Rating: T for safety, and for some politics.
Warning: Please know that what is contained here does not necessarily reflect what I think about certain circumstances. Also, some States have their aliases used.
Note: With that said, I've been trying something new by doing dialogue and more interaction between States. I hope it doesn't backfire, and what the hell, this seems to be becoming a continuing series. Any suggestions for letters you'd like to see in the next alphabet? These are really good writing practice.

A

B is for bureaucracy; possibly the direct opposite of the above, unless you're the sort of person who thinks filling out tax returns in triplicate is fun. America is relatively okay pushing paper for his President, working as something half secretary, half personal aide and all personal annoyance. Some of the States do the same for their governors, with emphasis on the some, since most can't be bothered. They claim to have better things to be doing with their time, but that's a little hard to prove when your idea of busy involves the world's craziest game. Then again, most governors, like most Presidents, learn to stop asking questions about what their charges do in their spare time after enough stories are told. Still, the one of the few things that doesn't change between the States, is that not one of them likes paperwork.

C is for crabs; the kind you eat, that is. Virginia watches as the boats come in off the York River, hauling in the crab pots, most of them filled with the blue crabs that she loves so much. Crabbing has been a part the areas around the York River since as long as people decided they could eat the shelled critters, making them a part of Virginia's history just as much as the river itself. But, the best part about the crabs, is the food that someone can make with them. Crab cakes, crab dips, stuffed crabs, crab soups- to Virginia, happiness is food made from her favorite crustacean.

D is for distinction; and also for deference. There are two halves to the South, really. The so-called "Upper" South, and the Deep South. The Upper South is a little more "civilized," a little less wild, and a lot more restrained, but no still less proud than its younger half. Virginia rules there, having always ruled there standing stalwart at the Mason-Dixon Line, an old relic of the past and she knows that she's in charge and tries not to revel in it too badly. In the Deep South though, the States seem not to have leader, at least, not any more. It was South Carolina, once, the politician and planner among them, but he no longer leads, just advises for the most part. Texas is strongest of all of them, but he's never been good at leading, just acting, doing. Even Alabama, who is the Heart of Dixie has never wanted to lead. The Deep South does not need a leader, nor would it tolerate one, most likely. The States of that region are wilder, slower, radiating an air of a slow-moving brushfire, waiting to erupt into inferno, and would not care to be led. Though they bend to the Virginia when they must, the States of the Deep South are more content to at least play at being equals than to take orders.

E is excitement; they are eminently preoccupied with it, America's family. Nothing is any fun unless it involves some dose adrenaline, even those like Pennsylvania and Maryland who are more scholarly than thick-headed and danger-seeking, they still find excitement in what they do. Pennsylvania finds his excitement in his books, reading about what he considers to be "rather inaccurate" accounts of his family's history, and seeing just how they got it wrong. For Maryland, however, the excitement comes from seeing whether or not he sets winds up setting himself on fire when he mixes dangerous chemicals together without actually trying to figure what will happen first, other than a hypothesis of "It's going to be really cool when I mix this stuff up."

F is for freefall; there's only so fast you can fall. The scientific name for it is terminal velocity, and it's the precise measurement of exactly how fast something is dropping before it hits the ground, splat, a big smear on the ground, or perhaps a crater if the mass of a falling object is large enough. Everything rational in your head tells you not to jump out of the plane, but you take the leap of faith anyway because you have this sneaking suspicion that the view alone is going to make the whole experience worthwhile. But you can drop so fast, you can only speed up so much, head down, pointed like a falcon before the whole thing settles out and you're physically unable to go any faster. It's the moment that skydivers live for, when the bottom drops out and you finally, finally feel like you're flying. For Texas, he jumped out of that particular plane before he ever even knew about planes or physics, when Louisiana decided that she liked rebels and he thought she was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. It's been over a hundred years since then, and both of them have done some growing up, Texas out of rebellion and into engineering, Louisiana from precocious young thing to business suits and voodoo, New Orleans style. Despite all of that, and probably because of that, Texas finds that even today, he is still falling for her. The world around him is whipping past as fast as it possibly can, and all he can possibly think is; "Wow," happy, dazed; flying.

