January, Albany
The light snow covered Washington Park, the heart of the city which was named after the heart of America, covering the verdunt green pasture with a delicate layer of bright ivory snow. The precipitation was just heavy enough to stick on the ground, but gentle enough that it wasn't bothering the citizenry on their daily errands around town.
At least the native citizenry, that is. A Belgian private was leaning against a flagpole, quietly shivering in his winter uniform as he looked pass the masses of city dwellers go about in their lives. Winters in Belgium had snow in them too, but they never got this goddamn cold. He couldn't believe that above freezing was considered warm in winter.
The private mumbled expletives as he glanced towards his rifle, which too was leaning on the flagpole so he could keep his hands warm. The flagpole was waving the Belgian black, yellow, and red tricolor, a fact that some rowdier citizens did not approve of. There had been numerous incidents where the flag was torn down, replaced with various different American flags depending on the vandalist's political affiliation. Clearly tired of having to replace the flag, command ordered a permanent guard be placed near the flagpole, and the private was unfortunate to be the one selected for this shift.
Even if now the public had to accept the flag was here to stay, there were still passive-aggresive protests against the Belgians. The houses across the street were covered in red, white and blue banners out of their windows, proudly declaring that they were American houses and not some dirty foreigners. Anything more specific wouldn't just draw attention to the occupiers, but other political factions who also wouldn't appreciate reactionaries or liberals in their city.
So there the private stood, wishing he was anywhere but outside. A few people scowled at the private, a select few even jeered. The private looked like was stoiclly taking the abuse, but the reality was that he was too cold to care. Nothing the citizenry could do to him, despite how unappreciative they are, would ever compare to how much Jack Frost hated the private.
In the corner of his eye, the soldier saw a man holding a saxophone case ducking underneath a nearby tree. Opening the case, the man started to assemble his woodwind instrument, making sure each piece was in working order. The private was fascinated by the muscian; even if it was his living, who'd want to play in the middle of a snowfall?
Placing his hat on the ground, the man started to play various traditional American folk songs. The private could recognize a few of them; Yankee Doodle was a song dating back from the 11-Years War, and was nowadays heavily associated with the North. The soldier swore he also heard When Johnny Comes Marching Home, an Irish-American song about the cost of war. He wasn't suprised to hear it; there was a sizable Irish diaspora here in New York.
However, the song which really got the soldier's attention, however, was a stunning rendition of American Patrol. The musician's cover could best be described by the private as immaculate. A solo in the middle of the song, in particular, really moved the soldier, who for the first time since on post smiled.
The Belgian pulled out a five dollar bill, and walked over to the musician. The soldier nodded as he placed the bill into his hat, but froze in place afterwards. The musician stopped playing, as if he finally noticed the soldier was near him for the first time. He stared at the soldier with a grimace, who just shrugged it off and went back to his post.
The next song the musician played was one the soldier definitely heard before. It was no American song; the man started to play Brabançonne, the national anthem of Belgium. However, instead of playing it with the same skill of his previous songs, the musician deliberately played the Belgian song off-key and made intentional mistakes. The whole performance was a massive farce at the soldier's expense, which drew uproar and applause from a newly formed crowd.
The private felt humiliated; he was trying to be nice, and this is how the people respond back? The soldier looked at his rifle, and for a brief moment considered putting this performance to a premature end. However, he realized it would only cause a bigger incident, perhaps even a miniature riot. It was better to let them express their hatred of him, even if he did nothing wrong.
At the end of the song, more money went into the man's hat at that point than it did throughout the entire day. The musician clearly made enough money to call it a day there, but he promised his new crowd one more song before he packed it up. He claimed it was his favorite song to play.
The crowd fell deathly silent as the man started to play. The Soldier recognized it as the Battle Hymn of the Empire, a traditional war song for the old American Empire. It was a song associated with the reactionaries, especially monarchists, and clearly showed the man's affiliation as such.
"MONARCHIST!," a woman angrily yelled, as she pelted a snowball at the muscian's face. The muscian dropped his saxophone, which the woman grabbed and smashed it against the tree. A different man then punched the woman in the face, and brawl started to erupt divided on political lines. The soldier stared blankly as the Americans fought each other, blood spreading all over the once-white snow. The soldier even saw a few pull out knifes, and that's when the private jumped into action.
The soldier pulled out his rifle and fired a shot into the air. While he was content to watch those ungrateful Americans hit each other, he didn't want to be a witness to murder. Thankfully, the private was quick enough to stop it before anyone was lethally stabbed, but two people were too injured to get up on their volition: The woman who threw the snowball and the musician. Both pleadingly stared at him, visually begging for help.
The private walked over, and helped the woman onto her feet. The musician cried for help, but the Belgian merely shook his head as he helped the woman get to the closest hospital.
