The only thing odd about the marathon this year, Owen was thinking as he reached the 40k marker, was that Sam wasn't ahead of him, mocking him and bragging about how fit they were thanks to all of their lacrosse playing.

Instead, Owen was running with Vicky, Sarah, and Taylor. Vicky had passed the three of them around the 20k marker, and Sarah had pulled ahead as Owen and Taylor faltered on Heartbreak Hill. And now Taylor was a few dozen steps ahead of him.

If Sam were running next to him, they'd laugh at Owen for losing to their younger sisters, regardless of the fact that they'd be losing too. But Sam was waiting with Zach at the finish line, and the sooner Owen got there, the sooner Sam would drag him away to eat at some restaurant in Old Boston.

But then something went wrong.

A searing pain engulfed his chest, just as he entered Boston. He fell to his knees, mouth flying open in a horrible effort to bring oxygen into his burning lungs. He screamed as another wave of the pain crashed into him, echoing with the sounds of those at the finish line as the second bomb went off.

Cold hands pushed at his face and body, rolling him over so that he was on his back. He was still gasping and if he squinted he could just make out the silhouette of Taylor, leaning over him, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder. She was shouting at him, but she must have been speaking an indigenous language because he couldn't understand her. She was going through his pockets. He slid his eyes shut for a second, but jerked them back open when she slapped his cheek. She had his phone in hand and was talking into it really fast. She had her other hand on his wrist, gauging his heartbeat.

It was getting harder to breathe, but Taylor, once she was finished on with her call, grabbed his shoulders and hefted him to his feet, letting him lean heavily on herself. He struggled to walk properly, but in the end Taylor was more or less dragging him to the sidewalk and out of the street.

There was so much noise and confusion in the air around where Owen now lay. He didn't understand what was happening or why. The darkness behind his eyes was silent and understandable

It was terribly rude for America to accept a call in the middle of his presentation. Obviously the fool had never learned proper etiquette.

England huffed and crossed his arms tighter around himself. Well this was a waste of time. The conversation itself wasn't making any sense, for America did not speak much, just listened. And just before he hung up, the blood drained from his face and he said very curtly, "I'll be right there. Don't move."

He put his phone away and faced the group of nations assembled in the UN assembly in Manhattan. He looked lost, completely lost for words and unsure of himself. England immediately sat up straighter. Before anyone could get in a word past their shock over America's face, Canada stood up and walked over to his brother.

Canada opened his mouth, but America shook his head. "I know."

"What happened?"

America glared down at the table. "Boston was bombed. I-"

Canada took a deep breath. "Okay. Who was at the marathon today?"

America's mouth moved soundlessly for a second, almost as if the words were bringing him immeasurable pain. "All of New England."

"Who called you?"

"Taylor; she was with Owen and he just collapsed. Sarah and Victoria were ahead of them- she thinks that Victoria must have finished. Sam and Zach were waiting at the finish line. Sam's got that ankle all bunged up-"

"That's not what has you so worked up," Canada softly interjected, peering into his brother's cloudy blue eyes which he kept angled away.

America looked at his brother over the rim of his glasses. "She called me dad," he said, his breathing shuddering out along with his sentence. "'Dad please, I don't know what to do'. She hasn't called me dad since I found her in Rye, Odiorne Point."

"Does your boss know?" Canada asked.

America slumped over the table. "I don't know. Matt- I need to be there for them."

"You have a nation to care for too," Canada reminded him gently. When America jerked up, Canada held up a hand. "I know, I know, Vicky and Sam are your babies. But they're almost 400 years old, they can function without you having to rush to their rescue.

"Call your president or Congress or whomever you need to call," Canada said, a hand on America's shoulder.

"What is going on?" England snapped from his seat.

The two looked over at him, as though they had forgotten that they were in public. America looked at him once, and turned away, hands running through his hair. Canada smiled slightly and raised one finger. He turned back to his brother, fishing in his pockets for his phone.

"You call your president, call Tom-"

America turned to Canada. "Why am I calling Tom?" he asked as he dialed his president's cell phone.