G is for grand; Mississippi watches her river from inside of it, a part of its flow, feeling it warp and weave and rush around her, pounding in her heart and in her ears, carrying her downstream towards the Gulf. This is power, she thinks, feeling her river sweep her, forever wild, always pushing at its banks. Mississippi has always been so aware of herself, of all her components, her parts and pieces, the things that make her her, a quality that it seems that none of the other States have, or have learned to ignore. But Mississippi cannot ignore those things, and never has been able to. In the past, that sort of awareness had caused her immense pain, and for over a hundred years Mississippi had been lost in it, unable to think for herself, barely aware of her immediate surroundings, easily led by her politicians as she had tried to gather herself, to divine which of her people was more important. The leaders came and told her quietly that it was the men with the lighter skin that were hers, not the darker men, that mattered most, and women of either race were to no importance. Veiled looks of disgust had always lingered on their faces as they said those things, knowing that they could only work around her so far, hating that she was in their eyes barely human, female and darker skinned. But the river has always been the same. Growing larger in some places, spawning rivulets in the dirt to become streams trailing away, yes, but the river has never lied to her. The river has always been there, and one of the few unchanging facts of Mississippi's long life. And now, her people are working towards a better future. It had taken so long, but they're working now, together, more or less because Mississippi is never going to see her people fighting each other again. She loves them too much to let them.

H is for healer; Minnesota has nearly always been one, and despite his absolutely shitty bedside manner, he's a surprisingly good doctor. He had started doctoring during the Civil War; too many bodies, too much blood, too much pain. So he decided then, that he was going to make it stop. Or at the least, do what he could to make it less horrible. Minnesota hadn't been very old, then, physically. Maybe in his early teens. But Ms. Dix let him run about, gathering up bandages, administering what medications they had. Eventually, he learned to stitch wounds as well as how to mend clothes. Minnesota earned an enormous amount of life skills, acting as a nurse for that war. But it hadn't been until the Great War that Minnesota had gotten to be the doctor, and no longer the nurse. That war was also what made the State the grumpy smoker he is today. And in every war since then that America has fought in, Minnesota has gone, grumbling and complaining to save as many lives as he can. When asked why he still bothers, he says that it's the inability to put down the trade he picked up 150 years ago, and that he doesn't know any other skills save sewing. That's probably a big part of it, but really, Minnesota is a healer and an optimist to his core, no matter what he says otherwise.

I is for incendiary; Nebraska is grinning. Well, she's usually grinning, but when she grins like this… Usually Michigan or North Dakota is the one to come up with the schemes in the Troublemakers. One of them points, and Nebraska salutes, then gleefully bounces off to pants someone, or to set the bear trap under the water cooler. She grins then, as she loves chaos and mischief in all its slightly more benign forms. But sometimes, Nebraska grins in a certain way that makes Michigan and North Dakota hide in the bunker the Dakotas built in their backyard during the 50s. Her eyes get too big, and she usually starts hunting around for where Indiana keeps the gasoline in his mechanic's garage, even though he's tried to lock her out of his garage many times. Honestly, trying to lock Nebraska out is slightly more futile than locking Florida out. Florida at least thinks of a new and interesting way every time to get around Indiana's security. Nebraska just cheerfully smashes the lock off the door with a wrench she found lying around and moves on. No, when Nebraska gets that look, the rest of the Midwest knows to lie low for a while. After all, most people don't want to be on the end of a grin that loudly announces "I'm going to set someone on fire in the immediate future."

J for Jets; New Jersey parades around in her green Jets jersey, strutting about happily. "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way…" New Jersey sings happily, stepping around, doing what Massachusetts assumes is the dance that goes along with that particular showtune. "From your first cigarette, to your last dyin' day…"

"You know, you're doing it wrong." New York informs her. The other State glares at him, and New York shakes his head. "Trust me. My team-" another glare, bigger this time "fine, our team" he corrects himself in a show of diplomacy Massachusetts would have thought New York was incapable of. "-And my showtunes. Like this."

"When you're a Jet, if the spit hits the fan, you got brothers around, you're a family man!" New York screeches, his terrible, terrible voice blending with New Jersey's barely passable one as he leads her through the steps, snapping his fingers and stepping in the sort of way that Massachusetts has never been able to figure out how he does. It has to be a Broadway thing.

