oh, lookit you, little random one-shot, what will i do with you . . . . . . I'LL POST YOU ON FF!

Alfred sat by idly as his little micronations scuffed across the White House lawn for dominion of the football. Grumpy Molossia had, at first, denied the act of playing, calling the game crude and childish. "Why do you encourage them?" the micronation had protested. "This is a horrible game of oooh-let's-tackle-each-other-and-break-our-legs-and-collars-over-some-stupid-ball!"

Celestia teased him, saying that he didn't like to have fun because it would ruin his "amazing" hairstyle. "Do you know how long it takes to get my hair this awesome?" Molossia retorted. "The pomp-hawk is an ART!"

"Don't let Kugel hear you say that!" Celestia warned, shaking a playful finger at his nose while a wide smile graced her delicate face. She spun the football in her hands as she said, backing up, "He'll be sure to tackle you to the floor and insist that you tell him how it's done! That'll definitely ruin your hair!"

Molossia growled and charged after her, his green military jacket flying from his shoulders. "I'll show you how difficult it is!" he roared as she evaded his heavy tread with feather-footed steps.

Alfred couldn't help but laugh. "Come off it, Mol!" he said as the other micronations joined in the newfound game of tag.

The NFA snatched Molossia's jacket from the crisp green grass and flung it over his head. "Lookit me everybody!" the archipelago yelled. She puffed out her chest and paraded around like a gander, howling in a deep, gorilla-like voice, "I'M Molossia! I only allow ten visitors a year while I spend the rest of my precious time pampering my dog and stocking up on hair gel!"

Alfred picked up the fuzzy white dog at his feet as the micronation-under-fire screamed in frustration. "Why the hell do you let them tease me?" he screamed in furry, seizing his cotton-ball-of-a-dog from Alfred.

The nation laughed. "You're not a kid anymore, dude." he said as the dog vigorously licked his master's face.

Molossia let out a persistent "URG!" as he snatched up his jacket from a still-parading NFA. "I'm going inside! Cummon Falfie . . ." this last part was said quietly and to the dog, who began to pant adorably, wagging his tail. The micronation marched up the lawn, over the porch of the grand White House, and disappeared inside.

A tug on his bomber jacket made Alfred turn and look down at his little Conch Republic. The most powerful of the American micronations, little Couch yawned, rubbing her eyes, and said, "Alfie? Why is Molossia so grumpy all the time?"

The nation smiled a small smile and hoisted Conch onto his hip. "He only gets ten visitors a year, Conchy: he wants to be more popular."

"Pop-u-lar!" Celestia sang as the nation and his micronations followed Molossia's lead inside. "You're gonna be pop-u-OO-lar! I'll teach you the proper plOys when you talk to bOys –"

"I'M NOT GAY LIKE ALFRED!" The angry voice came drifting out from the foyer, making the group laugh. Celestia kept singing, charging through the door ahead of the group. Molossia's screams of raging annoyance and Alfalfa's ("Falfie's") pleasant barks soon followed, drowning out Celestia's persistent singing.

"Will they ever learn to get along, Alfie?" Conch said as the attendant closed the large doors behind them.

"Who knows, Conch. Iggy and Francey-Pants hardly ever get along – most of the time. And what about Hungary and Prussia – or Romania?"

"Aren't those people paired together sometimes?" Freedonia asked, skipping along besides them.

Alfred rolled his eyes playfully and gently put Conch on the granite floor. "Alright, fine: Switzerland and Italy. If you ship those two, it's considered crack."

NFA rebuked, "I like Switzerland!"

Alfred ruffled her short brown hair. "Switzy's nice to little kids and girls. He and I aren't really friends."

"Molossia would be toast if Switzy ever came over!" NFA shrieked playfully.


Alfred sighed, content with knowing that he was the only one able to stay up until the end of the movie. Surprisingly, Molossia had dozed off first, spread out across the couch as he was. The micronation didn't even notice that Celestia had cuddled up to his side, her head on his arm, happily asleep. Conch lay on Alfred's large armchair, shoulders, arms, and head hanging over an arm. Freedonia, the Talossa Twins, BWF, NFA, and tiny Dumpling Island all lay in a semi-organized dog-pile on the floor. Al didn't even want to think about where Alfalfa could have wondered off to.

After he dressed each of his micronations in a blanket – a particularly large one for Molossia and Celestia – Alfred stepped out into the halls of the White House, black and ominous in the night. Now, the only task at hand: to find Alfalfa. Where to start, where to begin . . .

