Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People are never quiet, not even during times of peace.

There's always chatter, rumors, and scandals. It's just the way the world works. Talk is part of humanity, a keystone to the species' survival. To limit how people talk is to limit the very soul of humanity. Besides, what's the worst a humans' tongue could do?

That's what Alfred used to think, back when he'd been a fifty-year-old soul in the body of a child.

But humanity changed, and so did he. In the face of pseudo-immortality, humans came and went, but their words were what was left behind, changing the world forever. He had always stood for freedom, and freedom of speech was one of the first rights his people; his soul, had stood for and demanded.

But now...he grew tired of the endless chatter and noise. It was easy at first. Back when he had first grasped his freedom from England, the newspapers were the fastest way that words traveled. He could deal with the noise then. In fact, America craved more. More language, more noise. The pony express, the telegram, then the telephone. And finally, the bane of his existence, his eternal joy; the television. Now news anchors and night show host's spread words faster than his mind could keep up with. It had become a constant migraine burning in the back of his head. And it wasn't necessarily the speed that pained him. It was the constant negativity that really wore him out. Thank God that his idiotic facade kept the other countries from questioning why he avoided the media. Being a blond airhead has it's positives, enough for him to keep acting like one. If he found himself unaware of some scandal in his country, everyone would brush off his ignorance as America being America again.

Truly, he didn't know how the other countries dealt with the constant buzz of human voices and remained sane. But maybe sane was a strong word to describe his rambunctious co-workers and friends. Maybe they just didn't have it as bad as he did. It was rather self-centered, but not unrealistic. All of the larger media companies centered their stories deep in the heart of America. Hollywood, Facebook, Instagram, all the big names. His politicians fretted about TikTok being so influential and outside of their reach, but it was honestly a weight off of America's shoulders. People were so loud. Especially his people. But no matter the pain, he couldn't, wouldn't, take their voices from them.

He was so tired. It would be cruel to punish a toddler for screaming for their needs, but man, Alfred needed a break. He understood single mothers on an almost spiritual level. Sometimes a mom needs a night off.

Alfred rested his chin on his palm and absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the table of his desk, hidden away upstairs of his trusty Virginian home. The polished desk reflected the golden light of evening across the room, and Alfred glanced at the time on his computer screen. It was only five, but fall had come around and the sun disappeared much faster than it did during the summer.

He sighed and stretched his arms above his head.

When had he zoned out? His report for the G5 annual meeting only had five words on it. At this rate, he'd be done with the report by Christmas. He pushed back his seat and stood, pulling open the office door and descending down the stairs to the kitchen. He might as well start dinner if he wasn't gonna be productive on the computer. Besides, keeping his hands busy would help clear his mind.

He was just putting a casserole dish of Mac n' Cheese in the oven when the phone rang. Alfred shoved the oven mitts on the counter and fished his phone out of his pocket. The phone vibrated in tune with Baby, by Justin Bieber and the caller i.d read 'Maple Junkie' with an endearing maple leaf beside it.

"Weird. He usually makes me call him first." Alfred muttered as he hit the green button and accepted his northern neighbor's call. The last time the twins' had spoken was at the G5 meeting. Canada had demanded compensation for the fries that America had stolen mid-meeting. Naturally, Alfred refused his twin's demands, and made a quick exit before Matthew could enact his vengeance with a hockey stick that magically appeared every time the Canadian got upset.

"Alfred Freedom Jones!" A very angry Canadian voice echoed out of the phone, and Alfred jerked his head away, wincing. "Gah, Mattie, what?"

"What?!" Matthew shouted. "Don't what me, Al! Where've you been?"

Alfred's eyebrows twitched into a frown. "In Virginia. Why? What happened?"

"Why is it when something bad happens in your country, your always the last one to know?" Matthew grumbled. "It's Russia, Al. Russian forces invaded Ukraine."

Alfred paused. No wonder his head had been killing him today. He should've taken their warning and manned up and looked at the news. But he was tired. And that familiar exhaustion was creeping back in. Well, no time like the present to stop procrastinating. Alfred rushed out of his kitchen and into the living room, scrambling for a remote. "Al? You still there?" Mattie sounded concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm still here." Alfred rubbed a hand down his face as the tv clicked on. The volume was low, but the Breaking News banner was so loud. He could feel the familiar buzz of American outrage zipping through his veins. Nothing like 9/11, or when the other wars started, but it was still the same low rumbled roar from his people and states. "Oh god, Mattie." Alfred collapsed slowly onto his couch. He stared at the screen as news anchors and citizens alike lost their minds. "What he did he do that for? That's his sister!"

"I don't know, Al," Mattie murmured. "But we both know he wasn't the same after the Union collapsed."

"But Ivan seemed so happy." Alfred pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on them, while his world view stumbled. "I-I don't get it."

"What're you gonna do, Al?" Matthew asked, worried.

"Oh, I don't know, Mattie." Alfred groaned. "I really, really don't know. Was there any provocation to make that invasion make sense?"

"Don't seem like it."

"Damn Commie." The empty feeling rose up in his chest, and he felt like he was drifting away. During the Cold war, he and Ivan had known every last detail about each other, but after the pseudo war, he really did think that Ivan would be happier. Russia gave him a wild race to the moon and back, but in the end, Russia's people were starving. Ivan cared for his people. He really did. And to see his empire fall from the very ideology he thought would save his people had to have ripped him apart. But America had assumed he would bounce back, like he did after his royalty died. But it seemed like America had been to arrogant, and missed the anguish in Russia's soul.

"God, Mattie. How could I have missed it?" Alfred muttered.

"Missed what, Al?" Even Matthew sounded tired now that his initial anger had waned away.

"He only cares for his people. No other country or people is more important to him that what is his." Alfred realized slowly. "If he truly believes that Ukraine is better with him, then that's what he'll do."

