Author's Note: I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday season! Please enjoy the chapter and leave a review. :-)

"For all the dreams we've dreamed

And all the songs we've sung

And all the hopes we've held

And all the flags we've hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay—

Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again." ~Langston Hughes, Let America Be America Again

She remembered simpler times.

Each day once held a new flare of excitement and adventure, as though life deserved to be cherished. And, as is often the case with children, even the smallest things filled her heart with unfettered joy. She recalled sunny strolls to the market, burnt scones, the scent of steeping tea, running barefoot on dewy grass, and laughing with such impassioned laughs that the earth seemed to smile along with her.

"England, why are we alive?"

She remembered when all she had sought was freedom—an untouchable land where one could live without worrying about aristocracies and the steel fists of tyrants. A sea of endless possibilities awaited her, and she shared her untamed liberty with the despairing masses of the Old World.

"Why are they fighting?"

Yet, despite all her efforts, she never achieved such equality for all. No matter what she did, there were always those who were left at the bottom of the ladder, struggling to hobble their way up. Maybe her desires for individualism and equal opportunity simply couldn't work hand-in-hand.

"Are those people tired from working in the fields all day?"

Oppression had long ingrained its toxic roots in her soil, and the questions she often posed were left unanswered with a flustered and fickle frustration.

"Who else will harvest our crops? They are different from us, America."

"But why?"

"You'll understand someday."

As far as she was concerned, they were one and the same.

"We shall overcome!"

Her people had taken to the streets again, and they would occupy them for many years to come. Unspeakable pride filled her during these movements, but she didn't dare to dwell on it for too long lest that same emotion of helplessness threatened to take over. Race had always been a shameful matter of contention buried just under the surface of the country, but it never managed to hold its head above water long enough to be addressed.

It was America's deepest embarrassment—a giant smear on her title as leader of the "Free World". Since before the Civil War it had severed her people, and the overwhelming remorse that America carried on her shoulders had the power to make her wish she'd never been a nation in the first place.

But then came John F. Kennedy, a shining beacon of hope for reforms that had been centuries overdue. The man was charismatic and born for his era. The public fell head over heels for him, and if anyone was in a position to grasp the opportunity for radical change, it was him.

Unfortunately, the fruit of alleviation spoiled. Times had already changed beyond their capacity to adapt, and everyone became hungry for blood. They would all pay the price for their negligence, and the future would grow evermore bleak.

Watching humans die was never easy.

The clips from the assassination numbed any grief she'd been feeling, and when nations began calling to state their condolences, she unplugged her phone and laid on her couch, one arm resting across her eyes as the clock ticked nearby.

Oh, how she longed for a burnt scone with clotted cream and a scalding cup of coffee. They both spelled security and familiarity, and maybe they would chase away the foreboding fear in her mind.

She feared the impending years—quivered at the growing sense of distrust that her people felt toward the government.

And honestly, she wasn't even allowed a minute to mourn when a banging noise made her front door tremble on its hinges.

"You're such a child, hiding away like this! You really haven't matured at all!"

"I don't have the strength for this today, England."

"Have I taught you nothing? I'd hoped you might've picked up a remedy or two by now," her former mentor continued, inviting himself into the house with a small bag of luggage and a number of plastic bags. "You still can't manage to care for yourself."

A growl rumbled in America's throat as the man dropped his belongings in the living room and removed a selection of glass bottles out of one of the bags.

"I've brought brandy, gin, and bourbon. Which would you prefer?"

"That's your solution? Drinking away one's sorrows?"

England narrowed his eyes and scanned her form with a cocked brow. "Bourbon it is, then."

"You traveled all this way just to get me drunk?" America asked, dragging herself back to the couch with heavy reluctance.

"No, my dear. I traveled all this way to get you piss drunk."

Without further preamble, England retrieved two glasses and poured them each a drink, letting out a little sigh as he settled himself beside her and swirled his beverage. "Go on, America. Things will seem less traumatic in the morning."

