The taxi stopped in front of the home, a little apartment that was a part of a much wider complex. America got out of the taxi and paid him in full plus the tip. As the taxi drove down the cobblestone road America walked to the addressed room and knocked on it, now sporting a black fedora and a brown wig, his glasses stuffed in the pocket of his black coat and his eyes sporting brown contacts. A woman, Joan, opened the door, a young child behind her legs.
"May I help you?" She asked.
The woman had long brown hair all put up in a messy bun, her apron covered in flour and bits of dough. She had a kind, oval face which complimented her nicely.
"I'm here for your husband Mrs. Matthews. We have a few things to discuss."
She went wide-eyed. "Oh my, you aren't here for the payment on the apartment are you? Look sir we promise it'll be here soon."
America waved his hand in dismissal to her statement. "Oh no, no, no ma'am; you can just call me a friend. May I speak to your husband?"
She remained tense but let him in. He came in to see the entirety of the apartment was dark, the lights dimmed. The floor felt dirty, the carpet obviously needing a good cleansing. The walls were a bright blue, the color of a bluebird's eggshell, but he could see little parts of the painted wall chipped away, revealing a black undercoat.
"Sorry about the mess. Richard's in the kitchen right now."
She led America in, the daughter trailing behind them. America came into the kitchen, the sinks filled with soapy water, the dishes strewn everywhere on the counter. The stench of brandy filled the air, the source a man sitting at the round table with a shot glass in one hand and a large bottle in the other. He looked shaggy, his clothing – a brown shirt and baggy pants. He was slouching over the table some, his back arched.
"A minute please?" America looked at the wife who quickly left the room.
America sat down on the opposite side of the round table, the sunflower table cover in need of a good scrub. The man looked up at America. "May I help you?"
"Are you Richard Matthews? My name is Calvin Bequin. I'm here to discuss your work as a guard."
"Confidential." He sighed.
America pulled out a counterfeit form of authenticity, showing it to the man as proof to be trusted. "Trust me sir, I know."
The man sat back, crossing his arms. " A'ight what can I help you with Mr. Bequin?"
"You work the two hour shift between 2-4 correct?"
"Ay."
"Interesting job?"
"Yes sir."
"It must be especially considering how young you are. Twenty two years of being an officer under your belt? How old could you have been?"
He remained silent.
"Eleven? Twelve? My, my Mr. Matthews, quite an exquisite man you are."
"Special declaration for me ye know. I've done quite a lot for my country; enough for early recognition."
America smirked and pulled out a folder from inside his jacket and opened it, only his eyes being able to see. "Interesting Mr. Matthews…or should I say Mr. Ferguson?"
The silence in the room was palpable.
"What in bloody hell's name are you talking about?"
America dropped the folder on the table, revealing the case files that he had collected with his extensive knowledge from the underground. "Ridley Ferguson, age 56, but won't plastic surgery do wonders? Convicted of aggravated assault and four counts of murder in Scotland; left under a new name, age, and history. Aren't you dumb; a 35 year old man a guard at the Jewel House? Pitiable; how did you even get that by them? You must have botched up the age some there too. What's the history you gave your wife; a beaten boy, born a bastard child in the streets perhaps? Escaped and saved lives in London which bestowed you such great luck in the Tower of London?"
The man stopped dead, staring at America with cold dead eyes. "I wanted to start anew. A job like that could boost me away from my past."
"Ay, but a misplaced line in your history can dissolve everything now can't it?"
The man stood up, preparing to swing the bottle at America's hand, but before he could America grabbed the man's arm, stopping his movements. "You're an interesting man. You've been helpful my pursuit, but I'm afraid I'm going to need something of you."
"What?" the man spat.
"Your identity; a small fee to you I'm sure seeing as you have so many you can't even keep track anymore."
"And if I don't ye bastard?"
America moved over a few papers revealing the man with incriminating photos, both which could botch his family and his life. "The officers and your wife will be happy to see these Mr. Ferguson. Now, begin from the beginning in regards to your life as Richard Matthews. I want everything."
And so he was given every bit of information that America could use from working schedule, friends, even favorite bars. Everything worked in its own way, everything piling on one another. When the man was done he stood up once more, holding back tears, knowing he'd have to leave the world he had created once more. He gave America the key to his personal locker which held his uniform and everything else he'd used at work for the shifts.
America thanked the man and went on his way, taking his car. The wife said not a thing in fear that her husband would become enraged. She watched the car drive away, and then watched as her husband frantically packed his belongings.
"I've been told I have to leave for a little while darlin'." He said, putting on a brown coat.
America drove away, truly amazed at the luck that had struck him with that particular man. It almost seemed ungodly. He stopped at a bathroom near the tower, looking at the photo of the man he had. All he really had to do was comb his hair back and exchange contacts to green ones. He put a little makeup on to give himself a closer resemblance to the man.
The plan may not have gone as accordingly as it should have, but damn America was good.
(I DO NOT OWN HETALIA)