"Please place the stone down." The young boy continued to stare at Alfred as he tried to slowly inch his way towards him. Alfred had no idea who the kid was and wasn't sure he if he was supposed to be here. His instinct told him that this was one of his citizens and that he was very scared but beyond that a nation's senses didn't go very far.

It was the most terrifying thing thing that could be used against a nation...the Memoria Anima; latin for Memory Soul. Since even before the time of the Roman Empire, the stone had been used to store some of a nation's darkest thoughts, mindsets, and periods. No living nation was sure where it came from, not even China. The only thing fully known about the Memoria was that it could animate memories best left forgotten.

Alfred held his breath, viciously hoping the kid wasn't some double agent sent by Iran or any other nation for that matter. His eyes were locked onto the black stone held in the boys grasp. It was the
object he had entrusted to Grant all these years.

It was so powerful that it was only meant to be given to the strongest empire of the time and even then, the Roman Empire himself couldn't approach it, choosing instead to give it to a very close human friend. Centuries later, the tradition had continued with each empire and superpower giving it to a human companion they only trusted with their life.

"W-w-who are you?" Jason was terrified. Not scared, not fearful, but downright terrified. He was a kid of basic logic and what he was seeing right now was not logical at all. He stared at the man who he was sure to be Sergeant Jones trying to find some difference, any difference, to the black and white photo. Jones's face looked the same except instead of a Hollywood-style megawatt grin, it was replaced by a strained face adorned with a grim line for a mouth and intense glare. Just like in the photo a single cowlick stood atop a crop of mousey blonde hair marking him to be the very same young man who served in Vietnam with his grandfather. What didn't make sense was how he could have the very same face as well.

"Calm down," Jason thought, "It's probably just his son or something. No need to overreact." Nevertheless, Jason couldn't ignore the gnawing, heavy feeling in his gut. This was probably, no it was Sergeant Jones and he knew it. Closing his eyes he screamed inside his thoughts for the man to disappear back to wherever he came from. As he listened to the approaching footsteps his breath hitched and his fingers reflexively tightened around the stone.

It was difficult, sometimes outright painful facing the full implications of one's past and America wasn't any different. After Grant Wilkerson had become his aide he was naturally tasked with holding the stone. When he had chosen to retire, America had asked the elderly man to hold the stone in his keepsake for the rest of his life, promising to redeem it and transfer it at the end of his life. Like his boss at the time, Grant had been skeptical, knowing fully well the consequences hiding the Memoria tended to have on a nation.

"Run man, run!" He wanted to get up and get the heck out of there but something about the man's presence seemed to hold him down. Jason didn't know why. If not for the fact that the man's face belonged decades in the past, he wasn't sure why he would be feeling so much fear.

His emotions seemed to twist his insides as the footsteps became louder. He knew fully well that he should drop the stone and run. Instead his body chose to squeeze his eyelids tighter. Please go away. "Please go away. Please, please go away"! Suddenly the footsteps stopped almost as if it had been guided by his wishes. Perhaps the whole thing had been his imagination after all. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief he felt his shoulders relax and slump down...only to jerk back up again when he felt a strong grip encase his hand that held the stone. His eyes hesitantly fluttered open only to be greeted with the sight of the now up close, stern Sergeant Jones.

The memories usually started to fade into the background once that generation died out and the nation, unable to recall the last time something dangerous and dark had happened, would go on to repeat it once more. It created the human cycle of bloodshed, an everlasting abyss of suffering.

Alfred clasped the boy's hand, carefully as not to break it. As he felt his fingers wrap around the black stone; the ever dreaded Memoria, a painful jolt of energy shot up his arm. Alfred clenched his teeth, stubbornly ignoring the pain. Fixing a hard stare on the kid, he answered his earlier question. "Kid, name's Alfred F. Jones, now tell me what's yours."

The kid's face paled as his eyes widened. "J-j-jason," he stuttered "J-jason W-wilkerson." Alfred noticed the kid had started shaking. Alfred's eyes blinked in shock. Wilkerson? This kid was related to Grant? Last time Alfred had checked, Grant's only kid was named Luke. Where did Jason come from?

Even though now and days things like the internet made it much harder to forget, it still happened all too effortlessly. And well...when it did happen the Memoria would be used...and it was never pretty. It honestly didn't help matters that it was impossible for a nation to get close to the Memoria, it was like the stone could sense the presence of a nation and the dark memories were drawn to their respective countries.

"Say, kid, you don't happen to know- Argh!" Alfred jumped back, clutching his arm in pain. Another wave of pain erupted from the stone, this time much worse than before. It was a hot flash that seemed to tear off his arm. It burned and left his fingers tingling, hand already starting to feel numb.

Jason, knocked back by the force, tripped over the clutter, and slammed sideways into an old chest. His flashlight went flying away along with the black stone...which was now no longer black.

Looking up from his throbbing arm, Alfred saw the dark attic was bathed in soft blue, pulsing light. Its source came from the Memoria at the other end of the attic. It now looked completely different than before. Its surface was now crystalline and reflective, delicate and rare rather than hard and useless. As the light grew brighter, a ghostly, light mist started to form around it. Like the light, it was a shade of sky blue and curled its way around and out of the attic. The mist made its way in front of Alfred, collecting itself into a miniature but thick fog. It grew and rippled, curling and twisting itself into a humanoid looking shape.

Each memory was different, a new phase in history. A country's personality was completely changed due to the effects of war, their economy and their people. Unfortunately the Memoria had a way of toying with them, changing the environment and surroundings to bitterly taunt a nation with their unbearable pasts. It was forcing them to reckon with something that could destroy their sanity and ultimately their people; themselves.

Alfred's stomach sank as he watched the unnatural phenomenon unfold. "This wasn't supposed to happen" he thought "It wasn't. It can't." The smoke then started to solidify and change color. Wisps of smoke morphed into blonde hair, a thick sphere of mist condensed into a face. A wire rimmed glasses face. A blue eyed face. A face all too familiar. His face. Alfred was staring at a disturbingly exact clone of himself.