A/N: Hello, all of you out there~

Here's the update you've been looking for. I already wrote it a long time ago, but I had to put some edits and consult with my beta reader.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you've seen or heard on any form of media.

Chapter 2

The young nation didn't really get why the Italians were all so stressed for one stupid painting and why the rest of the world cared too.

"I mean, they're easily replaced with the use of Photoshop, right?" he said to himself, his voice reduced to whisper form.

In all honesty, he wouldn't know how important those objects are to the Italians. He was limited to what his history had been written. Sure, he got his own precious stuff over the years, like the Declaration. But . . . his country never existed during the time when there were great empires, conquering smaller nations; when everything was wide and vast for anyone to take. A time where there is limited technology and everything new given to the people made them jump and praise to the Lord for it will help them survive this world, and not like today when a new model of the iPad comes out and everyone expects for the next new new model the very next day. Yes, he knows other countries' histories (though he pretends not to know) and he has heard a lot of tales from England and other former empires about their 'glory days' and 'great discoveries'.

But, what's the point?

America chuckled, licking off the maple syrup on his face mentioned earlier by the Brit. They sound like old men back in the day.

But hard as it is to admit, they are old. All of the nations are old.

Even I'M old, he thought half-heartedly.

However, he's younger compared to them. Inexperienced and even annoying to some. However, very lucky.

Very lucky to have many people giving support.

Very lucky to have many resources and connections.

Very lucky to have many advances in the modern world.

Very lucky to have an influential government and army.

Very lucky to have that kind of power and wealth to give him strength in such a short amount of time.

And he had a strong feeling, for a long time, that the other nations hated him for it.

They'll be genuinely surprised that he notices, but he can read the atmosphere quite clearly. He just chooses to ignore.

Back can I keep this up?

Of course, I can! I'm the hero. Everyone loves the hero~!

But, behind my back, they loathe me.

Sniffing, he stopped walking to lean on a wall beside a trash can and rub his hands close to his face, hoping the friction would produce some heat so it would seem like he was sweating rather than crying.

"Stupid," he muttered, slapping his cheek a little. "You forgot to bring your jacket and gloves. I mean, there's a freaking chill out here and you forgot to bring something warm. Why didn't I bring it in the first place?"

His head tilted upward as his hands now rubbed his arms in a cross position, his mind clearly in deep thought from his focused expression on a cloud floating above him. Or was that mist . . .

Then it hit him, like a Yankees cap in his face. He was in a rush and he left his signature bomber jacket on his bedside. The only reason why he didn't feel cold when he went out is because he was running fast all the way to the meeting room.

Actually, a real Yankees cap did hit him on the face, so hard between the eyes it almost knocked off his glasses. When the object dropped onto his open palms, he caught a glimpse of a boy, probably in his preteens, going around the corner in a hurried state. And having inkling that remembering what happened this morning was not the only reason for getting hit by the kid's hat, he followed the dude.

He regretted the notion when he received a swift kick on the back of his legs that sent him flying-and-free-falling to the ground, particularly his whole backside kissing cold hard pavement in the country of the neutral Switzerland.

"Ow," he managed to groan, before being silenced by a hand over his mouth. Hazily, his blue eyes stared at a distressed pair of green eyes. And it wasn't the first time he saw them.

The last time he saw them, it was on a WANTED poster, printed in English and every language anyone can think of, for being a suspect in the crime of the century.

Sitting up rapidly, he took the hand gag off his mouth with his own hand and pointed at the adolescence face with a surprised look. "YOU'RE DAN CAHILL! THE ONE WH—"

"Dude," the boy hushed, cutting America off by placing his hand once again on his talkative lips, "shut up!"

America was about to say something when they heard some voices coming their way. Without thinking, the free nation stood up like he hadn't been fallen over by a thirteen-year-old boy (an event he will deny if any of his fellow nations find out because of its 'un-heroicness'), picked up the said boy like a sack of feathers without warning, and ran to the best hiding place he could think of, which was his selected destination in the first place.

McDonald's.

It was a mystery on how he was able to pinpoint and navigate his way to find a lone restaurant at the end of the block, near the tram station. Some say it is his hungry fetish for those greasy food choices. Others say it is because of the reality that he was the nation where the famous fast food chain originated.

No one is sure, for certain. This is the United States of America we are talking about here. He is very unpredictable despite his obnoxious predictability.

After successfully entering the building housing one of the best burgers ever made in history, he dropped the kid on a seat with a table and held his shoulders so he wouldn't struggle.

"Let me go!" the green-eyed blonde yelled, flailing his arms around to reach America's face. "I'm going to kick your butt if you don't!"

America chuckled. "How're you gonna do that, little man?" He looked down at the adolescent as the dude glared up at him. "But seriously, I'm not a bad guy. I'M THE HERO, and I just want to talk, with some burgers on the side. It's really important that I need to know something about you and your sis. Come on, we're both American here."

He didn't add anything hasty or cliché like "You could trust me" or "I won't put you in danger" or something else along those lines. Dan Cahill will know it's a lie. So, he just said what he wanted, and he said it as bluntly as it is.

Dan stopped, and stared long and hard on blue irises through some slightly blurry eyewear. "Are you a Cahill, and not some kind of Vesper?" he asked.

"No," He answered calmly, shaking his head, though that didn't actually answer the kid's question. And he sure didn't know what a Vesper was anyway. "But there are people who knows who aren't Cahill, right."

It wasn't a question. Of course not.

Green eyes stared into blue behind clear specs, studying and trying to uncover any secret hidden in them. America sensed he finally convinced the little kiddo when he crossed his arms and sighed, "Fine, but it has to be take-out 'cause I need to get back somewhere fast."