"You're never alone, you're never disconnected!" The two Mid Atlantic States sing together, a goofy smile on New York's face, a weird sort of grin on New Jersey's, "You're home with your own: when company's expected, you're well protected!" They stride away to in the direction of the Meadowlands to watch the next game, and Massachusetts wonders if they plan on catching a cab, or just dancing their way to the stadium.

"You guys are really weird!" He calls out, but the two football fans ignore him, lost in the song and dance that in time has become theirs and theirs alone.

K is for kitchen; Tennessee hums happily to herself as she stirs the chicken soup, the radio on, the house smelling good. Her "family" is coming over to dinner tonight, Kentucky, Virginia and West Virginia, though she didn't tell either of the last two that the other was coming. North Carolina is coming too, and bringing his older brother, who has promised to be a "perfect gentleman." Tennessee's going to have to deal with some fighting later, probably, but she doesn't care too much. It's hard for people to fight when they're asking for thirds. This is Tennessee's happiest place, here in her kitchen. There's a roast ham in the oven, an apple pie cooling on the counter and Tennessee is in her apron. As Tennessee checks on the roast, someone knocks on the door, and Tennessee calls for them to come in. Kentucky walks in, his fiddle in hand, hanging his coonskin hat on the hat rack, smiling and greeting her loudly. The Carolina brothers walk in behind him, and Tennessee shouts a hello, smiling and hefting the roast carefully out of the oven. She puts the roast down and takes of her potholders, and walks into the parlor. Tonight's going to be a goodnight, definitely.

L is for luck; something Rhode Island does not have much of. The ginger-headed State is the shortest in his family, just a tall pair of shoes away from five feet, three inches tall. Needless to say, Rhode Island wears boots, all the time. Unlucky State number thirteen, Rhode Island seems to be cursed with everything his number stands for. When he was little, it meant that he was the one the other fledgling States picked on. Now, Rhode Island is still little, and even though he's older now, the other States still pick on him. Mostly, Rhode Island hangs around with his neighbor, Connecticut who at least never makes fun of him. Connecticut has lately become the chronicler of his friend's terrible luck, every freak accident, most of the oven fires, and more or less every time Rhode Island gets hit by a cyclist. Mostly all Rhode Island can do is be thankful that he heals quickly, and try to keep his dignity as best he can. Which is quite a feat, after one gets hit by a random, and when one's fear of birds also includes sparrows and pigeons.

M is for motivation; "Penn." Delaware says his name again, standing at the edge of his bed, trying very hard not to sigh. The lump under the covers groans and rolls a little. "Penn, you need to wake up." She repeats herself for the fourteenth time. The lump of covers groans louder, muffled by its own bulk. "Penn, you went to sleep at two o' clock in the afternoon." Delaware chides exasperatedly. "Two days ago." She stresses. "You've been out of commission for over 24 hours now. Now I know it's not a record for you or anything, but I can't cover for you indefinitely." She tells the lump. "Besides, there's a meeting today, and it's at my place. I even rented a nice conference room for the four of us-" The lump rolls over once more, something that sounds very close to a muffled swear emanating from the mound. Delaware twitches, then sighs, grabbing the pillow, repeating to herself that she is above resorting to violence-

-The lump that is Pennsylvania groans again, and this time an arm pops out long enough to fumble blindly for a pillow, which it throws and Delaware, connecting with her face on a lucky shot-

"-All right. Let him have it, Pete." Delaware sighs, trying very hard not to react to the enormous, malicious grin that breaks out over the face of her backup on this operation.

"With pleasure, Annie." New York replies with relish, rolling up the sleeve on his precious navy-blue windbreaker. New York whips the covers off of Pennsylvania, disentangling what he can in one swift motion. Then, while Pennsylvania shouts from the cold of losing his protective cocoon, New York dumps a bucket of frigid water over the Keystone State. Pennsylvania screeches at the worse cold, and jumps straight up. New York, laughing like a madman, bolts from the room, and presumably from Pennsylvania's house altogether if the sound of an engine turning over outside and the shouts of "Joisey start the car!" are anything to go by.

