It was five thirty in the morning; almost time for the wakeup call Germany had arranged for all their rooms. That's when it started. Alfred usually slept like a log, so when he started tossing and turning, mumbling feverishly under his breath, Dixie knew something was wrong. He was prone to nightmares and got them regularly, but he hid it well with those big blue eyes and that smile. Usually he got through them on his own without the need to be woken up, so, for the time being, she remained in her shadowed corner watching him and the others before doing a cursory window glance. She watched as Britain sat up and stood. Thinking he was going to the bathroom, she looked back out the window.

When she looked back, he was cautiously stretching his hand out to touch Alfred's shoulder, hissing his human name under his breath. Dixie quickly stood and caught his wrist just as he grabbed his shoulder, making the older nation jerk and glare at her. She shook her head no and watched Alfred's increasingly frantic fight with the sheets. Shit, this wasn't looking good. It didn't help that Britain was awake either. Alfred was prideful, and he didn't like others to see him at his weak points. Not even her.

"Let me wake him up," Britain hissed at her. "He's having a nightmare. We need to wake him."

"No, waking him will just make it-"

"Oh God, no," Alfred whined.

"Shit."

Alfred, Dixie, Psalms and Al-Qadir were walking down a dusty Afghani road. The streets were alive with livestock, merchants, kids and run down cars either puttering along or abandoned in the streets to be used as homes for orphans. It reminded Alfred of Michigan except it was way hotter and a little less clean. Man, he missed home. He wanted to hug all of the states and eat a decent burger and maybe some of Dixie's fried chicken. Oh, and soda! An ice cold coke would hit the spot right about now. Right now though, they were going to check a possible terrorist hideout that was on the edge of their patrol sector. Just his luck. No soda or burgers for him.

Psalms and Al-Qadir were both ranked above Dixie and himself, but they were also both human and had no idea who they were walking with. Psalms, an Illinois native, was cracking jokes with a cigarette between his lips. He loved rap and R&B. He was actually going to go to college to become a music producer. His helmet was lopsided and his uniform unbuttoned at the top. He tended to be carefree and easy going. He and Alfred got along well for obvious reasons.

Al-Qadir was a naturalized American citizen from Iraq, and he was the more...chaste of the group though they assumed that had a lot to do with his Judaism. Anytime one of them cracked a dirty joke or said something vulgar, he'd turn red, chastise them and then stomp off. Alfred didn't know a whole lot about him except that he had three kids waiting back home in New Mexico. The guy usually kept to himself as the leader. He said it was unwise to get too personal with the team.

Dixie, as usual, was stoically quiet with a half-finished cigarette between her lips and remnants of tobacco on her nostrils. Alfred thought the habit was disgusting, but he understood why she did it. She only smoked during times of war because it helped her focus. During the World Wars, she started snuffing pure tobacco grown by Louisiana Purchase back home. As usual, she looked like the poster child for Type A personality with her hair pulled back tight and tucked into her helmet and her pristine uniform. She was the only female in the United States cleared for infantry combat duty.

As they approached the building, they started to become more alert and wary. Once they got to the building, they pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the doorway. Al-Qadir gave the commands to go in. They had to make sure it was clear, and if it wasn't, they needed the element of surprise on their side. Dixie would be second to go in after Al-Qadir then Psalms would follow her. Alfred volunteered to take up the rear, the protector's position. He was the hero after all.

The building was dark and dilapidated and smelled of mold and oil. He noticed a baby carrier and tensed. God, he hoped there weren't kids here. As they walked, Alfred noticed the tell-tale signs of radicals: the flags, the dulled blades with crusted blood, the writing on the walls, the guns. It made him sick and angry just looking at it; he could only imagine how Dixie felt. Suddenly they stopped; Al-Qadir motioned for them to get ready to barge into a steel door where there were sounds of movement. Psalms crept to the front of the group and pulled out a mirror on an extendable pole. He held up two fingers meaning there were at least two people.

