Disclaimer: Really now, must we? I don't own Hetalia or America.

"What kind of country will I be?" he asks, breath hitching, hesitant and nervous and absolutely terrified. There's a prickling at the edge of his eyes; fists clench and teeth grind, because damn it all to hell if he cries in France of all places over a treaty he's hoped, prayed, and fought for. And what a silly thing it is, for him to consider crying over his own independence.

Washington only smiles, patting his shoulder in the manner of an understanding father. "A grand one."

And the boy wishes he could be that confident, that sure, of his answer.

'What kind of country am I?' he wonders, eyes focused on the smoke billowing up from the country below him.

He's strong, oh yes, he knows that. Strong enough to fight battles. Strong enough to win wars. Strong enough to eliminate a threat with only the push of a button.

And that's all it was. A simple press of the finger and the bomb is dropped and now, oh my, look at that, Japan is bleeding.

It's like something from a nightmare, he thinks, and wonders vaguely if he'll see mushroom clouds and war torn landscapes when he sleeps.

Oh, but he gave that up weeks ago. No time for sleep when you're fighting wars and imprisoning innocents and dropping bombs.

Grand indeed, he thinks.

"Wh't kin' of country 'm I?" he questions, quietly, words garbled and slurred by a mouth full of blood. No one answers; though could anyone really hear him over the gunshots and explosions?

A soldier falls in front of him, his chest colored red and face far too young. Another letter home for a crying mother, he thinks. And then, that awful thought: Is it even worth it?

But, oh, a grand country would be heroic, right? A grand country would keep the peace.

And so, the grand country rushes headfirst into Vietnam.

"And what kind of country am I?" he whispers, and doesn't know if he's asking himself or the walls.

His hands tremble and shake as if he were ill; he clutches the gun tighter, cradles it to his chest like it's something precious.

The voices in his head are screaming again, for the United States are anything but these days, and his limbs are trembling, and he wonders, is he even a hero?

And maybe, maybe he was, back when everything was black and white and nothing in-between, and he thought he was, honest to God, doing the right thing.

Back when the feel of a gun in his hands still scared him shitless.

Oh, but now, he just holds tighter to his guns and asks, "What kind of country am I?"

Author's Note: Don't get me wrong. I'm very patriotic and I love America. (the country, mind you, not the character - even though I love him too) But America has made a lot of ridiculous mistakes in the past and done a lot of things we shouldn't be proud of (but hey, every country has) and I really wanted to write some America Angst. And I do believe Alfred has a lot more depth to him that you see in the show. I get the feeling that he frequently has feelings of self-doubt and self-hatred, he just knows how to hide it.
And I could have picked a lot more events in America history but I just decided to keep it short.

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