And so, like the long-forgotten phoenix, I rise from the ashes of this fic re-imbued with the purpose of finishing it! A couple things to note: although I did say I would include Sputnik and the Bay of Pigs in this chapter, I'll have to save those two events until later (Sputnik may be much later as it didn't occur until 1957, and we're still in the early fifties right now). Also I've done a bit of time traveling and went back a year because I wanted to add in this bit with the Rosenbergs.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, and never will be. All I have to my name is a copy of season five.


Sunlight streamed in through the window, announcing the arrival of the morning. Thin, golden rays sailed across the room and traveled up the expanse of the bed, stopping to caress the sleeping woman's face. The sudden intrusion of light caused the woman to open her eyes and spring up in a rather hurried fashion. Oh no, she'd slept in so late! If she was not downstairs in the next few minutes, Brother would-

Her thoughts came crashing to a halt when she got her first good look at the room around her. White walls, beige bur-bur carpet, small dresser opposite the bed, and even a small circular rug in the middle of the room. Where was she? This wasn't her brother's home! Where was this?! Burying her rising fear underneath a tumult of anger, she threw off the covers and hopped out of bed. Movement from the corner of her eyes caught her attention. Whipping around, Belarus found herself glaring out her own reflection. She took a few moments to examine herself in the mirror. Instead of the thick pajamas she always wore back in her home country, a thin, white nightgown adorned her figure. Cocking her head to one side, the female nation wondered how she could have ended up in such attire. Then it hit her. She was in her bedroom...sort of.

Turning away from the mirror, Belarus strode over to the closet and shuffled through the various articles of dress that hung within. A few months ago, she'd asked her brother if it would be alright for her to live in America during her espionage. After all, she had argued, it would be much easier than flying back every few weeks. Cheaper too. Although he had been nervous about her risking her neck, he'd obliged when she'd brought up the subject of expenses. Belarus smirked. Typical male. Mention money being spent, and they're all too eager to prick up their ears and offer a comment. After a few moments indecision, she picked a green, sleeveless dress and a white belt to go around it. According to a magazine Belarus had leafed through the other day, strange geometric patterns and stripes were becoming fashionable now. Americans were so weird. What was wrong with the simplicity of a solid color? Huffing to herself, the female nation dressed, slipping into a pair of white flats that sat by the closet and hurried downstairs.

Unfortunately, her bit of information on McCarthyism, as it was called, hadn't been able to do much. All it had afforded her was the ability to spread rumors at a congressional level, and even then it did little good. McCarthy had been tossed out of the Senate and the American media had moved on to the next big scoop. However, she had managed to get a hold of the Rosenbergs and with only the minutest bit of arm-twisting had managed to con the atomic genius and even his wife into supplying Russia with information on how to construct an atomic bomb. What a wonderful thing it would be to see America's face as he was destroyed by his own creation!

Snatching her key off the kitchen table, Belarus paused. What should she do first? As always, information was a top priority, however... The Soviet directed her gaze out the nearby window. An unending sheet of cerulean sky disturbed here and there by small clouds as white and fluffy as whipped cream complete with the smiling golden eye of the sun and a sweet summer breeze; such nice weather, it would be a shame if she didn't get to enjoy it. She was here after all. Belarus blinked, shaking her head. What the hell was she thinking? She came here to help Brother bring America to his knees, not vacation and have fun! Even if he did have nice weather and cute little birds that sang to her every morning, Belarus couldn't afford to forget her mission. Russia had promised her his hand in marriage, and that prize was worth ignoring something that looked as if it came straight from one of Britain's fairy tales. Cupping her chin in her hand, Belarus looked back outside to find a squirrel sitting at the base of a nearby tree, bushy tail twitching, happily chewing on some peanuts a neighbor had left out for it. It looked so cute, with its bright eyes and chubby cheeks all swaddled up in velveteen reddish brown fur. Would it let me pet it? She wondered. America's squirrels were weird. They adapted quickly to people and their tails were twice as big as their bodies-not to mention they lacked the tufts on their ears that the ones in Europe had. As Belarus watched the squirrel tear into another peanut, her stomach decided it would make a comment.

Well, I suppose I can't really do anything on an empty stomach. It made logical sense. Food first, spy later. Or better yet... Her hand curled around the cottage key. Why not do both? The more time she'd spent over in America, the more she'd come to realize that the best place for intel was either the bar or the local diner/cafe. No matter where they were, if they were eating, Americans could not keep their mouths shut. With that thought in mind, Belarus got up and strode out. Besides, a cup of coffee did sound good right now. She would never admit it, but she'd grown to like American coffee. Sure, the robustness of the flavor about KO'ed your taste buds, but if you dumped in just enough sugar, it went down okay.

Shoes clicking on the sidewalk, the young woman's eyes roamed over the little neighborhood she'd chosen to live in. Small, white two-story houses plopped onto emerald lawns on which the occasional dog and child could be seen frolicking together all enclosed by a tiny picket fence. Out in front sat either a Ford or a Chevy, metal glowing beneath the gaze of the summer sun. Husbands in nice looking coats left at nine and arrived home at five, giving their smiling, pretty wives chaste kisses and ruffling the tuft of hair on the baby's head. Seriously, was she on the set of some movie and just unaware of it? Then again it wasn't just this neighborhood, it was all over. The Americans called the phenomenon Suburbia: a sudden obsession with a uniform community, these cookie cutter neighborhoods and towns caught every family's fancy until it had exploded across the country like an epidemic.

A car hurled by, a bronze bullet buzzing with the voice of Elvis Presley. Shaking her head, Belarus continued her walk. Americans were the world's strangest people. Absurd text-book towns, raucous music, poodle skirts, and that flirtatious slut Marilyn Monroe! And yet they looked upon Communism if it was strange. What a backwards people.


"Mornin' hon! How're ya doing?"

America sank onto the plush leather covered stool with a sigh. Folding his arms on the counter, he gave the portly woman before him a tired smile.

"Oh, I'm doing alright Patricia."

Patricia huffed and patted his hand with one of her own flap-jack paws, "Now, don't you go lying to me, mister. Those heavy bags under your eyes say you're ready to embark on a five hundred year vacation!"

"I'd prefer a thousand-year vacation," America chuckled.