Since he was strongest, Al would be the one to kick it open. Everyone got ready to go in, guns ready as he took a step back. Then, with all his strength, he raised his foot and slammed it into the door. He watched as sparks flew until it hit the far wall several feet away. Well if that didn't get their attention, nothing would.

They spilled inside while the occupants were still distracted. There were four inside. Three men, one woman. "Put your hands up! Up where I can see them!" Alfred yelled, motioning with his weapon. He was still working to learn all of the dialects of Arabic, so he used English.

"Ifra yedaik! Ifra yedaik!" Al-Qadir barked in Arabic gruffly as he was a native speaker. They looked somewhat surprised that one of them knew their language so fluently.

Psalms started to step forward to search them as they raised their hands, bit then six gunshots rang out through the building. The men and woman they were barking orders at fell over, oozing blood from two holes in their chest and one in the head. It was a professional hit, and it came from behind. Shit, what if Dixie got hit? Thinking there was a fourth suspect, they all turned with their weapons raised and ready to fire.

He should've known it'd be Dixie that fired on them. She looked unfazed, almost excited, as she lowered her weapon. Her eyes, once calm, were a torrent of fiery passion and rage. Her cheeks were lightly flushed, and he could see her pupils were dilated. Dixie had shot them all, and she enjoyed it. She got like this during war.

After all, he admitted, she was a child of war. He found her just before his Revolution. He tried his hardest to keep her sheltered, but he couldn't stop her from seeing some bloodshed. Then there was the War of 1812. He had been separated from her, and he couldn't prevent her from getting hurt or getting blood on her hands. After that war, she had changed. She had adapted herself to become a terrifying embodiment of war and destruction veiled behind a mask of indifference. After that, she began enjoying bloodshed and torture and pain. It was…disturbing to many nations. Except maybe Russia.

Al-Qadir was understandably furious with Dixie for defying orders and started screaming at her. "What did you do, Bohannon?! What do you think you're doing?! They were complying! They were putting their hands up! You think you're God and you can decide who lives and who dies?! That's not our job!"

Dixie ignored him, her eyes glazed, and started looking over one of the bodies, checking them for possible intel or explosives. She didn't seem fazed by the fact that she was getting blood on her.

"Hey," Al-Qadir grabbed Dixie's arm and pulled her away from the bodies. "We're here to help people, not slaughter civilians. Just because you have a grudge against radicals doesn't give you the right to kill people!"

Dixie ripped her arm away. "Qadir, if I gave a shit 'bout your opinion, I'da asked ya for it. This is a war. If you wanna help people and save lives, ya chose the wrong place to be. There ain't no such thing as morals in war," she snapped with venom. "Especially not our enemy. They have no problem killin', so why should I?"

"They have no morals, but we do! We haves rules, Bohannon! Protocol! Or else we're no better than them!"

Dixie rolled her eyes. "Ain't no rules in Hell, Qadir. 'Sides, if they're in a bomb shop, I doubt they're all that innocent. Even if they are, it's a justifiable loss," she said as she wiped her hands on the dead woman's back. "We need to continue the mission. Psalms, ya got the camera?"

"Fuck you, Bohannon," Qadir spat. That was the first time anyone had ever heard him swear.

"Already got it turned on...oh God."

Instantly on high alert, the rest of the team went in, guns at the ready. Alfred was the first one to see it. Dixie and Qadir came in seconds after. There were...dead babies covered in blood on a rusty table. Their chests had been cut straight down the middle and then grossly stitched back together like something out of a horror movie. At the bottom of the cut, a wire protruded from their bellies and connected to a kill switch. There were eight of them. Three were wrapped in blankets, ready to go, and the others were just left out there...naked like thrown away toys.

"My point exactly," Dixie growled as she stepped forward to look at them. The fire in her eyes was now replaced with pain. "This is why morals are pointless."

