I've had this idea in my head for a while, but I've been too lazy to type it out. *shame* But since I have writers block for the 24th Hour, I decided to type this instead. At least some good things come from writers block. Maybe. . .

It's in Arthur's PoV

"Arthuuuuuur!" yelled a feminine voice with an American accent.

'Who on earth could that be? I don't know anyone with that voice,' I thought as I turned around.

The sight that I was greeted with was that of a girl in clothes much too big for her racing at me at top speed.

"Arthur!" shouted the girl again, launching herself at me.

"Wha-?" was all I managed to get out before she crashed into me in a flying leap, causing us to both crash to the ground.

"Arthur, dude, I need your help!" cried the girl, clearly upset.

"I'm sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else," I said apologetically, trying to sit up with the girl still on top of me.

"Iggy!" whined the girl, pouting.

'Wait, there's only one person stupid enough to call me that name. . .' I thought, then, suddenly the realization hit me.

"America?" I gasped, sitting up and looking at the girl closely for the first time. She had shoulder length blond hair the same shade as before, and Nantucket was there too. Her eyes were the same deep blue, though not hidden by glasses anymore. She was a couple inches shorter than me, and was clothed in a familiar tan uniform and bomber jacket, though it was too large for her.

She pouted and nodded, crossing her arms.

"How- I mean why- I – I" I stuttered, not sure what to make of this. "Why are you a girl?"

"I don't know," pouted America. "I just woke up this morning on the floor as a girl."

"Why in God's name were you sleeping on the floor? And more importantly, Amer-mmph" I began, but was cut off when America pressed her hand to my mouth as some people walked by.

"You can't just keep calling me by my nation name," she hissed at me, annoyed.

"Well what do you want me to call you? I certainly can't call you Alfred anymore," I snapped, peeling her hand away from my face.

"But Arthur, can't you change me back?" she whined, looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Certainly not when you're whining at me this much!" I said, annoyed.

America looked at me with her trademark puppy dog face, begging me to help her. Her eyes were still rather misted over from being so distressed earlier, and her bottom lip protruded slightly, pouting.

'I'm not going to give in, I've said no to that face before,' I thought to myself.

'Oh yeah? Like when?' thought a different part of my brain.

'You know. . . that one time. . . I think. . . ' I thought, trying to remember what I meant.

'Yeah right. You couldn't say "no" to America before, what makes you think you can now?' snapped the other part of my brain.

'Oh, stuff it,' I snapped back.

America, as if sensing my internal struggle let out a small sniffle, her lower lip slightly quivering.

"Come on man, you can't say no to that face!" shouted a man from across the street that had apparently been watching the whole exchange.

I sighed, "Fine. Come with me. Why were you even in London in the first place?"

"The world meeting's today!" exclaimed America.

I groaned as I remembered that the world meeting was only a couple of hours away. "Come on, we have to hurry," I said, grabbing America's wrist and pulling her along as fast as I could.

"Let go! Let me go!" yelled America, trying to pull her wrist from my grasp. When I looked back I could have sworn there was a slight flush on her face.

"No, we have to hurry and being the idiot that you are, you'll probably end up getting lost if I let go," I said, my face heating up a little bit.

"Arthur! You're so mean!" said America, half joking and half serious.

"Also, what should I call you?" I asked.

"I guess. . . Abbie," said America, looking as if she was still pondering the question.

"Well then Abbie, you can stop walking because we're at my house now," I said, making sure she didn't run into me. I unlocked the door and held it open for her. "Ladies first."

She gave me a half-hearted slightly weirded out look and walked into my house before exclaiming, "Arthur, your house is so clean!"

I sighed and followed her in, closing the door behind me. "Sit down while I find my magic book," I told her, gesturing to the couch.

"Okay!" exclaimed Abbie, plopping down on the couch.

I shook my head as I headed to my room to retrieve my spell book. I could only hope that she wouldn't break anything while I was out of the room.

"What a cute kitty!" said a voice from the other room. I sighed as I thought about Spitfire, my poor cat who was likely being harassed by the American in the other room. He would probably just hiss viciously at her then go find somewhere to be alone.

"Hey Abbie, I found it!" I called as I grabbed the book from my bookshelf. I made my way back into the room where Abbie was, and the scene in front of me was rather surprising.