"Because you need someone to take over for you, and I don't think that Chloё can get here that fast. I'll call Nathan and have him come down here and help Tom out, okay?"

"I don't want Tom to be dragged into this," America hissed. "Dammit voicemail." He hung up.

Canada rolled his eyes as he fiddled with his phone before raising it to his ear. "I don't want to involve Nathan either, but I don't trust- think I meant think- don't think that Tom will be okay here by himself. Especially once he finds out what happened to New England."

"What will he do?" America asked, mocking his brother's knowledge of Tom's behavior as he called the latter.

"He will either flip his shit or go into catatonic shock," Canada said before turning away slightly. "J'ai besoin de vous pour venir à New York dès que possible. Il y a eu un acident et nous avons besoin de vous et Tom à remplir pour nous."

America rolled his eyes at his brother and turned to the countries. "I'm sorry for the interruption. But..." he hesitated, not sure how to word it. England sat forward and he and France exchanged confused and slightly concerned looks. "Ahem...uh one of my cities was bombed and I need to be there. Canada and I are going to the city; we're contacting representatives to-"

"Representatives?" was hissed cruelly from the front doors of the conference hall. A dark haired boy, one lone curl flying out at the base of his neck, with angry faded turquoise eyes that glared at America, stood in the door with one other. He wore a red turtleneck, a black windbreaker, dark skinny jeans, and high tops. He had a pair of headphones around his neck. The second boy had dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail, a red bindi in the middle of his forehead, and bright hazel eyes. He wore a pressed white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had brown slacks on with red suspenders. Where the first boy was clearly irritated, verging on furious, the second boy was relaxed and a little expectant. "I'm a representative?"

America cringed from where he stood. "Tom!" he cried, trying to feign happiness. "I was just about to call you."

"When are we going?" the first boy asked as he marched over to America's side. The second boy smiled cheekily at the nations before doing a double check. His smile dropped off his face.

America laughed tersely. "What do you mean, Tom?"

Tom stared at him and then glanced over his shoulder as his companion. He glared back at America. "I know you know that Boston was bombed."

"Tom-"

"We have to go help them. Owen's probably-"

"Tom-" "-in a lot of pain right now, and Sarah, Taylor, and Victoria were running with him-" "

Thomas," America insisted.

Tom stared at America. "What?"

"Can we talk about this in the hallway, please?" America asked tensely. Tom obviously didn't understand why, but he allowed America to escort him out of the conference room.

The other boy approached Canada once America and Tom were gone. "How're you, Ottawa?" There was a distinct lilt to his voice, different from the accent in Tom's voice, but very similar.

Canada nodded softly. "Good. And you? Did you make sure he didn't completely destroy anything on his way here?"

The boy tilted his head. "Well, a certain vase a couple gave me in the 80's will never be the same, but," the boy shrugged, "I never really was a fan of pottery. That's more Ella's speed."

England frowned. The boy couldn't be more than a few years out of high school. How did he receive a vase in the 80's? "Who are you?"

The boy turned his attention to England, the easy smile he had with Canada wiped away from his face. "I'm-"

Canada coughed into his fist. "Policy 17nk87os."

Policy...?

The boy rolled his eyes. "As I was saying my name is Aidan Jones. I'm the son of the governor of New Jersey. My companion is my cousin, Thomas Jones, the son of the governor of New York."

"How old are you?" England asked.

Aidan rolled his shoulders. "I'm eighteen." England was really confused. And besides, how many Americans had the last name of Jones, exactly?

"Why did America call you?" he asked suspiciously.

Aidan paused. "Um..."

"That's my own private business, England," America said curtly as he entered again with Tom behind him. Tom's cheeks were red, his eyes rimmed with pink.

America stood next to Aidan, a hand on his shoulder. "You've introduced yourself to them, yeah?"

Aidan nodded.

"Okay," America said and then leaned in and conveyed some secret message as quietly as he could. When he was finished, he looked at Canada. Canada nodded to him. America flashed a smile at the assembled nations before leaving with his brother.

Rather rapidly, England mused.

