As it turned out, he didn't get the opportunity to call Alfred to his office the next morning. His secretary had been kind enough to fill his itinerary beforehand with unavoidable obligations, the bastard. What was worse was that no one had seen the semi-immortal all day, aside from an intern who'd reported Alfred's disappearing into town.

Roosevelt couldn't help but be preoccupied, even as the special interest group representative sitting across from him yammered away about resources or some-such important issue that he couldn't bring himself to care about at the moment.

It wasn't as though Alfred was confined solely to the White House, but couldn't he have left a note? Or something to reassure the president that he hadn't given up when they were so close to an epiphany?

He tried to reassure himself that it was fine, but America had disappeared from the White House before, and didn't have a nearly as consistent track record of returning. As such, he dispatched people out into town to find Alfred.

He'd done all he could do from here. The only thing left was to wait, and do his job.

'Maybe I should've left a note.'

When he'd left that morning, the only thing on his mind was that bar with the really good sandwiches just outside of town that one of the couriers had told him about. He'd been banned completely from the kitchen, and was desperate for a meal that wasn't one of the White House chef's ideas of 'fine dining'.

But it was too late now. Roosevelt had already overreacted. Two men that America recognized as Secret Service agents in plainclothes had entered the little bar.

Dropping a quarter on the bar, which was snatched up remarkably quick by the barkeep, America wrapped up the remaining half of his so-amazingly-delicious-sandwich-ohmyGod. He made to stand up and surrender himself peacefully…

…and then he had an idea.

'Let's see if these guys are all they're cracked up to be.'

The place was dimly lit, as most bars and saloons tended to be. America took advantage of this, tilting his wide western hat brim low and heading towards the exit.

On a whim, he checked one of the agent's shoulders on his way out the door.

The agent grunted in surprise, winded. Perhaps it was a bit too enthusiastic of a strike to be undeserving of offense. "Hey, watch yourself ya damn uppity Hobbadehoy!"

'Wow, haven't heard that one in a while.'

America spun, lifting his hat and offering full view of his face and the cheekiest wink he could give before dashing off.

"Hey!"

The chase was on.

'This job has too much waiting,' Roosevelt decided. Neither hide nor hair of Alfred F. Jones. His men had told him as much. Afternoon was giving way to evening, already, and nothing has abated his apprehension. He didn't know all of what was happening, and didn't like it one bit.

He wondered what had convinced Alfred to leave so suddenly, and whether he intended to come back.

'We were so close.'

America was just beginning to open up again. Finally taking an interest-even if only for his freedom. Was he going to throw it all away, now?

Helplessly, he turned to Thomas Jefferson's writings once again. As though they would somehow offer a reason for Alfred to leave so abruptly. He didn't have much else to go on. He picked out a random sheaf of paper covered in a strangely shaky scrawl, and began to read.

My hand is unsteady as I relate this account. But it must be done, while the events are still fresh in my mind. This stark reminder must stand the test of time, and senility, so that if there ever comes a point where I cannot recount it properly, the tale will remain.

There is a wooded path that I frequent when neither my violin nor my writings serve as proper distractions from my idle moments. However cluttered with abundant, noisy human life it is by day, by night it is quite serene.

Alfred offered to accompany me. I thought the night air would do him good, as he seemed anxious for some unknown reason. I'd assumed it was civil unrest. Even with the British gone, there is much discord among the states. The Articles are not living up to their purpose, and there are still true Loyalists among us whose philosophies confuse the lad on occasion. Or throw him into a brief but terrible melancholy.

So we set out. Alfred's eyes had lingered long on his musket, but ultimately left it leaning against the mantel.

I wish I'd recognized these signs as the premonitions they were.

The path is long and meandering, well-trodden by beast and citizen alike and so easy to navigate even by moonlight. However tonight was overcast and muggy. Neither of us minded that it was darker than normal, so that was not enough to deter us. We became engrossed in a conversation that I no longer remember for the shock of what happened next.

Calamity is oft something that a person believes is what happens to other people. None of us want to think of it happening to us, and few of us ever accept it as anything more than a theoretical scenario. Even with the population only just being rid of war, there was a mere third truly involved. 'Twas not the most devastating Revolution to come to pass in the history of Mankind, if one were to be completely honest. Perhaps I was buoyed by a sense of trouble being gone forever, now that I am no longer a traitor to my country with the sobering threat of a noose around my neck.

Whatever the reason be, I was not expecting to be set upon by highwaymen.

There were three, I believe. The exact details escape me as my mind was overridden by animal instinct. Wicked knives gleamed. For a moment, I was afraid for my life.

And in that moment, Alfred…exploded. He immediately made for the one nearest my person, devastating strength being displayed in its most brute form as each one went down in a mass of twisted limbs, bruises, and blood.

It was over in seconds. Alfred had caught a bloody knife in his chest at some point, and it was still stuck in his bicep as he turned to me with the weighted gaze of something ancient and asked, "Are you alright?" with blood spilling past his lips. He didn't even seem to notice.

It is as though a cloth had been lifted from my eyes. No longer can I see Alfred, the optimistic teenage boy that ran errands for the delegates he adored and fought for the people and philosophy he loved. Anymore I can only see America. A being that gains its humanity only by the virtue of those the avatar represents, and yet could never quite understand the mortality and fear of God that dictates the rest of us. In short, he is alien. He is strong and he is volatile. I'd even go so far as to call him intimidating. In the grips of intense emotion, he is dangerous.

This entity must be controlled more directly. If we do not dictate him, then who will? Classical thought has long theorized immortality to be a curse, and a plague on the mind. Who will protect the frail common man when time takes its toll on America's mind, and something goes wrong? Or when he is caught up in the winds of change, and reacts less than favorably as Adams once claimed to witness on that fateful day on the docks of Boston? Even the Federalists have their wisdom, one supposes.

I love Alfred as any true patriot who has witnessed his devotion and forthrightness. But woe to the one who is foolish enough to ever mistake him as human.

Slowly, Roosevelt set the paper down. He put his head in his hands.

'Jefferson was wrong. Alfred may not be human, but he's not some dangerous animal to be kept on a leash, either!'

He slammed shut the folder, shoving it into a drawer with all of its conceited assumptions and arrogance. He didn't want to read any more.

Now that he knew where the Restraint Clause had come from, he was all the more determined to be rid of it.

Night had fallen. He hoped that Alfred would come back, and soon. He didn't want to start another manhunt.

Another chapter! Longer this time, so yay. Alfred fooling around some more, because why the hell not? The first draft for this chapter was actually a lot more angsty, but I decided against it. There's plenty more angst to be had in later chapters, and I wouldn't want to waste it all too early.

Not much history, except for maybe one thing. The American Revolution was not an especially violent one, when being viewed as a whole or compared to other revolutions (France, Russia, ect.). One of the most annoying misconceptions I hear is this idea that the entire East Coast was just full of battles and blazes of glory when it most certainly was not. It's like saying George Washington was some kind of amazing general, when he was really a very bad tactician. The colonists won because we used guerrilla warfare-type skirmishes against an army operating on some terribly outdated "Rules of War" that was far from its supplier, didn't know the terrain, and wore bright red.

Thanks for all the favs, follows, and reviews! I promise I'm working on the next That Which Makes Up The Land chapter. It's just taking longer for me trying to get more into one installment. Tell me what you thought of this in a review, pretty please?

Later dudes. ^J^