Author's Note: We're nearing the end! Expect one or two more chapters after this. There are so many events that I could have touched upon but chose not to, either because the issue was similar to a previous event that I'd already written about or because it didn't contribute anything new to the overall dynamic of the story. That being said, enjoy the chapter and thank you for your beautiful support! :)
P.S. Happy Holidays!
"Everybody talks about the entitlement generation. There is no time I would rather live in than now. ...There's a tendency to live in a nostalgic state in this country, and think that other generations possessed an integrity and a tenacity better than the generation that is now. I wholeheartedly disagree with that, and I believe this is a group that will rise up to any challenge that comes before them, as well as any other generation in America would have done." –Jon Stewart
You can tell a lot about a nation by the way it treats its children.
America wished she had grasped that concept sooner.
The little ones were her most important investment, and yet, her biggest migraine as well. She had neglected them for far too long after the 2008 recession, forgetting how crucial they were to the stability of her institutions. Those fledgling beings with dreams stuffed in their pockets held the key to the future, and their advancement could not be curtailed.
She quickly convinced herself that hardly anything in the world could be as magical as the imagination and excitement vested in a child. During the days when fatigue and frustration caught up with her, she took short trips down to the local playground, watching the sprouting younglings of her citizens swing, run, shout, cheer, and shake with laughter. Who knew children had the capacity to be so simple and profound all at once?
They were still unaware, it seemed, that their lives would be riddled with hardship and misfortune.
It started with something as innocent as cuts in art programs and extracurricular activities. Financing such creative outlets became increasingly problematic, and thus, they vanished into the depths of history, leaving an emphasis on math, science, and computers in their place.
They snatched away fantasy and the enigmas of society to discipline the children to fit in a digital age where minds were numbed and the freedom to think was no longer tolerated. Their education became a business, their standards were lowered, and their validation was found in the form of uniform testing.
City tests, state tests, national tests, progress-tracking tests, and practice tests on how to take tests evolved into existence.
And when they were old enough to stop taking such tests, they'd be off to college, where they'd be met with crushing student-loan debt that would sit on their backs for decades of their fleeting lives.
America had failed them, and she knew it.
They would be the first generation to be worse-off than their parents. That is, if they were privileged enough to have the opportunity to move out and start their own families.
Poorly educated, burdened by debt, and fearful of the world at large, the impending days appeared bleak for millennials.
"Mommy! Look how high I can swing!"
"I see that, honey. Be careful."
"I am careful."
"Sometimes that isn't enough."
Although she had set them up for disappointment, there was still a sparkle of inspiration and clarity hanging over their heads.
That belief in better days came in the form of Barack Obama.
Charismatic and a breath of fresh air, he represented the young people—a demographic that had been forced into silence and exile for longer than they cared to recall. He showed them their voice and promised progressive reforms.
Most importantly, he believed in what he preached because he too was youthful. Full of optimism and aspirations, he skyrocketed his way through the polls as a natural leader and symbol of a new era.
They had finally lived to see the first African-American president enter the White House.
And God, it was a powerful moment.
America knew she'd never forget the pure elation that had risen in her chest on election night. An astounding relief washed over her, and suddenly, the past eight years turned into a fuzzy memory imprisoned in the back of her mind.
She'd been taking delight in a celebratory drink when her cell phone buzzed with urgency on the coffee table.
"Hello?" she mumbled between sips of toasty champagne. "I'm not available until I assure myself that I'm not dreaming this moment."
"I think you can spare a few minutes for your loving brother," Canada teased on the other line, picking up on the barely suppressed excitement in his twin's voice. "Congrats on a successful election."
America sighed and mumbled a little hum of thanks. "The train-wreck is finally over—I hope. Maybe the nation isn't going to collapse and cease to exist after all."
Canada gave off a snort of laughter. "Hey, everything's subject to change, right? I was kinda hoping you'd stick around for a while longer. If you disappeared, who would I constantly be compared to?"
"Ha, you can't live without me."
"That's not what I meant."
"Admit it, Mattie. You need me," America sang with pitter-pattering bursts of happiness. Her eyes fell upon the clock across the living room with an amused grin. "Aww, you cared about my election so much that you stayed up until two in the morning? I'm touched, sib."
There was an uncomfortable cough on Canada's end followed by a nervous chuckle. "Well, your affairs directly have an impact on mine, and—"
"You don't have to explain. I get it."
"Yeah," Canada finished meekly with a shuffle of movement. "Anyway, there was something I wanted to ask you."
America kicked out her legs and stretched them across the length of the couch. "Shoot. I'm all ears."
"It took you two hundred and thirty-two years to elect a non-white president. How long until a woman enters office?"
Spluttering and spitting up champagne on her chin, America hesitated to respond. "You want an honest answer?"
