3:00 P.M., London, England

America had been through a lot during his time as a country. He had successfully declared independence, become a nation, started a democracy, fought (and won) more wars than he really cared to remember, and had even survived growing up on England's cooking. So, climbing through an open window was a piece of cake for the hero, right? Or at least, that was what he kept telling himself.

The window was positioned at exactly the right height to make entry as difficult as possible, and the siding was incredibly slippery, so the only way to get in was to pull yourself up using arm strength alone. Again, that shouldn't be a problem for America, the strongest, bravest, most heroic nation of all. But it didn't help that this window had barely anything to hold on to. He frantically grabbed at anything he could, which wasn't much, in what felt like his twentieth attempt at this. Why on earth did England have to make it so hard for well-meaning people to break into his house?

Panting and heaving from the effort, he finally managed to pull himself through England's window, then fell with a thud to the floor of the living room. Perhaps England was right when he suggested laying off the hamburgers, after all.

America pulled himself to his feet, and grinned in triumph. He was in. That hadn't been so hard.

"I did it!" He laughed. "Oh yeah, who's the hero? I'm the hero! Who's the hero? I'm the hero!"

Dong, dong, dong... England's grandfather clock struck three in the middle of America's touchdown dance.

"Aw, man, I've gotta hurry!"

He raced through the house, hoping England wouldn't mind if there was a little mud tracked in. He flung open the door to the basement, bright blue eyes blazing with excitement. The adrenaline rush he was getting from what he was about to do nearly overwhelmed him. Flipping on the light switch, he crept down the stairs.

When he reached the bottom, he pumped the air with his fist. He was the hero, and after today, no one would ever dispute it. He was risking life and limb to do something noble, and, for once, he had absolutely nothing to gain. Well, almost nothing...

He stopped to review his plan once more, if only to bask in its brilliance and utter genius. It was a great plan, worthy of a hero. It would ensure that nothing like the events of the last world meeting would ever happen again.

It had all started last week. England had been hosting the world meeting. True to form, it had ended in a fight, only this time things had escalated, and soon it wasn't just verbal fighting. First, England and France got into a fight over whose food was better. Spain sided with France, cheering him on, then Romano began encouraging England, just to get on Spain's nerves, and it all went downhill from there. Soon, everyone in the room was either taking sides, or placing bets on who the winner would be. America hated to admit it, but he may have sort of joined in with everyone else. Heroes were supposed to stop fights, not start them, but it was just so much fun to pick on England...

As usual, the three former members of the Axis had not joined in the fighting. Instead, Italy had continued working on his picture of a bunny rabbit, Japan had taken a novel out of his bag and started to read, and Germany had tried to get some paperwork done. Key word, tried. The arguments were getting louder, and harder to ignore.

It was then that America's memory shifted into slow motion. He could always sense it, those last few moments before the ticking time bomb known as Germany would go off. It happened at least once every meeting. Germany would switch to drill sergeant mode for a few minutes, and yell about things like responsibility and efficiency and cooperation, until everyone quieted down and—at least for a little while—got back to work.

Only this time, something felt different about the atmosphere of the meeting.

America was vaguely aware of Romano trying to strangle Spain for comparing his face to a tomato, and of Liechtenstein begging her brother not to shoot anything during the world meeting. Both normal. The three Baltic nations were hiding from Russia, who was alternately grinning creepily at them and trying to hide from Belarus (also normal).

England and France were still the center of attention, however. You didn't have to be skilled in reading the atmosphere to pick up on the fact that their fighting was no longer just meaningless bickering. However it had happened, they were both irate, and, from the look of things, they were actually trying to hurt each other.

Still, the seconds crawled. For the first time, it had entered America's mind that maybe, just maybe, he should do something about this. Yet, for the life of him, he was not able to make his voice work. He looked over at Germany, who never felt any qualms about speaking his mind. The tight-laced German hadn't moved a muscle, but he looked about ready to.

"Shut up, frog!" England's voice pushed through the rest.

"...black sheep of Europe can't fight to save his life!"