The nation silently whooped by just fist bumping the air and Moonwalked towards the cashier. Some odd glances were directed at the two blondes, making the younger one bury his head under the table in embarrassment and the older one more hyped.

He turned and smiled at the cashier girl, while still keeping an eye on his company waiting on their table to make sure he doesn't bail on their appointment. "Gimme three orders of Big Macs, two large fries, an extra-large Diet Pepsi, and a medium chocolate shake! I'm going to eat light today because I gotta babysit," he added with a shrug. "Oh, add a cheeseburger and a large Coca-Cola for the kid. Put it all on take-out."

After paying for all of the food (it was a good thing he didn't forget his wallet that morning), the two boys hit the road.

"So, before I get interrogated for something you have no proof on," Dan started, grabbing his unasked fast-food, "I wanna know who my interrogator is. Least you can do for kidnapping me."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" the man shouted, waving his hands in the air offensively. "First, let's get something straight. I'm not kidnapping you. We're just to have a chat with some great food."

"I'm not really in the mood for McDonald's actually," said Dan, as he sipped his drink. But it looks like Specs isn't listening.

"I mean, do I look like a kidnapper to you?" he asked, arms outstretched with his items in hand as they walked to the station. Dan raised a finger and opened his mouth but his 'kidnapper' continued before he could say anything. "All I'm saying is that I'm not really holding you against you're will. You can leave me anytime, but I wouldn't suggest that if I were you."

The boy glared at him. "Are you threatening me? If you do know about the Cahills, you would know what we are and what we can do. I have contacts, all around the world, even here. One call, and I could bring the best agents — the one that don't hate us anyway — here and make you disappear. Against us, what can you do on your own?"

His blue eyes seemed to sparkle when he gave Dan a strange smile. "The name's Alfred Jones, kiddo. You do not know what I can do on my own. For now, be thankful you're still standing where you are."

There was no threating tone in his voice, but there was tension in the air, a kind of thickness that's bottomless in the way that said I've been through a lot of crap in my life, but that's okay, because I know there will be more of that in the future, so just don't mess with me. It was something that Dan could relate to, in more ways than one. And he could tell the guy's telling the truth, because there was also pain behind his voice, like he was tired to hide anything but still had common sense to keep the big thing secret and just give the general idea.

Two could play it at that game.

"I'm too old to be called kiddo," muttered Dan, wondering about his au pair and the other hostages' safety while looking on the floor as they headed for the tram in a hurried pace after buying their tickets. Alfred quickly followed into step, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"No, you're not man! Nellie never stopped calling you that," he said nonchalantly before slurping his soda drink, ignoring a shocked Dan who stopped in his tracks. Alfred looked back and stopped walking, raising an eyebrow at the boy as he continued to drink.

Dan couldn't process the whole thing. "Y-you know Nellie?"

The guy just shrugged. "Gomez and I dated once."

It wasn't even a lie. Alfred showed a picture of them together, arm-in-arm, that made Dan's stomach twist. He told the Cahill that he and Nellie were in a cooking class before. Alfred wanted to learn how to cook his own fast food. Nellie was just in it for cooking. They talked and chat about random stuff. By the end of their first class, they were together. It ended when the cooking program was over. He said it was just a one-tine thing anyway. He didn't know her that much. It was fairly coincidence that he crossed passed with her and somehow getting her to mention about how she calls children 'kiddo'.

To Dan, this man in front of him has known about him, his history, and the people around him for a long time. Knowing Nellie just proved his suspicions. He wasn't convinced with what he said or who he is, and suspects that Alfred knows that. But he has to give Jones credit. The dude certainly is good with hiding thoughts well, and is not much of a threat seeing as they're in public.

Still, Dan was still on his feet for anything.

"When was that?" asked Dan, walking up to him. "Nellie sometimes nags about her ex-bfs and all that lovey stuff. Sometimes even mention names. Never heard of you or your kind of type before. Some kind of college boy all-star or something," he added, looking at him up and down. "You look around twenty . . . but . . ."

"It's a genetic thing," the other waved off, continuing their journey to board their transport. "And it was recently actually. We just broke up like two months ago. How is she anyway? I heard she entered in another cooking program, somewhere in France. Nice desserts, but sadly small meals." He muttered something under his breath about convincing someone about food portions.

Dan's face darkened at the thought of Nellie's current situation. "She's . . . in trouble."

Alfred stopped slurping but didn't break his stride nor his gaze ahead directed at the entrance of the tram. "She is?" he questioned.

"You should know." Dan pointed at him reprovingly.

"Honestly, I don't," he answered calmly, ignoring the accusing tone, as he took out one of his Big Macs and made a large bite. "Zatswhtt yfnted eshkgoo." Burger bits sprayed all around.

Dan almost broke his dark façade because of how hilarious Alfred looked as he ate and spoke, but then he reminded himself what he is in for. "Dude, I respect someone to talk while eating, but this is not the time."

Alfred gave him what looked like a pout, and then he took a sip of his drink to swallow what was left in his mouth. "That's what I wanted to ask you. And no offence, but you sound like my brother and my friends. All responsible and that stuff."

Dan made a sour face. "I sound like what? No, no. Please don't tell me I'm going through some weird phase that will make me lose my awesomeness and turn into those goody-goodies."

The man shook his head and gave a smile. "Nah, that's life."

Dan blinked. "I think that's the smartest thing you've said all day," he said.

Alfred laughed, trying to look mad but only giving a grouch. "Hey!"

Dan let crack a huge grin as they board the tram.

Just this once. We still have business to discuss.

A/N: Well, there you have your second chapter.

Please review and tell me all your thoughts . . . or I'll read your minds instead.

WOOOOO~

I'm so lame.

Till next time,

Violet911