This chapter is full of flashback, so don't freak out when nothing happens with Ivan. It's all about Alfred, here, folks. ^L^ Enjoy.~

"-" is a time-jump or location change, just for future reference.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

The week-long meeting in New York came to an end and the attending nations departed for their respective homes, each feeling much better about their economic situation and the future.

Alfred flopped back onto his couch. Turning on the television, he flipped through the channels, kicking his feet up onto the wooden coffee table. Finally, a little peace. Wonder what's on the Discovery Channel...

The American sat and watched as Mike Rowe said a few witty remarks before plunging into a dark, cramped, boiler.

Wish my life was that simple... America pouted, eyes wandering from the T.V. over to the window where the November clouds covered the sky in muted white. The floor to ceiling window showed off the tops of the skyscrapers and a little to the right of its center stood the brand new World Trade Center Tower, completed only a few years ago.

His pout slowly transformed into a small smile as the blonde thought about the building. It stood as a symbol of hope for his people, their ability to stand back up after being knocked down.

Alfred's hand reached up to touch the jagged scar on his right shoulder where it barely showed above the collar of his tee-shirt. He knew it would never go away, but the mark would fade with time.

Smile falling from his face, the American remembered the day it had appeared.

The alarm on his dresser beeped uproariously. Alfred rushed from the bathroom to silence it, bashing it a little too hard and sending mechanical pieces and plastic flying across the room.

The American sighed and picked up the remains of the clock, dumping them into the trash can beside the dresser. Third one this week. Toweling off his still damp hair, the blonde returned to the bathroom sink to pick up his discarded toothbrush.

America was an early riser, despite his reputation for sleeping in. He only overslept his alarm when he spent all night working on paperwork or when he had just come back from a trip.

Of course, weekends were a totally different story.

Alfred finished his morning routine and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his trademark bomber jacket, taking the stairs down to the hustle and bustle of New York City.

Grinning, the American strolled down the street, moving through the throngs of people with practiced ease. Maybe I can stop for a coffee. I don't have to be to the office until nine... Alfred glanced down at his watch, smile spreading across his face. Starbucks it is!

Exiting the Starbucks with his venti white chocolate mocha, the blonde looked down at his watch. Nearly quarter 'till. Gotta' get a move on, Jones.

He turned down Washington St. and that's when it happened.

It started with the phone call. Alfred pulled out his ringing cell and flipped it open, pulling out the antennae. "Yello.~ Alfred F. Jones speaking. What can I do for ya'?"

There was a short spurt of panicked voices, all muddling together on the other end of the line, followed by screams, and then silence as the line cut out.

The American pulled the phone from his ear, looking at it quizzically. That was weird. Wonder what's up with them... Better call 'em back.

But before he could push the call button, there was a loud roar from overhead. Alfred looked up just in time to see a commercial jet collide with one of the tallest skyscrapers at the end of the street. Is that...?

Eyes wide, the American dropped his coffee and bolted toward his destination: The World Trade Center.

From that moment, everything was a blur. The blonde showed his ID and was immediately allowed into the South Tower, yelling at people to evacuate immediately. There was a growing pain in his right shoulder as if someone had snuck up and stabbed him in the back.

Alfred ignored it. His people needed him.

There was screaming and the American began to climb the stairs, urgently insisting people leave the building. All he could think was If that tower falls, all these people... He couldn't get them out fast enough. There were too many employees.

Many people were pressed against the windows, looking at the wobbling tower next to them, the smoke billowing from above, and all the horrified faces of everyone inside. There were members of management telling people to return to their desks and Alfred couldn't believe they didn't realize the danger everyone was in.

We have to get out.

America had only been urging people downstairs and out the door for ten minutes when a second plane struck the South Tower; the building he was in.

The blonde fell against a doorway with a gasp as the pain in his shoulder suddenly doubled and he felt blood running in streams down his back, being absorbed into his dress shirt under his bomber jacket. Leaning heavily in the doorjamb, Alfred reached up to tenderly press two fingers into his shoulder, pulling them away to look at the crimson staining their tips.

The American's sky blue eyes wavered slightly. Who...? Who could possibly...? He shook himself and wiped the blood onto his trousers. No time. I'll deal with that later.

People were beginning to panic in earnest. The building had been shaken with the force of the impact and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before their situation would worsen dramatically.

Alfred jumped onto a desk, kicking the computer and keyboard from its surface, and yelled at the top of his voice: "Everyone! Look at me! Listen! I know you're freaking out right now: We all are. But stop running around like a bunch of morons!"