Not needing to be told twice, America downed the glass, coughing momentarily as a stinging warmth crawled across her chest. Her head grew lighter, and the clock seemed to move a second slower as she slumped her shoulders. England refilled her glass. He didn't mention anything about politics throughout the entire exchange, content with letting the silence dull their racing thoughts.

When she noticed that the elder refused to replenish his own glass, she mustered a tightly knit furrow. "You're supposed to be drinking with me."

"Ah, but one of us has to stay sober. Who else is going to make sure you don't displace a hip on the stairs?" England mocked, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it before taking a lengthy drag.

America wrinkled her nose at the smell and closed her eyes, imagining her colonial days, when dreams weren't slaughtered quite so easily. "I thought you'd stopped smoking."

"I thought you'd stopped segregating innocent children."

"Ouch. Touché."

"Don't take it entirely to heart. Racial tensions exist everywhere—you're just rubbish at dealing with them."

She had to scoff at that. "You're one to talk. Does apartheid ring any bells for you?"

England sucked in a breath and flicked the ash off of his cigarette. "I never claimed to be a saint. My government has done many things that I don't personally agree with."

She suffered through a long sigh and snatched the cigarette out of England's mouth, toying with it between her fingers and flicking away the excess ash. Then, she slipped it between her own lips, drawing in a cloud of smoke.

Hardly a second later, she gagged and choked on air itself, eyes and throat burning with rawness.

"God, that's vile."

"It's an acquired taste," England chuckled, snuffing out his habit as he passed America her glass of bourbon.

"They say it's healthy—smoking."

"I don't believe that rubbish, but I suppose it's a marketing ploy."

"They say you'll live longer… I've lived too long as it is."

England frowned, watching with a feigned apathy as America began to grow languid and drowsy. She was the opposite of rowdy whenever she drank.

"Sleep," he coaxed, trying to hide the irritation in his features. His view of the world-at-large was scorched as of late.

"Why do humans die?"

"Because we'd be doomed if they didn't."

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"Dying doesn't have to be a tragedy. It brings solace and relief... Dying ushers in new life."

"So why don't we die? Aren't we alive too?"

"Yes, but our lives are different."

"Why?"

"I don't know, America. That's the way it's always been. Some lives are longer than others."

When weeks lingered and she lost her sense of self, she often found it again among her people. She would walk along her streets until her mind grew a little less restless and then retreated into the sanctuary of the nearest café for a cup of coffee. There'd be a table waiting for her in the corner by the window, inviting her to spectate the very society she embodied.

One day during her retreat, she picked up a newspaper and sat at her usual, rickety table, scanning the gloomy skies and tensing at the dissonance taking place somewhere outside.

Protesters.

"Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids have you killed today?"

"Black men should not fight in the Vietnam War for Racist USA."

"Refuse to fight!"

Their words struck her and clipped themselves onto her skin like reminders of all the hurt she associated with. If nothing else, these men and women deserved a response—a mutual contract to the right to be angry, but she couldn't even manage that. She couldn't take a stand. She couldn't risk revealing her identity to bolster the waning hopes of her people.

She couldn't even stand to watch.

So she gathered her newspaper and exited the café, wondering if she would ever be able to detach herself from the madness occurring on the streets of the nation. She walked against the ocean of citizens, stumbling through the rows and rows of bodies until she reached an abandoned park that the demonstrators didn't seem interested in rallying in. It seemed they had other places to be, and she wished them well in the silence of her heart.

All races marched together, and in that moment, they were truly united.

The chirping birds and the age-old trees calmed the wasps in her stomach, and the rest of the globe seemed to be isolated as though a barrier had been placed between the park and everything else.

America stuffed her hands into the pockets of her sweater and made her way down the winding path and over to the innermost section of the park, admiring the little pleasantries that still managed to thrive there.

There was a brass statue of a Greek goddess whom she didn't recognize on a pedestal with her copper-like head raised to the sky.

"Oh, God… Oh, God… What am I going to do?"

Startling at the discovery that she wasn't the only one in proximity of the statue, America whipped her head around with peevishness at being disrupted. Her face softened, however, when she noticed that the intruder was only a teenage boy with pistachio eyes and a panicked appearance.