"Right." Matthew hummed. "Makes sense. Best working theory so far."

"Awwww, thanks, Mattie!" Alfred cooed.

"Oh piss off, Al!"

Alfred chuckled at his brother's temper. Sometimes, he really did wonder how everyone missed his northern counterpart at all. Mattie was such a big soul.

"So what now?" Matthew asked hesitantly. "What will America do?"

"Urgh." Alfred groaned tightening his grip around his knees. "I don't really give a fuck what America does, as long as I don't get dragged into another war. The cold war feels like it ended just yesterday!"

"Really Al?" Matthew asked, bemused. "Where's all that Military Complex aggression?"

"I'm just so damn tired, Matt." Alfred admitted. "I really need to start minding my own business in other countries' squabbles anyway. Nobody likes it when I stick my nose where it doesn't belong. If Ukraine askes for aid, I'll give it, but I really don't want boots down near Russian forces. I got too many damn problems of my own."

"That's a big change for you, Al." Matthew said quietly. "A rather mature change, for sure, but a change."

"Maybe I need a vacation," Alfred muttered.

"Headaches worse?" Mattie hit the nail on the head with one guess. Must be a twin thing, Alfred hoped. Otherwise, he was getting sloppy and people might start noticing his fatigue.

"Yup." Alfred buried his face in his arms. "States have been out of touch lately, and it's puttin' me on edge."

"You checked in with your other side recently?" Matthew suggested. "I know you hate magic, but your states being quiet is real odd, Al."

"That darn black magic is probably surging what with all the talk and negativity." Alfred admitted. "You right, Mattie. I outta check in with Mother Nature for a change. Might help with this headache, too! Bam! Two for one deal!"

"Yeah, get em, Al." Matthew snickered. "Just let me know where you end up. Someone's gotta know where America disappeared off to. And I might get a vacation, too, if your government gets desperate enough to call me in!"

"Two for One deal!" Alfred grinned. "I'll call you later, 'kay?"

"See you soon, Al!"

With that, Mattie hung up, and Alfred was alone in front of the screaming, bright screen. He turned it off, and got up to pack. No use thinking about other countries' mistakes. The only thing he could really try to control was himself. He couldn't make other countries' think like he did. He learned that from Afghanistan...and Vietnam.

Alfred rooted through his closet as the evening turned to night, packing only the essentials. And since he didn't know when he would be back, he closed up his house. Next, he put his cat Hero outside and let the Unicorn out, too. He grabbed all the food he could get ahold of and locked up the house. Then he pulled out his motorcycle and headed for the highway, back up to D.C.

The process of switching from America of the People to America of the Land, wasn't difficult, but the pain was eased if he made the transition in his capital. It eased the strain on his heart. It was also advantageous since he couldn't be overrun by any magic or state interference at the capital, the heart and center of his strength.

Alfred glanced up at the rising moon. He'd be there by midnight if he hurried.

Chapter Text

Alfred finally got into D.C. with only fifteen minutes to spare before midnight. His head pounded and his vision blurred until all he saw was stars and the blurry outline of the road in front of him. He could've been blind and navigated through D.C. just fine. This was his capital. He knew this place better than anywhere else in the world.

He pulled up to the White House and leapt off his bike, sprinting up the steps and through the doors. The guards knew who he was the second he got on the white house grounds and scrambled out of the way. America followed a blind path, weaving through the building until he arrived at the Oval Office and slipped inside. The President was out dealing with the media and meeting with his advisors, so America had the place all to himself, and all the better for it.
Alfred sighed and plopped down on the floor, leaning his head against one of the couches and caught his breath. The heartbeat of his cities and his people rang in his ears. It was always easiest to hear the will of the people here. The magic that sustained him pooled around this building; this room, and filled his veins with pure willpower beside the red blood that made him almost human. But the pain was also greatest here, as well. The people were so loud, and his body screamed for a break.

Alfred looked down. His hands were trembling. He blinked heavily. Were his hands shaking from the overflow of the people's voices? Or was it fear?
Magic wasn't something he was fond of. He used to know it well, but after the Salem Witch Trials, he never had the same connection with the magic that flowed from the land and from the people's very hearts.
Now he was a split thing. An abomination amongst the Nations. The Land and the People were divided. America couldn't be both at the same time. It had to be a choice. Alfred had the freedom to choose which part of himself he wanted to dwell in. And maybe it was fear that had been his motivation, but he had chosen his people above all. Magic and the needs of the land were pushed to the back of his mind. The States could deal with it, he had thought, but he couldn't even remember the last time he had heard from any of them. What had gone wrong?

Alfred inhaled shakily and swallowed, focusing on the warm lights in the dimly lit room and the softness of the carpet he sat on. "Breathe. It's just magic. You can do it. You're America. You can do anything."

He hunched his shoulders up and hid in the soft, thick beaver fur of his beloved bomber jacket and breathed in the familiar scent. "There's nothing to fear but fear itself...or something like that. We gotta get a move on. Times' a tickin' and midnight doesn't last forever!"

Alfred moved his body to the center of the room and pulled out an old, custom made zippo lighter out of the breast pocket of his jacket and flicked the lighter open. A red flame burst to life and Alfred gripped the lighter in his hand like a lifeline, fingers tracing over the eagle engraved on the cold, metal surface. He breathed in and blew out steadily over the flame, clenching his eyes shut as the old magic started to move through his body and searing hot pain surged through his body. He groaned and bent over, gritting his teeth, but continued to breath in and out over the flame until he felt something snap and give way and the pain surging through his trembling body slowly drifted away. He peeked his eyes open and loosened his death-grip on the lighter. The bright red flame had changed to a dull, darkened blue. Alfred stared at it, confused as he caught his breath.

