The morning had come, sunlight penetrating through the cloud line and through the windows of America's room, but he didn't move when he awoke. Instead he stared up at the same crackled ceiling he had looked at the night before, pondering everything that was going to go down. He slowly came up, wondering how quickly the past night's escapades had reached the press. He got out of the warm bed, putting on his glasses, stripping off his blue pajamas and putting on his trademark outfit. He walked down the stairs to see Mrs. Harris watching the news on a little box of a TV that sat on her counter.

America knew what she was watching, but he asked anyways.

"What's on the news?" He asked curiously, bending over the counter some to catch a glimpse.

She turned the little television some so he could see as well. "Oh it's just dreadful. Some homeless chap killed an officer last night. My God what has this world come to?"

Her tone was one of those "when I was a child it wasn't so…" tones.

America continued watching as the reporter spoke as she stood in front of the crime site.

"There were no spectators who saw the murder of Officer White, but finger prints have led to a homeless man who has been convicted twice of harassing the public while under the influence-"

Mrs. Harris turned off the television, sighing deeply in depression. She grabbed her book from the little cabinet under the counter, adjusting her reading glasses which had a small golden chain that went from one leg of the glasses to the other behind her head. She looked up at America.

"So sorry to begin your day with such dreadful news darling; please, don't let this ruin the day for you."

He almost found her comment ironic. "Don't worry ma'am." He then walked out of the hotel to get breakfast, whistling the tune from Kill Bill as he walked down the busy roads once more.

It was a quiet morning though even with the busy streets. America went for breakfast in a nearby café, drinking a coffee and munching on a piece of toast with jelly on it as he contemplated the evening, staring at the small tack wall that was plastered in advertisements and business cards that different people had put up. He sat back in the armchair that sat in a corner of the café along with one other, a small, glass coffee table and a bookshelf.

Some time had passed. He left his money on the counter of the café and left to walk around the city. He had already looked through the schematics, personal lives and work hours of every single guard, knows every password, and everything else he'd need to know to steal the crown jewels tonight. This caper would be greater than the Mona Lisa. He kept walking on when he heard a noise from behind.

"Bonjour America!" '

America turned around to see France walking quickly towards him, though not in his normal cape and flashy clothes. Instead he was wearing a black V-neck sweater with a pair of tight jeans and black shoes, his hair up in a ponytail.

"Sup frenchie!" America smiled back. "You haven't left yet?"

He blushed a little, though America couldn't figure out why. "No I had some…business." He rubbed the back of his head somewhat bashfully.

"Suspicious but whatever" America joked, knowing that France had a "streak", though he still couldn't figure out why he'd be so bashful; France always jumps at a chance to talk about his love life.

"Ah well I just wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday. This whole thief thing is quite unsettling you know."

"Ah dude no worries. Those meetings bore the hell out of me anyways. HAHAHA."

"Well I'm glad to see you aren't mad. Big brother was getting a little worried." France's voice was back to his mellow tone instead of the one that sounded like it was hiding back embarrassment.

The two began walking together, France being his normal, peppy self again, complaining about the drab food and drab women all around him. Then he switched to something that caught America's ear.

"So did you hear that England's boss asked him to guard the Crown Jewels personally?"

America stopped. "What? Why?"

"His boss is paranoid that they'll be stolen soon so he asked England to look over for a while during the night shifts. They also put in new security measurements. Oh…don't tell England I told you this."

Fuck. Shit. God damn it this makes everything much more difficult. America tried to hold back cursing into the air. Instead he just continued walking on.

"How'd you hear this stuff?"

"I have my ways." He had an egotistical twinge in his voice along with a smile on his face. "England was pretty proud of it; Idiota gênant."

America clenched his right arm into a quivering fist, away from France's eye. "Hey I gotta go and pack up my stuff. My flight leaves pretty soon. See ya." He began walking in the other direction, leaving France on his own.

France remained standing there alone, a thought flickering in his mind. Why does America smell like smoke? He doesn't smoke. He hates smoking, right?

America returned to the hotel, slamming the door of his room and punching the bed so hard that the wooden frame cracked. "Shit."

He reevaluated everything. His actions may have to work on the fly now. He frustratingly grabbed the cigarettes out of small cabinet of the night stand and began to smoke it as soon as he got back to the balcony, his heavy breaths slowing down into a calm, melodious rhythm. He began thinking more straightly.

He didn't know if his original plan would work anymore. He couldn't get new information at a time like this, only hours before it would go down. He didn't know what things he'd have to surpass and what obstacles and hidden things he'd have to overcome now. They could've changed up the guard's scheduling for all he knew, but it wasn't likely. He didn't know anymore, and not knowing pissed him off. He then had an idea, quickly putting out the cigarette and running back into the room. He grabbed the suitcase from under his bed and quickly pulled it out, opening it and searching through. He found the case files on all the guards, pulling out the ones timed for that night. One sparked his interest.

"Richard Matthews/Age 35/born Oct 3, 1980."

"Daughter: Alice Matthews - 2 years old"

"Wife: Joan Matthews - 30 years old "

"Address: 3453 Mulberry Lane, Cartwright St."

There was an entire profile on the man.

He looked at the photo of the man: blond hair, blue eyes, bright smile, and young looking. Perfect.

America had a man to visit and didn't have a moment to lose.

(I do not own Hetalia)

(Also I'd love to hear what ya'll think of the story. It's been quite a while since I've written Hetalia based stories :P)