Spitfire was purring contentedly in Abbie's lap as she stroked his back. My ginger and white cat that usually hissed at anyone that came near him was actually letting America pet him.

"What?" asked Abbie, seeing me staring.

"Nothing. I'll change you back now," I said, flushing slightly.

"Okay!"

"Santo Rita Mita Meada Ringo Jonah Tito Marlon Jack La Toya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer Santo Rita Mita Meada Ringo Jonah Tito Marlon Jack La Toya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer. Return!" I chanted, spell book open.

There was a flash of emerald green light, and it looked as if the spell was doing it job. Suddenly there was a conflicting flash of scarlet, going right through the emerald green. Slowly the light dissolved.

"Why didn't it work?" asked Abbie, still sitting on the couch holding Spitfire.

"It looks as though whoever put the spell on you also put several protection spells, making it impossible for me to change you back by myself," I said, rubbing the back of my head.

Abbie pouted, but didn't say anything. Then she finally said, "What's the name of your cat? He's so cute!"

"Spitfire*," I said, still pondering what could have changed America into a girl.

"Why's that? He's so sweet!" exclaimed Abbie, petting the cat's head.

"Most of the time he only hisses at people or scratches them,"

"Really? That's strange," replied Abbie, petting Spitfire again.

"It was also the name of one of my most successful fighters in the Second World War," I said.

"Oh, I remember those! They were so pretty**," said Abbie, remembering the planes.

'She's acting so different. Is it because of the spell or is it just how female America is?'

"Why are you acting so different?" I asked, voicing my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" asked Abbie, tilting her head in confusion.

"Most of the time you would have said something like 'I remember those! They were no match for my awesome Mustangs***!'" I said, attempting to imitate the way Alfred always talked.

" . . . I didn't really notice," replied Abbie, frowning slightly.

"It's just. . . you're acting so different. Like the stars and stripes you're so fond of," I said, not quite sure how to iterate my feelings.

She laughed, "Iggy, stars and stripes might look a whole lot different but they both represent me!"

I sighed, "I guess you're right for once."

"Of course! A hero's always right!'

'Well it's good to know some things never change.'

Well I hope you enjoyed! And sorry if I wasted five (or however may minutes it took you to read this) minutes of your life. I really appreciate reviews and whatnot. . .

* the Supermarine Spitfire was one of the best fighters of the Second World War, possibly even of all time. It was 29.92 ft. long, had a 36.84 ft. wingspan and 9.91 ft. tall. It was a single engine single pilot fighter that was powered by a Rolls-Royce Merlin 45 supercharged liquid-cooled V-12 piston engine, which gave it 1,478 horsepower. It's top speed was 369 mph. and had a maximum range of 1,135 miles. It had a service ceiling of 36,499 ft. (6.9 miles) and a 2,666 ft./min. rate-of-climb. The Spitfire had four different varieties of armament: 1) eight 7.7 mm. machine guns. 2) four 7.7 mm. machine guns and two 20mm cannons. 3) four 20 mm. cannons. 4) two 20 mm. cannons and two 12.7 mm. machine guns.

** in my opinion, the Spitfire is really beautiful. It was most definitely the best-looking plane of the Second World War (in my opinion) and possibly the best-looking plane ever (once again, my opinion). It was used in the Battle of Britain and was often times the image of symbolic resistance from the Germans to the British people.

*** the P-51D Mustang was probably the most iconic fighter of World War Two. It was 32.32 ft. long, had a wingspan of 37.04 ft. and was 13.65 ft. tall. It was a single engine single pilot fighter that was powered by a Packard V-1560-7 Merlin piston engine, which generated 1,590 horsepower. It's top speed was 437 mph. and a maximum range of 2,080 miles. It had a service ceiling of 41,900 ft (7.9 miles) and a 3,475 ft./min. rate-of-climb. The Mustang had varying armaments depending on the model: 1) four 20 mm. long-barrel Hispano-Suiza cannons in wings. 2) two 12.7 mm. machine guns in the nose. 3) four 12.7 mm. machine guns in the wings. 4) six .50 cal. machine guns in the wings. Also, up to 1,000 lbs of bombs, rockets or fuel drop tanks could be carried.