"Say no more, my dear," the woman chirped, waving a finger, "I'll get ya a nice hot cup of coffee. Just the thing to bring you around and get ya back right as rain." She ducked down under the counter and reappeared a moment later holding a mug in her hand, "you want any cream or sugar in your coffee darlin'?"

America shook his head, "Nah, black is fine."

Patricia nodded and toddled off to the coffee machine, checking on a couple patrons near America along the way. The young country slumped forward in his seat and looked down at the counter. His smeared reflection regarded him with two blank blue paint-blots that peeped out over two purple half-circles. Folding his arms up on the counter, America sighed. You know you're tired when a blurred, diner bar makes you look like a used up rag doll rather than a colorful ink-blot. Closing his eyes, America listened to the sounds of the diner: clinking plates and cutlery as people ate, cooks barking out orders, Patricia, the owner, clucking to her customers in her usual mother-hen tone. He liked this place. With its checkerboard tiles, red leather booths and barstools, the brightly lit fluorescent jukebox that just couldn't get enough of the Rat Pack, constant flow of chatter-this place was the epitome of America. At least for the time being. Who knew what sort of societal change the future would bring.

Still, he thought, as his fingertips danced in time with a Sinatra song, I kind of like the way I am now. Apple pie, baseball, sockhops, rock n roll, it's kind of fun. Simple, but fun.

The bell above the door rang. Patricia glanced up from her notepad full of orders and scribbles. Noticing it was one of the regulars, she gave a warm smile and gestured over to America to indicate where he should sit. The regular, a man in his thirties with just a dusting of gray at his temples, glanced over at the seat he'd been told to take and broke out into a grin.

"Well look who it is!" He exclaimed, clapping America on the shoulder. The man yelped and whipped around.

"Huh?! Oh! Hey there Dick*, long time no see."

Dick sat down beside America, crossing his legs, "You're tellin' me, that old codger of a boss is making me go later and later each night. I'm telling you, one more bumped up deadline, and I'm telling him where he can stick that newspaper he's so proud of." Dick leaned an elbow on the counter, balancing his chin atop the back of his hand, "So," he asked, "what have you been up to? Been a while since I've seen you here."

"Well," America paused. It was hard to keep everything straight. Between the constant espionage, government projects, and meetings with officials as well as other countries, everything had become one giant blur.

"Same old run around?" Dick offered.

America nodded, "Yeah, and it's only gotten worse since the whole McCarthy deal broke."

Patricia reappeared before the men, placing the coffee cup down on the counter, "There ya go hon," she said, tipping America a wink, "this oughta wake ya right up!" She turned to the man beside him, pen and paper at the ready, "Hey there Dick, what can I get for you?"

Waving a hand, he replied, "Just the usual 'Trish."

Patricia nodded, pen dancing across the worn, yellow notepad, "Eggs Benedict and coffee with cream. Got it." The bell above the door chimed once more. All three turned to look.

A young woman stood in the doorway. Dressed in green, her sandy blonde hair was held back by a cream-colored ribbon. She shrank back a bit, nervous about being watched, but in the end gave her watchers a small, tentative smile.

"Ah, g-good morning," she stammered, fiddling with her collar.

The matron behind the counter beamed a bright smile at the girl, "Well good morning, cutie-pie!" Patricia gave the girl a sharp nod, and waved her free hand around the diner, "Just have a seat wherever you feel like and I'll have Chip over there takin' care of you." She gestured over to a spindly teenager on the far side of the diner. Unlike his superior, his smile trembled at the edges. The girl nodded at him and took a seat in a booth near the door. Right before she sat down she glanced at America. America smiled and gave her a small wave. The girl did not smile back. Rather, she sat down and snatched the newspaper left lying on the table, shielding her face from him with it.

Dick chuckled. America turned back to his friend.

"What?" he sighed, exasperation nipping at the edge of his tone.

Socking him lightly in the shoulder, Dick leaned in, "Careful 'bout showing those fangs of yours my friend" he murmured, "looks like yon maiden thinks she'll end up your dinner."

America rolled his eyes and took a swig of coffee. Patting the country on the shoulder, Dick cast a discreet glance at the young woman. Dark, icy eyes peeped over the edge of the paper, analyzing the man next to him. Her eyes flicked over to Dick, then back down to the paper once she realized she was being watched. Smirking, he turned back to America, giving him a light tap on the shoulder.

"You know, I think she's into you."

America quirked an eyebrow, "Hm? Who?"

Dick tipped his head towards the booth behind them, "That girl who just came in. She sure is watching you."

"I thought that's because she's afraid she'll end up my dinner." America retorted, playfully blowing coffee steam in his friend's face.

Waving the steam away, Dick shrugged, smirk still etched onto his face, "Hey, some ladies are quirky. Besides she is rather cute."

"And you're married," America pointed to the gold band squeezing the man's finger.

"I meant for you."

The clinking of cutlery and the thick smell of eggs announced the arrival of breakfast. Like an expert dancer, Patricia plopped the plate down in front of Dick with one hand, swiped the coffee pot over America's mug with the other, not spilling a single drop, and spun off to check on her other patrons. While the man next to him dug into his food, America glanced behind him. The woman sat in the booth, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap as she gave her order to Chip. The young waiter wrote down her order with trembling fingers and an even shakier voice. Poor kid. It made America wonder why, if he had social anxiety as bad as he said he did, had he taken a job that forced him to interact with all sorts of people? He supposed it was a good way to get over the daunting disorder, but wouldn't small steps have been better? Oh well, not that it was any of his business.

Finished, Chip clicked his pen and jammed it in his pocket. He spun on his heel and trotted off toward the kitchen to place the woman's order. As soon as Chip had gone, the woman took another look at him. Bright day met dark night. Icy daggers of ebon rage shot forth from her eyes. America flinched; he had no clue how her ire could be so cold yet feel so boiling hot at the same time. Whatever he had done to warrant said ire. The air around her had begun to darken, her aura releasing shower after shower of frosty sparks. Taking the hint, America turned back around. It took a little bit for the heavy, piercing weight of her gaze to lift from his shoulders, but in the end it did.

Yeah, she was real into him.

"So," Dick said, chewing on forkful of poached egg, "what did I tell you? Cute and eyeing you up."