"Hey, are you all right?" she asked him, taking care to be friendly. "If there's something you need, I'd be happy to help you."

The boy stuttered over a sob, cheeks pink and swollen with tears. "No, I'm f-fine! Just stay away!"

"You don't look fine to me."

"Why should you care anyway? You wouldn't understand! You're just some creepy stranger!"

America gave him an amused smile, and though she already had a hunch as to what was troubling the young man, she didn't voice it. "You know, I've been pretty distant and upset lately too. It's okay to let yourself feel that anguish. Sometimes, it's like everything's out of our control and we're powerless."

"Yeah…"

"But we have to let ourselves grow stronger from it. Otherwise, the suffering will have been pointless. Pain usually has things it wants to say, and it's good for us to listen to it."

A shiver convulsed the boy, upon which he lost his resolve and continued to cry, humiliated and defeated. "I'm not a soldier."

It really was unfair, America thought, that she had lived over two hundred years while this boy had only witnessed eighteen. "I know."

"I don't want to die in Vietnam, but I don't want to be known as a draft-dodger forever either. It's not a battle worth fighting."

America suppressed the ball of emotion in her throat. This boy could have been her son. He could have been called to the frontline to fight—the swamp and gunfire being his final memories. "I know it probably doesn't mean much, but I won't think any less of you no matter what you decide to do."

Then, she caught him in a quick embrace, unable to bear the sorrow in the boy's eyes any longer.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I don't know… Maybe cause I kinda know how it feels to be stuck in place while everyone's eyes are on you," America admitted, feeling herself mend upon talking to this young man. "I wish I had all the answers… I wish I could tell you what to do and what's right, but I can't because I have no idea myself. Every day of my life has been this conflict between what I think is good and what's not, but I'm never really sure if I make the right decisions."

The boy nodded and turned to look at the statue with a frown. "Even that stupid metal lady looks like she's waiting for death."

Following his gaze, America shook her head and narrowed her eyes in concentration. "No, you're looking at her the wrong way. She's not giving up to fate—she's bragging to the heavens. It's a more eloquent way of showing someone the finger."

The young man cracked a dimply smile and snickered with a certain weariness, recovering some of his composure. "I know this sounds stupid, but you look familiar… Have we met before?"

America slipped her hands back into her pockets and shrugged her shoulders with another pleasant smile.

"I get that a lot."

A list of what America did not customarily do during her weekends:

-Sleep-in

-Take walks

-Explore her vast landscapes, museums, and other outdoor activities

-Relax in any conceivable way

-Find the time to finish lists/agendas

No, a common weekend task of hers entailed more considerable risks, such as tending not only to her own domestic issues, but also to those of Canada, England, and—on occasion—France.

"I need a glass of water before I die."

On this particular day, America rolled her eyes at the melodramatic Canadian on her couch. "You're not dying, you big baby. Some coastal flooding and suddenly you act like you're on the verge of nonexistence. Man up! Get your own water!"

"Hurricane Gladys was not just some flooding!"

"It barely touched Newfoundland!"

"Yeah, but I still feel horrible. You're supposed to be helping," Canada reminded, exaggerating the extent of his injuries in order to be fussed over. It wasn't often that the nation was showered with such treatment, and he intended to savor every second of it. "England! France!"

The two European nations arrived at once, racing downstairs with equally perplexed expressions.

"I can't leave you two alone for even a minute!" England groused, hovering over Canada's prone form. "What's wrong?"

"I'm thirsty, but America won't get me water. She knows my leg's been aching from the damage caused by the storm."

France made his way into the kitchen without hesitation. "I'll get it, mon chou. We'll need tea as well."

With that settled, England turned his attention to America. "You were supposed to be watching him."

"I was. He's just too needy for me to even begin to tolerate him," America countered with a crooked smirk before teasingly ruffling Canada's hair. "He has to work for his ministrations."