Many employees stopped their mad rushing to listen to the American's voice of reason.

"I need all of you to CALMLY exit through the door. DON'T take the elevator. It won't work. Just get everyone out and down the stairs. I'm gonna' go up and see if I can get everyone upstairs to come down in an orderly fashion. Just make sure everyone gets out ok." Alfred jumped off the desk, paying his injured shoulder no heed, and turned to a manager who was previously ordering people into their desks. "I need you to organize them and manage the traffic on the stairs. Get some people to help you. We need to make this as quick as possible."

The frantic man nodded obediently and did as he was ordered, rushing from the room and past many of the panicking employees.

True to his word, the blonde headed to the stairs, taking them up, pushing his way through the chaotic mass of frightened people.

Shortly after Alfred made it to the thirtieth floor, his phone rang again. Flipping it open, the American worked his way to a window, pulling out the antennae. "Jones."

There was chaos on the other end. A man from the Pentagon screamed at him through the cell, "Get out of there, Jones! Just get out!" Then, there was a roar as the line cut out.

Alfred couldn't leave his people. Wouldn't leave his people. America couldn't believe such a thing was even suggested. He angrily flipped his phone shut, snapping down the antennae, and shoved it into his pocket.

He had just returned to the stairwell to resume his climb when the pain in his shoulder suddenly magnified tenfold, forcing him to the ground where countless feet trampled and kicked him down the stairs and into a corner. Glasses askew, the American struggled to sit upright. His vision swam and he fell to his side. A vicious wet coughing fit raked his lungs, expelling crimson blood onto the cold, cement floor.

The American curled into himself, grasping at his sides, coughing, unable to stand or even sit up. I can't breath. God, I can't breath! Darkness creeped at the edge of his vision, slowly consuming him until everything went black and all was still: The screams of his people hushed into silence.

Alfred had woken in the dark and silence, his whole body battered beyond recognition. He couldn't move, couldn't see. There was nothing but pain.

The American waited in the silence, sometimes drifting out of consciousness, other times coming awake to attempt to move his fingers and toes.

There finally came a time when he could and he felt triumphant. At least I'm healing. That means my people are still strong. Alfred smiled at that.

Eventually, the blonde realized what must have happened: He had passed out and, at some point, the building had collapsed, with him still in it. Any ordinary human would have been killed instantly, but Alfred was a nation. He was immortal. Unfortunately, he could still experience pain like everyone else. And right now, he was in a lot of it.

The American bided his time, waiting impatiently for someone to come remove the rubble crushing him.

After an inexplicable amount of time, there was an awful crunching sound. The American turned his head in the direction of the noise and was relieved to see a faint light. Alfred yelled hoarsely and the efforts on the other side of the opening were suddenly doubled as the people on the other side realized there was a live person under the mess.

The blonde twitched his fingers in anticipation. Finally, I can find out what's going on.

America knew his nation hadn't been attacked while he was trapped under the remains of the building, but he desperately wanted to learn what had happened that day and all the days after that in Washington.

They're probably angry as Hell right now, and Iggy's prolly' worried out of his mind. Mattie, too.

Alfred grinned at the sunlight glinting through Texas' bent frames. The people on the other side saw him and yelled for an ambulance. Paramedics rushed to the scene and pulled what was left of him out of the pile of concrete and steel and onto a gurney.

The blonde knew he looked like Hell run over. His insides felt like mush and he could barely move his fingers in response to their ministrations.

When one of them was hovering over his head, after he was hefted into the back of an ambulance, America croaked in his ear, "Date?" The man understood and obliged by telling him it was the third of October.

Alfred had been under that building for nearly three weeks.

The hospital was busy. For Alfred it was chaos. The staff checked his ID and immediately he was transported from one room to another. They moved him about constantly, waiting for orders from the number on his card.

Eventually, he was moved to another hospital altogether. From there, he was moved to the top floor and transported by helicopter to another. He was then transferred to an empty wing of that hospital to await the government officials who would be moving him to yet another location.

Alfred was just about fed up with all the security when he was finally deposited by an agent going by the name Smith in a top secret military base underground near Washington.

It had taken two days to get him there and all Alfred wanted to do was leave.

America had improved tremendously in those two days, though. He had started to heal almost immediately after the rubble was pulled out of his insides. His wounds were closing all over, except for the gash in his shoulder, stitched and bandaged. He could breath without too much difficulty and he could even grasp things in his hands and wiggle his toes.

When the President entered the room, followed by two Secret Service agents, Alfred wasn't surprised and gave Bush a little wave.

