I usually won't update this early, but I had a little less work than usual this week and had time to write. I'll try to update every 7-14 days, but I guarantee nothing. Life tends to throw plans into the shredder.

On another note, I'm absolutely flattered with the support I've received. I expected one or two reviews at the most, and certainly not five! Please continue to review. If you have any questions, criticisms, or predictions, I'll be more than glad to address them in the next chapter.

This chapter is mostly (more) set-up, but there will be action (and fight scenes!) later on. If any of you can figure out which movie inspired this one, you'll get a digital cookie :-).

I find myself thinking about the past more than usual lately. Just yesterday I was at the World Summit, and England want off on a five-minute lecture because I'd been thinking about the day I met you and didn't pay attention to his presentation. I kind of laughed it off, but I've been doing that more and more lately. I'm kind of glad O'Brien (my new DDIL sec, I think I've mentioned him before. If not, well, he's awesome. You can probably tell by his name why I like him so much) is too busy to pay much attention to me; he'd definitely know that something is off about me. As it is, it's getting really hard to keep Mattie off my back. I think he's starting to suspect.

Chapter 2:

Walter O'Brien let out a long sigh, sifting through the papers that piled onto his desk. His office had practically become his home over the last two weeks, as paperwork after paperwork meant for Alfred F. Jones went through him and Jason Baugh instead. Alfred's death had remained top secret since it had occurred, and currently he could count on his fingers who knew about it. That meant that expert forgeries had to be made of Alfred's signature after Jason or he went through a document and approved it, and considering that Jason had little to no idea what he was doing and Walter only slightly more so, there was a considerable backup occuring in the government.

Two weeks. For Walter, it felt like two very long years. Not only was he grieving the loss of a friend, but he also had to cover it up and work with the President to ensure that the other nations didn't find out what had happened. He'd already had to turn away both Canada and England's demands to see their brother, and he wasn't sure, emotionally, if he could do it again.

Then, yesterday, he'd been alerted to the existence of one Rebecca Felicity Jones.

Walter wasn't sure what to think of her. Busy as he was, he didn't think that he needed another issue to be piled on his back, but if what she was claiming was true…

It was almost too far-fetched to believe. Alfred, a father? The kid could hardly take care of himself some days. Walter had to remind him constantly to be more careful when in public and to get to each of his meetings on time. Not only that, but this girl claimed to have died in 1850. The police officers that had taken her in had reported how her behavior was very old-fashioned, but, again, it was too far-fetched to really believe.

According to the report he was currently re-reading, Rebecca Jones had been found wandering the streets of Walnut Creek, California, a week ago, in tears and on the verge of a mental breakdown. The fact that she kept on asking for an Alfred Jones had brought her to the attention of the DDIL. Several agents had already interviewed her and sent their recordings and reports of it to Walter, but since they didn't have the clearance to ask most of the personification-needed questions, the ultimate interview had fallen to Walter.

His phone rang. Walter put it on speaker.

"Secretary O'Brien, Miss Jones is ready to speak with you."

Walter nodded, even though he knew that his secretary couldn't see it, and began to clear away his papers, making sure that his desk was only halfway filled.

"Send her in."

"Yes, sir." She hung up. Walter took a deep, steadying breath, and waited for his appointment with Rebecca Jones.

Several minutes later, the door opened, and Walter looked up to take in the alleged daughter of Alfred F. Jones. She paused by the doorway, white as a sheet, but curtsied with a grace he wasn't expecting nonetheless, hovering by the doorway for the moment. Walter took that moment to take her in.

Miss Jones, as he'd read, couldn't have been older than sixteen, with curly brown hair that fell past her shoulders and milk chocolate brown eyes. She did indeed look like Alfred, he noted. She had the same face shape and nose, as well as the same muscular body type. Her skin, though, was darker (though she could still pass as white), hinting at a tinge of Mexican heritage, and from what he could see of her hands, they were calloused from hard work. She wore a white sundress with a navy blue trim, a white cardigan, and tan sandals that seemed to be a size too big for her.

"Secretary O'Brien?" Miss Jones asked softly, shifting nervously. "Um, your secretary told me to come here. She said you knew my pa."

"I think our first order of business is to determine whether Alfred is your father," Walter replied coolly. "We have your DNA being tested against Alfred's right now, so in a couple hours we'll know for sure, but I want to get to know you first. Do you know who I am, Miss Jones?"

The alleged Miss Jones shifted, confusion flitting across her expression before she pushed it aside.

"Just that you are connected to my pa, and that you're pretty high up in the government."

Walter leaned back, watching her move. So far it seemed what she was saying was true—which was good, because his position was supposed to be top secret.