Pennsylvania shakes himself a little, shivering in his soaked undershirt and boxers, glaring at Delaware, all hints of sleep gone now. Delaware just smiles at him. "Good morning, Dan." She greets him calmly enough. "You might want to take a shower to warm up before you go out, since it's a little chilly today. The regional meeting is at my place, so you really should take the time to get clean and dress nicely, okay?" Still smiling, finally letting herself grin, just a little, the eldest State walks out of Pennsylvania's house, leaving the shaking, shivering Keystone State to his rudely started morning.

N is for New England; where there are no girls, which makes it rather like the internet. The five of them are pretty tightly knit, even giving the insular South a run for their money. The family is made up of two blonde, law enforcement-loving brothers, plus three redheads who are highly dysfunctional at best, and caustic at their worst. Rhode Island and Massahucsetts have never liked each other, which is something that New Hampshire cheerfully assures Maine when his two "brothers" start fighting in the regional meeting once again. Maine just groans quietly, and lets his head thump into the conference table as Massachusetts roars after the smallest State waving his bat around as if he's going to brain Rhode Island with it, which is altogether possible. He figures it's only going to be so long before Vermont runs out of patience and breaks up the fight with a scary smile and two pairs of handcuffs.

O is for overhead; Kansas looks up at the sky above the prairie, blue in the same shade as his eyes, lying comfortably on his back, watching the clouds go by. A slight wind runs through the grasses, rustling the high yellowed stalks, a familiar hum of noise that comforts the State. Kansas closes his eyes and breathes in, drawing in the scents of the wind and the grass. Nothing is still out here, and yet it is the most peaceful place he has ever found in his many travels and inhumanly long life. Kansas opens his slowly, looking back at the clouds, looking for shapes, omens and dreams, immersed in the prairie, and surrounded by a land that is closer to heaven than anything he has ever known.

P is for preposterous; "Hey, did you know that the penny is only made of copper on the surface?" Michigan says to Texas one day, reading a magazine while minding the front of Indiana's garage. Texas is here to loiter around, and maybe help Indiana fix a car or two, and also to bring over a few sketches of designs he wanted to show the Michigan and the mechanic State. Indiana is in the back room, changing the oil on a customer's minivan, so Texas is sitting out front while he waits. "It's actually tin once you get into its core."

Texas looks up from his blueprints at the sound of Michigan's voice. "Yeah, ya didn't know that, Michigan?" He responds, slightly confused.

"Of course I did!" Michigan smoothly lies through his teeth. "But, uh, hey, why is it tin on the inside?" He asks the cowboy curiously. "I mean," he covers for himself, "I know, but I want to know if you know."

"Oh." Texas says, accepting Michigan's lie without question. "Well, it's 'cause if they made the penny all out of copper, it would cost eight cents to make." Texas explains. "Considering it's only worth one cent-" The tall State gears up for a ramble, his eyes starting to get far away behind his glasses.

Michigan, recognizing the signs, swiftly cuts the cowboy off. "Yeah, I get it. I'm in sales, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah." Texas says, returning to his blueprints after a moment of silence.

The silence lasts for a couple more minutes as Michigan stares at the magazine, the wheels in his head turning almost audibly. Eventually, a light bulb turns on somewhere in his sharp businessman's mind. "So, if it costs eight cents to make a penny out of copper, and the dime is smaller than a penny, it should only cost around six or seven cents to make a copper dime, right?" Michigan thinks out loud, those wheels still turning.

"Well, yeah, I guess so-" Texas starts with a frown before Michigan talks over him again. 'Rhetorical' doesn't mean much to Texas.

"So why don't they just start minting copper dimes, and make a killing?" He asks no one in particular, a pointy little smile appearing on his face. Texas looks up at his friend, spotting the telltale expression that signifies one of Michigan's infamous Plans. "I mean, if you started putting out dimes that were physically cost less than their economic worth, then that would help out our overall economy, since we'd be spending less at the mints." Michigan continues to speak, absently jotting down the figures on his magazine with a nearby pen. "Heck, we could even recall people's dimes, and melt down the silver."