"I-I don't think it was that color before," He murmured, worried. He stood shakily and carefully held up the flame above his head to examine the quiet Oval Office.

Tiny strings of blackened magic trailed through the air, leading out into his state land. Alfred reached out a hand and touched a finger to the magic, flinching as the magic embraced his finger, wrapping around his hand like a glove made of spider silk. It felt cold, but soft. It knew who he was, then. If America dared to touch magic overseas, it felt similar to dunking his hand in lava. Foreign magic always felt hot and harsh, and it was a good sign that his own magic didn't feel like that, even after decades of lack use.

Alfred shook his hand free of the dark blue strings that were creeping lovingly up his arm. He brushed a hand through his hair and a frown crept up his brow. The magic felt almost normal but it was a little too cold. Usually it was just chilled, like a cool Coke on a hot day, refreshingly cold, but not bone chillingly cold. He rubbed his fingers against his jeans and breathed on the numbed fingertips to warm them. It didn't work. Magic wasn't anything like the normal stuff in nature, just like fire wasn't all that similar to water.

Actually, now that he thought about it, the fire vs. water analogy works pretty well for magic. There were two types of the stuff. The magic of the land is similar to water; moves on its own, sustaining its own movements, the stuff of enchantments and magic that could last through the centuries. Difficult to use, but once he had gotten the hang of it, it was like second nature. Like putting a dam on a powerful river, he could control it's flow and direct it. The other magic felt more like fire, made from the will of mankind; it has to be sustained, directed, told to move or it dies out.

Alfred flexed his hands, the familiar thrum of the land replacing the shouts of the people. "Whew," He rubbed a hand over his face and winced. "I didn't know it was so bad, but I feel much better now!"

He flicked the lid closed over the zippo's flame and slipped it back into his front pocket. He breathed in and exhaled, letting all the stress roll out of his shoulders. It was quiet for now, but his body would adjust soon, and maybe he would finally hear from his states again. Usually, he would hear them around large events, or during the elections, but his head had been so full of noise that he hadn't noticed when they had stopped speaking. Hopefully he'd hear from them soon, but right now his body ached from the switch and the couches decorating the Oval Office looked so tantalizingly cozy.
America bit his lip and hesitated. He should probably be doing something, going somewhere, but he couldn't think about moving another step without feeling awfully nauseous. "A little nap wouldn't hurt right about now," He wobbled towards the couch and collapsed face down across the soft cushions. The world bid him goodnight and he slipped away into the warm darkness of exhausted sleep.

He must be dreaming, Alfred realized. He shivered as pain rippled across the west coast. He climbed to his feet, but all he saw was grey fog surrounding him and the earth trembling beneath his feet.

"It hurts," Someone whimpered. Alfred whipped around, searching for the foreign voice that felt familiar. A grey figure stumbled out of the fog and collapsed in his arms.

"I-I'm so glad your here now." The stranger tightened his grip around Alfred's waist and buried his face in Alfred's jacket. Alfred awkwardly patted the stranger's back, who he could sense was a state, but which one? All he could see was a backwards cap with a rose printed on it and a thin body drenched in stained dark grey and brown Carhartt clothes from head to toe. "H-hey buddy, you okay?"

"No!" The state ripped himself away from Alfred and gripped his arms tightly. "I'm not okay! Not yet, but I will be soon, now that you're here."

Alfred got a look at the state's face. Tanned, with a line cook kind of handsome about him. Dirty blond, almost dark brown hair flopped in the state's unique, panicked eyes. One a sea green and the other a hazy gold. America realized who it must be, only two of his states had such a bold climate divide, and this one's hat gave him away. "Oregon...?"

The state's face light up. "You remembered! I thought- I thought you wouldn't, since it's been so long. I've been trying to get to you, but none of us states could reach you! Are you okay?"

Alfred bit his lip, trying to keep it together. All this time, his states were trying to reach him, and he had thought that they were mad at him. But here was Oregon, worried about him. "I-I'm sorry, Oregon-"

"It's okay!" His state rushed excitedly. "I'm just glad your okay! We were all worried that you'd...uhhh, passed on or something."

Alfred chuckled. "Nah, I'm still kicking around."

"Good, good." Oregon hung his head, relieved. "I, uhhhhhh, don't have much time till you wake up. But I need your help. There's something wrong on the West Coast, and I don't know what's wrong, but I can't use any of my land magic. I'm lucky I could get through to you. Mushrooms are a gamble, but it worked for sure this time!"

"Mushrooms?" Alfred asked, bewildered.

"You gotta come over to the Coast. Just follow the black magic. You can't miss it!" Oregon's voice faded out as he disappeared.

Alfred jerked awake, breathing heavily. He sat up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes as the morning light filtered in from the windows of the Oval Office. "Whew," He yawned. "Guess I outta book a flight to Portland."
He got to his feet and wandered out of the Oval Office, following his nose for food. The executive chef served the best breakfast.

While he stuffed his face with pancakes, he suddenly remembered one of his abilities. One of the bright sides of using his land magic is the instant teleportation that it gave him. No flight time! He could be in Portland as soon as he finished breakfast.

...How did he manage to forget that he could teleport? He shrugged and stabbed another pancake with his fork. Must've been the headache before. If he had to guess, the sheer volume of the people had drowned out his state's voices. But he wouldn't know until he met them again. Surprisingly, his head was awfully quiet. He'd been expecting all fifty of them to give him the lecture of his life, but now he sat drowning in silence. Maybe this was a bigger problem than he thought.

He shuddered. He hated magic, but it looked like the magic he was supposed to take care of had gotten out of control, since even his states' were muted and even his own land magic was muted and cold.

Ugh. Being responsible was no fun.

"Welp, no time like the present!" He stood and stretched, preparing for a leap across the continent. Now, if he could only remember how to do it.