In the midst of the turbulent political climate, the threat of Hurricane Gladys had brought America's own issues to a halt as she was summoned to tend to her brother. It was a welcome change of pace, and it brought their makeshift family together again, which was something she didn't know she'd been pining for. No real damage had been done to her quiet twin in the North, but it had been enough to rouse the concerns of France and England, who had arranged to get on the quickest flight possible to pay him a visit.

And now she had to deal with his near constant whining about how his muscles hurt or how his ankle was sprained. Nonetheless, the experience appeared significantly less stressful than having to be witness to the daily rallies occurring in her own nation.

"Hey, America? What are these?" Canada asked as England went to supervise France in the kitchen. In his hands he held a number of magazines with women on the covers—they'd been stashed underneath a pile of documents on the coffee table.

Caught off guard, America flashed a hasty smile and found the strength for a nervous laugh. "Those are some stupid beauty magazines that came out recently. I thought they'd be funny to look at. You're free to read them if you'd like."

He'd thought nothing of it at the time because, really, it wasn't his place to judge a person's taste in reading material. He returned the smile and placed them back in their original hiding spot before cheerfully demanding America bring him an extra blanket for his chill.

He couldn't imagine he'd accidentally stumbled upon a new fascination of America's that would follow her for decades into the future and mark the new uprising of the beauty industry.

No, there were more pressing matters to cast one's gaze upon.

She wanted to believe her intentions were authentic and wholesome from the start. With the continuance of the Cold War and rising tensions between her government and her people, she assured herself she only wanted to better herself. She would make herself healthier and stronger for the coming years and increasing challenges. A fit leader was an ideal leader.

Surely, there was nothing wrong with that.

Even so, she could not shake the demons at the back of her mind—the voice screaming "NO", and the twisting and curdling susurrations sneering at her insecurities.

It started with the first run.

The park uptown was a bed of roses in a congealed city of steel, and the appeal resonated with her after her first jog. She felt her muscles become stronger with each step, and it gave her the control that she'd been lacking. After years of feeling defenseless against the changing tides of Washington, she found power and leadership once more, except this time it affected her own being—her human being.

When her legs protested too much for comfort, she'd return home, convincing herself, as she did with most matters in her life, that she had done the right thing. Exercise was great for the body, and perhaps it would allow her to respect her human necessities.

But when she looked at the food waiting to be consumed in the pantry, it suddenly seemed unappetizing. After all, she had just jogged a few miles, and eating seemed like a waste of her hard work.

As such, she skipped a meal. A single exemption wouldn't be life-threatening.

Instead of indulging in lunch, she reclined on the couch and began to prepare her speech for the next global conference. There were lots of issues to address, and the sheer amount of havoc awaiting made her head pound against her skeleton-turned-mush.

A changing youth culture, space programs, Soviet expansion, a war in Vietnam, nuclear threats, women's rights, racial tensions, plane crashes, earthquakes, and a rising crime rate were just a sprinkling of the problems America attempted to juggle during the 1960s. It wasn't any wonder then, that she quickly fell victim to poor judgment and a malleable sense of self shaped by the propagating media.

By the time the next meeting had rolled around and was set in Ottawa, she couldn't snag a moment's rest. Deadlines whooshed to and fro, and she staggered into the conference room under the title of half-activist and half-zombie.

"Good morning, everyone. Sorry for stopping by a little later than expected, transportation in Canada still isn't up-to-par," she greeted with a smirk and a sideways glance at her brother when it was time for her to speak. A few scattered laughs made themselves known before she went on. "I'd like to start with an announcement—I will be sending much-needed aid to Macedonia after the earthquake in Skopje, and reconstruction efforts are commencing as we speak. Now, let's get to the topic everyone's been waiting for, my intensifying diplomatic goals with the U.S.S.R."

Most of her speech consisted of political niceties, as did the speeches' of the majority of the other nations. Things would be said merely for the record, and change would be a dauntingly gradual process that would not occur over the course of a single meeting. Yet, they smiled for the photographs and pretended to get along anyway, if only to simmer the grievances of their people.

Politics was full of illusions, but the more clever nations of the group were able to see past them.