Suddenly, the prankster State stands up from his seat behind the counter of the garage storefront desk, causing the chair to go toppling over. Texas winces at the noise, and watches disturbed as Michigan stares into space with an oddly focused look in his eyes, the magazine full of figures in hand.

Texas frowns and tries to warn his friend of his mistake before he can leave. "Michigan, I don't think dimes-" but before he can finish the thought, Michigan cuts him off again.

"Mind the store, will you, Tex?" Michigan says absently, walking out of the store. "I gotta go talk to some people; maybe Florida." With that, the prankster State had gone.

"What's up?" Indiana announces genially as he walks into the room, wiping his hands on an already oily rag, victim to unfortunate timing. "I heard a noise-" Indiana thinks about that for a moment. "Oh no." He continues the thought, his stomach dropping. "Where's Michigan?" The mechanic asks Texas, sounding frustrated, and just a little bit worried, his face starting to pale. "Am I going to have to pay his bail again? Because the last time he left without telling me on some screwball scheme of his-"

Texas cuts off the harried mechanic as he begins to look truly worried and uncomfortable. "Don't worry about it, Indy." Texas tells him, going back to his blueprints. "At least, not anymore than you normally would, 'cause, ya' know…" Texas gestures with an expression that's half grin, half grimace. "…Michigan."

"That doesn't help at all!" Indiana half-shouts.

Texas just shrugs at the mechanic. "Look, I don't think he'll be able to get anything done anyway, since he ran out before I could tell him that dimes aren't really made of silver anymore."

Indiana looks at Texas in blank confusion for a moment or two before throwing his grease-stained hands up into the air. "You know what;"

Texas almost, almost asks; 'What?' But he doesn't. Sometimes, Texas is able to read the atmosphere, and when he does catch glimpses of what other people instinctively understand, he pays very close attention to listening to what he glimpses.

That's it." Indiana declares, exasperated. "I give up. Michigan can go and get himself arrested on his own time. Next time he shows up, I'm locking him out."

Q is for quirky; West Virginia has always been perplexed by Maine's hobbies. He knows that his friend is really a huge nerd, but he still likes him anyway. That's probably a big part of why West Virginia likes him, even. He's just never thought about it much, honestly. Maine is Maine is Maine, and that's all that matters, right? He loves long Star Trek marathons and the collection figurines in his bedroom, his job as Naval Intelligence and watching the sunrise in the morning because out of all the States, he's the one that gets to see it first, and so he wakes up early every morning to watch it, even when it's stupidly cold out and he turns blue. Maine loves coffee to a fault, drinking enough that it would damage the kidneys of an ordinary human, probably. He loves lobster and snow cones and corny movies with bad effects like Godzilla which West Virginia does think is kind of awesome. Maine isn't nearly as much of a quiet guy as most people think he is when you get him away from his family. And that's definitely one of the biggest reasons that West Virginia and Maine are still friends after so long and being so different; Maine stops West Virginia from doing something stupid, and West Virginia tries every single day to get Maine out of his shell. Even if Maine can only be himself when almost no one else is watching, west Virginia doesn't care. It's one of the things they talked about after about 50 years of being friends; they're in it for and because each other's quirks, not in spite of them.

R is for rivalry; The Carolinas have been getting one-upped by Virginia since before any of them appeared. Roanoke versus Jamestown. The Lee's Virginia Plan beating out South Carolina's Pickney Plan by less than a minute and mere chance of who was called to speak first. And at what he had at one point considered his most glorious moment, Virginia had pulled the rug right out from South Carolina and found herself the sudden crux of the Civil War. Just the thought of how thoroughly she had managed to steal an entire war from him makes South Carolina subconsciously grind his teeth in frustration. He and his brother have long been rivals of Virginia's, though North Carolina does not care as much as his older brother. But South Carolina seems to be forever fixated on how Virginia has constantly bested him in life and in history. The worst part is, though, is that it's all been by complete and total accident. Virginia doesn't have the faintest idea about the Carolina brothers' "glorious rivalry" with her, and the brothers know she doesn't know, too. It's kind of pathetic really.