"I don't know. Something tells me this one would rather rip my face off rather than kiss me." America replied. Boy, talk about weird. What had he ever done to this girl? They'd never seen each other before, of that he was certain. Maybe there was something up with his face? He did look rather tired after all. In the far corner, Sinatra gave his last shout out to his hometown of Chicago before stepping aside for the next performer. For a moment, the chatter swelled to fill the empty space left behind by the absence of music, then backed off once a flourish of trumpets and drums took the stage. A beat or so later, Dean Martin's voice flowed out of the speakers, riding the soft wind of a gentle swing beat that carried with it the images of darkened pool halls and warm hotel rooms.

"Damn Trish," Dick groaned, "don't that hunk of metal play something else besides the Rat Pack? I'm tired of hearing that constant squeaking."

"Oh come one, you know it's not that bad," Patricia called back from the end of the counter.

"All the same," he replied, mopping up stray egg yolk with a piece of toast, "what's wrong with a little Chubby Checker? Or Fats? Heck, I'll even take some Skinny Ennis."

"You want Fats?" Patricia asked, picking up an empty plate, "then why don't you pop over to Honey's Hive? From what I hear, that's all the old duff plays." She placed the plate on the counter that separated the kitchen from the diner. A white-clad figure dashed by, snatching the item and replacing it with a saucer upon which sat two pieces of toast, barking out that tables six's order was ready.

Dick stirred his coffee, "Really, Old Bob Honey likes Fats Domino?"

"I know, right?" America chuckled, "I thought he was still hung up on the big band stuff. Still," he fished around in his pocket, "nine thirty's a little early to be hitting the bottle isn't it?" America removed his hand. Clenched between two fingers was a dime, its sharp gleam reflected in surprising perfection by the bleary counter-top. America slid it over to his friend, "Here. Let's liven the place up a bit, shall we?"

Swiping the coin off the counter, Dick sauntered over to the jukebox. Patricia rolled her eyes and busied herself with cleaning mugs. With no one else to talk to and no food to keep him busy, America decided he would take another look at the mystery girl. Toast in one hand, coffee in the other, she seemed to be completely absorbed in whatever article held the front page of her newspaper. Or so he would have thought, if the girl actually bothered to look like she was reading the paper. Her eyes hadn't moved from their original spot at the top of the paper when America had first looked at her. Maybe Dick was right and she was interested after all? No. Not with that glare she'd given him earlier, like he was a fly scuttling around in her favorite dish. Still, it begged the question of why, if she had such a resentment towards him as that glared suggested (strange though, for he could have sworn they'd never met), did she bother watching him?

Well, I suppose doing a little observing of my own couldn't hurt. America turned in his seat, leaned an arm up on the counter, and pretended to watch the people walking by outside. The girl hovered near the bottom of his visual radar. Oh sure, now she flipped a page here and there, but America could tell she wasn't reading. After all, no one positioned their head that far down. Eyes following the bouncing bob of a child's balloon, America drummed his fingers. I don't get it. Why is she watching me? I mean, normally at this point I'd go up and greet her, but with the level of animosity I felt from earlier, this has got me all kinds of confused.

Just then, a torrent of trumpets rolled forth from the jukebox, trampling all over the short drum line.

Dick trotted back from the juke box and plopped back down in his seat, "What do you think of that? Leagues better than another rat repetition, right?

America cocked his head, listening, "Tony Bennett," he commented, "nice."

Dick produced a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He snapped two out, snatched one, and stuck the box in America's direction. America shook his head. Shrugging, Dick re-sheathed the remaining cigarette and lit up. The two sat in silence for a while, America watching his watcher and Dick absorbed in his own thoughts while in the background Bennett begged some girl to make him rich by reciprocating his love. Another customer entered the diner. America frowned.

And who could this guy be?

Tall, broad shouldered, yet somehow wiry at the same time, the man clad in gray with a twitching, greasy-looking mustache made the alarm bells in America's head start to shake a little. Not enough to ring, but enough to set up a clamor if things started hitting the fan. The man glanced over to his left, a flash of recognition darting across his face as his eyes landed upon Mystery Girl. The girl however, glanced up, frowned, then returned her attention to her paper. The man strode over and sat…in the booth behind her? If America was confused before, he was certainly at a loss now. With his back to her, the man murmured something, however the man's head was bent too far down for America to be able to read his lips. Chip swung by, took the man's order then spun on his heel towards the kitchen. He didn't get very far however, for the girl grabbed Chip's attention, asking for her check. Chip gave her a shy nod and produced it from his pocket, inching it towards her. She snatched it from his grip like a cat grabbing a mouse, her claws digging into her helpless paper prey. Shrinking back, Chip skittered away from the table, fleeing back to the kitchen like a terrified mouse. Poor guy. America averted his gaze just in time to see the girl peg him with a glare so heated it could melt stone. She probably knew he was watching. Eh, not that it mattered. She was on her way out.

"Oh! Speaking of Ol' Bob Honey…hey, you listening?"

Startled, America whipped back around, "Sorry, what was that?"

Dick chuckled and tipped the country a knowing smirk. America responded by rolling his eyes, "Not what you think."

"Uh-huh," Dick tapped ashes from his cigarette onto the edge of his plate, "at any rate, apparently that mild old goat is all up in arms over that thermonuclear bomb that was tested a couple months back. I tried calming him down, saying that it was just a sign of the times, and when in Rome and all that…but he just kept rambling on, saying that no good can come from a weapon like that and if we've got it, when will we use it?" The journalist put the cigarette to his lips and sighed, a spindly, gray thread twirled off the glowing end of the cylindrical spindle, spiraling upward into the awaiting air, "don't get me wrong, I know why we're doing what we're doing. But I wonder how long this pissing match will go on until someone decides to zip up their slacks and punch the other in the face. I'd like for it to be us. However, there's no telling what the future's going to bring."

Lacing his hands in his lap, America could find no words to placate his friend. A pissing contest, huh? Were the situation not so dire, he would have been quick to agree with his friend. However, that phrase was as far from the truth as Pluto from the sun. This was no mere pissing contest. This was a war, an ideological war yes, but a war all the same. It didn't matter that words were slung instead of bullets, spies fell instead of soldiers, or that shiny new weapons were paraded around a room like prize winning show dogs, never to be used against the enemy. The lines had been drawn. Superficial differences aside, the stakes were no different. Oh, who was he kidding? The stakes were much higher this time and he knew it. Freedom of opportunity, freedom of the press, of speech, of religion, the freedom to pursue whatever your little heart deems as happiness; a land where man could choose his destiny. These and more were all the reasons people flocked to America and it was for those same reasons that Russia wanted him destroyed. To take down America would be to take down the world. If the world was a ship, America was the anchor keeping it in place. His allies were the rope tethered to both him and the ship, and Russia just so happened to be that drunken sailor who wanted to uproot the anchor, untie it, and cast it off into the cold abyss of the sea. He would keep the rope of course. A hangman always needs a good noose after all.

