America during the Revolutionary War. America being badass and also being a goofy bean.
Alfred POV
"Looks like he wrote you again." Gilbert gives me a letter. I open it this time, my hands shaking.
Dear America,
Stop this nonsense and come home. You know you can't survive on your own, young boy. You need me. You're making me very sad and angry.
- Arthur
I crumple up the letter, tossing it in the fire, breathing hard with rage.
"Alfred...I don't like that look in your eye..." Gilbert sounds a little nervous.
Stomping away, I kick a stump as hard as I can. I yell in pain, jumping up and down and holding my foot. "OW!"
Gilbert sighs and rolls his eyes affectionately as I whimper, holding my foot. "Owwww."
When I start to cry, he pats my shoulder. "Come on now, young man. It's only a sore foot."
My rage wells up, choking me. I roar in utmost fury. "My foot hurts, England is still being a tool, and my ass has had hemorrhoids for a week! Gilbert, maybe he's right. What if he's right? Oh God he is!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You are not going back there. You came this far, why give up?" Gilbert says.
I sniffle and nod, getting up. But I immediately fall, my foot twisting strangely. Oh God, that hurts!
When the pain brings on a fresh wave of tears, Gilbert sighs again. "Yeah, yeah, let it out. We'll take you to the medical tent. Lean on me. Oof, you're heavy!"
I scowl. "I'm not that heavy!"
"Yeah you are. It's just muscle, freund. Try not to kick stumps anymore, okay?"
I whine, "I just got so angry!"
"I know, you get angry a lot these days." He says, his voice oddly comforting.
When Alexander finds me in the medical tent, eating hominy stew, my foot bandaged, he chuckles. "Can't stay out of trouble, can you?"
I pout. "I kicked a redcoat, be nice to me."
"No, he kicked a stump and he's lying about it." Gilbert says with a smirk.
I stick my tongue out, and Alexander snickers. "Sounds about right. Enjoy your stew."
When my foot heals, unusually fast, I am back on my feet. I train as hard as I can, often knee deep in mud, holding my gun high.
One afternoon, Alexander, John Laurens, and I roast marshmallows we stole on our bayonets. Gilbert stomps over, tugging on my ear. I wince and cry out. "What did I tell you about using your bayonet to roast marshmallows?!"
Alexander and John scurry away, and I apologize profusely. Gilbert sighs when I tear up, and pats my head. "You're okay, just don't do that again, yeah?"
When Arthur finally faces me head on, I don't back down. "Consider me independent!"
"Why? Dammit, why?!" He falls to his knees, sobbing.
I can't summon an ounce of empathy. "What happened? I remember when you were great."
