The streets of Paris were crowded, but France's guards stood between the crowds and themselves. They had been desperate to escape the prying and politicking at court of a time. Or rather, America had been desperate, and France had been having a grand old time, but had humored America. They pretended not to acknowledge that, France because he could be a good host when he felt like it and America was too young to risk being seen flinching at any of it. Church had provided them with an escape.
If they were supposed to return immediately after services, no one made them. They walked along the banks of the Seine. Paris was so much bigger, so much older than anything America had in his lands. He could not decide between looking at the city itself or the people inhabiting it.
France's arm pressed into America's side. He leaned down closer to the young nation. His lips brushed America's ear as he spoke. "So young America, what did you confess? Anything about me?"
A blush broke out across America's face. He quickly took two steps away. "No! Of course not!"
He was not, strictly speaking, Catholic. A fact that no one had pointed out when France first mentioned going to confession. He had enough of them living in his lands that he knew the basics of the motions, but he did not really know what to confess. Not being human made it a little more complicated, probably. He thought it should. A sin was a sin regardless, but it felt like being human should matter when counting sins. So he had not mentioned his revolution and had rambled instead about sweets until he had run out of things to say. The priest had admonished him for gluttony and assigned several Hail Mary's, which America thought was silly. He thought that he and the priest had both left disappointed by the experience.
France ruffled America's hair affectionately. America's hand instantly flew to his hair to try and return some semblance of order. He didn't need France ruining what little respectability he could pull off. Not that he cared very much but, he had left his powdered wig and his best jacket in his trunks that morning. Compared to France, who was covered in silks, lace, and jewels, he looked like an underdressed servant.
France laughed at him. "Ah America, have I flustered you?"
America pouted back at him. "No, you have not." He turned his nose up in a way that was definitely not like anything England would do. "What do I have to be embarrassed about?"
"I did not say embarrassed," France said with a smirk.
"Same thing."
"Oh, not at all America. But do not worry. You will learn."
"Stop teasing me. It's not like-" America stopped at the first peel of a bell ringing out. He turned his head to look back at Notre Dame. The bells chimed again. America's eyes slipped closed. The crowds fell away and were easily replaced by another in his mind. The fine silks became soft worn cotton. The French surrounding him faded into English. For a moment, his heart picked up. Thrumming like it had when he stood by Franklin's elbow as delegates poured into the Court House.
"You like the bells." France was watching him intently.
America felt a blush return to his cheeks. He turned his face away. "Yeah."
"They remind you of your home?"
America turned back to France with a soft smile. "They remind me of liberty."
"How poetic." France smiled at America, it was only a little patronizing. "How does it feel?"
It was just a question. No harm in that. It was even an expected question to ask. America had officially become a nation a few short years ago and they had worked together to obtain his freedom for years before. Had it all been worth it; all the work he had to do now, all the work he had done, all those that had died? He was surprised that France had not asked him that before.
But that wasn't what France was asking now either. His voice was pitched too low for an innocent question. France's eyes had a gleam to them that America recognized. He had seen it in his own eyes months before his Son's of Liberty had thrown the first crate of tea into the harbor.
France was thinking about it, liberty. But it was only a thought. It wasn't the spark of revolution. Not yet.
America glanced towards their guards. They were far more focused on the crowds around them than on France's seemingly usual flirtations. His gaze moved around them into the throngs of people. There was a child running down the street in torn trousers. A woman lifted a beaten bowl up toward every passerby. The richly clad gentry fluttered feathered fans and laughed loudly. No one paid the downtrodden a glance nor dropped a single coin in their dish.
America's attention returned to France. He was still watching, waiting hungrily. "It is like nothing you have ever tasted," America whispered.
Perhaps you will know someday.
America wakes up just as cold as they had been when they took their first breath in this body. They stand slowly, using the tree behind them for balance. Their legs are just as stiff, and their neck is hurting now too. They slowly stretch out their limbs. Their back pops repeatedly. They keep their ears sharply scanning for any human noises.
They have no idea what curfew is in this part of wherever they are. They are sure that there is one and that they have definitely broken it at some point since they awoke. The challenge is not to get caught now.
They run their fingers through their hair dislodging any leaves or sticks that have congregated there. Then they briskly brush down their coat and jacket. They don't have to make their capture easy. They're likely in enemy territory.
Ok, recognizance time. America leans against the tree that had served as their bed and withdraws the contents of their pockets. They set aside the small notebook. They open the collection of papers bound together with thin twine. They pull on the neat bow holding them and start the investigation.
