America learned quickly that he was right not to trust Mr. Ashcroft. He learned not to question any of his decisions, or anything he said. And he was correct when he assumed that Mr. Ashcroft possessed a certain hidden cruelty about him.
He forced America to tail him around like a dog, going to meetings with him, eating his meals with him, and sitting in his office through all hours of the day. He was not allowed to leave Mr. Ashcroft at any time for any reason.
Mr. Ashcroft's council consisted of about five men. They had all held power before everything that happened, and they had turned towards Mr. Ashcroft's leadership. America didn't like this at all. They didn't represent his people as a whole. It wasn't democratic and it wasn't right.
Today, they are at a meeting among his council. They want to know what to do about the remaining land. The stuff that was blackened by fire, or radiated from the revolution. How to use it, or move around it. Already, they'd sanctioned thirteen separate districts, and a Capital, which was here in Denver. Now they were rushing to rebuild. It seemed to America that they were spending way more time building Capital skyscrapers, but he hadn't seen the districts yet. They could be beautiful, for all he knew.
"I say we just leave the unused land as it is. It's basically a wasteland out there anyway," Mr. Ashcroft said.
"But what are we going to tell the people?" one of his councilman asked.
"Tell them it's forbidden to them because of the danger and fence it in."
"Not all of it is that dangerous, though, sir."
"Doesn't matter. The districts are fine as is."
The councilman sighed and accepted it. They always gave in to Mr. Ashcroft's demands eventually. America didn't like that. It was too much like a dictatorship to him. There should be a vote, he knew it.
He didn't voice these thoughts though. Mr. Ashcroft was not very tolerable to America saying much of anything. He was a shadow, a whisper of something. The councilmen had learned to not pay him any mind, as Mr. Ashcroft had said it wasn't important that they know him. Just know that his name was Alfred. That was all, no more, no sale, thank you very much.
"Then meeting adjourned," Mr. Ashcroft said.
However, one of the councilmen raised his hand. "Have you thought about what we're going to call our new country, sir?"
The words were like a punch in the face to America. Rename his country?! No, no, no way, no how was that going to happen. Yes, things were different now, but that didn't mean they needed to take away the name that he'd had for nearly four hundred years. It was wrong. Just plain wrong.
"No, I need to think on it some more. I'll get back to you on that next meeting."
The meeting had long since passed. It was dark now, nearly time to retire from the office. Mr. Ashcroft was sitting at his desk, filing and signing papers for later, trying furiously to get the country off the ground. America sat silently in the chair away from him, which had since become his chair.
Still, he was brewing on the idea of a new name. He didn't want a new name. He was so broken, as a nation and as a man, and this would just be the final nail in the coffin. It would signal his failure to hold on to himself, and it would take away the identity he loved. No more the hero, the freedom for everyone type. A new name meant a new country, and he didn't want to become something else.
He wanted to stay America. He wanted to stay himself.
"Mr. Ashcroft," he began tentatively. There was no telling what his response would be to America even speaking, much less suggesting something to him. "Why didn't you tell me I was to receive a new name?"
"It's not important to you. There's no reason for you to care about getting a new name."
"But…a new name means a whole new country. It's like a restart button almost…"
"And? That's exactly what we're trying to do here. Erase it, because we're starting completely over."
"What?!"
"Yes. Clearly, America as a nation didn't work. Other countries have lasted thousands of years, but America barely made it four hundred. It's time for a change."
America leaned his head back against his seat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was stunned. This was never a possibility to him, that they'd just get rid of him. It worried him. Would he die, and then someone would take his place as the personification, leaving him forgotten except in history books? Or would he change, adapt his appearance and personality to match whatever this nation would become?
He didn't know which one was worse, honestly.
And what would the world think about him changing like this? He hadn't told anyone out there by request of his old boss, so they probably thought he was pretty much fine. For the first time since this catastrophe started, he allowed himself to think about the other nations. Would they miss him? Would they even care what happened to him? Or would they just allow him to slip back into their memories, himself barely an imprint on their long histories?
"I don't wanna change…" he moaned, but almost immediately realized his mistake. Fortunately, Mr. Ashworth had chosen to ignore him. "May I go to my apartment?" He needed a break, but he already knew the answer the minute the words had formed.
"No. You are to stay by my side at all times until I dismiss you."
He nodded stupidly, wondering why he'd even asked.
America sat in his chair, suddenly exhausted. He wondered idly what the new name for him would be.