It took him less than a minute to make up his mind that he was not letting America get away that easily. One quick glance at France made it clear that they were on the same page. France leered at him before standing and sauntering out of the room, England on his heels.

Victoria was scared. There was chaos surrounding her. Someone was screaming as though their body were being burned away. In between the screams, there was a horrifying noise that sounded as though that same person were trying to hack up a lung and, at the same time, trying to breathe.

There were shadows above her, talking, shouting, whispering, crying, laughing, Victoria didn't know anymore. They were reaching for her. Her eyes slid shut, but flew open as the worst scream yet hit her ears.

The people were lifting her up and setting her into a stretcher, carrying her away from her place on the busted up rocks. But the noises followed her.

It was only when she was placed on a bed in an ambulance, just before her eyes shut, that she realized she was where the sounds were coming from.

Canada wanted to smash his head into the nearest surface after he heard France and England catch up to them.

Oh great, he thought bitterly, here comes a fight.

America, probably thinking it was Aidan or Tom, turned around at the first sound of running feet. When he saw who it was, he turned right back around and marched on faster. Canada followed him, watching with great apprehension as America ignored England. France was quiet, almost as if he was also assessing the situation, trying to see what exactly was up with America. It was a face he most commonly had around Canada.

England grabbed America's hand just as the latter was almost to the front doors of the building.

America tensed up considerably, but did not do anything other than snap, "Let go of me."

England didn't. "I want answers. If you think I'm going to let you go that easy then you have another thing coming for you."

America really tensed up, his eyes taking on the light they had when they were in Afghanistan, the night his men stormed the safe house of Osama bin Laden.

Well pute.

"England," Canada piped up, "I think you sho-"

"Let go of me," America repeated, obviously taking care not to punch England in the face. He wrenched his arm out of his hold though.

England gave him a weird look, but took a step back.

America turned around. "What?" he all but snarled. "And keep this short."

Canada had to hand it to America; he was obviously worried, out for blood, and stressed out of his mind, but nothing was broken. He was doing better than Tom.

"Who were those people?" England asked.

"Ask them yourself," he snapped. "They'll be happy to answer you."

Canada sighed. "They're the children of the governors or New Jersey and New York."

England pointed back up the stairs. "That boy -what's his name?- Aidan, said that he got a vase from a couple in the 1980s. He then said he was eighteen. You," he said pointing at Canada, "also mentioned something about someone being almost 400 years old. That's not an average life span for a human. I would like to know what the hell is going on right now."

America looked ready to pounce, whether on England or Canada, the latter really couldn't tell. "It's none of your fucking business." He turned to storm out of the building, but Canada stopped him, a firm hand yanking him back by his shoulder.

"Alfred, please think for a moment," he whispered. America glanced at him, still angry, but willing to listen at least for now. "There are six of them, yes?" America nodded. "We know that Owen's down. We know that Taylor is up and able. We don't know where the other four are or if they're up. We don't have to tell them anything, but don't you think it'd be better if we had at least a two more eyes?"

America pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fine! Fine," he growled. "I'm going to get a cab."

"We going to JFK?" Canada asked as his brother pushed the doors open.

America snorted. "Oh hell no. We're going to LaGuardia. Breif them in thirty seconds."

Canada turned around and smiled sheepishly at England and France. England was frowning, irritated at having his questions be so easily dismissed, but intelligent enough to know that America was one word away from kicking his ass back across the ocean. France still had his earlier expression woven across his face.

Canada cleared his throat and all attention was on him. "There were two bombs that went off in Boston. America had some people who are important to him in the race to Boston, but we can't contact them. We're heading there now to try and find them. We would like your help finding them, if you do not mind. Afterwards, America might answer any questions you have."

France smiled at Canada. "Of couse we will help Amérique. How are we getting to Boston?"

Canada shrugged lightly. "I think we're taking an airplane. But it is America we're talking about. He always has a trick up his sleeve."

Chapter Title: Green (In the Western World, green can symbolize misfortune, and in the Eastern World, it symbolizes family) - Delaware Munsee language other colors here: /munsee_

(Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya. The states' are my oc's.)