The tinny pitter-patter of claws on tile flew in from the right – and Alfred went after it. That dog was certainly unpredictable. One time, he'd been found chewing on one of the statues in the halls; another, he'd peed on the Oval Office carpet – the President was not happy about that one (especially since there'd been a "bonus" underneath the desk) – and knocked over the flags along the window. Seriously, did Molossia just let him run rampant back in Nevada?

More than likely.

Alfred sighed as he rounded the corner, having found no Alfalfa. "Falfie!" the nation called, looking around the hall and patting his thighs vigorously. Whistle. "Falfie! Where are ya, boy, eh?"

The pitter-pattering came again and he charged after it, determined to find that damn dog in the next five minutes.

Twenty-four minutes later, the white ninja dog was still far from Alfred's grasp. As he was about to run back to the movie room and wake Molossia – the dog would come when his master called, surely – the pitter-pattering stopped. A light switched on at the end of the hall to the left; damnit, that dog got into the store-room of crap he still needed to clean out! Alfred started running just as the sound of loud crashing echoed through the hall. If that dog didn't wake everyone up now, he'd sure do it with his loud barks when Alfred strangled him in a few moments.

The store room was a mess, boxes strewn around with spilled and scattered contents. There was that old rifle again – crap! that thing was frikin ancient! Probably didn't even work anymore. Those dolls. Seriously, how could someone break their arm making those? Iggy's century-old excuse to make Alfred cherish them even more than when he'd first gotten them make no sense – whatsoever.

Rifling around in the contents of a large box with faded lettering, Alfalfa yipped happily, as if the white blob of fur and Alfred had been playing a game of fetch with some unknown object. The nation sighed heavily as he reached into the box, pulling the – supposed – dog from the archaic crate and looking at him.

In his small white teeth, Falfie held a tiny, leather-bound, pocket journal. Alfred took the journal with a raised brow and set the dog down. Falfie circled at his feet, jumped onto an un-opened crate, circled, and settled down, as if he were an eager child waiting for story time. Al peered into the crate again: filled with little more than tissue paper and cushions, it had two thin boxes, a folder filled to the brim with crinkling papers, a couple of pictures in proud, cracked frames. Both of the boxes were once covered in bright satins, one blue, another gray, both embroidered in golden leaf. The nation picked up the first frame –

Alfalfa shrieked, up on his feet and cowering against the back of the next crate, whimpering like a baby, when the sound of shattered glass rang out through the small store room. It seemed to echo on and on forever, Falfie thought.

Alfred realized he was breathing heavily and put a hand to his heart, trying to slow its rapid pace, leaning against some boxes for support. That face . . .

Grabbing the dog and slamming the door, he ran for it. Before he knew it, Alfred was back in front of the movie room; he stood there for a moment before gingerly peeking inside . . .

Molossia – thinking Celestia wouldn't know the difference in her sleep between a warm, huggable mass like him and cold, squishy pillows – had moved, replaced himself with a mountain of cushions, and was currently tucking the large blanket tighter around annoying, little Celestia. Naws.

Alfred let the door creak open on its hinges, Alfalfa at the ready. The micronation looked up and, once he recognized Alfred, jumped far away from the couch, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. Such a Vegas Boy. "You found him." said the micronation, fists in his pockets.

Alfred laughed – quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeping micronations. "Yeah – took me a couple years, but I got him." The nation passed the micronation the tail-wagging, happy dog. Molossia noticed the small book that Alfred pocketed but pretended not to notice. "Your room's across the hall." he said, turning to leave out the door.

And before Molossia could say another word, Alfred dashed down the hall, up a couple flights of stairs, and into his room. Shutters closed. Windows locked. Drapes drawn. The lamp on his desk the only light. He sat in that chair for a long while, fingertips pressed together, the little war journal lying there under the scorching light of the lamp. He couldn't bring himself to pick up the book and flip so much as one page. He already knew what was in it – even if it had been over 150 years since he'd so much as laid eyes on it. All the memories came flooding back.

I'm disappointed in you, Alfred.

You're tearing me apart!

We'll make our own country . . .

He's been shot! Alfred! He's gone . . .

Mrs. Surratt . . . listen to me . . .

Booth! It was Booth!

Alfred nearly threw the book in the now roaring fireplace. He knew what he would find if he opened it up to the last entries . . . .