"Well, you can sit," he said, gesturing to one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. Miss Jones took the one on the right, the one that Alfred had always chosen, and crossed her legs, back perfectly straight as she did so—now that was something Alfred had never done.

Walter stopped his train of thought with a jolt of mild surprise and a twinge of guilt. He was comparing this girl to Alfred. What in the world had possessed him to do that? He hadn't done it to Jason or Canada, and if anyone was to compare Alfred to someone that would be them.

He just… must be grieving, still. A girl just came in claiming to be Alfred's daughter, of course he'd want to compare him to her. Not only that, but he was tired, and wasn't working at full capacity.

Yeah. That was it.

Realizing that Miss Jones was watching him oddly and that he'd been silent a little longer than was polite, Walter spoke again.

"Just tell me who you are, Miss Jones," he said, starting a tape recorder and placing it where she could see it. "The basics. I'm also obligated to tell you that you are being recorded, and if anything you claim is false, it can and will be used against you in court."

Once again, that flash of confusion crossed Miss Jones' face before being tucked away again within moments.

"My name is Rebecca Felicity Jones. I was born on October 18, 1822. My father is Alfred F. Jones—he adopted me and my brothers. We moved around a lot during my life, and never really stayed in one place.," She recited, as if she had done so many times before. She may as well have, considering the earlier interviews. Then her body language shifted, and Walter looked steadily at her, knowing that she was going to divulge some information that she hadn't yet revealed. " We lived in Prussia for a while, if that helps. Their personification can vouch for my existence." Her eyes brightened slightly, regaining some confidence as she spoke. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, or the Kingdom of Prussia. He knows me; he and my Pa were friends."

Walter let out a long breath. Well, that practically confirmed things, as well as made them more complicated. Not only was Gilbert Beilschmidt's existence even more highly classified than the average nations', but the man wasn't even really a nation any longer. Why would some random kid off the street ask for a dissolved nation to prove their existence? Privately, he wondered why she hadn't mentioned the man earlier. He decided to voice that concern.

"Why didn't you bring up Mr. Beilschmidt's presence in your earlier interviews?"

Rebecca blinked, as if surprised he was asking that. "Because the existence of nations is a worldwide secret, sir. It'd be a breach of protocol. Even I know that."

Walter mentally slapped himself. Of course. What had possessed him to ask such an obvious question? He must still be letting his exhaustion get to him.

"Well, calling Mr. Beilschmidt over will be a bit of a problem," he finally replied, brushing aside the thought and blinking to clear his head. "You see, Prussia was dissolved over seventy years ago." Miss Jones stiffened and sucked in a breath, and Walter hurried to continue. "Mr. Beilschmidt has not yet died, but he is under strong surveillance by the German government since he is no longer a nation. Asking him to come to the US without a valid reason will raise suspicions, and currently we can't afford to let anyone know that your—Alfred is dead."

Miss Jones nodded shortly. Walter noticed that her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"But…" she took a long, shaky breath. "Gilbert still lives?"

He felt himself humane enough to soften his reply. "Yes. Infinitely annoying, but alive." Miss Jones' lips twitched upwards slightly, and he took that as a signal to continue. "Either way, I think testing you for nationhood will suffice for me to confirm your claim. You were California before becoming the United States, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you should know how to see your citizens."

Miss Jones nodded slowly. "Pa usually made us ignore them, though. He said it wasn't our responsibility to worry about them yet."

Walter ignored the implications of that statement. A problem for another time. "Well, I need you to do that right now. Tell me what you see."

Miss Jones shifted nervously. "Just… there are a lot of them. Citizens, I mean. Last time I tried, it was really difficult to keep my conscience separate from them. Shake me awake if I don't wake up in a couple minutes."

Walter nodded, and Miss Jones closed her eyes, letting out a long breath and relaxing before slouching back into her seat, dead to the world.

This was one of the many oddities that constituted being a nation. From what Walter had learned from his decade and a half in the DDIL, a nation was only physically attached to the county they represented—that was, they could only be physically be affected by changes in the nation state they represented. Their psyche was very rarely affected by the views of their people, leaving them to be their own person. However, nations could detect the emotions of their citizens through what Alfred and the other nations called sight. It very rarely was specific, but through a mode of meditation, a nation could detect the general mood of their people, whether they be fearful, angry, or ecstatic. Usually bigger nations such as America reserved their sight for only when absolutely necessary, as seeing such a large group of people was often headache-inducing at the very least. Thankfully, all Miss Jones had to do was detect them, or else Walter would not have felt comfortable asking her to see.

Several minutes passed, before Miss Jones's eyes fluttered open once again with a gasp. Blinking several times and shaking herself, she leaned forwards, obviously a bit worn down from the experience.

