Author's Note: Let's hope I reaped the rewards of an entire year of AP United States History. Enjoy the chapter and, as always, please leave a review! Reviews tend to make me type quite a bit faster. ;) This one is a little shorter than the rest, mostly because it's condensed with multiple events and I don't want to overwhelm everyone with a story that's too fast-paced.

The Boston Gazette

Monday, July 12, 1773.

"We cannot but be possessed with thoughts pregnant with the deepest sorrow, when on every side we behold the most bold invasions made upon our civil rights: Resentment against the daring invader, and distress of mind, for the wound liberty has already received, alternately perplex our anxious hearts […]"

America imagined that discovering politics for the first time was similar to the feeling of seeing the world for the first time. A whole globe of issues and regional distresses greeted her, introducing her sentient mind to ideas that she had been utterly oblivious toward previously. Clusters of nations marked this land, and the thought brought her a joy unlike any other. For the first time, she was aware of the bountiful cultures that awaited abroad.

She had outgrown her blind patriotism for the British Empire.

England had done his best to limit her knowledge of foreign territories and empires, always keeping her trade restricted as she fueled his policy of mercantilism. America's raw resources would be transported to the motherland, where they would feed an industrial complex of factories that refined her goods and made them worthy of being titled as "British-made". Afterward, her colonists would rely on these supplies for sustenance, seeing as they were prohibited to trade with the French or Spanish merchants lurking about.

The more daring settlers took the risks of smuggling items from outsiders, and as the anti-British campaign grew parasitically in mass, many chose to opt for self-sufficiency, boycotting the products of their brothers across the pond.

And these blatant acts of protest and betrayal sparked a new life in America's soul. Suddenly, she felt so liberated, delving herself into the desires of her people. She had not recognized life until she had stepped out of the confines that had kept her grounded. Decades under England's rule, and she had never really seen the earth that she had come from.

She fell in love with the sheer exoticism of it all.

But summer gave way to colder months once more, and upon the arrival of December, it had been established by her rebellious companions that the time to act was now, especially after rumors regarding British tea being sold at a cheaper price ignited widespread suspicion. Remarkably, the British had ceased taxing multiple consumer goods, and while the tax on tea had remained, the cost was slight.

From her early days, America supposed that her people were prone to falling victim to conspiracy theories. Many colonists believed that the British were purposefully being lenient on the taxes to appease them. Then, they suspected that their sovereign nation would take the opportunity to lull their disloyal colonies into a false sense of security, ensuring that they would disregard other unjust policies.

There were plenty of more conspiracies regarding the future plans of the British, but America did her best to ignore them, understanding that no matter what the English did to lick the raw wounds they had opened, the colonists would not easily forgive their misuse of power.

Thus, it had been established that Boston would have to make itself a national spectacle yet again. They would convince their fellow countrymen to boycott British tea, and destroy one of the most prominent arteries of economic wealth that England thrived off of.

And, to add insult to injury, they would dress as Indians—a people that had caused Britain much grief over the years.

On an infamous night, December 16, 1773, America gathered with her fellow Sons of Liberty and made way for Griffin's Wharf, where the menacing ships would be awaiting them. Tomahawk in hand and dressed in a traditional headgear of the Mohawk Indian tribe, America followed the gathering of men toward the belly of the beast.

A man by the name of Leonard Pitt led their group while two other divisions made way for opposite ships. The British captains were taken down simply by the element of surprise, and when the rebels demanded the keys to the hatches, they were not denied. Terrified and caught unawares, they did not dare to stand in their way.

Exhilarated, America was sure she would never forget the moment when she had tossed her first box of tea into the harbor. The wooden crate hit the water with a whooshing sound, bobbing unsteadily before it was flipped over by the current.

"Break them open!" Someone shouted from behind, splintering the wood with their tomahawk before chucking it overboard.

The entirety of the event was surreal, and America found herself standing at the edge of the ship, eyes gazing at the calm water with a mixture of glee and regret. She wasn't sure how long she had remained in that position, but it must have been quite a long amount of time, seeing as by the time she had been shaken out of her daze, most of the tea had been spilled and some hardy men had gathered into rowboats, smashing up any crates that hadn't already been completely obliterated.

She made a move to leave the ship, stopping herself as a stunning image registered in her mind. Before her were a collection of armed British ships, circling them like wolves in the water.

