Yo! SakuraLetters coming at you live with Chapter Ichi! I've gotten a lot of faves and alerts on this story, which I'm loving. However, I'd like to hear more from everyone whose faving and alerting. Reviews are my crack. Do not deprive the addict. XD On that note, thanks SilverKitChase for reviewing! (huggles and gives cookies)

Anywho, I hope to keep the story moving at a pretty good clip. There's a lot of twists and turns up ahead, and I hope they keep you on your toes!

Feel free to give me constructive criticism. Let me know if I'm making any cannon characters unnecessarily OOC. Yell at me if I mess up history without a proper explanation. Beat me over the head with a grammar book. Call me out on any inconsistencies. Hey, I'm only human too.

Anywho, enough of my masochistic babble. |D On with the obligatory disclaimer and then the main event!

Disclaimer: I, SakuraLetters, do not own Hetalia Axis Powers. (However, I will admit to making Hetalia-like jokes and the like in my AP US History class. V_V I gained nothing from them but laughs.) As I have not heard differently, I own "New America". (And yes, she is actually getting a real name this chapter.) Once again, I have nothing of value but my averagely-above average intelligence (Figure THAT one out) and therefore am not a good suing target.

Enjoy~!

A small village sat peacefully amongst fields that were once seas of gently rolling grains such as corn and wheat. With an estimated population of about ninety to a hundred people, Cornucopia was a secluded and friendly place. It seemed even quainter at night, when flickers of candlelight blinked behind windows and soft wisps of smoke rose from brick chimneys.

If you placed your hands over your ears hard enough, you wouldn't even hear the screaming as troops descended on the village.

You see, the few residents of Cornucopia had a dark secret: they were part of the North American Resistance, an underground rebellion geared towards freeing the North American continent, and then the rest of the world, from Russia's grasp.

Both men and women rushed out to defend their small settlement, armed with everything from guns to knives to random bits of pipes or broken glass. Children sat at high-up windows and threw rocks they spent most of their free time collecting at the soldiers. One child in particular was very adamant about it.

"Wow, nice one, Sarah!"

"Yeah, and this one's going straight for that idiot's head!"

The girl wound up her arm and chucked the rock at one soldier whose helmet had somehow gone missing. The rock made a direct hit and the soldier fell the ground, bleeding profusely. The dirty blonde grinned and high-fived the little boy who was with her.

"Come on, we need to get to the Tunnels while the adults are keeping those Russian jerks busy!"

"Kay!"

The two kids ran down the stairs and hid behind a cleverly placed wall. They could hear a Russian soldier barking orders (like the dog he was). Sarah clamped a hand over her friend's mouth, and he did the same thing for her. They couldn't risk being caught.

"Что вы имеете в виду, вы не можете найти мальчишка?" (What do you mean, you can't find the brat?)

The other soldiers offered what sounded like weak excuses, but their voices were brutally cut down by their commander.

"Мне все равно, если у нас есть, чтобы сжечь всю деревню на землю! Найти ее!" (I don't care if we have to burn the entire village to the ground! Find her!)

The soldiers saluted and turned to leave. The two children would have been completely safe if the gun smoke in the air hadn't triggered the boy's allergies. A loud sneeze alerted the soldiers to the children's hiding spot, and soon both children were dragged out, Sarah kicking and screaming and spouting off curse after bloody curse. She was silenced when one of the soldiers hit her with the butt of his gun.

The little boy fought back the urge to call out his friend's name. It was the unspoken rule to never utter a name when there were Russians about. Names were powerful, identities that could never truly be stolen. To so carelessly throw something that powerful around like it was just another word was blasphemy.

The commander smirked at the children, a malicious glint in his eyes.

"Положите их с остальной частью повстанческих сволочь." (Put them with the rest of the rebel scum.)

Dragging the two kids outside and practically throwing them into the other villagers who were clinging to each in the village square, the soldiers reformed their ranks and the commander appeared with another man.