No, this was no pissing contest. This was a battle of David and Goliath proportions.

The bell above the door brought the two men back to reality. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a flash of bright green round the corner. America sighed. So, she'd left. He opened his wallet, fished out a dollar and a quarter and placed them on the counter.

"Headin' out?" Dick asked, stubbing out his cigarette.

America nodded. Results from the aforementioned bomb continued to pour in and needed to be analyzed. Not to mention a new one was already being constructed and needed a testing site. He tossed a wave to the matron of the diner, "See ya later Patricia!"

"Now, you wait here mister!" Patricia scolded, shaking her dish towel out him, "That there mug of yours only cost ten cents. Now you come back here and take your change!"

"Keep it." America said with a grin. And with that, he was out the door.

Behind the counter Patricia fumed. Dick snickered, pulling out another cigarette. "Just do as he says Trish. No sense in turning down a kindness."

Patricia sighed, "I know, I know," she took the money and walked over to the register, dropping America's change into the smoky colored glass jar labeled 'Tips'. "I just don't see the sense in tipping this much. I mean, I know he's a sweet boy, but even sweet boys have to eat.

Flicking the flame of his lighter to life Dick smiled, "You're a sweet gal yourself Trish. You've got to eat too," he took a drag on the cig, exhaling smoke through his nose, "besides, I wouldn't worry 'bout him. He knows what he's doing."

Just then, the bell over the door jingled and the door swung shut. Chip came rushing out from the kitchen, a glass of fizzy, hissing cola clutched in his hand. His eyes darted all over the diner.

"Oh." He remarked, slumping his shoulders.

"What's wrong, hon?" Patricia asked.

"That guy," Chip replied, pointing to a boot by the window, "you know, the one who sat behind that pretty girl in the green dress? He left. I didn't even get to give him his drink, or see what he wanted for breakfast."

Patricia and Dick looked at each other, then at the booth in question. Sure enough, the strange gentleman who'd been sitting there was gone. As all three stared out the window, they could just make out through the obstruction of morning traffic a pillar of slate gray crossing the street and disappearing down an alley way.

Chip looked over at his boss, "Um…what do I do with the pop, ma'am?"

Shaking out her dish towel, Patricia laid it up on the counter and began wiping it down. Chip and Dick watched her. Once she had finished, she folded up the towel and placed it back under the counter.

"Tell ya what," she said, giving the boy a warm smile, "why don't you and that cola go take a break? You've earned it dear."

Fumbling for words, Chip eventually gave up, and broke out into a broad, crooked, but very bright grin. "Thank you ma'am!" He exclaimed, then dashed off to the back. Once the staff door had shut, Dick turned to Patricia.

"So, dine and dash. What're going to do? I mean, cola's not that expensive, but still."

"Nothing." Patricia replied. Dick quirked an eyebrow and she pointed out the window. The man turned and looked across the street just in time to see America disappearing into the same alley way that the man had turned down. Patricia gave her customer a bright smile, "isn't it nice to know such charming kids?"


"Ethel Rosenberg sends her regards. She wishes to meet with you as soon as possible. She's at the Chestnut Corner."

Belarus grimaced. She preferred to meet with Julius. As kind as the woman was, her husband was more forthcoming with information. Mrs. Rosenberg tended to beat around the bush. Still, it had been an incredible stroke of luck to have been able to track down the atomic genius and his wife-even more so when they agreed to supply her with information. She could not pass up any opportunities to squeeze them for information. With an exasperated sigh, Belarus folded up her newspaper. For everything she despised about the American public, their newspapers supplied cute cartoons.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her prick up her ears. From behind her, she heard the quiet, shaky voice of the young man from earlier. He stumbled over a question, caught himself, confirmed it, and just before he could dash away like a shadow at sunrise, Belarus raised her hand.

"Excuse me," she stifled a smirk as the boy froze, her verbal spears embedded in both of his feet. He snapped his head around and wide, doe-like eyes locked onto her. Belarus gave him the sweetest smile she could muster, "if it's not too much trouble, may I have my bill?"

"O-Oh, yeah," he produced a rectangular piece of paper from his pocket, "um…here you go miss. Please c-come back and visit us." The boy…what did that portly woman say his name was…Chip! Chip placed her bill on the very edge of the table and slid it towards her, inch by tiny inch. Under normal circumstances, Belarus would have enjoyed his fear and upped her natural intimidating aura to one of dark malice, but she had places to be and couldn't waste time nursing this kid's social anxiety. Without so much as a word, she whipped her hand out, latching onto the piece of paper and snatching it out of Chip's tentative, two-finger grip. The boy yanked his hand back as if he'd been burned.

"Erm…have a good-"

"You may go." Belarus growled. The boy needed no further convincing. Quicker than lightning, he scurried back to the kitchen. She glanced down at the total. One cup of coffee: ten cents. Two slices of toast: twenty-five cents. Yuck. Stupid Americans and their greedy establishments. This diner in particular seemed awful damned proud of its toast! As she placed her payment on the table, she debated about leaving a tip. No matter how many times she ate out, she still couldn't wrap her mind around this strange prospect of tipping. Who the hell was the customer to decide whether or not the service worker had performed to their bias expectations? These stingy people called it an 'incentive', saying that it made the waiter or waitress 'perform better and help promote the business.' God, these Americans! Their minds were always on the intangible, inhuman corporation rather than the all-too human, overworked employee. Capitalism favored all, what bull!

Land of opportunity my foot! Digging through her purse, Belarus slapped a crisp, clean one dollar bill on the table. Although his Latvia-like demeanor had annoyed her from the very moment she sat down, it didn't change the fact that that poor boy was part of the oppressed lower classes; she would see that he got a reward for that. She glanced over to her left to find the callous pig staring in her direction. Belarus suppressed a growl and narrowed her eyes at America. Free-market, as if! Bile rose in the back of her throat. If she didn't leave now, she would soon vomit.