S is for spring; Alaska sits next to Nevada on a park bench one spring day in Philadelphia, relaxing quietly after the chaos of the States' meeting. It's not too warm for Alaska, and it's not too cold for Nevada. This time of spring, when the snows are melting on the east coast and winter gives up its grip is the perfect time for the two of them. It's a balance between the harshness of winter of the softness that comes with spring. The two States sit together watching people go by, a little overdressed after the meeting, but not minding it terribly. Pennsylvania was the one to host this latest meeting and had promptly slept through it after his opening statement. New York had said something obnoxious and gotten punched by Virginia for his troubles. Colorado had turned a rather spectacular shade of red next to Nebraska, who once again must have said something lewd, judging from the size of the grin on the ginger's face. Eventually, everything had dissolved into shouting once South Carolina started filibustering, and Pennsylvania had adjourned the meeting once Delaware elbowed him in the face to wake him up. All in all, it was a fairly standard meeting for the 50 States, really. So now, after all the shouting and insanity, Nevada and Alaska are content to just sit on the bench in a park near the hotel they're staying at, watching life go by in the changing season. S is also for the silence; the contented kind that comes when two people don't have to say anything in order to speak.

T is for teaching; "One, two, three, one, two, three." Georgia counts serenely in her studio. She has her littlest "brother" firmly by the hands and is moving gracefully to the sounds of the music that's coming out of the boom box the Virgin Islands is holding in her lap. "See, it's just a few easy steps." Georgia says encouragingly to American Samoa.

The Territory shuffles around uneasily in the oversized combat boots he was given for Christmas last year, making the sort of disgruntled face only young boys know how to make. "This is stupid. I don't want to learn how to ballroom dance." He complains as Georgia leads him around the floor of her dance studio. "I'm bad at dancing anyway."

America left the Territories and Commonwealths at Georgia's house for the week since he had to go overseas for business. Normally either Tennessee or Delaware would be watching after them in America's absence, but right now, Tennessee is somewhere in the Everglades hunting for her kitchen which suddenly went missing last week presumably from Florida related weirdness, and Delaware is enjoying a well deserved vacation from her family's insanity in an undisclosed location in order to prevent said familial insanity from catching up with her. Which in plain English means Georgia has to watch the kids while America is gone, because anyone else who would do it is busy.

"Don't be such a baby. I teach kids half your size how to do this." Georgia chastises the sulking Territory as she sweeps him around the floor of her studio. The little Territory is anything but graceful and he really doesn't seem to be enjoying this at all, but if Georgia has to watch the kids, she's going to teach them something, useful dammit. Like the waltz. Waltzing is always useful at formal functions like government dinners. Because Territories that look about eight are definitely going to have to go to a government event. Yes.

While Georgia's thought process takes a complete and utter turn from what others would consider sane, American Samoa gets a look like a light bulb went on over his head. He opens his mouth to say whatever it is he just thought of, but Georgia cuts him off in a singsong voice, her eyes still shut. "If the next words out of your mouth are that 'this is unauthorized,' you're learning how to gavotte next." American Samoa's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Georgia smiles at him as she returns to counting. "One, two, three."

U is for ululate; it always comes back to football. Outsiders looking in can hardly understand the rules to the game, or why it should matter so much, as after all, what hell is a down anyway, and why do you need four of them to win? Besides, the name football is already taken, by a far superior sport, or so says the entire world outside of America's family. Rugby is infinitely more satisfying, and England and his family scoff at the mere suggestion of a helmet. Honestly. Helmets. But America doesn't care, and the States don't care, and they certainly never will. Because all it takes is a Hail Mary pass into the endzone and the States are screaming, adrenaline pouring through their veins whether they watch or play. Baseball might be the national pastime, but football has the entire family gripped by their heartstrings.

