It was a rather average day for America, nothing honestly noteable had taken place. He was oddly content with the boredom and, for once, a burger wasn't present in his hand. he adjusted Texas, and shifted his lucky jacket. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunkered down.

America kept his left hand on the gun in his pocket. This was a bad part of the city. He shifted uncomfortably and continued glancing around. Behind him mostly.

Each one of his precious states had at least one bad city, this one wasn't quite as bad as others, but it was dangerous just the same. He was investigating reports of a girl, hardly 15 in appearence, who had been evading cops with almost supernatural skill. When he brought the conundrum up during the last world meeting, both France and England had franticly pushed for an immediate investigation.

Having them both agree on something, and with such urgency in their voices too, had alerted the cheesy, fun-loving hero nation to action.

Footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. He shifted, fingering the gun. Peering aroud, he spotted two shady-looking guys, each gripping the arm of a young girl. She glanced around, hardly looking panicked as they restrained her. She held a calculating look in her eyes.

America sped up, nearly running. The girl halted her gaze on him, then used the men's grip as leverage to vault herself up and away.

She hit the ground running, sprinting towards the nation. When she got close enough, she put her hands to the ground, pushing and creating enough lift to catapult herself above the nation's head. She landed directly behind him, cowering.

He stopped in his tracks, lifting the gun from his pocket and leveling it at the two black-clad men pursuing the girl.

They stopped in their tracks. The girl laughed loudly, "Ha! You got big trouble now! You can't get at me anymore!"

"Freak!" the taller (only slightly) man yelled back, "You're a freak! You don't age! You don't have a home! Freak!"

She sneered, "I do so age! Your life is just too tiny and insignificant! Your life is too quick to see me!"

America whispered back harshly to the girl, "Stand down, you'll make it worse!"

She immediately shut up, saluting once before stepping behind him, muted. America relaxed his stance, not lowering the pistol's position.

"Micheal Tase, 26. Born and raised in Kansas. Left for Michigan after family's death. Nothing of note. Death: Messing with the wrong people.

"Tatum Geore, 33. Born and raised in Michigan. Never left the state. Death: Messing with the wrong people," America stated, holding himself high. He pulled the trigger twice. The men fell.

He turned back to the young teen behind him. Her face was a pale white, and she fired of a plethora of different languages, not holding to one for more than a word or two. Eventually English flashed by in her tirade of language. The words 'Thank you' so quick he barely caught it.

He placed a hand gently over her mouth, she quickly quieted down, her breathing still rapid. Almost like a panic attack.

"Breathe..." he whispered soothingly, taking the hand from her mouth and placing it on her shoulder. With his other hand he demonstrated slowing down. Moving it in time with his steady breathing.

She took to it near immediately; her breathing slowing as some color returned to her face.

"Are you alright?" America asked, his voice low, calm, and level.

She nodded, standing up straight. America finally got a good look at hier. He long brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and her eyes were the same crystal blue as his own. She had blue and white converse on, and knee high white socks. He bright orange halter-top was partially covered by a sort of half shawl. The blue fabric coverd her left shoulder and upper arm, the clasp settled on her right shoulder. Peaking out of the bottom of the long top were the bottoms of the jean shorts she wore.

It was a rather fashionable ensamble, and from what America had seen, extremely practical as well; allowing for tight manouvers.

"So I've got a hunch on who you are, but I need confirmation. What's your name?" America asked with a slight smile.

"I'm Michigan," her smile widened, "You c'n call me Mitch if ya want. It's gets kinda tiring sayin' 'Michigan' all the time. An' people don't tend t' call me anythin' but."
( A/N I'm going to stop typing it like that. It's going to get rather tedious. And don't you go gettin' angry at me. I know what a Michigan accent sounds like. I got one myself.)

America straightened, placing a hand on her head, "Alright, Mitch it is!"

She shrugged and looked down shyly, then let the smile diminish. Looking up, her smile returned full force, almost as blinding as his own signature smile.

"You know a great deal of languages, huh Mitch?" he asked as he began walking the way back to his car. Mitch trailed along beside him.

"Yeah. Guess it's one of the side effects of history. Other people, regular humans at least, probably wouldn't have the time to learn so many. So many different people have been here, I guess I just got curious after a while, y'know?" she laughed and looked up at America.

He resisted the urge to hug her, an urge he rarely, if ever, had. She was a cute kid, he had to admit that to himself, and her eyes were just like his, gleaming with possibility. But those blue pools also held an uncertainty, and the naivety that he had tried so often to fake. (succesfully)

He was a lot smarter than he liked them to think.

He laughed, "As much as the rest of us fight, I think the only language that everyone has even bothered learning is English. Too busy fighting and making a mess of things to learn anything else," he paused ot laugh, "Especially France and England! Every war, very nearly, that England's been in has been only to spite France!" He stopped, "Which reminds me. I'm going to have to call them. Eh, I'll do it later."

They talked all the way back to the car, learning more and more about each other.

America smiled, "C'mon, I'll take you to my house. I got a spare room if you want it."

Mitch smiled, she didn't exactly have anywhere to go. She looked too young to buy a house, and had basicly been living off what was available.

"Awesome!" she bounced happily for a second before latching herself to America's middle, hugging him like it was her last. Her head barely came up to his shoulder, and her hugs were crushing.

He laughed and hugged the state back, quickly releasing with a "No problem."

Her reaction to his house was shocking, and really brought home her current situation. She was awed by his little place. To be honest it was kinda big, but not compared to others. What really excited her was the crystal-clean surfaces of the kitchen. Her eyes lit up and widened. Her awed gape turnied into an ecstatic grin. He would later find out why she was smiling so big.

Ok, first chapter. I'm not going to promise anymore. But chances are (since I've already started the next chapter. I'm so sorry Cuba!) that there will be a next chapter relatively soon. I was super sick and now I'm all better. I'm going to place hiatus on all of my other stories, because if I work on more than one at once I will never finish any of them. Hope you enjoyed!

~Mattie