"At least he fights better than you, you wimpy Frenchman! I ought to..."

America shifted his gaze to the other side of the room, where things were no less hectic.

"Big brother, no!" cried Liechtenstein. "I heard someone say you would be banned from the meetings if you damaged any more windows or walls..."

"...kolkolkolkolkolkol..."

"...western nations will never learn manners..."

"...Etiquette originated in Korea, da-ze!"

"...maple leaf..."

"honhonhon..."

"...if you don't take that back, stupid frog, I'll kill you!"

"Go ahead and try, Angleterre..." France's voice held unusual venom. America had begun to worry that perhaps the empty threats they'd been exchanging weren't empty after all.

Then, something had snapped in the meeting room. Well, two things, actually. Firstly, Germany's patience had finally wore thin. He had slammed his papers onto the conference table, shoved his chair back and stood to his feet, ready to lay into each and every errant nation —

CRACK!

The painful sound echoed through the meeting room, and everything, everywhere ground to a halt. At first, America's attention had gone to Germany, but the baffled look on his face had made it clear that he was not responsible for the sudden silence.

It was then that America had remembered England and France. His suspicions had been confirmed when he had seen the nasty gash on France's head, and the murderous look on England's face. It seemed that, in a fit of rage, England had lunged at France, whose head had abruptly slammed into one of the table legs.

It wasn't pretty.

The nations of the world stared in shock. Romano had instantly stopped trying to hurt Spain. Liechtenstein and Italy had gasped in horror at the ghastly scene. Switzerland's gun had fallen from his hands and clattered onto the table. Even Russia and Belarus had been strangely still.

Slowly but surely, England's anger had started to wane, and his rationality had finally started to regain control. He'd stared in horror with the rest, dazed green eyes holding unfamiliar panic.

For what seemed like hours, Conference Room H had been frozen in time. No one had dared move. At last, Japan had stood to his feet, and walked over to France. Without saying a word, he had assessed the Frenchman's injuries. Someone else had gone over as well, though he couldn't quite remember who. Maybe it had been Canadia? Yes, it was, and he'd looked about ready to cry. France had not moved at all, and that had been what worried everyone most.

Germany, never one for waiting on the sidelines (or waiting at all), had been the one to snap the rest out of their collective trance. Wasting no time, he took charge and began giving out orders.

"Spain! Romano! Call for an ambulance, schnell! Italy, America, help Japan. Someone, anyone, find some bandages, we will need them..."

America had stopped listening after that, and had gone over to where Japan was. The concerned look on Japan's face had not been promising. Italy had just about fainted when he saw all the blood that was pooling on the carpet, and Japan had wisely suggested that Italy go and get Japan's bag of supplies, leaving only America to assist the Asian man in doctoring France.

The rest of the day had been a blur. The ambulance had arrived, though by then France had thankfully regained consciousness. Japan, Spain, and Canadia had rode in the ambulance with him, but everyone else had stayed. Germany had quietly dismissed everyone, and, one by one, the nations had filed out. Not one of them failed to glare at England as they passed him by. America had felt a sort of pity for his former guardian. He knew all too well what the nations were all capable of. War had proved that time and time again. Under slightly different circumstances, it could have been England sent to the hospital.

What had really bothered him, though, was the unpleasant feeling of guilt he felt as he watched England rush out of the meeting room, nearly in tears. He couldn't stop the rogue thoughts that swarmed his mind, telling him that he could have stopped this. He was the hero; he should have stepped in before someone got hurt. But he hadn't. He had stood and watched. But they all had, hadn't they? Every meeting, every time the nations were in the same room, there was chaos. And yet, no one ever tried to stop it. No one had really considered the possibility that someone would actually hurt someone else.

Conference Room H had been empty when America started toward the door. He'd turned back for one last look. The blood on the floor made him sick. He'd been in wars before, he'd seen blood, but this seemed different. These two countries had been at peace with each other. England had acted of his own accord, without orders from the government, without a declaration of war. It hadn't been England fighting France; it had been Arthur Kirkland fighting Francis Bonnefoy. That was what made Alfred sick to his stomach.