He stood there, wracking his memories for a clue. He was a disgrace to the Nationhood name, trying to remember how to leap across land. Did he just have to think about where he wanted to go, and it would just happen? Or was he supposed to do some ritual, or make a cool hand sign or something?

He remembered the worried look in Oregon's eyes and suddenly, he was next to Oregon's state capital building in Salem. He shivered. There was a cold presence wrapping around him like an unwelcome hug from a distant relative. Very uncomfortable, but oddly familiar. He really wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Magic freaked him out, so he had suddenly refused to study it as a little colony, bewildering England, since he had been so excited to learn it. But that was before Salem. The witch had been hung right out of him, and he swore to never touch magic like that again. But now he kinda, sorta regretted it, since he had no idea what to do about the overwhelming presence of darkened, unbalanced magic swirling around his land.

Maybe he outta call someone in.

England would be an absolute prick to work with, all smug and would probably poke his nose into his hatred for magic. America sighed. Definitely not England. He'd be a very, very last resort option. All the way down there on the list next to Russia. But maybe Mattie would be tolerable. Actually, hanging out with his Northern twin was always a blast, and he had a good excuse to call him in.

He'd give Mattie a call, after some snacks. Teleporting across his country made him hungry.

Chapter Text

Salem was kinda quiet, for a capital city. Nowhere near as chaotic and unpredictable as Portland, which, from what America had seen on the news, was getting worse. The local's motto, 'Keep Portland Weird', had been taken a little bit too seriously. Alfred walked across the Capital Building's front lawn and headed for the dying cherry trees lining the paved path to the side walk.

"Guess Oregon used up all his weird mushroom magic trying to talk to me last night." America mumbled as he pulled out his phone and looked at the time. He'd swung by a little Seven Eleven nearby and grabbed some snacks. But after heading back to the capital building and seeing hide nor hair of any sight of Oregon, it seemed like he was on his own.
Now it was almost lunch, and by almost lunch, he meant 10:45 a.m., so he had some time to wander around and figure out what Oregon had meant.

But he had an inkling of an idea already. The air was swirling with magic, and his eyes had been opened to all of the magical crap that happened around humans. Magic loved humanity. At least most of it did. Canada's magic was temperamental and was often harsher against humans. But America's magic, as far as he knew, was a touch more kind. Then again, natural disasters sure did love to visit his land more than most.

Maybe if he'd gotten over his Salem scare back when he was just a lil' itty bitty colony, he'd know what the fuck was going on.

When he'd been at the Seven Eleven, the darkened magic had seemed a little bit stronger. Well, maybe that was a clue and maybe it wasn't, but it sure was a place to start. America pocketed his phone and started jogging down the sidewalk towards the little convenience store. The crisp autumn air felt great against his pale skin. He'd been sitting inside and doing paperwork wayyyyyy too much, and now his skin was almost as pale as Canada's.

Speaking of Canada, wasn't he gonna call his twin? It couldn't hurt, but honestly, there wasn't much he could do for Alfred. But he had promised to check in with his worrywart neighbor anyways, so he might as well. Canada was a total badass, like himself, but the both of them had a whole mess of insecurities that they didn't talk about. America liked Canada. Most everybody found America annoying and arrogant, and maybe he was, but his northern neighbor had made the effort to look past all of that. Canada was insecure, but so was he. And Canada made sure to smooth over America's ruffled feathers, so America would be damned if he didn't try to return the favor.
Canada hated being left alone. America hadn't minded isolationism, but he'd burned so many bridges that isolationism had been all he had left after 1812. Canada, on the other hand, had a family that he wouldn't let go of, and America respected his fierce loyalty. America might not be able to give up his freedom for family, but he tried his best to make up for it. Loyalty, fortunately, had more than one way to express itself.
The least he could do is call Mattie and tell him what the hell he was doing in Oregon.

America pulled out his phone and swiped until he found his brother's contact and hit call, slowing to a halt under a Douglas fir towering over the sidewalk.

"Whaaaaaat." Canada's sleepy voice was quieter than usual. Did he just get outta bed or something? America checked his watch again. Oh right. The time difference. Oh well. It was only seven for Mattie, but at least he hadn't called Mattie at 3:00 a.m. again.

"G' morning, Mattie! What're you doin' sleeping in so late? Ain't you got things to do today?" America teased his twin. Mattie had always been the sleepy head of the family. Alfred couldn't help but get up with the dawn. His brother was literallly a sleeping northern giant, while America was an early bird.

"Shhhhhuut uuuuppppp, you HOser." Canada groaned. "Whaddya want? I haven't e'n had m' coffee..."

Alfred winced. "I can call you back later, don't worry about it. Just wanted to let you know that I'm on the West Coast, and won't be back on the international stage for a while. You were absolutely right, Mattie. There's something creepy going on, and I'll be darned if the states ain't involved."

"Ugghhhhhhh, okay?" Canada yawned. "Thanks for letting me know, but did you have to call at such an inane hour of the day?"

Alfred laughed. "It's already like, seven a.m., bro!"

"Mmmmmmm, well, now that you've told me, can you fuck off so I can go back to sleep? It's too early this." Canada's voice was faint, and Alfred could hear his brother shifting in his quilts to settle back down until he would come out of his hibernation sometime near lunch. America and his brother might be near opposites when it came to sleeping habits, but neither brother could stand to miss out on a good meal. At least not often. Canada would often skip breakfast for some dear shut eye, and America would forget dinner existed if he was busy with late night paper work, or gaming with Tony, his alien buddy.

