Yalta Conference Part I, February 1945

Emily F. Jones

I rubbed my eyes and sighed as I stared at myself in the mirror.

It was unnatural to see myself like this. My curly golden-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with a few locks framing my face; and, I was dressed in a white collared shirt, a tie, and a pair of lose dark trousers. I winced.

I looked like a very small, feminine man.

Alfred told me that it was best if I dressed as unfeminine as possible; they would take me more seriously. I internally scoffed at the idea, but I could see his point. It's going to take a while for everyone to accept that I am going to be the sole personification of America for a while, and that I'll be carrying out the rest of this war…possibly the reconstruction process.

I needed to make an impression, and I don't think anyone would take me seriously if I showed up in the usual skirt or dress. Maybe if it was Elizaveta or Natalia, it would be alright. But not me.

I, Emily F. Jones, was just the twin sister of Alfred F. Jones, and the personification of the pretty, more domestic part of America. Yes, I deal with the economy, the pop culture, the corruption...but outside the country, no one really gives a flying shit sauce about me.

Yet, I couldn't help but realize how…how boring I looked. I grimaced as I straightened my tie. I turned to the side and flinched at how unflattering these pants were.

Emily, stop being such a shallow materialist. You're no longer the cultural iconic part of America. You are the fighter now.

I gazed out the window and saw that the faint light of dawn was illuminating the sky. My heart beat increased and my stomach started to flutter violently. This was it. I was leaving for my first quest as the dominant America.

I was hopping on an airplane with good ol' Franklin D. Roosevelt to Yalta, Ukraine to discuss the post-war plans Arthur and his boss Winston Churchill, as well as Ivan and Joseph Stalin. My throat felt unnaturally dry at the thought of facing these people as equals, of talking with them about the future of Germany, of Europe…

And I had to be as cautious as I could.

No half-assed compromises.

I have to admit that it was really reckless. No one knows about the current arrangements, not even FDR. He was expecting to meet up with Alfred at the airport in the next hour.

He'd probably believe that this was some sort of sick joke.

I tore my eyes away from the mirror and walked back slowly to my already-made bed. I sat on it as carefully as I could, and looked over at the clock that sat on the table. It was almost four AM. I sighed and rubbed my temples. My stomach was churning unpleasantly, and I had to suppress my trembling limbs.

I couldn't do it.

I just…I didn't understand how Alfred could deal with this. Why…WHY did I make the offer to take his place? I could never take his place! I'm not the hero. I'm not the warrior of this country. I'm the cultural icon.

Not anymore.

I started to rub my sweating palms together as I looked toward my large bags, sitting miserably by the doorway.

I was really leaving to do this. I was going to the Ukraine as the America.

Fuck this.

If I'm going to be the dominant America here, than I was going to do it my way.

I opened my closet and grabbed a handful of my every day clothes. My "improper" clothes, as many would call it.

My favorite beige short skirt? Hell yes.

My shirt with the plunging neckline that I had acquired during the twenties? Fuck yeah.

My summer dress that floated to my knees? Why not?

My…my….

That suitcase…

My breath hitched slightly as I opened the old suitcase to look at my dusty, yet neatly folded military uniform. The uniform I'd only worn once in my life. During the Civil War.

The top was small and grey with buttons that lined the edge. It was accompanied by a pair of matching trousers that were now nothing but tiny shorts. They used to be long, thick, and heavy, but during the Battle of Antietam, they were ripped and incinerated beyond repair, so I just…um…fixed them up a bit more by chopping off the ruined parts.

If I wore this, Alfred would throw a bitch fit. First of all, he would tell me that the uniform made me look like a whore. Second of all, he would grow bitter at the thought that I was wearing my old Confederate army uniform.

So, I would just pack this, and once I got to the Ukraine, I'd change into it.

Because if I am going to do this, I am going to do it my way. I don't give a damn what the others think.

So I stowed my extra materials away in one of my bags, struggling to make sure that it locked properly. I gulped and glanced back at the clock.

Time to head out.

I took a deep breath before carrying my bags and heading out of my room, to the hallway. I walked to the living room to see Alfred sitting on the couch, sitting in an upright position as he stared at his knees, a ghostly expression on his face. The radio was on, but I didn't bother to listen to the reports about the war. It would just scare me even more.

He looked up as he saw me approach. I stared at my brother, taking in his deep cerulean eyes.

Something passed between us.

An understanding that this would be the beginning of something sinister. Even though I was just ending the war for him, we both knew that it was a lot more than that. Some serious shit was going to go down.

"A-Alfred…" I stuttered in a quiet voice.