"Your best estimate," Canada affirmed.
"I wish I could say 'soon' and believe it, but that'd be idealistic of me. At this rate, it'll take at least five more wars and seven decades."
"That soon? I'm pleasantly surprised. It's a shame you can't be president."
"Yeah, a damn shame," America smirked, still joking. "I'd set things straight once and for all. My first plan of action would be to make you the fifty-first state."
"You're still threatening me with that?"
"Some verbal assaults never get old," America said with a large yawn. "That being said, I'm gonna catch some z's and call it a night. Stay warm up there, and don't get too carried away with your socialist tendencies."
"Don't tell me what to do."
She could hear the smile in his voice. "It'll happen, Matt… I'm sure of it… In due time, of course."
"What will happen? My descent into socialism?"
America rolled her eyes and grumbled under her breath. "No, dummy. I'm talking about the first female president. We'll see the day eventually."
"And should I call you again when it happens?" Canada offered, his tone growing serious once more.
"Yes, please do. I'll be waiting."
"Lookin' forward to it, then."
It was hard to see certain problems when they were clouded by a plethora of others. Unfortunately, this didn't mean they'd simply resolve themselves. Rather, they expanded like untended weeds, digging their way into the flowers they'd poured their hopes into.
The economy gradually slithered its way out of the ground, coaxed out of its rubble by a decreasing unemployment rate, budding new industries, and a growing positivity for the future.
Yet, as expected, the path to recovery was blighted with other dilemmas and controversy.
And this time, it wasn't the failing education system or the crumbling market that brought her to her knees.
No, it was an issue that was rooted in the very culture of the nation—guns.
An unspeakable word in most scenarios, America found that the circulation of this Second Amendment right had spun its way out of her control, leading to daily tragedies and hundreds of deaths.
Nonetheless, America and her government treated the word with a particular delicacy, recognizing that even the mere mention of instilling gun control was widely unpopular. Take away the country's guns and they'd see it as a threat to their liberty and protection, which would be valid arguments, if the guns were actually protecting them.
But they clung to them anyway like spooked animals, unwilling to put down their arms and accept the outstretched hand that was being proffered to them.
She had tried all she possibly could, and still, her people would not be swayed.
And then, disaster rained upon their ire-filled hearts.
December 14, 2012 struck them like lightning.
"Twenty-eight confirmed casualties. Twenty of them were children aged six and seven," a police officer told her when she'd arrived at Sandy Hook Elementary School that day.
Some parents were still standing around the site, clutching their children against their chests and pecking kisses onto their cheeks to console themselves. They'd been the lucky ones—their children would go on to celebrate birthdays, fall in love, go to college, get married, laugh at the beautiful moments of life, and cry at the injustices.
But the others… The others would never understand exactly what had happened. They'd never know why they'd been targeted—why their lives had been seized. They would never grasp why no one had been able to save them from pain—why their parents hadn't been there to swallow them up in the length of their arms and tuck them into bed at the approaching darkness shrouding their twinkling eyes.
"Are you all right?"
"Not now, Matthew," America snarled, beside herself with fury. "I-I need to be alone."
"I'm so sorry," her brother murmured helplessly, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder. "They were all such beautiful and sweet children."
She shrugged away the touches and forced her eyes shut against her tears. Within seconds the hand returned to her shoulder once more, and she felt her stomach constrict with sickness. "Please, go away, Matt."
But the hand rubbing persistently at her shaking arm no longer felt like Canada's reluctant embrace. No, this hand was firm and warm and familiar.
England.
She turned on her heel and pressed her wet eyes into England's shirt, groaning at her inability to remain strong and stoic.
"I remember when you were no bigger than a six-year old," England murmured into her hair, carding his hand over the back of her head. "You probably don't remember this, but you had your first date in our backyard."
She managed a teary smile at the memory, sifting through the bits and pieces of recollections she still retained from her childhood. "I remember. You were flustered and upset that I was growing up too fast. You probably knew you wouldn't be able to keep me under your wing forever."
"I tried to," England reminisced, tightening his grip around her. "Just like any other parent would have done. If I had ever lost you—I don't know what I would've done. I'll always see you as that fledgling girl in the fields…"
"I can take care of myself now. You don't have to worry."
"Ah, but that's not a choice I can make. I'm obligated to worry."
America sucked in a painful breath and rubbed her eyes clean. "I don't want to lose you either, old man."
England nodded his head and sighed against her forehead. "Go home and rest, Amelia. You'll overcome this—those children are in good hands… They're at peace now."
She wondered how much blood had to be shed for change to finally fall into their laps.
"Thank you for being here."
"Oh, there's no need. Matthew will drive you back home and stay the night with you."