"Don't attack," she said breathlessly at the sight, speeding off the boat in the hopes of bargaining with the other men. After all, they hadn't left a single scratch on the ships—solely vandalizing the cargo and nothing else.

However, as soon as her feet touched the dock once more, she was detained. Her arms were bound behind her back by two redcoats before they shoved her forward, forcing her to walk through the crowd of onlookers.

Grinning through a pant, America readied herself to be cheeky. She could easily outmatch these men with pure strength, so there's was no need to be worried that they might cause her harm. "Now, boys," she murmured coyly, rolling her head to one side to face one of the men. "Is this really necessary? This is no way to treat a lady."

It was safe to unveil her gender now, she supposed. After all, the dirty work had been completed, and she doubted that she would have to keep up the illusion much longer.

However, she had not expected the men to have already been aware of her situation.

"Quiet, girl," the redcoat on her left warned. "We have orders from Sir Kirkland to return you to him with as much force as we see fit."

"Oh, how lovely."

She sighed as she was deposited on the doorstep of their Boston residence. The men finally released her and waited a few feet behind, ordering America to knock on the door as they waited by the fence.

Hesitantly, she raised a fist to knock, halting midway when a voice rang from the other side.

"Come in."

Steeling herself, she gently pushed open the unlocked door, waiting in the doorway for further orders. Judging by the lack of Canada's presence and the silence in the room, she was in deep trouble.

"Have a seat," Arthur called from the living room, his voice sounding oddly nonchalant.

Never a good sign…

Ambling toward the man, she planted herself on the couch across from the empire, head lowered mournfully. Even then, she had her doubts. It was still clear that there were many loyalists in the colonies, and only a minority sought to fight the British. Her larger cities consisted of many rebels, but the more rural areas kept their voices hushed. Was she allowed to choose a position for her people, or should she let them guide her?

England sat in a chair that he had dragged to the center of the room, green eyes fixed on America's face as she tried her best to cower away, concerned that she might be met with violence after the man's prior threats.

"Is there anything that you would like to say to me?" he asked her coldly, throwing the burden of the conversation onto her lap.

Licking her lips, America felt her heart split into two opposing sides, much like the views of her people. Part of her wanted to seek the same guidance and warmth that England had always offered her, but politics had torn them apart, and she could no longer watch passively as his people treated the colonists like animals. Boston was slowly growing into a police-state, and she had to do something to protect it.

One look into England's eyes, and she could see what the man had been trying to explain to her for years, but it was too late…

She had never hated England—her mentor. No, she had hated the King and those close to him, and while England was one of the many people securing his policies, he did not have supreme rule. He was just a man, carrying the weight of the triumphs and mistakes that the monarchy made. He represented his people, but often didn't have much say in the King's ultimate decisions.

But it didn't matter, they had both let their titles as personifications take away the one human thing they had retained—a sense of family. Therefore, they were both in the wrong, and it would be difficult to make amends now.

They were both too drunk with power.

"England, I didn't—"

How could she have the nerve to apologize now, especially after all of the pain they had caused one another?

She wondered if England had found the will to hate her.

His expression drastically changed into one of rage at her inability to speak, fire in his eyes as he stood. "Gather your belongings and leave."

She had wanted this. In fact, she had wanted nothing more but to leave this wretched house, and now that she had the freedom to do so, she found herself unable to move.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Leave. You are no longer welcome here."

Involuntarily, tears sprung into her eyes. "E-England."

"I will ensure that you and these colonists pay every pound needed to compensate for that tea, and force will be used if found necessary. Until you can remember where your loyalties lie, you will not be allowed into this house," England stated firmly, stepping into the foyer and opening the front door.

Mouth gaping like a fish without water, America suddenly felt unsteady on her own feet, a wooziness overcoming her as she reeled away from the shock of this new information. "W-Where am I to go?"

"Since you claim to be such an adult, I'm sure you will manage just fine. And there's no need to worry because wherever you choose to reside, you'll soon have company. The Mutiny Act is being renewed through Parliament for the New Year, and there are plans to attach the Quartering Act to it, which will station British troops in the houses of commoners, should they need a place to stay," England elaborated, stone solid in stature as he held the door wide open. "This game of yours will come to a stop."

This is what it had come to, then. She had a clear choice to make—either she stay beside the man who had reared her from the time she'd been a pint-sized little girl, or she would gather her wits about her and side with the people of her land.