He jumped to his feet in one swift movement, marched toward me, and wrapped his arms around me. I couldn't breathe against his python like embrace, but I appreciated it, and my insides warmed immediately. It also broke down the emotional barrier that I had built. I felt the tears spill down my cheeks as I hugged him back, my face buried in his shoulder.

"You'll be fine, Emmy. I know it. I trust you," he said softly.

I nodded against his shoulder, still trembling.

After I had calmed down a bit, he stood back, keeping his hands on my shoulders as he looked down at me, a sad smile playing on his lips.

"Make me proud, sis."

I was determined. I would be America. I would make my brother proud. I would make my nation proud.

I nodded. "Always."

XX

The flight aboard the C-54 was uneventful. I drifted in and out, losing all track of time. I rejected all food and drink offered to me, and I barely talked. Not even to Roosevelt, who seemed rather frustrated at my lack of desire to talk politics and tactics. I would save that for the conference.

Speaking of Roosevelt, he took this whole thing surprisingly well. He demanded to know why I was dealing with this whole thing rather than Alfred, but after I explained the situation, he just gave me one last hard look, and nodded. The few admirals that had accompanied us barely said a word. So generally, we were all doused in a bath of awkward and foreboding silence.

I knew they were probably all skeptical. Yet, I was thankful that they didn't show it. I wasn't necessarily in the mood to deal with doubt on my ability to run my country. Even if it is in a way I'm not used to.

My eyes stung, and my throat felt extremely dry. I lost all sense of time in the plane; the sky seemed dark one moment, and then extremely light the next. Sometimes, over the clouded horizon, I saw the faint pink light of the sun. But then, it'd seem to fade away.

The unflattering shirt that I was wearing seemed to choke my neck, and the awful black pants seem to be digging into my hip bones. The thought that I was getting closer and closer to Yalta made my stomach twist. Was I politically experienced enough for this?

I can deal with rapid industrialization, nasty-ass strikes, economic corruption, big business, and other societal issues; but, all of the imperialistic/warlike/political shit is Alfred's forte.

"Miss Jones? Miss Jones?"

I felt myself being shaken, but I didn't want to open my eyes. However, I forced myself too, and they hurt. They were probably bloodshot. I really hated airplanes. I didn't understand how Alfred flies in them all the time.

"We've arrived." One of the admirals had woken me. I smiled lightly in response and lifted my head from the back of the airplane seat. I looked out the window, watching as the plane slowly descended. This was it. In a matter of hours, I would greet both Arthur and Ivan as equals.

I shouldn't be too scared, right? They were my allies…right? Then why did I have an awful feeling about this? Why did I feel as if something sinister was swirling beneath all of this?

Alfred's words repeated in my head.

No half-assed compromises.

He warned me to not even trust Arthur.

Was it really that bad?

Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see, don't I?

XX

I'm here. At the Livadia palace. The room I was to be staying in was very pretty. If it weren't for the current situation, I would be happily exploring this place, and taking in the old eastern European architecture. Truth is, I've never actually been outside the United States before. Well, except for Canada during the War of 1812, but that doesn't really count. It sort of sucked anyway.

I heard that this palace is fairly new and it was built not even a hundred years ago for the tsar, Nicholas II. This was all news to me, to be honest. I'm so historically oblivious when it comes to foreigners. I knew a bit about Arthur and his country because he was so heavily involved with the US. The same goes for Spain.

I breathed in and out, looking out the window. I've been here for a few hours. The time change was messing with my mind. Apparently, it was close to dinner time here.

I wasn't hungry. At all.

I was nervous as hell.

Because in a few hours, I was going to eat dinner with…with…them. Ivan Braginski and Arthur Kirkland, along with their scary-ass bosses.

And they have no clue. They're expecting Alfred to walk through those doors and take his place at the dinner table to make small talks, maybe bring up some politics, or even debate about certain issues.

The meeting won't even officially start until tomorrow, and I'm freaking out about dinner.

I bit my lip and tore my gaze away from the window, turning back toward my bed. It was very nicely made. It definitely had the royal-esque touch to it. I can tell that this was built for some "aristocrats" or whatever the hell they're called.

I scoffed. I always hated those damn aristocrats. They tried time and time again to fuck up the culture of the USA. It makes me shudder to think that Europe's history is filled with nothing but court life and aristocracy. No wonder why Austria is such an ass.

I took another shaking breath, and closed my eyes, counting to ten repeatedly in my head. I started to pace back and forth.

Okay, Emily. Find your inner hero. Your brother can do it. You can do it.

Find your inner hero. You're the hero. You ARE the hero. YOU ARE THE HERO. YOU ARE THE-

There was a knock on the door. I froze. My inner mantra crumbled to dust. I gulped and opened my mouth to speak.

