-built man tugging a car behind him, another talking to animals and some to thin air. Most of them were only odd, if anything.

"Is this new one familiar?" One well-manicured, spindly finger tapped at a close picture of the auburn-haired boy-man cooking something in a restaurant, a dirtied apron slipped over a classy pinstripe dress shirt. Odd, indeed.

"Mhm," murmured the boy, turned slightly to the side in the swivel chair too big for him, engrossed in another picture of the same person in the same dress shirt, this time getting into a taxi from a distance. It almost seemed like the auburn-haired man knew there were pictures being taken of him, because the man never looked out of sorts; he was ever-smiling, light-brown eyes open, had good posture—Marissa might have found him quite handsome, in fact, but she was a no-nonsense sort of lady and such fancies didn't cross her conscious mind. An edge of doubt did, however. How could such a happy-looking young man be one of the ones they were looking for? Their kind, she figured, should be despairing and miserable and lost. She looked at the young boy at her desk once more—his kind really did never cease to amaze her.

Ah, but, the boy in front of her with his eyebrows drawn in and his mouth thin in concentration—he was not at all the same as the others. A feeling of pride unfurled within her chest. He was better, better, so much better. All he needed was discipline and leadership.

"Mhm?" she repeated dubiously, "Elaborate, Adunctio."

"I remember him from when I was first born, I mean." She heard the sound of thumping start. A slight lean over the desk revealed he was idly kicking his legs back and forth, quivering pictures piled up in his lap. Very childish. He seemed very thoughtful as he continued. "He was… soft. And kind, I would say, for a nation. He patted my head." A warmth spread over his cheeks, and Marissa gave a tell-tale sigh—that disappointed sigh, that forbidding and naysaying sort of sigh.

"He is Italy," her country continued under her watchful eye, and with almost an encyclopedian knowledge and that usual stoicism, recited, "North Italy. He shared the country with his brother, South Italy, from their unification on March 17th, 1861. Capital: Rome. Population: 62.3 million in 2101. In 2102, after the G-Grande Terremoto Italiano—"

Marissa frowned at him.

"The Earthquake," the boy continued, shrinking back into his chair, "after th-that earthquake and ensuing shortages, the population was fifty eight point one mi—"

"Are you sure this is correct?"

"Absolutely, ma'am." He said softly—now that his attention was drawn away from the photographs, he remembered that respect was required for his boss's good graces. She gave him an approving, encouraging smile, but as she did this she seemed to think a little. Marissa would have liked to hurry along with such matters, which did seem insignificant in the span of things, but her personal curiosity got the better of her.

"I will ask you a question since you seem to have so many answers," She announced with that same smile and an indulgently sweet voice. "Why is it that you take all of the time to memorize such things, Adunctio? I don't believe they much matter anymore—do you?"

Adunctio seemed to freeze up and with an almost nervous immediacy, scooted so that the swivel chair would turn and he could look out of the window, into the vast capital city and away from prying eyes. The question still stood as did her expectancy. "I feel like…" He trailed off, then resumed with hushed uncertainty, "I feel like I should remember their history for them, because no one else does. They don't even remember their own history. It's… sad."

"So that is what you do in your spare time?"

"Partially." He responded, and turned back to look at her since he was assured she was only curious, not angry, not disappointed—yet. "I really just… remember a lot of it myself. It's odd." Yes, odd. And how.

"… Well. You know you shouldn't repeat it. Or speak a language other than English."

He folded his hands on the desk top, over the pictures of those identified by him as 'Romania' or 'France' not too long ago. "But I thought…Yes, ma'am. I know. I won't." Very suddenly, he felt a hand brush against the top of his head. He remained very still, and she withdrew her hand from his face with a distracted, far-away sort of look.

"We've already started gathering them up," she said dismally, "It may take some time until certain… subjects can be found. "

"That's fine, ma'am." He responded with a tilt of sadness to his tone. "They don't have anywhere to go, really. Nothing is theirs anymore."