V is for vicious; America stumbles. He does it often, and with some consistency, in regards to nearly everything he touches. Parenting is not excluded from the list of his duties he has in the past fallen short of fulfilling with adequacy, and on some level, he knows it. By some miracle, he succeeded with the Philippines, and though Hawaii has forgiven him for her mother, though America doubts that Puerto Rico will ever trust him completely, and Oklahoma will most likely never forget what was done to his uncles at America's hand even if he has forgiven. And it is not only his children that he has injured, but his friends as well. England, Mexico, Japan- America thinks he cannot entirely forget what he did to that last. But he does not regret, not quite. He has forgiven Japan, and likes to hope that Japan at the least understands why he did what he did. America's greatest weakness has always been his children. It had taken that war to make America realize that the non-continentals were just as much a part of his family as any of the other States had been as Territories, as well as the fact that he would go to any length to keep them safe. Hawaii to this day remembers the way America had looked at her when he had found her after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the way his eyes had been blazing as he had bled from multiple wounds, because she had not been the only one attacked on December 7th, the way they he had chased all of his own pain out of his eyes and replaced them with the fire of a raw, raging industry suddenly controlled and given a purpose. The Philippines remembers the day America had sworn that he would return to her after it seemed Japan had won, the way his voice had nearly broken as he had retreated. She remembers the day that he had returned, storming up the beaches to find her, hunting like a man possessed for the young girl he had left behind, eyes wild and haunted, so far from triumphant even at the moment of victory. And Guam remembers the day that America had taken him up and pulled him into that familiar bomber jacket, hissing lowly to Japan that he must leave, and never threaten one of his children again. They all remember blue eyes burning with cold steel and fierce protection, a giant woken to defend what was his.

W is for welcoming; Iowa's got his own brand of hospitality, that sort of stops at welcoming you to his house, and then kind of peters out awkwardly rather quickly from there. Iowa's stupidly stubborn in an odd sort of passive aggressive way, and not so great at making concessions. He's got a lot of peculiarities about him, and tends to like people who can be just as stubborn as he is. He likes contrariness, and people who others would usually find unpleasant, which more or less explains his good friendship with Minnesota, the utter grouch. Still, once you Iowa decides that he likes you, you've got an ally you can count on for life.

X is for xocoatl; also known as chocolate. The kids from the Mexican Cession brought it into the family first, bitter as all hell and as they claimed, good for you. Of course, those two things never last long around America, who loves his coffee full of milk and sugar and when he can manage it, whipped cream for extra fattening power. In any case, it wasn't long until chocolate became a new family favorite. The bad decision, of course, might have been introducing Pennsylvania to the new sweet, and letting him to improve it. It had been something that Delaware really should have seen coming and prevented. Because after his first bite, the scholarly second State's eyes had gone wide open and manic, and Pennsylvania found himself a chocoholic for life.

Y is for Y2K; A lot of the States had done their share of stocking up for the inevitable end of the world in 1999. They had gotten the shotguns, and the canned food, filled their bathtubs with water, and, frightened, waited for The End. When The End had not come, the ones in their bunkers had looked at each other, and laughed. The gullible ones, the silly ones, the prepared ones; they laughed. They turned red, embarrassed, but they'd all had the good grace to laugh about it, and make jokes. How stupid they'd been, they'd told each other. How silly they'd been to believe that the world was ending. Now, of course, it comes close to 2012, and it only took Mexico and his States maybe three to five calls each about a certain calendar before they learned to stop answering their phones entirely when receiving a call with an American area code.

Z is for zain; Wyoming looks at the stallion, all thunder and storm driving winds. It snorts, it rears, it stares at the State, knowing that she will try to ride it, to break it. The stallion very much does not want to be broken. It will fight her to the ends of the Earth if she even entertains the thought that she could tame. Wyoming smiles at it. She doesn't want to break the stallion. After all, taming the creature would take the lightning out of it, that magnificent-purple-quicksilver-fire. Taming the stallion would make it just a horse. No, Wyoming doesn't want to break the stallion. She wants to ride it. So she smiles and the creature stares back, challenging the State, snorting in defiance. Wyoming mounts the stallion her, blood humming in her veins, and someone unlatches the gate, and the stallion bolts free, into the ring, into the camera glare; into glory.

Historical Note(s): In H is for healer, the Ms. Dix reffered to is Dorothea Dix. Look her up, if you don't know about her. She was pretty awesome, as a reformer for insane asylums, and also as a nurse during the Civil War on the side on the Union. But, despite being on the side of the Union officially, she also treated Confederate wounded equally, most notably when Lee left 5,000 wounded behind at Gettysurg, and Dix's nurses cared for them, saving what lives they could in the abysmal conditions.