"Are you ill?"

The question made her jolt with bewilderment. She was caught unscrewing the cap of a medicine bottle by the person she least wanted to see.

"I'm fine, England. It's just a supplement for my health," she assured, downing one of the pills with a glass of water.

"Then you won't mind showing me exactly what it is you're taking?"

With an angry grumble under her breath she handed over the bottle, waiting for the elder's approval.

The man hummed in thought as they stood in the now nearly vacant conference room. They'd finished putting on their show.

"Phentermine? Care to explain what that is?"

"It helps any nutritional deficiencies you have," America lied as she gathered her belongings and slipped on her coat. "Don't worry… It's been approved by my FDA."

England set the bottle back on the table. "Canada expressed some concerns…"

"Not again. What is it this time?" America said with a certain sharpness that came off as far too defensive. "And why does he always track you down when he thinks there's a problem? Why doesn't he confront me himself?"

England pursed his lips and furrowed his brows with increasing disapproval. "He's under the impression I'll be able to get through to you somehow."

She understood the subtext of his words, and it only frustrated her further. Despite the immense gap time had torn between them, the man still saw her as his daughter—someone who he was obligated to keep tabs on.

"How have I wronged him now?"

"Oh, don't be bitter about it," England chided, squaring his eyes on America's face. "I've noticed your strange behavior as well, Canada didn't have to say anything… You've lost weight, and you're sleep deprived."

America scoffed and tried to hide the flicker of a grimace on her features. It was oddly hot in the room, and sweat began to bead her brow. "It's part of being a nation. I'm going through a war slump right now."

"I'd like to believe that, but you can't deceive me," England reminded, catching the uncharacteristic flush in America's cheeks. "What are the side effects of those supplements?"

She unbuttoned her coat with clumsy fingers. "None that I know of."

England stared at her for a long moment, reading her in the same way he'd scrutinized her as a child. "You're only hurting yourself. Don't be idiotic."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have errands to tend to," America growled, snatching her bag off of her chair and sweeping out of the room with England trotting along behind like a hungry dog.

Then, a shroud of darkness seeped across her vision and her ears began to ring, dulling her senses to the point where she could not feel her body hitting the ground below.

"America!"

By the time she opened her eyes again, her head was balanced in England's lap, sweat drenched hair and all. There was another figure a few feet away, which she soon recognized to be Germany, and he propped her legs up with a number of decorative pillows that belonged to the couch in the lounge.

"She's waking up," England informed with a relieved sigh. Barely a second later, he lifted her head carefully and pressed a glass of some type of juice against her lips. "Drink, it'll help."

She took a tentative sip and winced at the pain in her head before struggling to sit up.

"Slow down," Germany warned, pressing a hand to her stomach and keeping her supine. "A physician is on the way."

"What? I'm fine!" America protested, succeeding into maneuvering herself into a seated position during her second attempt. Germany seemed to surrender in trying to get her to remain still, and the ailing nation could see the underlying exhaustion in the man's blue eyes. The splitting of Berlin had taken its toll on his body, and America couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. "It's just stress related, I'm sure."

England huffed and crossed his arms with a stern reverence. "Well, until we can be certain, you won't be leaving this building."

America waited for her head to clear a bit and rose to stand on wobbly legs. "I'll be fine."

"Stop saying that. You're in denial, and you gave both of us a fright, so please listen to reason," England beseeched, more overwhelmed with worry than anything else. "Let us help you."

"I'm the United States of America. I don't need help."

"Foolish girl! You'll be the death of yourself."

"Good, maybe I'll finally be set free."

There was a dusty film covering the shell of the person America used to be, and England could do nothing but sit like a gaping trout, straining for words that didn't exist.

"Can you hear that?" she finally asked, fluttering her eyes shut with a hum.

"Hear what, you numpty?"

They had been around for far too many years to fall for the mirage of silence.

"Hear what, America?"

"The roaring sound of change."

Though neither would admit it, they could sense one another's terror.

"Yes, I hear it… I hear it all too well."