"Heh, sure bro, I'll catch you later!" Alfred hung up to leave Matthew to his slumber. America might miss a couple of social cues now and then, but he knew better than to piss off a tired Canada. He almost lost a limb and got the worst tongue lashing of his life the last time he'd forgotten about Matthew's rage if deprived of sleep. America shuddered at the memory and began walking again. He sent a text to Tony's phone that the alien had left behind since Tony had gone off planet for a bit to reconnect to his family, or whatever Tony did when he left Earth. When Tony got back, he'd know America was off fucking around on the West Coast for a change.

America's citizens were starting to wake up and get ready for the work day, but there was an uneasy feeling in the air that made everyone that America passed on the street rather tense. America couldn't feel their thoughts or emotions anymore, but he could see the soured magic curling around the people in dull threads of indigo and burnt yellow. Magic didn't have a smell. Not like normal things, but it did spark an awareness in America of the wrongness in the magic. The sixth sense that black magic stirred up can't be explained to those who have never sensed it. But the closest comparison to America's normal five senses was the sense of smell. Healthy magic, if there was such a thing (America wasn't convinced on the benefits of magic yet) had a sweeter smell. Like the faint ozone on white linens that had dried in the sun for too long. It smelled good, but had warning written all throughout it's scent. Magic at it's best was still unnerving and supernatural.

America hated it. But he couldn't avoid magic, since his entire existence was a thing of magic and miracles, just like every other country on the planet. He might not be able to run from magic's alluring thrum in his veins, but that didn't mean that he couldn't hate every moment that he had to deal with the supernatural. It was an irony, he supposed, that with all of this power and magic, he was the only nation that didn't want it. The amount of power that magic had given his existence was something that would have been a boon, a blessing, if it had been given to anyone but him. America was sure that England would kill to have the power that America had.

He often wondered why he had so much strength and magic. Was it the people? Something in American culture that set him apart from the rest of history? He knew he was unique. He knew he was special. But other's before him had been special, too. So why was he so different? It was alienating, and it made him feel like a failure. All that potential, but too much fear to be able to use it.

Still, he hated magic, and if he thought too long, and let existentialism grab ahold of his big ol' noggin, he began to really hate the idea of destiny. Did something pick him out from the others and write his history before he had the chance to live it? Why was he special? Manifest Destiny sounded cool until he really thought it through.

America kicked a pebble down the cement sidewalk and scowled. He hated thinking big things that would never get him anywhere. It was as useless as a dog chasing it's own tail. There was a lot that America loved, but that also meant that there was a lot that he hated. And he hated himself above all. Mostly 'cause he got stuck on stupid, useless thoughts that made him sad or upset, especially when he had big things to do. Like now, he had some dark magic to hunt down and kick into submission until everything was okay again and he could go back to normal.

Being in the blue magic, the magic of the land, made his skin crawl. It made him much more sympathetic to many of his citizens that felt uncomfortable in their own bodies. Dysmorphia was an awful thing, and America was half convinced it was a demon sent to torment his soul, bent on gettin' him to hate his own body. Unfortunately, there wasn't much he could do about it until he kicked some magical ass and stabilized the land again.

Finally, he skipped across a crosswalk and got to the Seven Eleven that had given him the heebie-jeebies earlier. He pushed open the clear glass door and examined the place again. The bell dinged and a young woman with tired dark eyes glanced up. America flashed a brief smile at her and nodded, before meandering through the shop. The bright fluorescent lights hummed, and the smell of overcooked hot dogs and slow roasted coffee drifted through the tight aisles of cheap snacks and car accessories. He shivered. The A.C. worked fine, but there was definitely something wrong with this place. He glanced over at the cashier. She was nodding off in the warm noon sun, so she probably wouldn't be watching him too closely.

America wasn't all that sure why he had worried about being watched as he searched for black magic in the Seven Eleven. The cashier had definitely seen worse customers, and stranger things happen in the candy stuffed aisles. She probably didn't give a flying fuck what he did, as long as he didn't make a nuisance or try and rob the place.

He inhaled as deep as he could, trying to relax so he could concentrate. It had been a while since he had used land magic, and it still made him so tense that it could be hard to see where the magic was coming from. If he let his fear get to him, all the magic would blend together and he would lose the magic trail altogether. He rubbed a hand down his face and got to work. He bent down near the Corn Nuts and brushed a hand over the magic slithering through the brightly colored displayed flavors. He flinched and pulled his hand away. It was colder than his own magic, and bit at his fingers. America frowned. The problem was that he had no idea what normal magic was supposed to feel like, all he knew was that this stuff wasn't right. His own magic curled tightly around him, like a protective blanket. He might dislike magic, but his own magic rarely failed him. He knew better than to distrust something that would only work in his favor, and if his magic moved into a more protective form, then it probably knew something that he didn't.

The doorbell chimed, and in walked a family of four. Out of the corner of his eye, the magic began to pool around the slushie machine-right where most of the family was headed. A stumpy looking kid reached for the cups and filled his with bright red cherry flavored slushie, while his lanky older brother went for the blue raspberry. But then the mother, high as a kite on a summer's day, bumped into the blue raspberry kid and spilled the drink everywhere. The kid started cussing out him mom, the store, and everything else under the sun. America watched carefully. The magic swirled around the angry kid, and seemed to feed off of his anger. It pooled around the exasperated cashier and the mother who didn't seem to either notice her kid's outburst or just didn't give a crap. Then the dad jumped in and started berating the furious blue raspberry kid until it turned into a shouting match. The air got colder and colder. An eerie stillness washed over the little Seven Eleven, making the tense atmosphere worse. America shivered and winced, watching as the younger boy wandered off and grabbed a couple of candy bars and slipped out the door. America could see the headache forming in the cashier already as she slipped in an earbud and quietly turned up the music as loud as it could go to drown out the fighting family.

The magic rested comfortably around the boy and his father, like a cat who had just been fed. America worried his lip between his teeth. Somehow, he didn't think it was a good thing for American magic to be feeding off of negative emotions. It was curious that it could anticipate bad events. All things had it's pros and cons, and he could see that being useful in the future. If he could just get over his fear of the stuff, then he could use the blackened magic like his own Spidey sense.