"I don't deserve you two," America whispered with more words of thanks, blinking back against the sting in her bloodshot eyes.
England managed a wistful smile. "I'll call to check in on you tomorrow."
"Okay. Have a safe flight back."
"I'll do my best."
She swiped at her cheeks and set her gaze across the street where Canada patiently waited for her. "Arthur?"
Her former fatherland craned his neck around to meet her question. "Yes?"
"Will you send me a box of Christmas scones again this year?"
The elder nation took a long look at the barren school and the emergency workers scattered around the perimeter, sorrowful and unable to contain his grief. America would find a way to mend this wrenching sadness—she always did.
"Certainly. I wouldn't dare do otherwise."
"Here we go again."
"It was bound to happen sooner or later."
"I was hoping it'd be later than sooner," America huffed, storming her way into the conference room where their summit was being held. When her domestic problems were held at bay, a foreign conflict always managed to shackle itself to her ankle. "This man will never quit, will he?"
England tensed his shoulders and waited by the doorway, crossing his arms. "I'll leave you to it, then."
All they could do was dampen the situation before it ignited again, and it left them anxious for events to come.
"Hey, Ivan!" America called toward the lone nation leaning against one of the windows in the room. His hair seemed to absorb the sunlight dancing across his face, shining with a blinding brightness.
"Hello, Amerika. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he provoked, stroking a hand over his chin. "You're early for the meeting? Are you feeling unwell?"
America scrunched her nose up at the man, lifting her head up to meet his mocking gaze. "You know exactly why I'm here, you bastard. You broke international law and annexed part of Ukraine! Have you completely lost your mind?"
Russia smirked and shrugged his shoulders, fairly amused by the confrontation. "As if you haven't broken international law before. No one pays it any mind, and you know that better than anyone else."
"This is different."
"Of course, it's always different when the offense concerns you."
"You're going to regret lighting up hostilities again. I can be just as ruthless as you," America cautioned with a deep scowl. "Get ready for some pretty serious sanctions that'll dismantle your economy."
Unfazed, Russia cracked his knuckles and focused his attention outside. "I wouldn't have to do this if NATO hadn't tipped the balance in their favor. Ukraine sought to join the EU, and I can't have the West breathing down my neck again. Surely you understand, or has the grease from your fatty diet made its way into your brain as well?"
"We could've had a diplomatic discussion about this. You didn't have to go and snatch away land that hasn't belonged to you for decades. How do you think the world would react if England suddenly decided to restore the British Empire and annexed New York from me?" America reasoned, wondering if maybe a more sympathetic approach was in order.
"Don't give him any ideas," Russia warned with a wink directed at England, who continued to linger by the door. "I think the rest of the world wouldn't bother getting involved in such a personal conflict. You don't know Ukraine as well as I do, and I've told you before that you should stay on your own side of the map."
America shook her head and grabbed Russia by the jaw to force him to meet her eyes. "You do realize this could lead to a second Cold War, right? Do we really want to put ourselves and the rest of the world through that kind of horror again? Think about the potential consequences of this and try to see things from our perspective. We can't allow for random chunks of land to be invaded whenever someone pleases. Stand down now."
"Nyet."
"Fine then. You've made your choice. Don't be surprised when you see the West supplying resources to Ukraine. We've got Poland on high alert, and he'll be taking in refugees while building up his military."
Russia brushed off the threats with ease. "You think some sanctions and Poland, of all nations, will be a threat to me? You're still as naïve as ever, Amerika."
"Time will tell, won't it? You want to spar again, then you'd better be able to handle the pressure."
"You should worry about your own failing economy and crumbling empire first."
America raised an eyebrow and smirked, resistant to the insults. "Tough talk from a man who relies on oil for over half of his country's revenue."
"America, that's enough," England intervened, stepping forward to guide the girl out of the room. "You've relayed all of the information you had to. Now, let's get to work on collaborating with the others for a solution. They'll take some unwavering persuasion."
After letting out a final breath of exasperation, America appeased the man and followed him out into the hallway, blood boiling. "I'll need you to work your magic from within the EU. You'll need to get them to agree with the sanctions."
"They won't be too happy about it—I can tell you that right now. Sanctions on Russia will close off some of their most important markets."
"Let them know I'm ready to buy whatever their selling. They can find other consumers. If we manage to break down Russia's economy before a full-scale war breaks out, we might be able to resolve this without massive casualties," America explained, recalling the terrible turmoil of the first Cold War. A nuclear war had threatened to exterminate the human race for decades, and she didn't want to reopen such old wounds and debilitating fears.
"We'll figure something out," England agreed. "I'll meet with France and Germany as soon as possible to discuss things further."
