Drabble #4

Gale Schultz

America was, in a word, happy. It was a sunny day, the clouds overhead moving along lazily. It had just rained (poured, actually—came out of nowhere) so it wasn't as hot and humid as it had been since that morning, though still humid enough that his Star Wars t-shirt stuck to his body with sweat. Good thing he thought of bringing a bottle of water with him, which he had stored inside a satchel that hung from his shoulder.

He walked with a spring in his step, humming the Pokémon theme song as he made his way down a deserted street, a gazillion watt smile out for all to see. The pavement had been darkened by water and the grass shone in the sun, the occasional puddle marking a pothole here and there. Two-story townhouses with yards surrounded him, the sidewalk he stepped on paving the way through a mound of grass, of which some of it poked through cracks that pushed the tiles to become uneven. Someone not used to the abruptly dipping or rising ground may accidentally trip or something.

His phone vibrated; the United States of America giggled.

He took it out of his back pocket and opened the app. A Rattata. He looked around … there! He crossed the street, not really minding himself, as he heard no cars coming and it really was a quiet place anyway, with barely any to no vehicles or even people outside—though he did encounter a few gaggles of young people also out and about, gazes fixated on their phones while shouting about a Doduo (which ran away when America had tried to capture it damn it to hell and back). He tapped the small avatar in the GPS-orientated game. America switched on the camera and there it was, the purple rat-like Pokémon, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, as though in real life. Augmented reality was what they were calling it.

America was practically vibrating as he swiped the pokéball on screen, causing it to be launched at the low-level CP20 Rattata. The rat Pokémon got hit and was vacuumed in. The American nation waited in anticipation as the ball wobbled once, twice, and a third time, while its center button glowed red …

"YES!" America shouted in victory, giving a small jump with a fist pump. The Rattata was added to his growing collection of Rattatas. He nicknamed it Ratatouille. Just because he could.

There was Pettigrew, Frittata, Ratpot, and now Ratatouille. He also had a Raticate named Rat Potato.

He nicknamed all his babies.

He looked at his phone, at the map of the small central Pennsylvanian town. He had wandered a bit far away from his car, but didn't particularly care. He was having the time of his life—it's been a while since he had last gone out to visit his more rural areas. Actually, it had been a while since he last was allowed to go out and relax in general. Well, he couldn't exactly say the word 'allowed,' per say. America had snuck out of a meeting in Harrisburg with some politician or whatever; simply put, allowed wasn't the word at all. Ohhh look, a leaf-rustle … wonder what Pokémon it is? I want an Eevee!

He really wanted an Eevee named Churro.

Whatever Pokémon it was, it was a few blocks away, heading more into the main street. With a grin and a hop to his step, America went in that general direction, looking at his person avatar on-screen to make sure he was going in the right direction. This was so exciting!

As he was skipping (ahem, walking) and enjoying his quiet walk, he heard a sniffle. America frowned, coming to a complete stop. It came from just around the corner. Feeling his Hero Radar blaring, he quickly rounded the corner and came upon a sight that drained the color out of his skin.

It was a small figure, face hidden between its arms, knees drawn close to its chest. But it was also silvery and transparent.

He quickly averted his gaze and relaxed his body so that it wasn't so stiff. Praying that it didn't notice his presence, he attempted to walk by without it noticing him.

Keyword here being 'attempted.'

America had successfully passed by without a problem, except there was one big giant flaw with his plan: he really couldn't stand seeing his citizens sad, least of all a child.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. America hoped it wasn't one of those creepy ghost children that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Yikes. He surely hoped not—his last encounter had ended with him not leaving his house for a whole week. He turned on his heel, and walked so that he was in front of the spirit, though still far enough that if it jumped at him, he would have time to duck and run away screaming.

He reeeaaally didn't have good memories involving creepy ghost children. Nope. Not at all. Give him a quarreling ghost congress any time, thanks. They may not be scary, but man, they gave him one hell of a headache. And caused him as much distress.

Okay, America, he mentally coaxed himself, feeling his heartbeat quicken. You can do this. Just ask what's wrong.

"H-hey kid, what's w-wrong?" America inwardly cursed at the tremble in his voice. "W-why are you crying?"

The child ghost did not budge, tiny sniffles still emanating from the small body. It wore a plain t-shirt and shorts, hair cropped in short tufts. Gulping back his more than rational fear, the bespectacled young (in appearance) man approached the spirit and crouched down to its level.

"Kid?" He shifted his weight and fumbled with his satchel's strap, which had an American flag pin. "A-are you okay?"

The ghost froze. America braced himself. Slowly, the ghost child raised its head, revealing a pair of tearful sad eyes and dimpled cheeks. There was a thick gash running across its forehead, silvery blood covering half its face.