"Come in."

My voice sounded scratchy and hoarse. I cringed at how weak and horrified I really was.

Maybe, maybe I can get a hold of a phone and call Alfred. Yeah. He'll know how to calm me down…

The door opened slowly. An admiral stepped in, pushing good ol' FDR in a wheechair, already in his military suit. However, it was his fancy military suit. The one he wore when having formal meetings with foreign leaders. If this were any other situation, I would've smiled. Good ol' Roosevelt. So adamant on carrying all the shit on his shoulders, and yet, even if he has to be pushed around on a wheelchair to do it. Hell, he's even worse than that Wilson, who pushed himself to the point of a stroke.

"Emily, I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be in about half an hour. Some admirals will arrive shortly, and accompany you down there," he said.

I nodded quickly. "Y-Yes…okay…"

He shot me another strange look before the admiral wheeled him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Once the door closed, I breathed out, and let my limbs tremble. How was I going to survive this? I'll be squirming all through dinner and everyone will think that I'm a joke, and won't take me seriously…and…and…oh why the FUCK did I do this? I knew that Alfred needed a break, but…but…he knew what to do! I didn't!

No. Stop freaking out Emily.

I breathed in once again, and then out. I let my eyes flutter shut.

I am America.

I am the United fucking States of America.

And I can do this.

I'm just as much of a hero as Alfred is.

I will represent my country.

And I will not make any freaking half-assed compromises.

I opened my eyes again, repeating all of this information in my head. I marched over to the bed, where my bags had been placed. I swung open the biggest one, and took out my old Confederate uniform. I laid it out carefully on the bed, and gazed at it carefully.

Still in good condition. A bit crinkled and faded, but good. Yes…there were faint blood stains here and there, but I think it sort of enhances the look. It shows the true wildness of my country. It shows everyone who I am. What I am willing to do to protect my country.

It felt like heaven to take my hair out of that cursed bun. I shook my head, and reveled in the feel of my golden brown curls swimming against the air. They bounced around my face and brushed my shoulders. I stripped off the clothes I was wearing. No fancy white collared shirt and black tie. No nasty-ass black pants.

I slipped on the uniform.

It fit. Perfectly.

I know that it's a symbolism of the old South. Of racism. Of slavery. Of secession. Of betrayal. Of bloodshed. Of the dead confederacy.

And I regret all that.

But it's also a symbol of my confidence.

I looked at my reflection in the full body mirror that was propped against the wall. My golden-brown curls were a bit messy and ruffled. The gray button of coat hugged my small frame and the shorts were…very short. Ripped. Frayed…exposing my long legs.

Yes, I would probably shock everyone with my indecency. But you know what? I don't fucking care. I'm America, dammit! We live for rebellion. We like making people's jaw drop.

I smiled at my reflection.

There was still the nervousness, the anticipation, the anxiousness, the fear…

But I ignored it. Instead, I kept telling myself that I was the hero now. And I will show everyone what America is made of.

For the next few hours, I paced and fidgeted and told myself that I was okay. That I could do this. And it actually worked. I was no longer trembling. No longer cursing myself for making this decision. In fact, I was smiling. I was looking forward to this.

Every time my brain filled with a single doubt, I'd look at myself in the mirror, and I'd gain my confidence back.

Finally…a knock on the door.

"Come in," I answered. To my relief, I didn't sound scared or horrified. My voice didn't crack, and I wasn't trembling this time.

The door opened and in stepped three admirals, all dressed in fancy military uniforms, stoic expressions on their face. I could see the faint trace of shock as they took in my appearance, but they quickly stifled it. One of them said, "It is time, Miss. America."

Something within me squirmed. I clenched my fists in determination and smiled. It probably looked more like a grimace, but hey. I tried.

"Alright. Let's do this."

XX

"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Jones….what are you wearing?" Franklin Roosevelt asked me in a slightly condescending tone. Yet, he didn't bother to look in my direction. He was at my side, clenching the edges of his wheelchair, staring forward at the doors that would open and let us into the dining hall.

I kept my gaze forward as well, feeling slightly entrapped by the admirals that surrounded us like fucking bodyguards. I swallowed slightly and answered through clenched teeth, "A military uniform."

"…I see."

And with that, he didn't say another word. Thank Jesus for non-nagging bosses.

After a few more minutes of unnecessary waiting, the doors opened. I exchanged a quick look with the boss before stepping forward slowly, making sure that my face was impassive as possible. However, in reality, I was gritting my teeth at the slow movement of the admirals.

But once I had a clear view of the room, I suddenly wished that I was back in my bedroom. I never thought that a dinner could look so damn foreboding. The admirals stepped to each side of us, leaving both Roosevelt and I exposed. My throat went dry.