They scan the first document, their eyes go automatically to the small picture in the corner, their body's picture. So that's what they look like. They run their fingers over their hair again. This time really taking the time to feel it. It's thick and wavy like Canada's, no curls though. And now that they're not in the dark, they can see that it is blonde. The black and white photo hides the color of her bad, they think briefly. Cute nose. they'll take the time to examine their new body in more detail later.
A variety of red ink has been stamped over the documents. Their eyes flicker over the words neatly printed and handwritten on their body's identification papers. That is not English. Well damn. England is definitely never going to let them live this down. They've been shot down in enemy territory and stranded in a new body with no backup and no way of getting the calvary to come. Well if they weren't the hero…heroine they would be well and truly fucked.
America bows her head and squeezes their fist as they launch it into the air. It doesn't matter that no one can see them strike a determined hero stance. The important thing here is to reaffirm their hero status to themselves and carry on. With a bright smile America returns to her investigation.
So what language is this? She's picked up a few over the years, but that has mostly been from their immigrants as they wondered through neighborhoods. She can talk casually to people but her written vocabulary is limited to street signs and menus. The one exception to this informal education was during The Revolution when she was taught French and German, and they had used that mostly to yell insults and taunts at England at the time. And even though he would never admit it America was sure Canada appreciated it now.
America tapped their foot rapidly. Ok, they needed context clues. What are they looking at? Right under their picture there are two large stamps of color. They depict a portrait style Greek lady-head and list a number followed by Francs. So French, right? Their body had French issued papers, so they're probably in France, or had been coming from there.
What else could they learn? America taps their cheek. Frankly, thank god for England being invaded so much back in the day. He had stolen or been forced to use so many languages that a lot of the words looked similar their foreign language counterpoints. She knew most of what should be on these papers and pieced together what it probably is from there.
Last Name: Beaulieu
First Name: Jean
Date of Birth: 12 October 1925
Nationality: French
America feels wicked delight burst up at that. French? Oh, that can't be true. Obviously, their body, Jean, had gotten her hands on a forgery. Or maybe she had made them herself. There's no way to tell, unless they run into one of her body's acquaintances that knows the truth and America would rather not. They like the second idea better, their new body resisting their nations foes in any way she can until her dying breath and then giving herself to her country. Yeah, that sounds much cooler, like something Hollywood would dream up.
They flip through the other papers. They have to memorize as much of it as they can. They doubt they'll be made to recite every detail, but hey, a little precaution never hurt.
Jean Beaulieu. America closes their eyes. They roll the name around on their tongue. They think about what a person named Jean would be like. A leader, they decide. Someone who knows what they want and how to keep what they have. A good person, polite maybe. But not a person like America.
They're going to need a new name, something a little more fitting. But what? Regardless of which body they're in, they have always been Alfred. There's never been a reason to consider another. Although they guess they could just keep Alfred. They could say it was their father's name, their parents had expected a boy, and please call me Alfie. No. No one is ever going to take them seriously without some convincing and that won't do. They're a rising world power, they need instant respect.
So, they definitely need a new name. Something beginning with an A like America. Ahhh. Alice? No that sounds too British. They could already hear the Alice in Wonderland jokes. Alison? They could keep the nickname Al. But did that sound lazy? It wasn't this hard to pick out a name the first time. Amy? That's kind of short. Maybe? Did they have to pick out a new middle name too? Fuck. They are keeping the same initials they have way too many anagrammed belongings to just throw them all out.
America glances at the sky. The sun has steadily been rising. She tucks her papers back into her coat pocket. It should definitely be past curfew by now. The problem of her new name will just have to wait. She emerges from the small grove of trees and returns to the road. She promptly continues her journey.
Gradually the dirt country road changes. At first, she is all alone. Then there is a middle-aged woman a riding a bike with an empty basket tied between her handlebars. A little bit later she sees an old man rocking on a chair in front his house. Slowly more people and bikes appear. It's small town traffic slowly building up to more.
She can't help but watch the travelers. Ever since Pearl Harbor she's been bounced from training grounds to battlefields to war rooms and back to a battlefield. She doesn't know how long it's been since she's seen a child toddling after his mother while running errands. She greedily watches now as a mother walks quickly a few feet in front of her and with a certain brisk stiffness of stress. She never takes more than one eye away from her son. Her dress is faded and worn, and her son's pants are carefully, lovingly patched.