But it creeped him out bad that his magic was feeding off of people's anger. Man, he could go for a Coca Cola and a nap right about now.

What would be the long term effects of the magic feeding off of negative emotions? He had no idea and it made him a little bit nervous. Ugh, he hated being in the dark about stuff like this. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shuffled past the family as their fight began to run out of steam. Now that the magic was fed, it pulled at him towards the door to the back of the building. He followed after it absentmindedly, and slipped though the old employee door. He found himself in a dark storage room full of musty smelling carboard boxes littering the floor and the tall rusted metal shelves. "Damn, it's dark in here." He mumbled, shifting past the boxes and after the curling magic that beckoned him deeper into the dark storage building. He shivered. It was so ominous and cold in here. "There better not be anyone else in here, or I might resort to violence!" He warned the empty, silent air. "Don't jump out at me or anything stupid like that!"

He tripped over a box and something clattered to the floor. He froze, glancing around. "U-umm, is anyone there?"

"God, I should never have come back here. It's so creepy!" He rubbed his arms and squinted for a light switch. "But it's not very hero-like to ditch on a clue to defeat this nasty evil magic." America reminded himself, feeling around for the wall. He stumbled into the wall something crashed to the floor behind him. He screeched, very manly and not at all high pitched, and started to run, tripping over boxes and a broom handle, eyes flicking around for the exit. He stumbled around a corner and spied what looked like a door handle in the distance. He squeaked and rushed over, yanking open the door and falling over himself to get out of the dark, creepy storage room. He brushed himself off and shuddered. But when he looked up, nothing was how it had looked ten minutes ago. This was not the same Seven Eleven. Not even close.

"Oh my god," He froze, eyes wide as he took in his new surroundings. "Did I just no-clip into a different Seven Eleven?"
The bright orange and faded green trim told him that he couldn't just be in a different building. This was definitely a Seven Eleven. Just not the one he'd been in a couple of minutes ago. He glanced behind him, but the door he'd just tumbled out of was gone. "What the hell?" He stared in disbelief, hands slipping out of his pockets to hang uselessly by his sides. He spun around and sprinted for the door, shoving it open. Tall Douglas fir trees greeted him, and he couldn't feel Salem anywhere nearby. He was in a completely different part of the state now. The large cement lot still had familiar gas pumps decorating it, but they were empty and still. The Seven Eleven logo had fallen off of the roof over his head and blinked orange and green slowly in the grass in front of the door.

"Damn, this place doesn't look like it's had a customer in years!" America slowly stepped over the sign and into the pavement, craning his head back to examine the place. Nothing but quiet wind responded to him. His body felt tired.
He watched the sun set behind the giant, towering Douglas fir trees surrounding the old Seven Eleven. He rubbed his arms and fought off a shiver. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Did Oregon have some kind of magical shit backrooms' problem?

All in all, not the weirdest thing that had happened to him, but it was definitely in his top ten list now. Every time magic got involved, shit got weird. America was sick of it.

He poked around the building, looking for clues, but there was nothing but dark, endless forest. He found himself back out front, looking at the abandoned gas pumps. There wasn't even a road that connected to the Seven Eleven. Nothing but forest.

Twilight set on the land. "Man, I gotta figure out what to do for the night." America sneezed and pulled out his gloves from his pockets. He slipped them back on his freezing hands and meandered back into the building.
He had no idea what night would bring to the Seven Eleven, and he knew better than to head into uncertainty without some measure of preparation. Time to stock up the fort and get ready for hell.

It's always better to be safe than sorry.

Chapter Text

The night slipped by slowly, and the crickets in the woods had Alfred on his toes. There was something deeply wrong with this forest, and he'd be damned if he was caught lacking in unfamiliar territory.
His body ached in a curious way. It felt like coming home to a strange house. He knew this land like the back of his hand, despite the fact that he'd never been here himself, but it felt...wrong. America had seen through his dreams the first person experience of a soldier returning home to a house that had changed. Same people, but it was the small things that could have you feeling like a stranger in your own walls. Furniture changing, or moving a lamp. It could be small things, but it would have his men laying wide awake the first night home after deployment. The sudden change from war to domestic could throw anyone into emotional whiplash. America had experienced it too many times, and he left that strange emotion again, squatting behind an empty rack, covering the doors with his lucky antique Colt .45.

Something approached, feet whispering over his land. He tensed and the glass front door burst open. America's eyes widened as he narrowly dodged the hideous creatures' claws. He ducked and swung, but the creature was unnaturally fast, and landed long claws into his stomach. The monster's maw opened and it screeched angrily in an ancient tongue that made America freeze in shock. He felt his body go numb, and his gun slipped out of his hands as the claws ripped out of his abdomen. A faint echo of his people screamed in fear, but he couldn't bring himself to move.
The creature kicked him, and he went flying through the empty shelves and hit the wall hard.

"What the hell are you?" He scrambled to his feet, shaken up, but he wasn't the last super power in the world without some benefits. The wound was already closing over, but the usual effects of his people's military power never hit his system. It felt so weird and unfamiliar, after years of him falling back into his people's waiting hands to lift him up and send him back into the fight, to be left with nothing but the whispers of the wind and the murmurs of the land. But he did heal a lot faster, and pain wasn't as concerning as before. It made it hard to feel upset when the land worked just as hard to keep him alive as his people did.

The creature moved slowly, rippling as if it was made of shadow. It hissed at him again in that achingly familiar tongue that he couldn't quite remember. Alfred's face tightened and he maneuvered around the creature, grabbing his serrated blade from it's hiding spot under the abandoned fridges and barely catching the claws that swiped at him again on the blade's edge. The creature screeched and it bore down on the blade. But America was stronger, and the creature wasn't stupid. It's body melted away as it realized it wouldn't win in a match of raw strength alone.