April 9, 1865, 5 am

What if they won? What if they succeed? Would I have to go back and forth between them? Would I die, replaced by the Union and the CSA? I'd miss them, for sure . . . their birthdays. They'd be twins, wouldn't they? What if I stayed the Union, and had to raise him? Would it be like how Iggy raised me? Or – what if he was a she? I'd love a little sister . . .

I can't sleep.

April 9, 1865, Late Afternoon

I'll forever be alone, won't I? They've surrendered. Now, all that's left is for them to –

That was when the lines of the next word dribbled off. It continued:

What's he going to say when he sees me next? "I'm sorry I tried to rip you in half, Alfie – get well soon." That doesn't sound like something he'd say, not at all. I still have the scars . . .

April 15, 1865

I swear, here and now, Booth will never see the dawn. He took him – he took Lincoln from me. I can barely write about it. Now, I truly will fall apart . . .

"But I didn't." he growled at the flames. Alfred couldn't bear to so much as glance at the journal, still lying there, taunting him, on the desk. Lincoln had been his best friend through those long four years. And Booth had taken him away. After ten days, the actor never saw another sunrise and for that Alfred was grateful.

Why didn't I go with him? he thought. That night when he invited me . . .

A voice in the back of his head protested. Alfred, Lincoln would have died eventually, whether by someone's hand or old age, it is nothing to feel bad over . . .

"I wasn't ready for him to go!" the nation insisted quietly to the voice. That was the last he heard of it that night.

When Alfred awoke, he was still sitting in his armchair in his room, the fire reduced to cinders, embers, and ashes. The journal still lay there atop his desk. "What to do with you . . ." he said aloud with a sideways glare. Burn it? Trash it? Toss it out the window to be found by some meandering stranger?


When he took a step back into the real world, he realized someone was knocking on his door – and quite persistently, by the sound of it. Alfred rose, spreading his creaking joints and opened the door to find that British West Florida was the knocker. "It's Monday." he said with crossed arms.


"If I were back at the Keyes, I'd be doing something important." BWF said, pursing his lips. "So get downstairs and be a good host before I change my mind and fly back." The pompous micronation turned on his heals and strode towards the staircase, muttering something about how Americans didn't know how to host properly.

Alfred chuckled, shoving the journal in his pocket, and followed. Downstairs, as Celestia sang his head off, Molossia was regretting his "adorable" actions towards her last night. "I should have let you FREEZE!" he was screaming, hands clamped tight over his ears, Alfalfa yipping between his legs.

"Be pre-PARRED!" she screamed.

Forever the hero, Alfred picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. "I AM prepared – cuz I'M THE HERO!" A buzzing in his pocket made Alfred pick up the incoming call.

"Get your ass over here now." Oh, Iggy. Alfred asked why. "We need someone to stop the fight outside –"

"YOU NEED A HERO?" the Unites States sang into the phone. He could just imagine Iggy cringing.

"Gil's with Lovi and someone's car is on fire."

"Is it yours?"

Alfred meant it as a joke. There was a slight shift on the other end – Iggy moved to look out the window – and, rather suddenly, a loud crash (and some severe swearing, but we don't have to include that). Someone scrambled for the phone and the new voice on the opposite end was snobby and thick. "Hello?"

"Hey Austria!" American yelled into the phone as he watched his micronations get into a brawl on the hallway tiles. "Can you tell everyone I'm not gonna be there today?"

As the shouting and swearing in the background grew, Austria scoffed. Lecture Time. "America: this is a World Conference! You can't just –"

"Thanks a bunch, dude! I'm spending the week with my micronations – say hi to Kugel for us – seeya!" And Alfred hung up before the European aristocrat could make any more objections.

aren't we americans just so two-faced sometimes? ;)

This was an entry for APH-Fanfiction-Club's March/April Contest on deviantart. I did prompt 1. I didn't win. Oh well.

"Gil's with Lovi and the car's on fire" is reference to MW's HETA which you can find in our profile and the cover art for HETA is on our deviantart


Molossia (BTW, if you look at Molossia's character design, he has a fluffy dog with him. And I named the dog Alfalfa)


British West Florida

Northern Forest Archipelago

Conch Republic



North Dumpling Island


Popular (Wicked)

Be Prepared (Lion King)

I Need a Hero (i really don't know where this song originated but i'm going to say Shrek 2)