They were civilized nations, weren't they? Why were the world summits still completely devoid of diplomacy? Things were not supposed to be different now. The human side of the personifications was supposed to be the rational, empathetic part, the part with a conscience, the part that actually wanted to refuse when their government or their leaders told them to do something that just wasn't right.

Suddenly, America realized that the meeting room behind him wasn't completely empty, as he had initially thought. Italy and Germany were still there. Germany was sitting in his chair, and Italy stood beside him. Curious, America had hid behind the door and listened.

It wasn't eavesdropping. Really. Heroes didn't eavesdrop. They clandestinely observed semi-private discussions when the situation warranted it.

"Don't be upset, Germany. Japan said that France would be okay."

"Yes, I know. But, I should not have allowed it to happen in the first place." He sighed, laying his head on the table. "Italy, do you know what acquiescence is?"

Italy cocked his head to one side. "Is it edible?"

Ah, Italy. His mind was perpetually on food. America had always liked that about him. Anyone who respected the culinary arts that much had to be a good guy deep down.

"Nein, Italy. Acquiescence has nothing to do with food. It means to let something happen, and to relinquish your rights to do something about it. For example, I saw that the meeting was getting out of hand, but did nothing. I did nothing to stop England from hurting France, and therefore surrendered my right, duty, and ability to prevent France's injuries. I acquiesced. Do you understand?"

"Um... Sort of?" Italy had frowned, puzzling over his friend's words. "It's... kind of like waving a white flag, isn't it?"

Germany nodded in approval at the comparison. "Ja, I suppose you are right. Waving a white flag lets people know that they are free to do what they wish, and you no longer have the right or ability to intervene. You have surrendered."

"So, if I see Romano eating my pasta, but do not tell him that it is mine, and let him eat it, I ack- acqui- whatever it was you said, because I did not stop him?"

Germany almost managed a smile at the analogy. "Exactly. And you can't get the pasta back, either. You acquiesced the right to your lunch, and it is gone. It is the same in life. Some things can be fixed... and some cannot. France may recover, but that does not change the fact that he has been injured. His country will be affected in some way, I am sure." He sighed. "I feel horrible."

"But you were going to stop them from fighting! I saw you, you didn't want anyone to get hurt!"

"It does not matter. Good intentions are meaningless if they are not followed up by decisive action. Yes, I was going to step in eventually, but I waited too long. It is an important lesson for us all. It is difficult to do the right thing too soon, but incredibly easy to do the right thing too late. I only hope that the other nations will take this to heart. It is a shame that it had to come to this."

America began feeling the guilt again. Yes, this was definitely guilt. Right then and there he had decided that he wasn't going to disregard what had happened. He would learn from this. He could change things, and he would! The hero would make sure that nothing like this ever, ever happened again.

Germany continued speaking throughout America's great epiphany:

"All these pathetic reasons for fighting... Culture, food, personality differences, past grudges, stereotypes... It seems that all we can see when we look at each other is how different we are, instead of focusing on what we have in common... I think that if, for just one meeting, Italy, just one time—" Germany held up his index finger for emphasis on the number "—everyone could simply be civil to one another, instead of trying to start another world war, we would actually get something important done." He laughed bitterly. "Not that that will ever happen."

"You don't know that. Maybe they will learn, like you said."

"Perhaps. Unfortunately, that is something they will have to decide for themselves. We cannot force them to want to get along. All we can do is set a good example, and also step in and keep the peace when necessary. And that, Italy, I will do from now on, or at least die trying." He stood, solemnly placing his hand on his comrade's shoulder. "I promise you that. No more white flags."

Italy practically beamed. "Okay. I promise too!" He grinned. "So, can we get pasta for lunch now?"

Germany rolled his eyes. "Italy, I thought you told me you were bringing your own lunch today."

Italy stared at the ground guiltily. "Ve... Romano ate it before the meeting..."

"He what? Wait, you mean... you were serious about letting him eat your pasta? Italy..."