Biting her lip, America tried to distract herself from the apprehension nipping its way under her skin. "What if this does end in a war?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. We have plenty of allies, and Russia isn't as robust as he tries to make himself out to be."
"Hah, let's be honest though, everything about the man is terrifying. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a little too much fun with his nuclear missiles one day."
"He'll think twice before pulling such a stunt. He knows that would lead to his own destruction as well," England assured, ushering them into the lounge room.
There were chocolate chip muffins awaiting them on the table, and America immediately took the opportunity to munch on one. The sugary taste melted against her tongue and filled her with a sense of calm. "I dunno England. Are you up for a war? You might've gotten a little rusty over the years. You should be careful of warfare at your age."
"Idiot girl," England immediately spat, yanking away the remainder of America's muffin and holding it an arm's length away. "I'll manage perfectly fine. You, on the other hand, better watch your physical fitness should the conflict expand."
"What is all this talk of warfare about?" France asked as he entered the lounge with a despondent frown. "Is this about Russia's rampage again?"
America nodded and licked away the chocolate on her lips. "Yup, you guessed it. Ole' Mother Russia claims we disrupted the scale, but Ukraine wasn't anywhere near joining the EU yet anyway, especially not now, after that whole ordeal with Yanukovych fleeing the country. Ivan's using it as an excuse to start carving up his new sphere of influence. He feels his place on the world's stage is under attack."
France clicked his tongue and took a seat in the nearest leather chair. "So what do we do now?"
"We set up some sanctions and wait. We'll see how this thing unfolds. Right now, it's crucial that we have the media hush the issue. Public outcry isn't going to help the problem."
"It'll be hard to keep things quiet in Europe. The issue is too close to home," England warned, lighting himself a cigarette. It'd been a few years since America had seen the man smoke, as he usually reserved such bad habits for when he was under plenty of stress.
America conceded and invited the elder to unwind. "I'll keep it muffled among my people, then. Sit down already, you're making me nervous."
"My apologies," England murmured through a puff of smoke, snagging an abandoned ashtray off of the center table. "I thought tensions with the East would've been quelled for a while."
America captured herself a new muffin and pushed back her hair with a tired groan.
"Turns out there are some areas that are immune to peace."
"Ms. Jones, we're conducting a full and thorough investigation of what occurred in Ferguson, Missouri. However, our top priority is to maintain order among the turbulent community."
"I want to see the results of this 'thorough investigation' when it's completed. Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
America hung up the phone and let out a string of curses before kicking the coffee table in frustration. As if she hadn't had enough on her mind already, the issue of police brutality resurfaced to the forefront of her mind.
And she wasn't going to lie and say that she wasn't proud of the people who were leading non-violent protests against the militarized police force. Some cities had become cocky after receiving spare equipment from the armed forces—equipment that they weren't properly trained to use—and things had escalated from there.
Not to mention the perpetual racial tensions that added fuel to the fire.
Only months later would she find out the full extent of the corruption in her police forces, when Darren Wilson, the officer who had been responsible for a teenager's death, failed to be indicted.
"You could indict a ham sandwich, remember? What the hell happened?" she had asked her intelligence officials. "Do you know what kind of chaos this has caused? You couldn't even take the man to trial? Riots have broken out in all the major cities across the country!"
"It was out of our hands. It was the job of the prosecutor to get him indicted."
"Yes, and who allowed for the prosecutor to be a man with clear bias? The guy's father was killed by an African American, of course he wouldn't want to indict a police officer."
"It wasn't within our jurisdiction to do something about it."
"Well, find a loophole!" America hissed, hanging up the phone once more. "Can't get anything done right these days, can you?"
More and more victims were added to the list of those who had been harmed by the police. Eric Garner has been the next to incite a massive clamor, especially after the officer who had put him in a prohibited chokehold failed to be indicted as well.
She turned her attention to the T.V., sighing as she saw the mobs of people marching through Times Square in protest.
"HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!"
"NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE."
"HOW DO YOU SPELL MURDERER? NYPD."
There was a lot of work yet to be done, and America tried not to consider how painstakingly long it would take to set things straight once and for all within the police force and the criminal justice system.
She needed a way to soothe the burning rage in her chest, so she grabbed her coat and headed outside to join the protests, ignoring the pouring rain and frigid winter breeze as she marched along. After a few seconds of walking with the angry protesters in silence, she raised her hands above her head with them and mimicked their cries of discontent.
"I CAN'T BREATHE."
She knew she'd be scolded for it by her officials later. The president would not approve of her choosing a side in public, but she couldn't be bothered enough to care, especially when she could feel the itching irritation of her people in her stomach.
Her people deserved answers, and she wasn't going to pretend to be indifferent toward them. They were her sons and daughters, and she would stand by them.
Always and forever.
United as one.
United little fools.