The room was tall and grand, the walls reflecting the shadows from the large outside windows. They flickered eerily, despite the large chandelier that brightened the atmosphere. The large table in the middle was lined with various assortments of food; it seemed as if the chef attempted to make a large variety of food to satisfy the foreigners. The sight made my stomach clench and I had to bite down a gag.

Sitting at one side of the table was another row of admirals, all upright and stoic. They all sat at either side of both Arthur Kirkland, who had a look of extreme unease on his face. He kept casting glances at his boss, the infamous Winston Churchill, who also looked extremely uneasy, sitting there in his military uniform, his face set in a heavy frown. Emily saw the large row of empty seats on the other side of the table, realizing that the Russians hadn't arrived yet…

Arthur's head turned upon the American's entrance. His green eyes found mine and he seemed to visibly stiffen in shock. I quickly averted my gaze, holding my breath as I walked forward, taking my seat at the table.

I felt FDR's presence beside me, but I didn't look up. I kept my eyes trained on the empty golden plate in front of me. Dammit, I had never felt so stared at in my life. Even the admirals were probably eying me in suspicion. I silently wondered what Arthur was thinking? Was he panicking? Frightened? Shocked? Confused? Angry?

I swallowed and allowed myself to glance upwards. I caught sight of Churchill, who was staring at me with those heavy eyes of his, reflecting obvious tension. Next to him, Arthur's lips were pressed together and his piercing green eyes seemed to stab into me like knives. Shit…that wasn't a happy face at all? I just hoped that I could escape him in after the dinner, avoid a one on one encounter. I didn't want to hear him lecture me or threaten me or whatever the hell he planned to do.

It was painful to say the least. Awkward. No one hardly moved.

Dammit, I bet if Alfred were here, he would be able to break the ice. What am I supposed to say?

It was sort of depressing…to think that here I am, feeling slightly threatened by Arthur Kirkland, a supposed ally, a long time frenemy, a big brother…

I glanced back up at Arthur, only to see that he was staring hard at his plate as well, his eyes angry green slits. Shit…he was definitely going to bitch at me later. Or Alfred. Maybe even good ol' FDR here.

The sound of the door opening broke me out of my thoughts. My head snapped toward the entrance and my stomach turned as I saw them enter.

I already knew that despite the fact we were supposed be allies, Russia was bad news. Alfred had always said that he felt something was off about Ivan Braginski. Ever since his Bolshevik revolution and his adamant endorsement of Marxist thought, America had been slightly wary of the large nation. I had felt the negative psychological effects that Russian idealism had on my nation…as I had to deal with shit like that fucking Red Scare in the twenties. Talk about extreme overreaction and deportation. I will never forget how brutal that Palmer was.

Joseph Stalin made me wince. There was something off-kilter about the man. Though he definitely didn't give off that same icy vibe that Adolf Hitler did, something about Stalin still made my skin crawl. He smiled slightly, that huge mustache making me twitch. Honestly…wouldn't a mustache like that bother you after a while? Shoot me and yell at me for thinking about this during a time like this, but I just can't help it! I remember staring at ol' Lincoln's beard during his inaugural address. Yeah, I'm that shallow.

Then…there was Ivan Braginski. Just looking at him made the room drop about a trillion degrees in temperature. His piercing violet eyes made his innocent smile look twisted and psychotic. His platinum blonde hair looked off white against his white-as-snow skin. He stood there, tall…extremely tall…wearing that same large winter jacket and that same white scarf.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him as his eyes traveled around the room. Finally, they landed on me. I had to do everything in my power to keep myself from fidgeting or squirming or throwing up or fainting. He stared at me for a moment, the small ghost of a smile on his face starting to look more like a grimace. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists under the table.

I would not look away.

A strange, surging sensation seemed to fill every pore of my being. A competitive, combative one. A sensation that seemed to heighten the tension in the room. I felt the strange need for blood…for bloodshed. I inwardly panicked at the sensation. Where the hell was this coming from? We're allies, right?

However, I couldn't help but feel as if the room was freezing over as Ivan and I continued to stare at each other, his smile still present on his face. Yet, his eyes told a different story. His eyes told me that this was not going to happen the way I intended it.

No. He was telling me that he was going to be in charge of this shit.

That he was the one running this.

That's what got me.

It pissed me off to no end.

And maybe…looking back on it…that's when the long drawn-out battle of ice began.

With that one look, we both knew who the enemy was. We both knew that World War II may be ending, but something else was rising over the horizon.

But first, we would have our dinner like the dignified, civilized superpowers that we are. Meanwhile, the whole world would start to get fucking frostbite.