England, clearly believing that America wouldn't have the courage to walk out the door, had the decency to look betrayed and surprised as she ascended the stairs to collect some essential possessions.

Ravaging her room as she scavenged for things to salvage, America returned in under five minutes, eyes bloodshot but stern as she approached the threshold. Taking the opportunity to glance at her caretaker for the final time, she waited for him to say something that might rake the dead leaves of the happiness that they had once shared together.

England's eyes seemed to shimmer strangely in the light of the dawn. "America… You were the first."

Considering these words, she nodded. She was his first successful collection of colonies—she ushered in an era of greatness for the British Empire. "Perhaps, it was to be expected… Eldest on the run. Now you shan't make the same mistakes with the others."

With a flutter of movement, England began to close the door. "Let's not be rash. I shouldn't have—I lost my patience. Come back inside."

Smiling through a stream of tears, America shook her head with trembling shoulders. "I can't… You were right—my loyalties no longer lie here."

"My temper got the best of me. You're still just a child…"

"Remember when you used to read me King Arthur's tales?"

Voice strained, a vein bulged in England's neck in distress. "Y-Yes."

Brushing the tears from her eyes, America looked up at the house that she knew she could never return to. England had been correct, she was just a child, but it was time to become an adult. She cleared her throat softly and sniffed, trying to remember the words that would express exactly what she was feeling. "I edited the words ever so slightly, but the message is still the same. 'For any woman may be a queen in that life in which she is placed if so she may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance.'"

In a last attempt at mending what couldn't be fixed, England reached out a hand to tug her back into the house, but she gently swatted away the insistent pulls.

"This is my time of assay, England."

"America, there has been talk of possible war. You can't—"

She gave him a cordial smile, sympathizing with his concerns. "Take care."

And she walked out of his life just as abruptly as he had walked into hers.

The spring of 1775 had given them the shot heard 'round the world, but the summer of 1776 was unlike any other.

July 4, 1776

The Declaration of Independence

'He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

[…] For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences.'

'[…] He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.'

It was brilliant—every bit of it. America couldn't help but smirk at every written grievance toward the Crown. Her people had finally documented the crimes being committed in the colonies and thrown them in the face of their ruler across the ocean in the most eloquent manner.

But she knew almost immediately that complete warfare was most assuredly on its merry way, especially after the battles in Lexington and Concord. England would do everything in his power to keep hold of his spoils.

She folded up the newspaper in her hands, tucking it away in the sleeve of her coat for safekeeping as she went back to kneading dough. It wouldn't be wise to let her superiors know that she was fully literate. Some skills were best left concealed.

She'd gotten herself a job at a local bakery to procure some much needed funds and had even secured herself a little cottage just on the outskirts of Boston. It was peaceful there, and she could safely remain hidden from curious bystanders. It was the best she could do, considering that there weren't many other options for a single woman such as herself.

After all, it was improper for ladies to work when they had a capable man by their side.

Living her life as a commoner had been difficult at first, but she supposed that if she had once survived a life in the woods, she would be able to adapt. Her hair had returned to its original length, and there was no way to conceal the feminine features and figure that she had grown into. Nonetheless, she embraced her life of 'being a lady', quite content with the decisions that she'd made for herself.

Apparently, England was aware of her new location and lifestyle, but he never intervened, remaining in the large estate she had abandoned, still accompanied by Canada. Part of her hoped that her brother would come to visit her at some point, possibly leaving England behind altogether, but the boy was most likely being pressured by the other to remain closely knit to his guardian, no matter the cost.

Now, she could only dream that she might one day be reunited with her sibling. It was as if that pair she'd once called family haunted her from a distance—their presence always lingering despite the changing tides.

Nevertheless, she went about her life, thoroughly considering the possibility of revealing her identity to those men that had signed the very declaration which she had just perused. When war came upon them, she planned to stand beside the militias of her land, if only to encourage them onward, seeing as she didn't know the slightest thing about military combat.

Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Samuel Adams—she introduced herself to them all when the time had been ripe for battle.

But it soon became rather obvious that they wouldn't be able to face the greatest and most powerful navy on the globe if they didn't enlist in a few allies.

And that was when the real challenges began.

When she had first greeted France, America had been stunned by how different he was from England in every aspect of the word. At first, she'd been reluctant to seek help from another European nation, but she quickly realized that not all Europeans were alike after all. He was flamboyant and blatantly manipulative, strolling around as though nothing concerned him when, in fact, he had his own hidden agenda to manage.