Exiting the diner, Belarus took a deep breath. At first she had been a little hopeful after running into America, after all what better place to glean information about current affairs than the country himself? Instead of information however, all he'd talked about was music. And that friend of his! It hadn't been enough for that chain smoker to eye her up when she'd come in, he'd been sharp enough to catch her watching America; and to make matters worse America had started watching her! Any hope of getting even the smallest bite tossed her way had spiraled down the drain thanks to that jerk, and her plans switched from reconnaissance to frantically hiding her face and praying she wouldn't be found out. Bastards. Bastards all of them. At least the woman behind the counter had been nice. She had been the first person outside of her sister to call Belarus cute. Rounding the corner, she stopped in front of the window of a bookstore and examined herself. The ribbon on top of her head had moved down behind her neck to hold her hair back. The light green color of her dress accented her eyes, bringing out the violet hues that hid within a sea of cobalt. Thanks to the trim of her dress, the pearl white skin of both her arms and calves got to feel the sun's warm caress; and of course her dainty feet looked darling in those white flats. Belarus smiled at her reflection. She did look rather cute. Shame the weather back home wasn't more cooperative, it would be nice to wear clothes like this more often. Belarus adjusted her purse and continued her walk. After a few minutes of wading through people and crossing a couple streets, she came to her destination. Situated in a strip mall, between a fabric store and a realtor's office, the blinking green neon sign complete with a coffee mug appeared rather nondescript and somewhat sleepy.

The carpeted floor swallowed the sound of her footsteps as she made her way in, as silent and cold as an autumn wind. Glass-coated cat eyes cast their amber gaze around the café, picking out various people and tables while in the corner piles of shadow shifted restlessly, waiting for the eyes to sleep and cue them onto the stage. Near the back of the room sat a woman in her late forties. A small piece of yellow cake and a cup of coffee occupied the table in front of her. Upon seeing the slice of cake, Belarus felt her stomach growl. The hell? She just ate! Damn American food, hardly filled her up. Who knew, maybe it was some horrid conspiracy, maybe America knew she had been here all along and was trying to make her as fat as him. Nah, seemed too unlikely. No way was he that smart to have picked up on her already-the scene at the diner proved that. The woman sitting at the far back table glanced up from her untouched food and waved when she saw Belarus. The female nation smiled back and walked over to the woman.

"Good morning, Mrs. Rosenberg," Belarus greeted her as she sat down, "how are you today?"

Mrs. Rosenberg gave the soviet a nervous smile, "please dear, call me Ethel. I'm doing quite well. And you?" She took a sip of her coffee.

"I'm doing fine." Belarus answered, eyeing the American across from her. Something seemed off. Under normal circumstances, Ethel would be talking Belarus's ear off by now, going on and on about trivial things like shopping trips or the weather. Instead, she seemed subdued, dragging her fork around her plate, not even bothering to eat. Like a restless bird, her eyes darted all around the café, settling on the girl in front of her for a few seconds before darting off to a much safer corner. A waitress dropped by, all lipstick and bright blonde ponytail, recommending their 'infamous' caramel latte to Belarus. A sucker for caramel, and wanting this meeting to go as smoothly as possible, Belarus conceded. After the girl bounced away, she turned back to Ethel Rosenberg. "I was notified that you wanted to speak to me."

Ethel Rosenberg placed her fork down the table and folded her hands in her lap. She chewed her bottom lip before responding, "Yes, I do want to speak with you. I…" she paused, dropping her eyes to her plate, "my husband and I have been talking lately, and I've started having second thoughts…" here she trailed off again.

Knowing full well where this was going, Belarus leaned forward, lacing her hands together beneath her chin, "Go on." She urged, keeping her face as emotionless and clear as ice. Best to bare her fangs later when her prey had her guard down. Why spill the chess pieces when she could tell her opponent was waltzing straight into a loss?

"W-well, it's just…I don't think this is right, and I'm worried if Julius and I were to be found out…well…you know what would happen."

Belarus nodded, "Of course Mrs. Rosenberg. I can understand why you would be frightened by the thought of the American government catching wind of what you're doing and the consequences thereof, but rest assured once we have all the information we need, you will be given the option to defect to Russia and will be guaranteed safe passage."

Ethel blinked, "But…when will we know when you have enough? What constitutes as enough? We've already supplied you with several pieces of key information, and you still demand more."

"What constitutes as enough for the USSR is not for you know, Mrs. Rosenberg. Once my brother says we have enough, we have enough," she smiled, "until then, we ask that you continue to supply us with information."

Once again, the pretty blonde waitress swung by the table, this time setting a steaming cup of creamy coffee in front of Belarus. Thanking the girl, Belarus took a small sip from her cup, savoring the thick sweetness of caramel on her tongue. She should have come here first. Ethel stared at Belarus, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted.

"But…the American government is already testing thermonuclear weapons, far more powerful than the atomic bomb that struck Hiroshima and Nagasaki, so why would you continue to-"

"Because we need that information," growled Belarus, slamming her cup down, "we can't take the steps to build a thermonuclear bomb if we don't know how to build its predecessor." She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "rest assured Mrs. Rosenberg, you and your husband's contributions to the Soviet Empire are noted and appreciated, and that's why we continue to contact you. That's also why we're leaving a back door open for you if you ever need to slip out of the country," she laced her hands beneath her chin once more, "you'll find we're always considerate of our allies."

Ethel Rosenberg didn't look convinced, "I…I'm sorry but I don't think I can continue to do this. Nor can Julius," she glared at Belarus, "it's been a pleasure dear, but Julius and I are done feeding you information," she began to gather her belongings, "build your bombs on your own."

"Where do you think you're going?" Belarus glanced up at the woman across from her, now standing, clutching her purse like a drowning man clutches a life raft. The snowy-haired nation's lids drooped over her eyes, giving them a snake-like appearance. "We still have much to discuss," she gestured to Mrs. Rosenberg's chair, "sit."

"I-"

"Sit." Belarus commanded, the fires of rage flared to life behind her dark eyes, giving them a menacing glow. Mrs. Rosenberg froze. Belarus tapped the table, "You are in no position to argue." Here she slid a knife out from behind her belt, just enough for the edge of the blade to sparkle in the dim light. The female nation couldn't help but smirk when she saw Mrs. Rosenberg's eyes swell to the size of dinner plates. Without a word, she complied, falling into her seat like discarded doll.