"I'm sorry! He looked like he was enjoying it, so I let him have it... I'm sorry for acqui- acq- ...waving a white flag! Don't be mad at meeee!"

Germany tried his best to maintain a scowl, but it was mostly pretense, and after a few moments his expression softened.

"I am not mad at you, Italy. Acquiescing your pasta to your brother is not going to do any long-term harm, except perhaps to my wallet. I suppose I was asking for it, anyway. Come on, I think we have time to get something to eat before I call my brother and explain why I'm coming home early for once."

After they left, America spent a long time walking around the empty meeting room, deep in thought. His mind was racing with countless ideas, plans, but they all seemed rather silly now. Were his ideas at the meetings this useless?

He still couldn't get Italy and Germany's words out of his head:

"...pathetic reasons for fighting..."

"...maybe they will learn..."

"...just one meeting, just one time..."

"...something they will have to decide for themselves..."

"...cannot force them to want to get along..."

It was then that it hit America. The answer. It had been there all along, but he'd never seen it before now. It was... it was genius!

And that brought him to now. That was why he was standing in England's damp, musty basement, looking for the impossible. If he could find the impossible, and make it, well, possible, then he would truly be the real hero of the world. Take that, Superman!

He looked around, searching for the entrance to the secret room where England worked on all his important things. The door was hidden in a wall, but which wall? At last he found it and pushed it open. For just a moment, he was scared that England would be in there, but the fearless American dismissed the notion with little consideration. England was out today. He'd been avoiding the other nations, for the most part, but had agreed to go with Japan to see some artsy museum. Japan, always sensing the mood, had decided it would probably be bad for England's self-esteem if everyone completely ignored him, and came to pick him up right on schedule.

England's secret room was old and dusty, but still meticulously neat. Ancient books lined the walls, probably all in some sort of order, but America still wasn't sure where to begin. Some seemed to be in another language, so he skipped those from the start. Sure, he was the melting pot of diversity, but he didn't have time to try to translate right now.

All right, I need a book of weird potions and concoctions and junk. If I were a potion book, where would I be?

Apparently, not in any of the places where America was looking. He must have scanned hundreds of titles before deciding he needed a break. He sat down at a wooden table that was covered with various apparatus that could have come out of a fantasy film. A big book was open in front of him. He flipped it shut and glanced at the title.

The Englishman's Guide to Potions, by James Dodd.

Go figure.

He turned to the table of contents, and began to read through them.

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Introduction to Formulas and Potions - pg. 3

Chapter Two - What You Will Need - pg. 26

Chapter Three - Basic Formulas - pg. 42

Chapter Four - Techniques for the Aspiring Alchemist - pg. 55

Chapter Five - Uses and Misuses of Potions - pg. 78

Chapter Six - Rules and Tools of the Trade - pg. 93

Chapter Seven - Common Mistakes - pg. 119

Chapter Eight - A Brief History of Formulas and Potions - pg. 132

Chapter Nine - Herbal Remedies - pg. 160

Chapter Ten - Love Potions and Such - pg. 185

Chapter Eleven - Sleeping Potions - pg. 201

Chapter Twel-

Wait. Love Potions and Such? Would that have what he wanted?

Well, it's not so much a love potion as it is a "like potion", but it's as good a place to start as any, right?

He'd heard England mention his book of potions, formulae, and compounds before, and had even heard him say once that he actually had such a potion that would make people like each other, but that he'd never had a real reason to use it, since, as he said, who doesn't love England?

Poor, naive, delusional England.

America flipped through the book until he reached page one hundred and eighty-five. The writing was all in really old English, with thees, and thous, and therefores, so it made absolutely no sense to America, who was now proudly living in the digital age, thank you very much.

At last, he reached the part about the actual formulas.

If thou dost wish a potion to win the heart of a fair maiden, then you must use this potion, tried and true.

Nope.

The potion described here causes whoever drinks of it to become loved by all.

Nada. Though, it could be useful, in the event he ever did something exceptionally stupid. Not that he would ever have to worry about that, of course.

This potion dost cause the drinker to sleep, until they are woken by true love's kiss.