America gave a small, nervous smile. Voice soft, he repeated; "Are you okay, kid?"

They stared at each other for a while. Finally, the ghost spoke:

"Y-you can see me?" it whispered, eyes widening.

"Yep!" America said in fake cheer. "Now, what can the Hero do to help you?"

The ghost child blinked. It sniffled once more and rubbed its cheeks to clear them of tears. America always wondered about that—how could ghosts produce liquid when they were, well, dead? It made no sense, but then again, many things in life, as in death, made no sense anyway.

"I-I'm scared. I want my mom."

America was suddenly filled with a sense of purpose, making him momentarily forget that he was supposed to be scared.

"Don't worry! I'll help you find your mom!" He gave the ghost child a sunny smile, this time genuine.

The spirit did not return it. Instead, it—he—looked sullenly at the ground.

"You can't do that."

America frowned. "Why not?"

The little boy—who couldn't be any older than nine or ten—pointed right behind the nation. America looked—and was instantly filled with sadness.

A memorial sat in front of a telephone pole, full flowers and a stuffed animal. There was also a picture of the ghost child, smiling shyly at the camera. Brown locks, brown eyes, dimpled cheeks … last month's date had been scribbled on the lower right-hand corner with a black marker, along with Never Forget.

16 June 2016 - 10:45 AM

Last evening, on 15 June 2016, ten-year-old Gale Schultz was killed in a hit-and-run. The accident happened right in front of his residence, on the second day after the family had moved from the state of Maryland.

Gale Schultz, then, America thought sadly, blinking away the local news article. His heart went out to the kid and the family—his poor, poor citizens. It always broke his heart when tragedies like these happened.

"Oh. I'm sorry …" America gave the boy a sympathetic look. The spirit gave a sullen nod.

"Mom, Dad, and my little brother Kev moved back to Maryland not even a week after." The spirit frowned. "Even after I re-arranged the letter magnets telling them to stay and not go back there. We moved for a reason …" The ghost child sighed, furrowed brow gaining an annoyed edge. "And it took me a while to figure out how to slide the stupid magnets around the fridge … moving objects is a lot harder than it looks in this form, you know."

America gave Gale the ghost child a raised eyebrow, though internally he was having a mini panic attack: spirits that could move stuff were usually bad news. Said ghost child gave a one-armed shrug, a look that could only be interpreted as a stupendous combination of 'I have no idea why that didn't work' and 'I think they are a bunch of idiots' present on his face.

America felt his phone continuously vibrate. He slid it out of his back pocket and glanced at the caller ID: 'Iggybrows.' He groaned, and rejected it.

"Who was it?" the child asked with a curious glint in his eyes.

America rolled his eyes. "Someone who will lecture me for three days and nights straight if ever given the chance."

"Oh." The ghost paused. "Did you do something that you weren't supposed to?" he said in that innocent, curious, child-like tone that children were prone to adopt.

America shrugged. "I guess. Does exiting a governmental building via window and tree in order to skip a dull political meeting count?"

The ghost blinked owlishly. He stared at the elder with a dubious look.

"You don't look like a politician," he pointed out, motioning at America's Star Wars t-shirt. "Or at least, you don't look like you were supposed to be meeting one. My dad's a lawyer—so I know that you're supposed to dress neat when meeting important people." The child's frown deepened. "You also aren't old or bald or have wrinkles. Or wear a toupee."

America cracked a smile. "So I'm not a politician because I'm not bald or have wrinkles or," here he sniggered, "wear a toupee?"

The child nodded furiously, frown still prevalent.

America chuckled good-naturedly, smiling as he remembered just how he snuck out. And as for the t-shirt, he always had a change of clothes or two sitting in the car just for these types of situations; America was always prepared. And paranoid. "Well, I guess I'm not a politician then," he stated with amusement tinting his tone. "Not by your standards, anyway."

The ghost child was still frowning at him, still sitting on the ground with his back against the fence with peeling and chipped paint.

And then America felt his phone continuously vibrate once again. With a resounding sigh, he checked the caller ID, hoping that it wasn't England again. Or Canada.

'The Prez of the US'

America stared at the screen of his phone with a deadpan look on his face.

After a moment of slight hesitation, he hit 'reject' and hid the phone away.

"… Same person?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No." Just President Obama, probably gaining a few more grey hairs as we speak.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in silence.

"Um, you should probably leave," the ghost child suddenly said. America was about to ask why, but was interrupted by a voice.

"Um, sir? Do you need assistance?"

America whirled around (he actually fell on part of his bum as he did so) and came face to face with a mailman, who if truth be told looked rather lost. America gave the man his best all-is-fine-with-the-world smile.

