Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the rights to the song America the Beautiful.

First fic here, so don't hesitate to leave comments, reviews, and/or critiques, as all are greatly appreciated! This is a prologue because I want to see if it's worth the time to progress it, so again, even if you dislike it, a constructive opinion would be wonderful.

"Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here." –Marianne Williamson

Shame.

Defeat.

Guilt.

But above all the other feelings Alfred F. Jones felt swirling around in the turmoil of his battered body was the sense of complete and utter helplessness, which he desperately tried to lock away with useless hope and courage. His beautiful America, the wonderful country he had watched grow into a successful nation in such a short amount of time, had fallen headlong into the black spirals of political corruption and debt, and now it perched precariously close on the edge of death.

He raised his eyes, carefree sky blue turned into deep pools of suffering, and rested them upon his flag, torn and scarred and burnt. Even though his homeland had turned into a battleground once again, after so many centuries, his picturesque Old Glory still fluttered gracefully in the small heated breaths of the wind. He remembered the day the official flag was announced, and the day Key's poem was made into the national anthem. He remembered how proud he was, how joyful and elated he was, and how those feelings came with a hint of raw passion and patriotism; he remembered feeling that the United States was truly the best place in the world to be.

But now, as he lay among the rubble of a building that used to be a famous restaurant, he felt none of that pride. Alfred only felt the blow of a massive loss, and his heart burned and his head ached and his body cried for a lost dream, a forgotten cause.

"O beautiful, for spacious skies…" His voice was hoarse and cracked as he sang softly to himself, and he thought back to when he was still a colony, when independence was a delicious and sweet concept, when it was nothing but him and his people and the endless sky above.

"For amber waves of grain…" The year his fellow Americans had finally been able to feed the whole country and still have a surplus of food was ancient history now, but still Alfred held onto that memory with faint nostalgia.

"For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain!" Was it okay to just leave like this, just die in the middle of war? There would no longer be an America…there would no longer be an Alfred F. Jones. If he left, he'd be in an endless field of ripe wheat and crisp air and surrounded by beautiful mountains; just the way the world was supposed to be.

"America, America! God shed his grace on thee." As soot floated down from the air, and the distant sounds of bombs faded, and the roar of gunfire stopped, he never felt more at war and at peace with himself. Even if he was encircled with fellow citizens wailing and searching desperately for their loved ones, even if he was pinned down by bricks and plaster that had rained down on him, even when his countrymen retaliated and were brutally killed, Alfred couldn't find the strength to rise up and fight again. Does that make me a horrible person?

"And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea!" He finished in a grating voice, letting his eyelids flutter, feeling his strength and motivation ebb away from him. They'd find him soon enough.

At least, Alfred thought, watching the sky clear to a painfully innocent blue, I lived a good life.