Martha Hughes, the woman who had been taking care of Sarah ever since her brother had found her wandering around in the woods as a toddler, hugged Sarah close, making sure the younger had sustained no threatening injuries. The young girl peered over her guardian's shoulder and looked at the new man. She had never seen anyone quite like him before. He had the same fair qualities of his people—the light blonde/almost silver hair and fair skin—but she had never seen anyone with violet eyes, and she had never seen anyone as tall as he was.

And, for some strange reason, she suddenly knew.

This man was just like her.

This man was the personification of the very thing she was raised to fight against.

This man was the Russian Empire.

Nearly forty years had passed since that midnight raid on her old village. Sarah had done quite a bit of growing up in that time. She had learned more about who she was, and why she was alive. She had got much taller, looking more like a maturing teenager on the brink of adulthood than a gawky little girl not yet old enough to be considered a teenager. She had also decided on a new name.

The North American Resistance.

In her mind, it was the perfect (stage) name. She wasn't exactly a country, although she stood every chance of becoming one once Russia fell, but she had to be the personification of something. People like her didn't just appear out of nothing, right? Also, considering how she was raised, the name fit her well enough.

"Hey, Sarah!"

The dirty-blonde looked up to see her best friend approaching her.

"Hello, Jackson. What's up?"

"Uncle's having a meeting right now, and he wants you there."

Jackson Wells had been Sarah's best friend since they were children. He was about her height, with pitch black hair, misty gray eyes, and a stubborn streak at least five miles wide. He was also fiercely loyal to the young Resistance.

The two entered the meeting hall, Sarah shutting the door after they were both in. She looked at the table and the people around it. Inside, she was freaking out, scared to death of what was going to happen.

Inside, she was still a teenager who wanted nothing to do with the at times overwhelming responsibility and pressure that came with being not only a rebel, but the personification of the Resistance. Despite how many battles and minor skirmishes she had participated in during her (relatively short) life, Sarah hated fighting. She hated fighting as much as she hated the Russian troops that oppressed her people. Naturally, this left her in a very uncomfortable position.

"Ah, Sarah. Welcome!"

"Thanks, sir."

"Now, now. I told you! Call me Uncle."

"Sorry, si—Uncle."

"That's better. Now, tell me, Sarah, do you recognize these two?"

The stout man who went by the name Uncle motioned to two women. They both had pitch black hair and brown skin, although they seemed to be different shades. Both women looked as though they had been hell more times than they were willing to count. Considering the state of the world, Sarah wasn't surprised.

"No…why?"

"Ah, I am heartbroken," the older looking woman muttered, something unrecognizable flashing in her storm-gray eyes. "My own granddaughter does not recognize me. Oh, Leilani, whatever is a poor, forgotten grandmother to do?"

"Enough with the theatrics, Aunt North. You are the North American Resistance, am I correct?"

"Yes…"

"I am Hawai'i, a former state of the United States of America."

America. There was that name again. Sarah's curiosity burst forth.

"Russia called me America. Who is America?"

Both women looked away. Hawai'i wore an expression of sorrow and grief. She had witnessed her adopted father's last moments, and had immediately gone into hiding. The past few years had been quite rough on her.

"America was my son," the older woman said, her voice soft. "He used to be a powerful nation, but he was murdered by Russia a long time ago."

"However, we are not here to discuss the past. North American Resistance, we've proposed a plan and we want you in on it," Hawai'i said, a determined strength gleaming in her dark blue eyes.

"We plan to infiltrate the Russian Empire, and we want you to be one of the agents."

The first part of the chapter was sort of a precursor to what happened last time. I figure Sarah to be roughly 60 to 70 years old. Her physical appearance has matured because the Resistance is getting stronger. Sarah's got an interesting time on her hands, and it's only going to get better! ;D

...Yeah, I love my North America and Hawai'i. I have no idea why. I've never even been to Hawai'i.

Review please!

-Sakura