Then he...he thought he saw one of them move. Yes, the one that was still cut open without the bomb in him! It was alive! He saw it move. He could save at least one. He reached out to cradle it, but Dixie and Psalms held him back. That baby...it needed him. It needed him to save it. Why were they restraining him?! He jerked away and picked up the baby, but it was cold and stiff in his arms. With a sob he clutched the infant to his chest and fell to his knees. This was a baby. What had these babies done to deserve this?! All they had done was be born! He sobbed because of the lost lives, the people affected by war, the military's hard job, the hatred the international public had for them.

"I'll call for backup…and an Imam," Dixie said as she walked away.

"Shit," Dixie hissed, moving to the side of the bed and gripping Alfred by the shoulder. "C'mon Sir, wake up." Nothing. She heard France stir. Oh boy, more spectators. "Sir, you have to calm down. Listen to me."

"I can help him! Please, let me help him!" Dixie watched as the tears came spilling out and he looked straight at her. She could see that he was somewhere else, not in a hotel in Italy. It was a flashback. It could be anything from the Revolution to present day. "Let me help him!" he yelled at her, flailing and kicking.

Dixie held on to him as he struggled, trying to keep him from hurting himself. She needed to talk him through it, get an idea of what she was dealing with right now. She grunted in pain as his hand connected with her chin. She tasted blood coming from her cheek where it slammed into her teeth. She spit the blood onto the floor and continued holding him down. "Who, Sir? Who do you want to help?"

"H-He's breathing. I saw it! I can help them. Please, let me help them!"

"Where is he?"

"There, can't you see him? He's right...oh God, he's right there! Right over there! With all the others. All of them...all that blood. God, they must have screamed. Who could do that to a baby?!" He was screaming and weeping now, trying to reach past her.

Dixie's eyes lit up with recognition but then darkened. That had been one of many bad days on patrol in Afghanistan. There good days were hard to come by. They were trying to check out a possible hideout, but instead they hit the mother load. There were bombs and materials everywhere in that building they entered. Most of it was from theirs or Russia's country. Everyone in the squad had seen body bombs before, but never in infants. The coroners said they were all less than a year old and didn't die peacefully. They died from blood loss and shock. It was fucking disgusting. As soon as he saw them, Alfred just snapped. He was almost catatonic for a week before being honorably discharged to recover back home. No one but Dixie and Al's bosses knew.

Alfred attempted to sit up in bed, but Dixie pressed a firm hand into his shoulder and held him in place as best she could. "Sir, you gotta calm down. Breathe."

"No, I have to help him. He's so tiny!" He was weeping, unable to catch his breath. If she wasn't careful, he'd hyperventilate. "Please! Please, he's too young! Let me save him!"

"Colonel Jones!" Dixie boomed finally. He froze. She could see him starting to come out of it, but he wasn't quite there yet. She needed to use his name. "Alfred, snap out of it!"

"God...oh God," Alfred sobbed, sitting up and sobbing into his hands.

By now both Britain and France were standing nearby watching them. They had at some time turned on a light and stood close to the foot of Alfred's bed. Dixie made brief eye contact before returning her gaze to Alfred to bring him back down to earth. "Colonel Jones, do you know where you are?"

"I...I can't remember."

"Yes you can, Alfred. Tell me where you are. Think."

"I-I'm in Afghanistan."

"Try harder."

"I-I'm in New York…no, no I'm in Italy. For the meeting. But...but the baby?" The tears started up again. "Dixie? Where's Dixie? Is she okay?"

"Sir...Sir, I'm right here. I ain't gone nowhere," she said gently.

"D-Dix..." His voice wavered. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, and then continued to breathe in a calmer tempo.

She rubbed his back comfortingly. "That's it, Sir. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing, Sir. It'll go away soon."

Ever so slowly, Alfred pulled her trembling hand into his and squeezed it tightly before meeting her gaze. She smiled gently and removed the glasses from her eyes, perching them on his nose so he could see his surroundings better. He blinked as his eyes focused. "Dixie?"

"That's it. Welcome back, Sir."

Dixie was suddenly pulled into his chest and held tightly. She could feel the tremor in his muscles and he hid his face in her shoulder. Cautiously, so as not to trigger him again, she put a hand on the back of his head and let him hold her there. This was one of those moments when crossing the fine line drawn between them was allowed to be crossed. When his grip finally lessened, she began to pull away from his grasp. He was reluctant to let at first but soon let her go, likely noticing their audience.

