War's Edge

Oh, Joy!

I don't want to risk ruining the story by using google translate for certain phrases, so phrases in other languages will be in italics.

—

America couldn't remember the last time he had smoked. Maybe it had been the late 1800s? Early 1900s? Either way, he had never been overly-attached to cigarettes because his children had cried because the smell reminded them of fire, smoke, and death. America understood, often times remembering his capital burning, but he had long since associated smoking with being stronger than old memories.

Despite this victorious feeling, he had sworn to never even look at a pack of cigarettes after New York was attacked in 2001. He could remember his toughest state breaking down in sobs, screaming from nightmares, and carrying a pistol everywhere he went. He hadn't even let anyone light the fireplace for a decade after that, nor had he let anyone go on a plane without giving them a hug and a few kisses. It had been hard going overseas for meetings with New York gripping his hand and making him promise to come back as soon as possible.

Sure, Alfred has recently been coping, and failing, with his lack of emotions, but now he knew three things could change that: a pleasant game of chase, a long drag from a cigarette, and the thought of his states. Most days, all he could see in his mind's eye was death—his states suffering, crying, screaming for him to take away the pain they were feeling. He had felt so helpless, and now he felt bitter. However, specifically last night, he had dreamed of the early days of his first thirteen states. His dreams had been filled with old memories of them playing, singing, and them smiling so brightly at him.

He had woken up stoically, knowing he had forgotten about visiting New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma. With his phone being crushed, he couldn't call the states, either, which had led him to going out to buy a pack of cigarettes before he left to Italy.

"Dad!" New York shrieked in his sleep.

Alfred lowered the cigarette from his mouth. He had only taken two drags from it, and already he was dropping it and crushing it under his shoe.

"What a waste," he sighed.

The feeling of weakness and hopelessness overwhelmed him. He couldn't smoke one goddamn cigarette, could he?

"Smoking is really bad for you," Utah said, concern clear in his bright green eyes.

"I know, I know," Alfred murmured, reluctantly tossing the rest of the pack into the trash.

In place of the cigarette, he mindlessly chewed a stick of gum. It made him less impatient as he waited for his 'aid' to arrive and accompany him to the countries-only meeting.

"M-Mr. Jones?" a shy voice stuttered behind him.

Just wonderful, Alfred internally snarked, he's a pushover, isn't he?

"Ready to go, sir?" Alfred lazily asked, turning enough to look the man up and down.

Mr. Cox a short, dark-skinned man who hunched his shoulders to appear smaller, seemed skittish, nervous, and annoying. His hair was long and braided back—something small was tied around the hair tie in his hair, but Alfred couldn't immediately identify what.

"Native American and black, sir," the man whispered, "that's what I am. I-I'm sorry for the long hair; it's just what my grandmother wanted, a-and—"

"Shut up already," Alfred harshly interjected.

He pushed his fingers through his own hair, shivering a little when his hand brushed over his cowlick.

"It's not a problem, so don't treat it like one. If you act like that at the meeting, they'll walk all over you."