"Holy Fuck!" Alfred scrambled away, mind reeling in shock as the creature turned ghost. "Damn it, not fuckin' phantoms!"

He couldn't help it. It was a chronic kind of fear, his fear of ghosts. All sorts of people had irrational phobias, and many more had phobias that made perfect sense, often from awful personal experiences. America thought his fear of ghosts was perfectly rational. He ducked under a windy arm headed for his face and ran. All of his centuries of military training flew out the window and he was a kid running from a vengeful spirit again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered why fear could knock out all training and reasoning. Like, why? What's the point? When did it ever help someone?
He hid, shaking, behind the old cashier's stand as the ghostly monster shrieked and clawed at his jacket. It grabbed his foot and dragged him kicking and screaming out from behind the counter. Alfred was getting light-headed. His chest heaved too fast. He couldn't believe he still hyperventilated when he saw a ghost. It had been years, but all those ghost games and movies that he had forced himself to watch had done nothing to alleviate his fear.

The ghost pinned him down, and no matter how hard he struggled, there was nothing he could do against a ghost. "Damn it, why'd it have to be a ghost!" He sobbed, staring up at his death.

The ghost screeched, and he almost passed out. He really wished he did pass out, but fainting only happens when it's inconvenient.

Just as the phantom was about to dig in, a loud yowl and a fierce hiss sounded before a blur with small claws and a brave heart whirled in and hit the phantom right back into a solid form. Alfred's chest heaved and he shakily rolled onto his side, trying not to throw up from the sheer horror of almost dying from a ghost. He blinked tears out of the corner of his eyes and saw a familiar fluffy body beating the living hell out of that monster. Hero, his beloved cat, hissed and scratched until the monster howled and ran out the door, bleeding and torn.

"H-Hero?" Alfred pushed himself up as his cat turned and leapt into his arms, purring like a diesel engine into his chest while grooming his messy hair. "Hey buddy," Alfred ran his shaking fingers though his cats' soft fur, brushing off the debris from his little battle. "You really are my hero, huh? Saving me from my worst nightmare. You're the best cat ever!"

Hero kept purring.

Alfred fell back to the floor and curled around his cat, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

The next thing he knew, sunlight was streaming through the windows, and Hero was kneading his stomach and meowing. "Ugh," Alfred sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "We made it through the night, buddy."

The shattered glass was gone. Alfred blinked and rubbed his eyes. "What?" He shot to his feet. "What the hell? How-" He meandered over to the door and stared. "Is this place alive, or something?"

Hero trotted up beside him and head butted him affectionately. "Awwwwww, you're so sweet, lil' buddy." Alfred reached down to pet him absentmindedly while trying to process his surroundings.

"Man, what a rough night." Alfred brushed himself off and examined the shop thoroughly. All signs of a fight had disappeared and the dust and rust in the building was gone as well. America scratched his head, bemused. There wasn't much that he hadn't seen in his four centuries, but he'd been avoiding magic like the plague, so he had no idea if magical buildings were normal or not. But he didn't think this was normal, not by a long shot. Hero mewed and slipped behind one of the old metal shelves. Alfred followed absentmindedly, keen on keeping an eye on his cat, at least for now. Hero might deal with the supernatural a bit better than he could, but still, he had to do his best to keep his cat out of trouble.
His cat pawed at the shelves and turned to stare at Alfred with his big ol' blue eyes. A fully stocked shelf of canned cat food sat right before Hero's waiting paws. Alfred felt lightheaded. Clearly, this place was enchanted. There was no way around it.

"Jeez," Alfred ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "The hell am I supposed to do now?"

Little cat canines scratched against metal as Hero tried his best to pry open the cat food can. Tuna awaited, and Hero clearly wasn't gonna wait until his owner had cleared his mental breakdown to get his food. Alfred shook himself out of his daze and opened the can with his backpacking knife. Hero eagerly lapped up the tuna and purred. Alfred pulled his jacket tighter around himself. He'd kill to have some backup coming for him right now, but this was his own problem that he had to solve, and the sooner the better. But he was totally in the dark about all of this. No experience, no tools, and no guidance. He'd just have to make do as best he could and do what he always did when he found himself in situations like this. Stay calm, and carry on.

First, it'd be good to see what tools he had left in his pockets.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, searching his core for what he still had. In his normal magical form, the accomplishments of his people fueled him constantly. Wi-Fi and phone connections always worked for him, no matter where he was. All of the standard weapons that his peace officers and military used were always within reach by summoning magic, and occasionally, the speed and strength of his air force would aid him and his feet would fly inhumanly fast, and his punches would land harder than usual.

But now...he couldn't feel any of that. All he felt was the ancient spiritual power of the land, and the land alone. It scared him.

His people were not in touch with nature. At least, the majority of them weren't. The native peoples were far more connected to the ancient beings that sustained his very being, but after four centuries of slow disconnection from the land they called home left even the natives' connection to the earth faded and weakened. It left a bitter lump in Alfre's throat, to remember how his first people had been treated. All he could to now was try his best to make things better. But trying to do better would never erase the pain and scars of the past.
He rubbed at the scar on his left arm that had been left behind by the trail of tears. The scar was a monument to the pain that his people had been though - a truth that their tears would never be forgotten.
His mind wandered to the bitter memories a second too long, and Alfre shook himself out of his head. He focused inwards again and examined his arsenal. He could still teleport, but instead of teleporting to people, he could teleport to places. So...that was good. He could still get escape if he found himself in a sticky situation.