America hums a little tune under her breath. It's something half remembered buzzing out of the radio in a crowded English pub. She catches bits of the crowd's quiet conversations. There are no more potatoes to be had anywhere and they have quite a few tips for stretching the laundry soap. She looks up at the sky. She can hear birds in the distance. She takes a deep breath of country air. It's nice to know that life goes on even in a world like this.
The crowd's chatter gradually dies down as the traffic thickens. America peers around shoulders trying to determine the cause of the slowdown. It's a checkpoint. A couple German soldiers stand fully armed and at attention but clearly bored. Which is fair, America muses, she'd always hated guard duty and it had taken too many years for her bosses to abandon the idea of assigning her to it.
The mother America had been watching presents a packet of papers to one soldier. Her hands barely shake. The papers crinkle in his hands. The soldier smiles down at the boy and he stares back with wide eyes. The boy tucks himself behind his mother's skirt. The soldier's eyes flicker over the papers before returning them.
America straightens her back. She knows how to disappear into the woods, how to fire on lines of men without giving them so much as a hint towards where she was. They know how to travel by the stars over open empty prairies They know how to hunt and plow and scavenge. They do not know how to blend into a crowd.
They don't try to.
Here goes nothing, she thinks. At the very least they probably won't shoot heer in the middle of the street if this doesn't work.
"Vie a la France," she whispers under her breath. She pays extra attention to how the sounds feel in her mouth. It's been forever since she's spoken French. It tastes thick and strange on her tongue. It will have to do.
She beams and puts a slight skip in her step. She angles for the solider that had smiled at the boy. "Guten morgen," she chirps up at him. Her accent is all wrong. She's learned German and French, but she can't put one accent on the other. She's not even sure she's managed to hide her American accent. She's never had to hide it before. But her voice is sweet and sunny, and she continues on in French without a breath. "It's a beautiful day."
She flutters her eyes at him as she sets her papers in his hands. The soldier almost laughs but bashfully manages to contain it. Instead he smiles down at her. Her grin grows. The poor boy doesn't know what to do with a friendly face.
America flinches as a hand lands heavily on her shoulder. "He doesn't know what you're saying," the other solider says from behind her.
"Uh oh," America stutters. The second soldier's expression is smooth and cool. He's completely in control and his attention is fixed on her. She recognizes that look and knows instantly that she won't be able to control him as easily. She bites their bottom lip. She glances at the soldier still holding her papers. His smile is gone. His head starts to bow towards her papers.
She looks back at the second solider. His hand drifts lower and lower. She doesn't want him to look into her eyes and see the anger in them, so she directs her words to his chin. She can feel the eyes of the crowd on her. No one intervenes. "I should have realized. Could you…" She presses a hand to her lips. She laughs like she's embarrassed. "Could you tell him that he has lovely eyes?"
The soldier squeezes her shoulder and repeats her words in German with a few additional teasing. The other man goes red and shoves her papers back at her. She smiles at them both. The second solider laughs. "Have a good day, Mademoiselle," he says while patting her on the back. She tucks her papers into her coat and continues down the road.
Two men loom above Africa. Between the two of them they are ripping the continent apart. One of the men has a huge cigar hanging precariously from his mouth and the other has a small round pair of glasses perching on his nose, Churchill and Roosevelt. America heart clenches and her hands shake. Bastards!
Notre Dame's bells ring out. It somehow makes the whole thing worse. The Germans had invaded and were occupying France but do worry everyone, everything's the same. Nothing is any different now that we have German friends staying with us. Oh no! And if anything is troubling you, if life is any worse it's the Allies fault. They're not fighting to free you, they only want your territories. Our good friend Hitler hasn't razed the Paris to the ground so we must be grateful. We are at peace.
God, she couldn't wait to kill some Nazi's. She swears the first thing she is going to do when she gets back will be to jump in a plane and not stop shooting for weeks. But until then she is going to have to satisfy herself in other ways.
She keeps her head held high and her steps as even and unhurried as possible. She brushes the hair on the top of her head like she's smoothing it down. As she brings her hand down, she snatches the poster off the wall. She crushes it quickly in her fist and shoves it into her coat pocket. She'll use it for toilet paper or something later.
She sees red every time she catches sight of this absurd propaganda and it's everywhere in Paris. She'd like to tear down every poster she comes across, but she can't afford to. It's a risky move and she doesn't have the time. Every moment she's here is one she can't spend with her men actually getting something done.
Jobs are hard to come by. And as much as she would like to throw caution to the wind and swim across the channel, odds are she'd just end up in a new body further away. She needs to get some funding before she does anything else.
Unless, of course, she comes across another poster when no one is watching.