A rather odd crossover, I will admit. But I've read a lot of Hetalia fics elsewhere that used history in them to great effect. This just so happens to be an alternate form of history.

I usually refer to the countries by their country names and not the human ones, mostly because it's easier. Not all Hetalia stuff is happy and silly, and I fully expect some folks to not like me for writing this. Edited: Hetalia's Vietnam is a girl. Didn't realize that the first time around.

This was floating around my brain and inhibiting some more just plain ol' Watchmen stuff, and I just had to write it down. And by that I mean quite a few times since ate my words a few times.

As always, I own nothing. This fic happened to take just over a week to put together since fanfiction got kind of screwy with letting me work on this at all--I cannot tell you how many times I had to rewrite most of this.

Eventually I'm going to write some straight up APH stuff, probably mostly dealing with England, France, and America. I am DYING to write Native America.

Summary: America looks to his left, at Vietnam,who is watching without a hint of emotion. Alternate History, Watchmen Crossover

America pinched the bridge of his nose, the tension thrumming through him. He hadn't slept in days, wasn't sure of the last time he'd bathed, and could not be sure of how long he could hold on until he went mad.

It was 1976, and Senator Keene stood before Congress, proposing a bill. Outside the walls, a police strike had immobilized the country, rending many unwilling to leave their homes. Absently, he checked the time. Keene continued to talk, stressing the importance of ridding the streets of the so called 'heroes' who exacted vigilante justice. When the senator finally finishes his speech, it is met with thundering applause from the floor.

America looks to his left, at Vietnam, who is watching without a hint of emotion. Hands folded, pretty mouth set in a line, still bitter than she is no longer Vietnam, at least unofficially.

She is America. A small part of America, world's away, closer to China and Japan and too close to Russia. She does not know it yet, but feels the announcement forthcoming.

Some heroes are still legal.

He looks back. Vietnam is still watching. Vietnam notices America. Eyes dark, silence bitter.

"I suppose," she says, when she finally speaks, "that Manhattan is not included in this."

America nods, half his attention on reports that the police strikes seem to be nearing an end.

"He's not a vigilante."

"He's not anything, not anymore"

Now Vietnam has America's attention.


For an agonizing second, America believes he's lost his last remaining tactic for keeping off Russia. Vietnam elaborates.

"One man brought down my country. One. My people stood no chance."

America met Vietnam's eyes, trying not to see.

"I had no choice."

"You did. You had many choices--out of pride, you chose the one where you came out the hero."

America could not speak for a moment.

"That is not a man. That is a monster. I stood before him in fear, and...there was nothing in his eyes."

A moment's silence.

"They're telling me you may be annexed. Say it's a smart strategic move."

America leaves the room, Vietnam following after. It will always be so, no matter the tension roiling beneath the surface. Vietnam is not the first that America has taken and destroyed through a quiet and undignified invasion. She will not be the last.

That night, America's hands are warm on her back, on her chest and trailing down her stomach, but Vietnam lies prone, fighting her body's response with every inch of her will.


It is 1959, and America is out in the sweltering heat of the Gila Flats. The secretary of Defense tells him maybe he'd be safer from heatstroke if he perhaps removed the leather jacket.

America only shrugged and kept it on.

It is the first time he meets this Doctor Manhattan (formerly Jon Osterman). The glow is a bit disconcerting, but it is the sheer power of this...being that all at once frightens and amazes him.

The next time he meets with Russia (angry and flustered about the alliance with Cuba), he is given the go-ahead to let dear Ivan know that there is a man out there who could end it all. And he's working for America.


It is November in 1963, and America is visiting Canada (to catch up and to console him on the strange attack on one of his recruitment stations that left one man dead), when he gets a call from a man who will not identify himself, but says perhaps Kennedy would be more powerful as a martyr. The man laughs a little, then the line goes dead.

America can not speak for two weeks.


As he is running back and forth across oceans in the 1940s, America hears that back home a few individuals are making an effort to clean up the streets in an extraordinary way. Later on he will think of it purely as street theatre while darker, more sinister things happened around them.