"Much better," Belarus cooed, putting the knife away. She leaned over the table once more, "now, Ethel, what makes you think you can just up and leave? What makes you and your husband consider the idea that you can quit any time you like and we'll be okay with that?" She took a long drink of her latte while awaiting her prey's answer.

Fidgeting in her seat, the woman replied, "You came to us. You asked us. The deal was made on our terms."

"And that made you and your husband think you were calling the shots?" Belarus asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Y-yes. Where am I wrong?" Mrs. Rosenberg demanded. She narrowed her eyes at the satellite sitting across from her.

Belarus chuckled. Oh what fools these Americans be, she thought. Instead of responding, Belarus smoothed out her dress, checked the knife sitting in its holster behind her belt, and took another draught of coffee. As she sipped from the ivory cup, she found amusement in Mrs. Rosenberg's increasing anxiety. Yes, she and a couple of Russia's informants had indeed come to the Rosenbergs and asked them to, on their behalf, supply the Soviet Union with data regarding Julius's involvement and help in the Manhattan Project. However, regardless of how important the intelligence these two turncoats had decided to give them was, it didn't change the Rosenberg's merit the slightest bit. The data was important, not them. Besides, no matter how sure of themselves Ethel and her husband were when they agreed to their treachery, the fact that they had the freedom to decide when and how details would be hashed out was nothing more than an illusion. Ethel and Julius Rosenberg were monkeys dancing in her brother's palm. If he wanted to crush them, he could do so without the slightest bit of regret.

"Well?" the co-conspirator snarled.

The Slavic girl blew non-existent steam off her drink, "you presume much in thinking that you were in control from the beginning. Your husband was not the only person behind the Manhattan Project. There were others, we simply chose you. You and Julius are nothing but tiny grains of sand in the ever-flowing hourglass that is Russia's legacy-you're smaller than cogs, you're insignificant bolts inside of a mechanical beast whose fury will rain down upon the world in such a manner that the rapture will seem like a summer picnic," a chuckle, as dark as a demon's soul slipped past her lips, "in short, dear Ethel, you're wrong everywhere."

Mrs. Rosenberg opened her mouth to refute, but Belarus cut her off, "we operate very similar to the mob that made a bloody playground of your great city Chicago and others like it: we give you the choice, and if you sign up, then we've got you lock, stock and barrel. To put it simply, you're like Dr. Faustus. Only this is Marlowe's version, not Goethe's," Belarus flashed Ethel a sharp-toothed grin, "and I think you know what that means.

"Besides," she continued, "that's not the only thing, is it?" Eyes of indigo gleamed with vindictive mirth, "I have a sneaking suspicion that the your and your husband's desire to back out of our little arrangement is because the CIA or whatever American agency have started to smell something funny, and tracking it down like the good dogs they are, have begun to close in on you." Belarus shook her head, "Ethel, Ethel, Ethel," she sighed, "what good do you think backing out now will do? Your problem, both your and your husband's," she reached across the table and grabbed Mrs. Rosenberg's fork and still uneaten piece of cake, "is while you see the heavy anti-Communist sentiment around you, you fail to comprehend it. It won't matter to anyone if you say that you backed out halfway through," Belarus stabbed the fork down into the fluffy flesh of the cake, cut off a piece and stuffed it in her mouth. With the dainty air of a storybook princess she chewed her food, even wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin once she'd finished, "neither the American government, nor its people will forgive you.

"Your ship of salvation has been rent asunder and you're sinking fast. You can swim up to the surface, but that first breath of air you take upon breaching the surface will also be your last. So," Belarus folded her hands in front of her on the table, "what will you do?"

Standing from the table, Belarus walked around to Ethel. Ethel remained frozen in her seat, the full weight of the soviet's words having crushed any argument she could have made. A hand hewn from solid steel froze the woman's shoulder. Flaxen locks lay feathery kisses upon her upper back. Soft, angelic lips grazed brushed her neck and the devil's voice whispered into her ear,

"Sink or swim Ethel. It's up to you."

With that, Belarus turned on her heel and strode up towards the counter. A few moments later, she was out the door, but not before giving the watching Rosenberg a sunlit smile and cheery wave. For what seemed like the longest time, Ethel Rosenberg sat at the table in the far back, trying to disappear into the thin veil of shadow around her. After ten minutes of trying to escape reality, Ethel Rosenberg placed her head in her hands and began to quietly sob.


Evgeny Alexandrov hated his job. Well, not completely. He didn't mind the espionage part, but it was his second task that made him question his sanity. Of all the assignments that his boss could have handed down to him it had to be the job of shadowing his nation's younger sister. He wouldn't have minded just being her accomplice during her espionage, but his superior had made it quite clear that he was also to undertake this "most important task" that could only be entrusted to a "man of his high caliber." It never failed. You manage to sneak information and prisoners out of Berlin a few times and you become the best spy known to Russia. Never mind the fact that he'd almost been caught around three times and the second time, had bungled the mission so bad that the other man assigned with him had been killed, as had a couple of the Russian prisoners he was trying to free, and he'd almost lost the documents he'd been attempting to steal. Also, rumor had it, this order had come directly from the national representation himself, and needless to say no one balked the big man with the even bigger lead pipe. But whatever. They loved him; and because of this love they dumped awful jobs on him. It wasn't that he hated tailing the Belorussian woman (she never caught wind of him anyway), he just had no experience in this field. And so, it was with a begrudging sigh he admitted to himself that he had lost sight of Belarus.

In his defense, it wasn't that hard, she was rather short. Plus she moved far too quick. Like a fox through brush, she darted through the throngs of people, while he, a great lumbering bear, was not so elegant in his movements. Times like these often made him wonder how he'd ever impressed his superiors to begin with. Evgeny sighed and plucked his mustache-a nervous habit he'd developed over the years. He could have sworn he'd gone the right way. The Chestnut Corner was on the south end of Fairbank Street, right?

At that moment, Evgeny felt a firm hand clamp down on his shoulder. Curling his hand into a fist, he spun around and swung at the fool who'd dared to sneak up on him. His fist sailed through air and the hand that had hung on his shoulder now clasped his wrist in that same strong grip. Evgeny found himself staring into the face of a blonde young man with bright cerulean eyes.