"My, my," he had commented upon first catching her eye. "You could be my little Mathieu in disguise!"

"A shame he's fighting on the wrong side," America huffed, startled upon finding that France had actually laughed heartily at her retort.

"We'll sway him soon enough, oui?" he grinned a toothy grin at her, the fine stubble on his beard stretching across his chin. "You and Angleterre are very similar, non?"

Scoffing, she tried not to appear too offended by the insinuation. "No, we certainly have our differences, as has been made apparent by this war."

She was not quite so naïve to believe that this man had a bleeding heart for her struggling rebels. No, he simply wanted to make England even more livid than he already was, and honestly, America didn't really mind his selfish intentions. She could use all the help she could get, and France merely seemed intent on breaking any chances of a future Anglo-American alliance while he had the chance. In addition, having an alliance with a North American nation might be useful to him in the future. Having recognized this momentous opportunity, even the Spanish and Dutch eventually joined in on the fun.

'My enemy's enemy is my friend,' she inwardly mused.

And oh, how the pain had dragged on. The ache of warfare had been nearly as strong as it had been when she had experienced it the first time around. At least this time, she understood the cause that was being fought for.

When she wasn't lying in bed, blinded by an agonizing nightmare of throbbing muscles, she was doing her best to aid in the war effort. With the help of some considerate generals, she learned how to properly make use of a musket, and while she never did any actual fighting, she gained an appreciation for the hardships that her people faced on a daily basis. At one point, she insisted that she join the frontline, but it was established that she should withhold from such battling, seeing as she was a vital representative component of what they were trying to achieve.

She was their nation. They were fighting for her. It was all very difficult for her to wrap her head around. They had even started calling themselves Americans, abandoning the title of Englishmen.

And when it seemed that they had reached a stalemate, barely struggling to keep up with the British after years of bloodshed, the end of the tunnel was finally in sight.

It was the first time she had tried her luck and succeeded, because although the British still had a good amount of fighting left in them, they seemed to grow tired of their prey. Like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, they had eventually lost interest, spotting bigger and more valuable treasures on the horizon. Asia and the Pacific awaited.

They would come to regret this mistake.

The British people themselves seemed to sympathize with the rebels, turning their noses up at the ruthlessness of their troops against the Continental Army. It seemed that the British government struggled with many internal problems during the war, having no allies and relying on no one but themselves to maintain order. This black-sheep policy would come back to suffocate them.

Just before the announcement of the Treaty of Paris, America had met England on the battlefield one fateful night. It had been pouring with rain, cold seeping through everyone's uniforms. She had been called to present herself onto the scene by France, who'd claimed that it was about time to face her former guardian.

Thus, she staggered through the slushy mix of mud and grass on the ground, spotting England just a few yards away as her troops gathered behind her. He seemed more than distraught, chest heaving as he raised his head toward the sky, rain cleansing him of all of the impurities he'd been bearing.

"Arthur?" she queried, stumbling closer and closer until she felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her, all stunned with horror as England raised his gun at her, the barrel of the weapon directed straight at her forehead.

She heard the patriots behind her lift their own weapons to intimidate England, but if she hadn't been so paralyzed herself, she would've laughed. Hardly anything in the world could intimidate England.

"Stupid girl," he said with a low growl, soggy hair plastered to his forehead. "You've lost what little sense you had—thinking you stood a chance against me."

She gazed back into the man's eyes, seeing all of the pain clouded behind that fury. He still cared—that much was for certain. "Shoot me, then. End it now," she told him, raising her hands up in surrender.

A sob-like moan of misery overcame him, and she watched calmly as he negotiated with his inner demons. "I c-can't do it… I won't."

He dropped his gun with a thud before lowering himself to his knees, face buried in his hands. "My God, America, I could never…"

He didn't have to say any more. America merely nodded her head, eyes gentle and reassuring as England cried unabashedly into the palms of his hands. It was rare that she got to witness such a moment of weakness on his part, but she didn't hold it against him. As a matter of fact, it made her feel guilty to see England so shattered and upset. A part of her wanted to simply reach out and embrace him, but she suppressed the urge because she couldn't forget the many innocent deaths that had fought for this moment of liberty.

So, she settled on a statement that took the words right out of his mouth, "I wish things could have been different."

Independence at last, but her battles were far from over. It was time to build a nation.

The nation she'd always dreamed of.