He was definitely still immortal. And he could sense the land spirits that governed his land under him. So he could probably safely assume that he could still speak to the spirits, and hopefully, he wouldn't have to test that out. Spirits were an essential part of his being, but he didn't like to interact with them. England treated spirits like how a nice manager would treat workers. Friends, but also subordinates. Most of Europe had an off and on relationship with spirits, but mostly, other than England and the Nordics, they didn't really put spirits to work.

Alfred feared the spirits. Not because of anything the spirits could do to him, but just because of the fact that they were supernatural. An irrational fear is still a fear, though, and it left him abhorrently lacking in close relationships to his own spirits. The States were the only spirits he had really ever sought out and built connections with, but that was before the Civil War.

Alfred flicked his wrist, and his colt. 45 appeared in his hand. He grinned, gripping his beloved gun and slipping it into his pocket. At least he still had this in his arsenal. He busied himself with checking his ammo stores in the inner pockets of his jacket. England had enchanted it for his 150th birthday to constantly regenerate bullets that matched his trusty weapon, and personally, America regarded his enchanted jacket as one of England's best birthday gifts the man had ever given his wayward son.

Hero seemed content with his tuna can, and Alfred, despite the horrors of last night, decided that the abandoned Seven Eleven was their best option for comfortable survival. So for the rest of the day, America set about making sure the old building was secure and viable as a fortress against the supernatural, at least until Alfred figured out his little problem with the magic and got the hell outta dodge. The forest was decidedly American soil, but he had a hard time figuring out where exactly this American forest lay on his land. His sense of the land felt like a compass that spun and couldn't find true north. He didn't like it at all.

He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped outside again. The sun set across from him, golden light filtering through the deep green tree tops. If he kept following the sun, he'd find the coastline. Now he knew the cardinal directions. West lay directly in front of him, and East must be behind the Seven Eleven's entrance. North and South fell to their usual places, and the knowledge of those basic directions soothed America's spirit a little. If he had to run, at least he knew which way he'd be running.

He dragged the debris laying on the cracked concrete towards the entrance and barricaded the entrance. Hopefully, that would at least alert him if another monster appeared and decided to attack. It would have to do for now. He climbed over the barricade and slipped inside.

"Are you the new employee?"

"Oh hell no!" Alfred ducked and jerked away, pulling his gun and aiming towards the voice. A phantom scoffed at him and Alfred's fingers shook around the trigger, barely holding the gun up. Another ghost??

"Kids these days." The ghost appeared to be an old man with an outstanding mustache and eyebrows that could rival England. Alfred stared, terrified. Hero didn't move from his napping spot by the window, and Alfred felt betrayed. "Youth these days never want to work. Look young man, no other candidates showed up for their interview for the job, and I'm down to my last employee who refuses to work at night!"

Alfred couldn't move. Sheer terror kept him still, like a deer in headlights. He kinda felt bad for the deer now. There really wasn't much you could do once you froze. At least this ghost didn't seem like he wanted to rip out his soul and eat it.

The ghost examined him from under his bushy grey eyebrows. "Hmmmm, you seem like a good, strong young man. Yes, I think you would do just fine for this position. You're hired!"

"W-w-what?" Alfred stammered, hands shaking so hard that his gun was basically useless. He couldn't shoot something if his life depended on it, and it sure felt like it did right about now!

"I said, you're hired!" The ghost's mustache twitched in annoyance. "You got hearing problems, or are you in shock at the good news?"

Alfred didn't know what to do, but agreeing with the ghost seemed like a good idea. Maybe if he was nice to the ghost, it would leave him alone. He could do nothing but hope.

"Kid, you look like you've seen a ghost!" The ghost laughed and shook his head. "We got some odd customers that come through here during the night shift, but I've made sure to keep my employees safe. Your paycheck might not be above minimum wage, but you'll make it through your shift just fine if you stay inside the building."

Alfred blinked. Was he really getting hired by a ghost right now?

"The door way is enchanted. I got a shaman from the Chinook peoples to secure the entrance with reliable talismans, so if a customer comes inside, they can't be misbehaving!"

The ghost looked very proud of himself. Alfred's shaky hands withdrew the gun and he tried his best to relax. This ghost was friendly, and even if he shot at it, ghosts were immune to bullets since they had no body for the bullet to hit. Duh.
"Now, all you need to do if clean the place up a bit and man the counter. Not too bad of a job, right, son?" The ghost regarded him expectantly. Terrified, Alfred hurriedly nodded. "The customers are good people, once you get to know them, and I noticed you've got yourself a trusty weapon of your own! You're a good American, boy!" The ghost chuckled heartily and tried to pat Alfred on the shoulder, but it went right through him. He shuddered and tried not to cry. Why did it have to be ghosts?

"Well, I'll leave you to it." The ghost drifted off. "We've got a cot in the back if you get tired and the customers aren't coming through any more. Stay strong, young man!"

Alfred stood in shock. He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep his jaw from trembling and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, slowly sinking to the ground. "Oh my god, I survived!"

Hero sauntered over and plopped his round, soft body into Alfred's lap and purred. "Man, I thought my citizens were kidding about those job applications. But no, they really do chase you down! And employment is scary as all hell!"

Hero just kept purring, and Alfred let his hands wander through his cat's fur, grounding himself in reality again. Ghosts still shook him up worse than a West Coast earthquake, and it had him feeling pretty ashamed. The ghost wasn't even all that scary. It was just on of his past citizens that couldn't move on from his lands, so why couldn't he get over it and stop freaking out about phantoms? Although, the last monster was kinda a ghost, too, and it was definitely okay for him to be afraid of that one. The monster from last night had been trying to kill him, so it was only natural to be afraid, right?

America groaned and stood, creeping over to where the ghost had said a cot was supposed to be. And there it was. Pillows and blankets a plenty. He collapsed into the cushioned cot and passed out. Maybe he could figure out what the hell was happening after a good night's rest.