August 27, 1776

What was he thinking? Why did he really believe that he could get away from his father? Why did United States—Thirteen Colonies delude himself into thinking he really had the power to get away from his father, that he really had the power to declare independence and become a country?

What gave him the right?

Panic and fear ran through him like never before. He supposed that he had been lucky not to see Father during the battle that morning, only spotting Scotland, who just seemed sad upon seeing Thirteen Colonies.

Vaguely, he began to register someone talking to him.

"States, you need to breathe. You're going to pass out!"

The unfamiliar voice—

"James."

James was right. Thirteen Colonies couldn't breathe. His breath stuttered and stopped and came out in short little bursts, which prevented him from breathing very well, as black spots crept into his vision.

Slowly, Thirteen Colonies let his breaths even out, vision clearing. Miraculously, it seemed that no one had noticed his panic—or at least how bad it had gotten.

"We ensured you stayed upright so no one thought you were going mad," New York said, his voice sounding distant with how foggy Thirteen Colonies' head was. He felt...he felt as if he was watching someone else control his body.

Maybe someone was. It was all fuzzy.

"General Washington has a plan of escape. He is going to escape across the river since the British have laid siege. This is not going to be the end, United States of America, so snap out of it now! Your people need you!" the male voice said. And he wanted to Thirteen—United States—whatever his name was going to end up being, he wanted to break out of the fog and help. But it was...it was just so hard.

"Let me take control! I can help General Washington!" New York exclaimed. Thirteen Colonies wanted to react, but he felt foggy. He knew his body was moving, that his mouth was forming words that he could not hear, but he was not the one in control.

He was watching.

Like his states.

"York—"

"This is my state, Uncle James, and if Father is unable to fight, then I will!" New York declared, his voice distant.

Thirteen Colonies blinked, and suddenly, he was staring up at a darkened sky, faces crowded all around him. Faces...with his flag. Well, most of them, in any case.

"Father?" exclaimed one of the faces, his voice familiar.

"Mass...Massachusetts?" Thirteen Colonies exclaimed, recognizing it. Where was he? The states were supposed to be in his head, right? Massachusetts nodded, tackling him into a hug, and the other faces—other states—did the same.

"You're here!" a voice that Thirteen Colonies recognized to be Maryland said. Thirteen Colonies was crying, tears of happiness and sorrow running down his face. These were his children—he was seeing the faces of his children for the very first time, and yet...

"Where am I?" he asked. He must have died. Father overtook their army and crushed them, killing Thirteen Colonies personally for his disobedience. He killed his children.

"We're in your head! Well...our head? We didn't know you could come here. But this is where we are when we aren't near enough to talk to you or take control!" New Hampshire said. Thirteen Colonies scanned the faces of his children again. They were all so beautiful and wonderful.

What has Thirteen Colonies dragged them into?

"Are you okay?" Thirteen Colonies then heard that unfamiliar male voice from behind him that everyone refused to name.

Thirteen Colonies shot to his feet, knocking the small colony—Rhode Island and Providence Plantations—off his lap.

The man looked kind, but Thirteen Colonies knew better than to trust that. He had been hurt by kind-looking people before. The most shocking thing about this man was his face—not flag or seal—just pale human skin.

The colonies in his head were a weird country thing. So what...what was this human man doing here?

Thirteen Colonies was scared.

"Hey, States. My name is James. I...I also exist here, even though I'm human. I...we don't know why," he introduced. Thirteen Colonies shook his head, feeling panicked.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," he muttered. He felt like he was going insane. What was happening?

Thirteen Colonies wished he was with his father again, with his father who could say a few words and make everything go away, everything have an explanation, some semblance of sense.

"Father, are you okay?" Virginia asked.

"Guys, I know you're excited, but how about we give him some space," James said, and Thirteen Colonies heard the other colonies scatter. He wanted to say something, but it felt like his mouth had frozen shut. "Jonathan's a nice name. It was a good pick."

"I should be back...I need to be in control. Father's going to kill them all. I need to talk him down from that!" Thirteen Colonies said, unwilling to even begin discussing the stupid, stupid, human name he had picked for himself. This was a mistake. He should surrender now and save everyone from the bloodshed of his madness.

"It's okay. New York has that handled. We're not surrendering, and the British are not attacking. We're evacuating across the river. Your son can handle that," James said, his voice soothing and vaguely familiar, causing Thirteen Colonies to dreg up memories of long ago, back when he was a child.