"Nope! Just, uh, talking to … the fence? Yeah! Talking to the fence!" America adopted a serious tone of voice. "Did you know that according to studies conducted at Harvard, talking to fences increase their likeliness by 17.7% to remain strong and sturdy in the face of strong weather and break-ins?"

"Um … uh …" The mailman looked rather uncomfortable, giving America a baffled look that bordered on ... something. Probably fear for the other's sanity.

"Anyways! Have a good day!" America stood up, flicked imaginary dirt off his clothes, and power-walked away. I'll go around the block and then go back to talking to the kid … yeah, I'll do just that—

"Wouldn't it have been better if—"

"AAAAAAAHHHH!" America stumbled to the side, heart feeling as if it had hurled itself out of his mouth. "Holy SHIiiiitake mushrooms!" America turned wide-eyed at the ghost child by his side, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. The nation pressed a hand to his chest, right over his heart. "Jesus, kid!"

"Um, er—sorry?"

America gave a shuddering breath. "Scared the crap outta me," he muttered.

"Mister—"

"Alfred. Call me Alfred—mister is too stuffy. Like Iggy. Or Ludwig." America pouted. "Bunch of oldies, the lot of them. Well, not Ludwig, he's actually younger than me but—"

"Alfred, we should go now." The ghost touched the nation's arm—and America's body jumped, feeling as if a block of ice had suddenly been pressed against his skin. That gained his attention. "Look!" the boy insisted, pointing behind them at … the mailman … who had his phone out and was talking in a hushed tone, all the while staring at America.

"Uh, I didn't sound too crazy back there, did I?"

The ghost child gave the nation a seriously? look. Then, "There's a mental institution just across the river," the young boy added.

America groaned. "Great. Just great."

"Hey, young man!" the mailman called. "Stay right there, okay?"

Yeah … not happening.

America bolted.

"My mom always said to obey and listen to the police," the ghost child stated matter-of-factly.

America peered over the bushes where he was hiding in. "Yeah, well, your mom never had the misfortune of being able to see stuff that no one else could."

"I guess." The ghost child, who was hovering over said bushes, gave America a long look. "How long have you been able to see … ghosts?"

America shrugged, making the leaves rustle. Boy, was he in trouble …

"Ever since I could remember," the nation answered curtly. America remembered playing with some animal spirits back before England took him in.

The boy was still staring at him. America gave the boy a raised eyebrow.

"You're different," the ghost claimed. "You don't feel like the rest."

Silence.

"That's because I'm not like the rest."

The ghost cocked his head. "There's this girl who lives next door that feels different. You're not like her." Again, the ghost frowned. "Different," he insisted.

America smiled, but did not offer an answer: he knew from experience that ghosts could sense a Nation's aura. Ghosts could also sense clairvoyance … but since Nation Auras were much more imposing and, well, omnipotent, everything else was swamped by it.

"Yes, different … just do me a favor and don't tell any other ghosts that I can see them. Makes life easier, ya know?"

The ghost fumbled with his shirt, which was soaked with dark silvery blood.

"Only if you visit—it gets lonely around here. No people to people watch."

It was America's turn to frown.

"Aren't there any other ghosts around?"

The child ghost shrugged.

"I'm not a people person … and mom told me never to go out by myself." The ghost—Gale—looked upset. "She promised to go out exploring with me …"

America's gaze softened. "I'll go out exploring with you, Gale."

Did Gale tell me his name yet? Ah, oops. Please don't notice.

"Really?" Hope-filled eyes were trained on the Land of the Free. Thank you!

"Sure! Not now, though. Maybe after the police forget about me … think the mailman got a good look at my face?"

For the first time that day, America heard the boy ghost laugh.

"Maybe … but you promise to come back?"

America smiled. "I promise."

And as America waited for the police car to stop patrolling the area for him, the nation showed his new friend all of the Pokémon he caught. He showed him the Fearow he nicknamed Fat Turkey, Pepsi the Beedrill, Kakunamatata the Kakuna, and all of his Rattatas. Gale laughed at his six Spearows, all of which were named Jack Spearow, as well as the Magikarp named Floppyjoe. They doted on his Bulbasaur, which he fondly named Liberty.

And, while waiting in the bushes, he finally got that Eevee. He let Gale name it. So now he had an Eevee called Alfie, which is what Gale had taken to call him after three hours of conversation and major arse cramping.

America promised Gale that they would play Pokémon GO together next time. In the three-four centuries that he had been alive, ghosts like Gale had been few and far between. The United States of America was mighty glad that he skipped that meeting. Even if it will earn him an earful when he finally decided to show himself. Not that such a thing ever stopped him—oh no. Never.

A/N: Not liking this one as much … but fear not! I have ideas! You have ideas! STUFF!