"What'd I miss, boss?" the American rasped, a serious expression present on his face, despite the comical words and gesture.

The President took a seat in the chair next to the bed and looked America over. Eventually, anxious eyes came to rest on Alfred's face.

"We were attacked. Terrorists."

America blinked. Certainly, there had been terrorist attacks recently, but nothing this big. These were the World Trade Center towers. An icon on the New York City skyline. Alfred couldn't believe someone would be so bold without declaring all out war.

"Well, I'm pretty much ok, now, so where else did they hit? They didn't take out anything too major, or I'd still be unconscious."

His boss grimaced. "The towers and the Pentagon."

"The Pentagon!" the blonde wheezed loudly. Well, that explains why I couldn't breath. The building was a place of great importance in his nation. The loss of its functionality, even temporarily, was enough to send him under for a while. "But it feels like they're getting back on their feet. I can breath again, at least." Alfred let out a faint smile.

The President leaned forward and put a comforting hand over the nation's wrist, giving it a light squeeze. "I'm real sorry, son. I promise, I'll never let it happen again as long as I'm in office. We're gonna' make them pay." The man then got up and left with his two agents following behind him, shutting the door with a bang.

Those words left a sour taste in Alfred's mouth and a queasiness in his stomach that didn't go away for years.

Alfred stood in the Oval Office, fuming. So many of his people dead. So many dying in an unwanted and unnecessary war.

His body was sore and his heart ached with every death. His people were upset. He was furious. The government had gone to war, which he had advised against. He watched as Saddam Hussein was killed and the government overthrown. America had been there as the Navy Seals team had killed Bin Ladin, had been horrified by the ferocity of his own people. Time and again, he had tried to make the leaders of the Middle East come together for the sake of peace, but the Arabic nations were understandably in an uproar.

Alfred's people were getting there, too. None of them wanted to be at war any longer. They didn't understand why the government still insisted upon it.

The President entered the room, turning to glance at the nation before gesturing for him to take a seat. Alfred stubbornly remained standing while his boss sat in his chair behind the large desk.

The man leaned forward onto his hands, sighing. This was a different man than the one before. He was still new, the first African American President. He looked older already, though. Alfred always noticed when they aged, and they aged quickly. But today was not the day to reminisce. It was the day to give the President a piece of his mind.

"What is it, America?"

Alfred took a deep breath before flying off the handle. "What do you think is going on!? People are dying, sir! DYING! It's time to get the Hell out of there! I can't believe you still have our people out there getting killed! What are we fighting for!? Tell me WHAT!" The American punctuated this last demand by slamming a fist onto the top of a stack of paperwork, shredding it instantly and sending the pieces flying up into the air like confetti.

Sighing again, the President rubbed the bridge of his nose. "America, I've told you before. We have to establish a democracy, or there will always be chaos in the Middle East... President Bush must have explained everything to you a long time ago, now."

"That is a load of shit and you know it, sir! Why the Hell are we there? I want the truth! Our people deserve the truth! We went to war over a terrorist attack! Thousands died! I felt it! But I wasn't the one raging and raving and working people up about it! I wanted those responsible in jail for crimes of terrorism, not murdered in hiding! I didn't want to see our military dying in bombings all over Iraqi streets! Those nations are furious with me, now! Iraq rarely looks me in the eye! Why are our people still sacrificing themselves? For what cause?" Alfred's anger simmered as he ranted and slowly drained as he dropped into the chair he was offered before. Looking up at the President, his President, the American asked quietly, "Tell me, sir. Please. I have to know what's going on."

President Obama ran a hand up and over his face, rubbing the back of his neck. "All right, America. I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone. Top secret."

Alfred nodded his assent.

"Those people, you know the ones. It's them. Same as in all the paperwork. They're the ones telling people that my health care is a terrible idea, too. They're the ones who want the war, America. And we can't do anything about it."

The President of the United States looked at Alfred, exhaustion apparent in his gaze.

Alfred looked back in horror, knowing just what was going on and hating his part in it with all his heart.

Alfred pulled his hand from his shoulder, letting it fall onto his lap. He pulled himself from his reverie at the same time. It was all in the past. And, as much as it pained him, he knew he still couldn't do anything about it.

Ok, so longest chapter so far and prolly' for a while. It took days to finish this thing. :P I just about lost my mind, too. Hope it's worth it and you guys enjoy it. It's all for you! Especially you lovely reviewers.~ ^L^

As always, criticism is greatly appreciated and reviews are, too.

Thanks to all of you for reading and telling me what you think. Hope you have a happy Thanksgiving!