"Can you tell me who you are?"

"I'm America, but I like to go by Alfred. I live New York City. You're Dixie, but you used...used to be Confederacy," he involuntarily shuddered as he continued his slow, measured breathing. "You're my own private G.I. Joe," he said with a weak smile.

Dixie huffed out a laugh. "What can you tell me about those two?" She pointed at Britain and France.

Alfred blinked a moment. "That's France. That's Britain. They both kinda raised me. I...I'm really not...not on duty? Al-Qadir and...and Psalms aren't here?" He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply.

Dixie nodded. Thank God Al-Qadir wasn't here. She had no idea how that idiot got himself enlisted in infantry. It was a miracle he hadn't been killed during that tour of duty. Honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if he was KIA. He and Dixie didn't get along well. To Dixie, Al-Qadir was a naive humanitarian youngster who had no business being in a war. To Al-Qadir, Dixie was some cornpone redneck raised to love war. That was...somewhat true.

Alfred wiped his eyes and started to lay back down.

"Sir, do you need anything?" she asked calmly. After these episodes, Alfred usually went comatose for several hours. "Water, blankets?"

"Leave the light on?"

Dixie nodded.

As soon as Alfred was asleep again, Dixie sat back down at the table with a hefty sigh and pressed a shaking hand to her chin. It felt tender like it was bruising. It probably wouldn't look worse than her fat lip though. France walked to the ice bucket and tucked a bit of it into a washcloth before handing it to Dixie. Dixie nodded her head in thanks and held it shakily to her jaw.

Britain and France sat at the table with her, looking like a pair of grumpy old confused cats. She knew she was going to have to explain that little episode, but she'd swear them to secrecy by force if necessary. It wasn't a security risk, but it was embarrassing for Alfred when people saw him at his weakest.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Britain hissed quietly.

"It was a flashback."

"Of?"

Dixie huffed. "If I tell ya'll, ya'll gotta promise to keep yer big mouths shut," she said, pointing a trembling finger at each of them.

"Of course, belle. Now, what 'append to cause such a reaction in 'im?"

Dixie sighed, desperately wishing for a bottle of booze to get through this. "Our team was checkin' out a buildin' that was suspected to be a hideout for terrorists. You two know what I'm talkin' about. I'm sure ya'll had similar missions."

"Oui, of course we 'ave."

"Yeah, a lot of them we did together," Britain said cattily. "What a joy that was."

"Angelterre, not everything 'as to be about you. Let 'er finish."

"Shut up."

"What we got was a bomb factory. We cleared the area and one of our teammates said sumthin' odd. We thought maybe he triggered a mine or found more suspects. We went back there and...Christ, it looked like a fuckin' massacre." She squeezed her eyes shut as her hand's trembling worsened with the memory. She wrung her hands, gripping them together until her knuckles were white.

"Take your time," Britain said quietly.

"It was pretty damn gruesome. Eight babies were gutted while they were still alive an' stuffed with enough explosives to take out a floor of a hospital. They were made ta kill people. It had a shit ton a nails meant for shrapnel. Some were left open, others were stitched up with kill switches stickin' out. A few were wrapped up in blankets, ready to be carried out onto the streets. One was…still kinda warm. Alfred just…snapped when he saw it."

"Merde, who wouldn't?"

"He thought he saw one move, but his eyes were trickin' him. Y'know, like when ya think a dead person's chest is movin'. The baby was already stiff, and it was still open too. He held onto that baby until we had to pry him off. The whole time he was screamin' that he could save 'em. He was covered in blood and—by the end of the day—was catatonic."

"Fuck," Britain grumbled. "That bloody hero complex is going to kill him one day."

Merde is French for shit.

Ifra yedaik is the Arabic transliteration for get on the ground.

Women in the US army aren't allowed into Infantry positions because of ground fighting.