Oh, no. He was not going to kiss anyone, no way, no how.

Peacemaker Potion

Hmm... What's this?

If a squabble doth arise

With hateful words exchanged

This useful potion do apply

And peace will be arranged

All who drink shall have no choice

But to selflessly comply

Always putting others first

Until the day they die

Perfect. This was what he needed, no doubt about it.

Still, the curse of agreeability

Is dangerous, so heed

The warnings listed here below

As thy new sacred creed

Huh? Warnings?

'Tis always better for humans

To choose to get along

So before using this take care

That thou dost not tread wrong

Wrong? The hero? Pfft. Never.

Friendship, peace and harmony

Are lofty goals, it's true

But falsified, the value's lost

And consequences accrue

Still, if the pros outweigh the cons

And you feel it's worth the price

The recipe we give to thee

And hope it doth suffice

After that, there was a list of ingredients and instructions. Some of the components were things he'd never heard of before, while others, like buttermilk, or crushed rose petals, he was definitely familiar with. For the next hour or two, he scoured England's house and garden for the necessary ingredients. Once he'd found them, he got to work on making the potion. It was slow going, but he wanted to make sure he didn't botch it up.

"All right, now I need to put it on the burner, and set it on low heat for half an hour. Got it." He set the mixture onto the warming device, then sat down to wait.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

"OH MY GOSH, THIS IS TAKING FOREVER!"

He glanced at his watch. It had been three minutes. Only twenty-seven to go.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...

America looked at his watch again. Twenty-six minutes to go.

"Oh, I'm not gonna make it. I'm going to die down here, and no one will ever find me... Hey there, little flying green bunny thing over there... Whoa, I must be going crazy, bunnies don't have wings... Anyway, tell Canadia he can have my lime green glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, all my IHOP restaurants, and my collection of records from the Beach Boys. England can have my libraries, I never used them much anyway... Oh, gosh, who's gonna inherit my house? I can't give it to England, he'd make everyone dress up in suits for work and use proper grammar and eat British food... WAIT!" America began to hyperventilate. "Oh, no, no, no, no! Who's gonna take care of Mickey D's after I'm gone? No one appreciates it like I do! I'm so sorry, Big Mac! I TRIED! I tried..."

Ding, dong...

The doorbell rang, startling him out of his depressed, slightly panicked state.

He ran upstairs, hoping beyond hope it wasn't England.

Please don't be Iggy, please don't be Iggy, please don't be Iggy-

"~Ve? Mr. England, are you home?"

Oh, good, it's just Italy.

Oh, shoot, it's Italy...

America opened the door, and saw that it was, in fact, Italy. He hoped Italy didn't need anything major. Then again, Italy was rather scared of England, and the events of last week probably hadn't helped Italy's opinion of the British man. There was really no way Italy would even think of stopping by England's house if it wasn't something important.

"Um, hi, Italy... What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Mr. America! I just wanted to ask Mr. England something. What are you doing here? Are you visiting Mr. England?"

"What? N-No, of course not, I was just checking up on everything. Iggy's not here right now, so maybe you could come back later? He went with Japan today, didn't you know?"

"He went with Japan? Cool! I guess I'll just wait here with you until he gets back..."

"Um, I'm not so sure that's such a good idea," America protested, but Italy easily slipped past him. He ran into the living room and flopped onto the sofa.

"Ve, this couch is bouncy!" Italy declared, bouncing up and down on it. America cringed.

England is going to kill me.

America walked over to the couch and sat down. "Italy, what exactly did you want to ask England?" And, more importantly, why couldn't you have gone and asked your 'BFF' Germany instead?

"Oh, I just wanted to ask him if he could use his special magic to show me how to put love into my pasta!"

Que? No comprendo, Italia… Loco, muchos?

"What exactly do you mean, put 'love' into your pasta?"

"Ve, Big Brother Spain gave me a churro the other day, and said it was made with love! It tasted so good, so I want to learn how to put love into my cooking, too! But I've tried, and tried, and I don't know how!"