"Whoa, whoa there. No need to start throwing random punches, my friend." The stranger said, letting go of Evgeny's wrist. The Russian spy shoved his hand in his pocket. Where had he come from? Why hadn't Evgeny heard him approaching? The man before him cocked his head, "you look a little nervous. Everything okay there pal?"

"Yes. Everything is fine." Evgeny spat. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Why was he talking to him?

The man quirked an eyebrow, "you sure? You look lost. Is there some place you're looking for?"

Once more plucking at the hairs of his mustache, Evgeny scolded himself. Why on Earth had he gotten so worked up? This was just some random American. He had no need to fear. This wasn't Berlin, this wasn't the 1940s, he was in no danger. Evgeny smiled at the man, "well, now that you mention it, I am a bit lost. I'm meeting up with someone at a place called the Chestnut Corner. Could you direct me there?"

"What, you mean that quiet, little café? That's on Willen Avenue," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "back around the corner and a ways down from Patricia's," the man leaned in, again clapping his hand down on Evgeny's shoulder. The Russian couldn't help but flinch at that hard, unrelenting grip. "Which, by the way was the café you just came from." The hand squeezed. Evgeny felt his shoulder creak, "Look, I'm not going to play Old Johnny Law here, I mean, pop's only a dime, but I can't help but wonder why you'd want to just waltz out of a joint after making an order," the man narrowed his eyes, and those bright discs of dawn's azure darkened to a vindictive twilight cobalt, "I also can't help but wonder about your relationship with that girl in the diner. You know, the one you sat behind."

"My sincerest apologies," Evgeny tried to take a step back in an effort to free himself from the man's grip, but that hand held him firm. An icy needle of fear pierced his heart, "but I don't know what you're talking about. You see, I sat at that diner and soon after my arrival, realized it was the wrong place-"

The man chuckled, "Dude, you know her. I saw your face change when you saw her," the man tapped a finger against his chin, "come to think of it, it looked like you said something to her when you sat behind her. What was it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do. What did you tell that girl?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come to think of it, who was that girl? How do you know her?"

The serum from fear's needle had now leaked through his heart and into his veins, carried to his limbs by the blood that flowed within. The symptoms had spread, and now his entire body began to tremble, cold all over, "I don't…" Berlin. This was Berlin all over again. His second mission, his catastrophic failure. He could hear the screams as his partner and living packages were gunned down. The sugary, copper-laden scent of blood peppered with gunpowder swam into his nostrils, a mighty sea inducing panic and nausea. Run. He had to run. If he didn't, he would be killed. From far back in the dusty halls of his memory came the guttural barking of German soldiers, shouting orders and whooping as they chased down their Russian rabbit. No! He couldn't be caught! He would not be dying tonight!

Adrenaline surging through his body, Evgeny twisted from the man's grip, breaking his hold and fleeing down the street. Damn it! Damn it all! He should have waited, he knew he should have waited to go after her! Why the hell had he agreed to this?! Death might not have been as imminent by being caught in America as it would have been back then, but even if he was simply deported somewhere, he knew his superiors would not let that slide. Of course, there was also the more plausible aspect of prison, and he would be damned if he wallowed in one of those cesspools for the rest of his life.

Evgeny heard a shout and the pounding of footsteps behind him as the man gave chase. Ducking down an alleyway, he smirked. Directions, he couldn't do, but running, oh yes he was quite good at that. He'd been the fastest in his platoon. He could dart around the tightest corners and zip through the narrowest of spaces, it would be a cold day in hell before this American caught him.

Unfortunately, the pre-season frost had already begun encroaching across the steppes of the fiery wasteland. As Evgeny clambered up a fence like a squirrel up a tree, he glanced behind him. Sure enough, his pursuer had followed him, but now Evgeny was no longer afraid. Turning back, he began sprinting once more. This alley he had turned down was long and winding, but soon he would be out on the street. That fence was far too tall for that man to scale quickly-even Evgeny had had some trouble. The Russian cast another glance over his shoulder, and felt his heart jackknife straight into his throat. His pursuer, now only four feet from the fence, sprang up, hands outstretched. Evgeny watched in horror and awe as the man's hands closed around the top of the fence, and, with the help of his momentum, he was able to leap-frog over the chain-link ladder without having to touch a single diamond-shaped rung. Like a cat, he landed perfectly, his forepaws catching most of the fall followed by his powerful hind legs. A sharp, sadistic predatory gleam made those eyes sparkle like twin gun barrels.

Evgeny's mouth hung agape. How? How had that been possible? That fence had to have been at least six feet high, and this man had cleared it with one jump! Was he inhuman?

"Now," the man said, rising to his feet, "mind telling me what was up with that? If you were trying not to look suspicious, then you just failed big time pal."

Shaking, Evgeny backed up, "who…what are you?"

The young man brushed bits of gravel off his hands, "Just a guy," he replied, "just a guy who's got quite a few questions for you."

"P-please I…I don't know anything," Evgeny blubbered, "it…it w-was never my intention to l-leave, but they, they…"

"Who's they?" the man asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Oh God! It wasn't enough for him to panic, he had to start blabbing as well! Evgeny hung his head. Over. It was all over. Which was fine with him, he'd never wanted this task in the first place. He stuck his hands out in front of him, wrists up.

"Arrest me, please."

"Um…what?"

Evgeny's head snapped up, "I said arrest me!"

"Why? Dine and dash for ten cents isn't all that serious of a-"

Evgeny surged forward, grabbing the man's collar, "I'm a spy you fool! A Russian spy! I was assigned to this bourgeoisie haven you call a country, not only for reconnaissance but also to shadow another spy! Please, I'm begging you! Take me in! I'm tired of this, and I'm tired of her!"

The man removed Evgeny's hands from his shirt. Fixing his collar, he gave the spy before him a piercing stare, "you're a spy, you say?"

"Yes."

"How do I know you're not just saying that? The local dispatch and government offices have received several false confessions from 'spies' ever since the Iron Curtain fell," a beam of stray light glinted off his glasses, "I mean, yes your behavior does arouse suspicion yes-"

"You wanted to know about that girl?" Evgeny interrupted, "You were right, I do know her. I also know she was watching you in the diner earlier, and I know why."

The man's eyes widened a fraction. He crossed his arms over his chest, "continue."

"Along with being assigned to collect information, an even bigger job was foisted on me. I was to shadow Miss Belarus-"

"Belarus is here?!"