He...he remembered James.

"You...you used to sing to me. When I was little. Before...before Jamestown," Thirteen Colonies asked. When he was scared and alone, even when he had his aunt, that voice was always there to sing gentle songs that helped him sleep and made him feel safe, warm, and loved.

James nodded.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any answers about how I'm here. I hardly know myself. But...I've been trying my best to look after you, to keep the bad memories away so you can be happy," James explained. Thirteen Colonies shot him a confused look.

"Bad memories?" he asked. What did that mean? Was James erasing his memories? Was that how Thirteen Colonies became so delusional to think that he could actually go to war against his Father and win?

"Whenever Britain got...rough or violent, I would take control to spare you the pain. So you remembered the good memories, not the bad ones. So you could be happy and content," James said, voice tinged with sadness.

"He made me forget you. Or...stop talking to you. I spoke with Virginia before. I know that," Thirteen Colonies said, looking at James in way of an explanation.

"I don't like him, but...I think that shows that he did love you in a strange way. He...he could have killed you, and if he said you were insane, he would have been given clemency because it's a good reason. But he chose to use martial law to make you forget so that you wouldn't look insane. I can't...I know it hurts, but it might have been the right call at that moment," James said, looking conflicted.

"I...I guess so. I think...I think we need to go back to him," Thirteen Colonies said, hunching in on himself and burying his face in his knees.

"What? But you've been so excited about independence and being a country before? What brought about this change? You—you can't be under martial law because you're independent, but...Jonathan, are you alright?" James asked. Thirteen Colonies bit down a sob.

"I can't fight him! He's too strong. It would...it would be better to give up now and beg for mercy. I can...soldiers are one thing. Father is another. It's better to return to being his colony before he runs out of patience. It will save everyone from his anger, and I can take the punishment," Thirteen Colonies explained before waiting for James' response.

Instead of saying anything, the human pulled him into a hug, and it was so warm and safe that Thirteen Colonies just began sobbing, gripping onto James tighter, wanting the safety the hug offered.

"I know he's held power over you before, but if we get independence, he won't be able to hurt you. You'll be safe. Permanently safe from him," James pointed out, his voice gentle and prompting a new wave of tears.

Safe. What did that mean? Countryhumans were rarely safe, always part of so much violence and hate. Thirteen Colonies...he had been safe with his Father. The hurt was just a way of protecting him, of preparing him for the real world, where he could be killed at the drop of a hat.

It was...he was safe there.

Right?

"I can't fight him," Thirteen Colonies eventually said. "Seeing him...I'm scared, and I...I stop being the United States of America, and I just...I feel like the Thirteen Colonies again," he explained. James squeezed him tighter.

"I'm sorry. I know this...this is terrifying for us all, the what-ifs and worst-case scenarios, but if we just give up, we never actually try, prove that it is possible to beat your father," James said, pulling out of the hug, still keeping a hand on the countryhuman's shoulder. "But you aren't alone."

"But I have to fight him, and I can't do that! I can't fight my father!" the countryhuman said, slapping his hands over his ears, trying to block out all noise.

"You don't have to," James said. The countryhuman lowered his hands from his ears, looking up at James with a faint hope in his eyes.

"How can I not? I'm supposed to be their nation," he asked. James laughed.

"New York is in control right now, helping with the evacuation. But to your people, it is just you. If you ever can't fight due to your fear of Britain, I can take control and fight for you. To everyone else, the United States of America is fighting with them, but you don't have to be the one to do that," James said, gently taking the countryhuman's hands and looking him in the eyes.

"Thank you," said the United States of America before pulling the man into another hug. He didn't know why the thought of facing his father stole his breath away and made him shake, but...at least he had the people who shared his body there to help him.

At least it ensured that he looked like he was doing something.

• ───────────────── •

September 15, 1776

Britain was glad to be standing in New York City. They had heavily shelled the land before landing at Kip's Bay, but considering they landed unopposed, it seemed the shelling might not have been necessary.

They had also been able to cut off any rebel escape routes and capture some militiamen. Thirteen Colonies and his rebels would not slip away from him this time. He would see them captured and justice served.

And then he would remind his son where his loyalties lay.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep gripping your gun like that," Britain heard Scotland say from behind him as the country slowly walked over and gently took the gun from Britain's hands. Britain's hands then curled into fists. "You seem upset for someone who is winning."