America had two choices. He could explain to Italy what a figure of speech was, and tell him that love wasn't really an ingredient you could put in churros, or pasta, thus ruining his innocent view of life and love forever. Or, he could preserve Italy's naïveté, mess with the little Italian's head, and also quite possibly have some fun while he was at it.

Choice two wins, hands down.

"Well, Italy, it's like this. Love is very special, and putting it into food is hard. There's a special secret. Now, when Spain gave you your churro, what did he do?"

Italy considered this. "Well, he gave me a hug, and said he liked my football uniform…"

"Exactly!" America cried, deciding to go with it. "See, when you make the food, you have to think really hard about how much you love the person. Then, when you give it to them, you give them a big hug, and a compliment. But that's only part of it."

"It is? What else do I have to do?"

"Well..." America racked his brain for an idea. "You have to... sing."

"Ve... Sing?"

"Yeah, when you're making the food, you have to sing about the person you're cooking for."

"Oh, I do that all the time! I love to sing. When I lived with Mr. Austria, we'd sing all the time! Me, and Miss Hungary, and Mr. Austria, and..." His voice fell, and his cheerful expression dimmed. "I-Is that all I have to do, Mr. America?"

"Yep! And make sure to tell them you love them, too. You know, since it's 'made with love' and all. That part is really important, 'cause they won't know unless you tell them."

Italy rebounded almost instantly. "Okay! This sounds like so much fun! I want to try it right away!"

"Well, then, you'd better get going. It looks like it'll be time for dinner soon."

The Italian beamed. "You're right! I have to go home and make-a some pasta!" He jumped up from his spot on the couch, then reached down and gave America a hug. "Thank you, Mr. America..."

America grinned. "Just call me the hero."

After Italy left, America walked around England's house for a while. It was quiet, unlike America's house, which always had patriotic tunes playing. It was different, but not entirely unpleasant, being here. In fact, it was an interesting change not to always have something happening around him, not that he'd ever admit that to England.

It wasn't until nearly fifteen minutes later that he remembered the potion. He scrambled downstairs, praying he hadn't ruined it. It had been thirty-two minutes exactly.

"Ah, well, two extra minutes won't hurt it... I think."

He stirred the potion slowly, watching the trailing ripples. He glanced over at the book, to see if there were any more instructions.

The final piece you must add now

Just one lock of human hair

This, we feel, shall seal the deal

And you'll have potency to spare

America frowned. Well, this was new. Why did they need a piece of his hair? He grabbed a pair of scissors off of the table, and, without giving it a second thought, he snipped off a bit of his hair and dropped it into the container. He stared at the liquid, waiting for a reaction. Nothing.

"Aww, really? Come on, it should at least do something, like change colors, or explode!"

He glared sternly at the mixture. Potions shouldn't just sit there. Especially when he'd just added a lock of awesome, heroic, nation hair.

Oh.

Wait a second.

He was a nation. So, technically speaking, he wasn't exactly a human. Would that mess with the potion? He frowned. It probably had. That was why the potion wasn't working, that was why it was still just a boring pool of red liquid...

Wait. Red? Had it always been red? He could have sworn it used to be a murky grey color.

He watched the container, and was suddenly seized with a burst of ecstasy as the potion began to change again. The red began to dissipate into a creamy white, making peppermint swirls in the bowl. Then, it was replaced by a deep blue, till only traces of the white were left, dotting the navy sea. Eventually, the white faded into the blue, and did not change again.

It took him a moment to realize the significance.

Red.

White.

Blue.

The colors of the American flag. His flag.

"It worked!" America cried. "I can't believe it worked!" He began to dance around the room, possessed by the energy, the potential in the concoction he'd created. He laughed like a mad scientist, because, in a way, he was. Alfred Jones, entrepreneur and scientist extraordinaire, had found the ultimate cure to selfish fighting, and the formula for world peace. The thought gave him such a high that he was afraid he might pass out. In a completely manly and heroic way, of course. Because at that moment, there was no one more heroic than the hero himself.

Alfred F. Jones, otherwise known as America, was on top of the world.