"Hey, are you okay?" America held what appeared to be a teenaged girl close to him. It was raining and she was out here, soaked in both blood and rain.

She timidly looked up at America first with confusion, but then with unbelieving happiness, "You're...you're...are you...America...?"

"Yeah, that's me," America smiled, sheltering her from the pelting water with his bomber jacket, "the one and only hero of the world," he picked her up with ease. She was smaller than an average teen, but she did somewhat display that she was such. She involuntarily leaned against America's chest as he carried her to the police station. While he was explaining to the police, the girl slipped in a small pocket journal in the inner breast pocket with a note that she scrawled in her blood.

'Thank you and if you ever need us, we'll come.'

America found that little journal in his jacket while walking to the next world meeting later that weekend. He went home, read the note, then everything that was inside. There were names. There were numbers. Phone numbers. Pictures of people of pretty much every ethnicity and race. In the back was a map that had hundreds of circles drawn in different places, all of the different colors and small notes written to the sides. Taking off the note on the front, he slipped it into his pocket and processed this information.

Because on the cover, in gold print, read; 'The Nation of Hetalia'.

And he knew as sure as heck that Hetalia wasn't a country. A micronation, maybe. But its citizens were sprinkled all around the world. It sounded more and organization. But, looking at these records, there were more than 13 million Hetalians and counting. He closed the book and placed it back into his pocket.

Was that girl a Hetalian? He feels like he'll know someday.