"Excuse me," she breathed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "There's... a lot."

Walter nodded sympathetically. "I would have warned you, but I'm afraid I didn't know how you'd react. Alfred tended to get a headache whenever he had to see."

"They're so… divided," Miss Jones breathed, pale. "There's so many people…. There are dozens of different mindsets. Most people seemed to be in two different mindsets, but there were a lot of smaller ones, too. There's a lot of hatred and fear, but most of the population is more disappointed and resigned."

Walter nodded again. "That lines up almost perfectly with your father's last assessment. A lot more generalized, but that's to be expected." He noted how Miss Jones' hands lingered on her forehead before dropping to her lap, and how her breaths had become slightly more labored. "Advil?"

Miss Jones blinked at him, and Walter suddenly understood his mistake. "Right. Advil is a medicine that was invented while you were… gone. It helps with general pain."

"No, thank you. I think I'll be fine without it."

They lapsed into a short silence, before Walter stood up. Miss Jones followed his example as he moved towards her and held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, she took it and they shook.

"Well, Miss Jones," he said with a wry smile. "Congratulations on becoming a world superpower. There's a lot you've missed in the past century and a half, and we have a lot to catch up on."

The door handle creaked as it turned ever so slowly. Jason closed his eyes, and with a long breath, swung it open and entered into the room he'd been avoiding for the past week.

As he looked around, he realized that Alfred Jones' bedroom was quite a contrast to his personality and honestly, a bit of a letdown. Jason had never been in his guardian's private quarters before, but whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. The room had a military sensation to it, with a single twin bed situated opposite to the large screen doors that opened to the second-story balcony. There was an alarm clock on the nightstand, a dresser and cabinet by the balcony, and a desk with a computer on it in the last corner, but other than that the room was almost frighteningly bare.

Nevertheless, as he walked inside, Jason couldn't help but feel rather small. Here, less than three weeks ago, Alfred had packed his bags and went up to D.C. for a World Meeting, and later had committed suicide hardly halfway through it. What kind of memories were housed here? What did Alfred do when in this room, which was so bare and lacking in personality? Did he ever decorate the walls with American flags or paint the wall red, white, and blue, as England often complained that he did? Perhaps, in those last days before the World Summit, he had meticulously gone through his room, packing away everything that would suggest that a nation had lived there.

Jason Baugh was starting to realize that he had never really known Alfred at all. And that bothered him a lot more than he expected.

He bypassed the bed, walking over to the dresser, and opened it. Just suits, shirts, and pants, as a normal person would have. And while there were a couple cartoon shirts, most of the wardrobe constituted button-up dress shirts and nice jeans, ironed flat. Each was folded up neatly and each article type in its own row.

Jason found himself scowling, anger that he realized as a bit unreasonable rising up in his chest. What exactly, if anything, had Alfred been hiding, and why in the world did he think that it would be a good idea to hide it? What was going through his head that made him think that going off and killing himself, leaving the country to a very young and inexperienced micronation, was a good idea?

"Bastard," he muttered, slamming the drawer shut and walking back into the center of the room.

Then his shoulders slumped, and he let out a long breath, drawing his hands over his eyes as the inevitable sensation of grief crashed down on him once again.

For the last week, Jason had been down in the Alfred's primary home in the countryside of northern Virginia. Several days after being told of the nation's death, he'd travelled (run) down here, deciding (giving the excuse) that someone had to go through Alfred's belongings before the FBI went through them. But even as he carefully inspected the long neglected library on the first floor, tried and failed to take care of Americat (seriously. The name of the poor thing alone made Jason want to punch Alfred. In the face. As hard as he could), and went through the files O'Brien sent his way, he'd long avoided going through Alfred's room. There was just something essentially private about the place, and after Alfred himself had kept all visitors out of his room for decades, it was more than easy to put off examining the bedroom for last.

But it seemed all the hype was for naught. There wasn't even a closet.

Eventually he composed himself and moved to the cabinet, opening it up. The hinges squeaked irritatingly loud, indicating that it hadn't been opened for a long while.

There were a couple books inside, a set of very old toy soldiers with chipped red paint, and a small black box on the top shelf. Not even half of the space was filled.

Jason went for the books first. The first held a set of very old photos and sketches.

On the first page, a lifelike pencil sketch of a woman met his eyes. She was obviously very beautiful, with very lightly shaded hair and clear eyes that indicated that they were either blue or green. She was in a very old-fashioned dress, perhaps from the late 1770's or early 1780's, and her lips lifted in a humorous way that indicated that she and the artist shared a funny sort of secret. Jason turned the page, only to find more sketches of the woman. Fetching water from a well, reading a book, reaching up towards a shelf, standing with an amiable older man who looked old enough to be her father. Over two dozen sketches of the woman met his eyes, before the subject turned to someone much younger.