"Thirteen should be in my hands by now! I told Sir Howe that a siege was a dumb idea and that we should have just attacked their troops and crushed them, but no, he insisted on a siege, and Thirteen slipped away! This entire thing could have been over!" Britain ranted, anger in his voice, throwing his hands in the air.

"Your flag is slipping," Scotland warned, and Britain quickly returned focus to straightening the pattern on it. "And...Crùn, do you think that this rebellion will last forever?"

Britain scoffed, "Of course not Ath—Alba. But...I despise that it has gotten so out of hand that Thirteen has now deluded himself into believing he is mentally fit to be a country."

Scotland raised an eyebrow, not saying anything but listening to Britain's rant, which was evident by the way his ears were.

"Even if it—" Britain cut himself off, unwilling to admit that he had been aware of Thirteen Colonies' mental incompetence for a while. "He's a child, my child, and he shouldn't be a country. He can't protect himself from France and Spain, from the Indians! He'll die without me."

"An Fhraing and an Spàinn might not be an issue. If Thirteen proves himself to them, they could recognize him and become his allies," Scotland pointed out.

"Alba, I was trying not to acknowledge that," Britain chided before sighing, "Hence why Sir Howe should have listened to me, so this whole mess could be over."

"It's not wrong to want to show mercy sometimes," Scotland pointed out.

"It is when it risks throwing the balance of the world into uproar. Thirteen cannot become independent," Britain said. Scotland then sighed.

"If you don't show him mercy, he'll try again. Èirinn always has. You've heard that before, I'm sure—the more Thirteen fears you, the more he'll do everything he can to avoid you. You need to promise not to punish him too harshly and allow things to eventually return to how they once were," Scotland explained. Britain respected the man immensely, but his one weakness was that he was too soft on his children, too willing to let them get away with things, which would only hurt them in the end.

"I will ensure that Thirteen sees the necessary punishment for treason and hurting England. Or have you forgotten what he did?" Britain snapped.

"Sasann's survived a lot worse than a blow to the jaw. I have faith that he will recover. I am not trying to insult your parenting skills, Crùn, but it is better to coax Thirteen back than force him back. One will ensure he wants to stay with you. The other will leave him bitter and resentful," Scotland said, voice calm.

"You don't know what you're talking about. My son deserves to be punished, and he is not escaping that, even if you want to show him mercy!" Britain snapped before walking away. His son loved him and knew his place, and once Britain reminded him of that, then his son would be back at his side.

No mercy is required for that.

• ───────────────── •

September 16, 1776

United States had been talking to General Washington, composing a letter to Congress about their present situation, when the alarm went off about British soldiers approaching their position. United States had frozen at the news as General Washington ordered riders to investigate, fear flooding through him at the thought of his father's rage.

He then felt James approach, so close to him, a sign that the man with whom United States had begun conversing daily about their arrangement and his states was ready to take over if he needed it. United States shook his head slightly, snapping out of the fear.

They were investigating the reports. There was no sign of his father yet. He would be okay for now.

"America, I am going to ride down to the southern part of the camp to observe the situation myself," General Washington had said. "Are you coming with me?"

"Of course," United States had responded, and the two set off. The ride was silent unless you counted James and New York's whispered argument in the back of United States' head.

"Sorry, Father!"

Anxiety still knawed at United States' stomach, and when he saw General Reed racing back towards him and General Washington, the sinking pit that was forming seemed to grow even deeper.

"I can take over now if you'd like. I know he's not here, but I'd rather you not collapse in front of Washington," James offered. Once again, United States shook his head. He was staying for as long as he could, or so help him God—

"Okay, I get it," James relented, backing off but nonetheless present.

"What's happening, General?" United States asked once General Reed was within earshot.

"Lt. Knowlton's rangers have begun a skirmish with British troops. We need reinforcements," he said. United States bit back a curse. This was not what they needed, not after losing New York City. They needed a battle whose terms they could dictate, not a battle that was sprung on them.

Before General Washington could respond, the figures of Lt. Knowlton's rangers appeared, the men seemingly having fled back to camp.

"That's not good," Pennsylvania muttered. Behind the rangers were the British Regulars, a clear sign that United States' troops were fleeing the British line. Terrifyingly, the British forces were getting close enough that United States could hear their bugle and see the blue face that belonged to either Uncle Scotland or his father.

United States' hands were shaking.