But now he is laughing as he shakes Nite Owl's hand, as Silk Spectre does a little turn, as the Silhouette gives him a peck on the cheek. They lift his spirit.


It is a cold October morning in New York, and America is sitting outside the Gunga Diner with the paper in his hands and a tattered copy of Hollis Mason's "Under the Hood" on the table. America likes New York--Washington is often busy, but the energy is not the same as it is here. Here America can feel the city moving, and he likes it.

Absently, he flips to the obituaries, recognizing a name he has not heard for a long while.

Edward Blake.

The Comedian.

Part of America felt like he should have seen it coming, since Blake cared little who liked him or not. America read the short column of words more closely, but the cause of death was only given in vague terms. Sounded like a heart attack.

Finishing his paper, America folded it haphazardly and left it on the table. He made his way towards the U.N. building (where England was sure to be irate at his late arrival), grazing the shoulder of a stranger with his own. America looked up.

"Oh, sorry!"

The man only stared, a sign slung over his shoulder shouting "The End is Nigh". America turned and kept walking, the man's burning eyes unsettling him too much to look back.


It is some time in the 1960s, perhaps the 1970s, after he's watched the Minutemen slowly drift into non-existence, that he hears of a new group, new heroes here and there. First he hears of a small, scrappy man in an inkblot mask leaving criminals beaten and bruised on the steps of New York police precincts. Then a successor to Nite Owl (whom he hears is actual retired policeman Hollis Mason, who is working on a book about his time with the Minutemen), and a young slip of a man who calls himself Ozymandias.

(Later England will wonder at the choice of name--one of his poets wrote a piece where Ozymandias was devastated, left with nothing. Greece tells them it's his name for Ramses II, and Egypt informs them that Ramses II was one of his most powerful rulers)

And then all of a sudden the Comedian and Doctor Manhattan are asked to become a part of this new Minutemen, this "Crimebusters" group. It doesn't quite last, since now the villains weren't theatric like before and it's a little ridiculous to show up in costume when your 'foe' doesn't.

He hears they still try to stay active, though, until the police strikes start. The Comedian is in his glory (as he was in Vietnam), and the new Nite Owl is unsure. He hears that the man in the ink-blot mask has been acting increasingly erratic; a street thug had attempted to fend him off and ended up in a coma.

Eventually, the first rumblings of the Keene act reach the public's ears. The Crimebusters all but fall apart, and the young Ozymandias (now known to everyone as Adrian Veidt) tells the public his true identity. For the others--Doctor Manhattan and Comedian--there is no revelation, because they work for the government. The second Nite Owl refuses to reveal himself, and the ink-blotted masked man is not heard from again; only hints that he is still operating as the Keene Act passes.

Eventually, there is graffiti marking disused walls nationwide. Sprawling letters asking "Who Watches the Watchmen?"


It is 1985, almost 1986, when the unthinkable happens. New York, Washington, utterly gone. London, Paris, Beijing, Tokyo, Moscow; the list goes on and on. America's grasp is firmly on Canada's hand as he stumbles to his feet. A dull pain in his heart, in his gut seems small when he realizes what has just happened.

These sudden, violent releases of radiation apparently have a very specific signature, or so his experts say.

And it indicates Doctor Manhattan.

Somewhere inside, America is not surprised, but is still hurt.

Months later, when (still supported by Canada, as his legs still feel weak) the world meets together, there is the barest thread of tension between him and Russia. Not one of the nations is unharmed--all battered and bruised by this horrifying incident. Russia's head is still bandaged, hiding an eye.

And yet when Russia stands, and lays a hand of America's shoulder, there is an understanding. Russia leans into America's shoulder, whispers apologies.

Slowly, they will rebuild, and there will be no need for war.

Not now.

Vietnam looks on, confined to a wheelchair (too close to three major sites), bitterly wonders if America might grant her freedom.

But she knows it will not be so.