A young girl looked up at him, holding the hand of an adult whose body wasn't in the drawing save for an arm and leg. She seemed to be two or three, in a flat flannel dress, and had straight, messy hair that fell around her chin. She seemed… slightly familiar. Jason frowned deeply at the sensation.

Well, he'd think about that later. He turned the page again, now engrossed in the sketchbook's contents.

There weren't a lot of sketches of the girl, only three, and they soon switched to Mexico, of all people. Jason had to take a moment to remember who she was; he had only ever met the southern personification in passing. There were just as many sketches of her as the other young woman, working in the field and the kitchen, grinning stupidly up at the artist, and so on.

Then there came a more peculiar sketch. This was of a woman, her head cut off by the top of the page, and thus identity unknown, holding a baby swaddled in blankets. After that…

Jason thought he was looking at a drawing of Alfred himself, as a young child. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the boy, who looked to be about four or five, had much darker hair, but the same ocean blue eyes. He was giving a gap-toothed grin of a child up through the page. Almost every part of the boy screamed "Alfred," and Jason was quick to turn the page.

The Alfred almost-clone popped up again, but now he was eight or nine, and holding the hand of a six year old girl who had curly dark hair and eyes. The boy was turned to the girl, saying something to her and pointing to some sight out of the sketch. The little girl—his sister, probably—was laughing.

Then there was a little boy with lightly shaded hair, and after that several sketches of all three together, increasing in age as he went along.

The next subject was… Prussia? He was dressed in a full military uniform, standing at attention. Jason was so used to seeing him causing trouble or laughing that it was disconcerting to see him so serious. After that sketch was a couple more of the former nation, mostly in old European dress and one with him standing next to Alfred's almost-clone, who appeared 16 in the sketch. The last differed greatly from the others in that it had him in rough, well-worn clothes, sitting on a wooden bench and carving what seemed to be a wooden eagle.

That was it for the former nation. The sketches after that were more... normal, if one could call it that. An early twentieth-century Canada and France showed up a couple times, 1950's England and Japan once, and, more disconcertingly, half a dozen of himself, ranging from his toddler-self to a sketch of him talking with O'Brien, which place the last one in the last two years.

Okay. If this wasn't creepy before, it certainly was now. Jason shut the book and put it back on the shelf, closing the cabinet and feeling like he had just intruded on something intensely personal.

Not only that, but if Alfred had actually drawn the sketches, and he most likely had… wow. If one simply went off the guy's handwriting, as Jason had, then one would assume that he didn't have an artistic bone in his body. But those drawings had almost looked like pictures.

Perhaps he didn't really know Alfred.

But in his heart, he had known that fact for a long while.

Shaking himself, Jason let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he forced the thoughts out of his mind. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. He needed some fresh air; claustrophobia was starting to set in this room, despite how open spaced it was.

The warm, humid air of Morrisville, Virginia brushed gently against his face as Jason pulled open the door to the front porch. The sky above was dotted with clouds, and he could see the small pond in the backyard as he walked outside.

There was a chair, and Jason practically collapsed into it, rubbing his face with one hand and feeling very overwhelmed. This was stupid. The last week was stupid. Alfred dying was stupid. Alfred was stupid. He couldn't do this. How was he supposed to represent America when he technically wasn't even American? He couldn't see, he didn't have any experience whatsoever, and top it all off he was so young that no one, not even the other micronations, took him very seriously.

The anger from before rose again. Jason leaned back in the chair and let it fester, curling in his stomach and spreading outwards into his abdomen and throat. It burned within him, a red-hot poker, before cooling slowly into a warm weight in his throat that made it difficult to breathe.

Jason wiped at his eyes, and leaned forwards. As he did so, a glint of light caught his eye. He blinked, and looked towards what had caused the glint.

There were several potted flowers dotting the porch, and though they were a variety of species, most of them were colored purple. Jason tilted back his head, gazing more intently at the plants until the glint caught the afternoon sunlight again. A tiny piece of metal, sticking up in the black soil of a New England Aster.

He stood up and bent over the flower pot, brushing aside dirt until a small black flash drive, with the back painted the same shade of purple as the flowers, came into sight, half-buried in the dirt.

Jason picked up the drive, frowning. What in the world was a flash drive doing in a flower pot? A small part of him whispered secret, but the warm lump in his throat pushed the thought aside, leaving a dull curiosity in its wake.

He put the flash drive in his pocket, and deciding that he'd leave the organization of the rest of the bedroom for later, went down to make lunch.

He forgot about the flash drive by the end of the day.