"Yes, and my job was to tail her and report her moves back to her brother. He is, as you can understand, rather paranoid about having her on your land." Evgeny explained. He felt like a popped balloon. Without tension, without essence, just void of everything. Was this how all condemned men felt?

Grinding his teeth, the man narrowed his eyes at Evgeny, "Buddy you better be telling the truth."

The spy barked out a hoarse laugh, "Of course I am, foolish American. Think, what good would lying do me now? Even if I were to try and run again, you've already demonstrated you're more than capable when it comes to keeping up with me, and you've already seen through my paper-thin lies. Honestly, your prisons sound far better than continuing to slog through this crap job."

"But why-"

"Because I'm tired of remembering Berlin." Evgeny sighed.

The American chewed his bottom lip for a minute before responding, "All right, I'll take you in, come with me."

Evgeny smiled, "Thank you."


America rubbed his temples. Nearby, the police officer at the desk placed the phone back in its cradle. He turned to his country, the words 'Chief Paughton' glimmered on his badge. He sighed, "The fellas up in D.C. said they'd take care of it from here. We're gonna have to hold him over night, but that shouldn't be a problem," Paughton stood up and walked around to the front of his desk, "the real question here is what do we do about what he told us?"

"Not sure," America replied, looking at the pictures of Paughton's family on his desk.

Paughton took off his cap and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. A rather portly man, he'd been on the force for twenty years, and although he'd seen quite a few rough cases in his time, most everything that dealt at the national level of threats tended to steer clear of him and his department. Until now.

"I'd like to make a move now, if I could, but if I go after her out in the open, hell even covertly Russia would take notice and this arms race would turn into a shooting match in no time flat." America groaned, "And then there's the problem of the Rosenbergs."

"You're saying you actually believe that story?" Paughton asked.

"I'm willing to. I'm also not taking any chances," lacing his hands behind his back the young country shifted his gaze from the chief's desk to his flag hanging on the back wall by the window. The late-afternoon sunlight fell on the cloth, making the crimson and ivory striped blaze like dragon's flame, "if what Mr. Alexandrov said is true, then we're going to have to take them into custody as soon as possible."

"Even the wife?"

"Even the wife."

Chief Paughton sighed once more. Rummaging through his desk, he found a small drawer, opened it up and took out a lighter and a small black box. He flicked the flame of the lighter to life, and looked at America, "cigar?" he offered.

America shook his head, but then thought better of it. With all the stress from the interrogation, plus all the upcoming hell from the would-be ensuing investigations and trial, it might do him some good to coat his shredded nerves in nicotine.

"I take it back, light me up Dan." The little round man complied, handing the capitalist country an unlit cigar and lighter. The rich, yet sour smell of burning cigar filled the room and the acrid smoke flew to the ceiling where it clung to the fan blades. Inhaling, America closed his eyes. He wouldn't consider himself a smoker, but every now and then, be it cigarette, cigar, or pipe, nothing calmed him better than a good, smooth drag of nicotine. Belarus. The Rosenbergs. Things were starting to go to hell in a hand basket. Truth be told, he wasn't all that worried about the atomic couple; let the courts deal with them. His problem was Russia's little sister. He had no doubt in mind that any action, no matter how small taken against the woman would spark Russia into action. A swift battle he could win, but an all-out war? Could he succeed in a war? Would his people support him if it did come down to that? And what tricks did Russia have up his sleeve? No, there were too many unknown variables involved for him to take direct action and contain Belarus. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he could afford to bide his time and wait for her to trip up. Hell, this was Belarus-she'd make no mistake.

"What are we going to do?" Paughton's voice tore him out of his thoughts.

Exhaling smoke through his nose, America tapped stray pieces of ash into Paughton's ash tray, "Well, I'm heading up to D.C. First thing we need to do is get a hold of the Rosenbergs and take them in for questioning," he stubbed out the cigar, "as for Belarus…"

"Matter between you and Eisenhower?" Paughton finished.

America nodded. He turned and walked out of Paughton's office, "see ya 'round Dan."

"See ya later."


(1953, two years after the Rosenberg trials began)

Belarus slammed the newspaper down on the table. There, in big, bold letters the words shouted up at her:

Soviet Spies Convicted: Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Sentenced to Death by Electric Chair!

Son of a bitch! After a two year long trial, all her efforts to keep her suppliers alive had gone up in smoke! Belarus had been positive that as long as the Rosenbergs maintained their innocence, the Supreme Court would have given up and let them go. And even if that plan had fallen through, there was no doubt in the nation's mind that while they would indeed kill Julius, Ethel would just get stuck with life in prison. Conspirator or not, she was a woman, and sending a woman to death via electric chair was just too much. Alas, just as it had been proven eighty-eight years ago, America and his people held turncoats in the highest contempt, regardless of gender.**

The blonde girl grimaced down at the paper. She had to lay low for a while. Whether or not America had any idea she'd been the main orchestrator behind the Rosenberg's betrayal and their main collaborator, or knew that she was even here at all had yet to be seen. However, the idiot had kept his eyes and ears peeled just enough to catch wind of the couple's activity. Lord only knew what else he'd uncovered. So much for this easy mission. Sparing the paper one last derisive glare, she turned and walked into her living room. A modest little chamber, it had no television (as she saw no need for such things), but it did sport a radio that sat on a small end table to the right side of the pale blue couch. On the far wall, tucked into a corner behind a chair just as pale and blue as the couch, sat a small bookshelf. Belarus walked over to the shelf, plucked out a collection of stories by Tolstoy and plopped down in the chair.

Regardless of how fine the American pig tuned his ears, Belarus would not utter so much as a peep. She could afford to wait. And once America's ears went dead once more, she would surge out of the shadows and plunger her knife deep into his heart.


* Back in the fifties and sixties, Dick was a common nickname for someone named Richard. So America's not insulting him, just calling him by a nickname.

**After Lincoln was assassinated, and the conspirators were rounded up (remember it wasn't just Booth who was involved, there was a plan to assassinate Lincoln, the vice-president, and the secretary of state-Booth was just the only one to succeed in his killing), and hanged. All four, Booth, the two men with him, and a woman were hanged. There were eight total, but only four were executed.

Long wait, huh? Sorry about that, I hope this long chapter makes up for it. Make no mistake, we're jumping forward four years and moving right into Sputnik!