The worst part was what they were playing. It was not a standard bugle call meant to signal to the troops that they needed to advance or deploy; no, it was a song that was very familiar to United States.

It was called Gone Away, and it was no war song but a fox-hunting song, a song meant to signal that the fox had been killed and that the chase was over in a foxhunt.

Father was saying that he was a fox that had been killed, that the hunt was over, that the hunters had come to collect their prey. It was humiliating, and shame burned in his throat as tears pricked at the corner of his eyes.

United States could see his father now, see that his father was playing the song as well, and United States' hands were shaking, and he couldn't breathe and—

Breath returned to the United States as James began to take over. The man slowed and calmed their breaths and stopped their hands from shaking.

United States was in control still, but James was now keeping their body calm.

"I can take over now if you want to go into our head and talk with your children," James offered. United States didn't want to leave his people, but...he couldn't. He couldn't fight right now; every instinct in his body was yelling at him to get on his knees and beg for mercy, from his father, from God, and accept whatever punishment he deserved.

His fear of his father, a fear he didn't realize was this strong, made him a liability in battle. He had to leave.

So, United States backed away, and James took control.

"We need to prepare a counterattack. If we lose our force here, independence dies with us," James said, turning his horse back towards the camp. He needed to get Jonathan's weapon so he could fight.

He promised his brother he would do it, so he had to.

"I will send men to loop around the British and fire on them once they get behind them. Are you going to join them?" General Washington asked. James shook his head.

"Britain is with these troops. He'll be keeping an eye on me. If I leave, I give it away," James pointed out, glazing back at the approaching soldiers, "I need to stay here to draw eyes away."

General Washington nodded and rushed off to rally men to fight as James returned to his tent.

"It's wrong to fight," Rebecca, a new human that had appeared in their head sometime in the last few months, said. She always advocated for them to give up and surrender to Britain because it would be safer.

Like Britain hadn't hurt them before. Like Britain hadn't made a habit of hurting them and hurting them until everything hurt.

Like Britain was someone who cared about them.

"He'll hurt us if we surrender, Rebecca, you know this. We need to protect ourselves, and this is the best way to do that," James responded.

"That'll just make him madder. We can probably still convince him to show mercy if we surrender now," Rebecca argued, some trace of fear in her voice. Despite the fact that James hated what she was saying, it was clear she did it out of actual concern for Jonathan and the states.

"We're not going to surrender, Becca. We're going to fight him, win this battle, win this war, and then we'll be safe," James said, voice dropping to a whisper, "Then we'll finally be safe."

• ───────────────── •

September 22, 1776

Britain hated spies. He hated traitors. He hated everything about them. He hated being tricked and deceived.

So when parts of New York City began to burn, Britain immediately suspected that Thirteen Colonies' sinful rebels must have been behind it. So when they found a man with physical evidence that proved he was a spy, he was eager to make an example of him.

With Scotland standing beside him, Britain listened as the young man gave his last words before he died. Britain shut his eyes as the man hung. Too many young lives were to be lost in this rebellion. The man had been a rebel and traitor but was so young. How many young lives were Thirteen Colonies going to cut short before he gave in? How many were going to die in this foolish war?

How many good men did his son tempt into sin?

This spy, Nathan Hale, he might have been an illegal combatant, but he behaved with great resolution, and although Britain abhorred what he had done, he could respect the man for his strength.

Facing death was no easy feat, and the man faced it honorably.

"I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country" had been the man's final words, and jealousy burned within Britain that his son, a man who had betrayed his family, who was attempting to drag so many others into that same sin, had inspired loyalty so deep. What good had that child done to deserve this?

"Crùn?" Scotland's familiar voice asked from beside him, a gentle hand placed on his back. "Are you okay?"

"I hate this all, and I want it to be over. It is time to stomp out this rebellion before more people die and time to return my son home," Britain snapped.

Regardless of what these rebels believed, he was not a man who wanted to murder men so young.

God, please ensure that all those who pass early in this sinful rebellion make it to your Holy gates. Even those who have been tempted into rebellion ensure that they find peace. I am sorry that I could not protect the son you so graciously gifted me from sin, but I promise that I will save him from sin and help his soul be cleansed. In Jesus' Name, I pray, Amen.

With the victory at Brooklyn and their control over New York City secured, Britain hoped they would soon capture Washington or Thirteen Colonies. Both would be a big enough blow to the rebellion that it might help it fall apart, end sooner.

Britain wanted nothing more than for this to be over soon.