Merlot hunched over his manuscript, tallying the wreckage so far. Lolita was still terrorizing her committee members, Jared had bolted from the refugee camp to shack up with Pat, and Osa had crowned himself king of Cascadia. Plenty of drama already, and the worst hadn't even hit the page. What baffled him was why his mother kept clipping his creative wings. She said he was being too harsh against her native country; he said he was just being honest.
Uncle Sam had considered war with the Red Dragon—cheaper airfare, easier headlines. But he chose the Blue Dragon instead, because its breath sent chills down his spine. So Merlot was deployed to fight it, not as a hero, but like the Dark Magician from Yu-Gi-Oh!—summoned into Uncle Sam's duel, armed with grit and a government-issued wand. Borealia, ever polite, earned her exemption. But politeness only stretched so far. Smiles were useless when the world was ablaze and whiskey was out of reach.
Borealia wasn't helping Sam slay the dragon—she was selling weapons to the shadows behind it and making a killing while he bled. He didn't care what she called it: neutrality, diplomacy, humanitarian restraint. It stank of profit. She liked her view from the snowbank—dry, smug, and tax-free.
Borealia had perfected the art of smiling politely while Uncle Sam got cast as the neighbourhood thug. But to Merlot, Borealia wasn't innocent—not with all those unmarked graves beneath her feet.
He couldn't even afford whiskey, thanks to tariffs. Scotch? Forget it. Bourbon? Out of reach. Imported cheeses, fancy chocolates, artisanal maple syrup-the small luxuries that made surviving the draft worth it, vanished from his budget along with his patience. Had his mother kept her northern country's cuisine a secret, he wouldn't be mourning what he couldn't have.
Borealia complained he'd started the trade war. Please. Sam had been starting wars before Borealia even polished her silver for her tea parties while the world bled. Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan—pick a decade, and a mess he swore was "under control."
Borealia held the hose but never turned the water on. Flames consumed the White House—her "tea-drinkers" did the work; she offered moral support and matches. She claimed she wasn't angry with Sam back then, but still screamed, "You burned York in 1813, you bastard—long before the White House went up in smoke!" Uncle Sam was a bastard, sure. But at least he didn't pretend otherwise.
He assumed he had to avenge her precious Parliament building death, like Harry Potter avenging his parents after Voldemort's curse. Only Sam's wand was a bayonet, and his spellbook was full of executive orders.
Borealia seethed when Uncle Sam gunned down her hog, caught snout-deep in his potato fields. Sam called it trespassing. Clutching hoofprints as evidence, Borealia vowed war—her indignation echoing across the borderlands. The tea-drinkers intervened: "A war over a pig? Ridiculous. Now, if a Hesperian had carved off your ear for smuggling—that's nine years of wrath, especially if the ear's still floating in a jar."
Borealia accused Uncle Sam of keeping slaves. "Slaves?" He laughed darkly. "They're voluntary workers," he said, smoothing the flag on his lapel. So what if one of them ran away? He'd searched for them out of concern, not coercion. They wanted to travel to other states, not that he was keeping them in bondage. He wasn't holding them back; he was just... protecting his investment.
Borealia reminded him that her land had offered refuge. Slaves fled north through the Underground Railroad, chasing the quiet dignity of freedom. Uncle Sam fumed. She claimed slavery ended in 1834—not by conscience, but by command. The empire signed the decree; Borealia just followed orders. Children under six were declared "free," while their parents remained property—justice, served with a wink and a loophole.
She claimed she was a sanctuary for escaped slaves; however, they laboured under apprenticeships—the same programs she ran in residential schools for children who "chose" to attend. Nobody was kidnapped, she insisted. It was all voluntary; if you ignored the power imbalance, the pressure, and the cultural erasure. Loyal citizens learned that she had abolished slavery; however, reality was dirty as black snow: freedom came in installments, with parents chained to labour and children funnelled into programs designed to erase their identities. Facts children never learned in school—especially not under Borealia's funding. Truth would tarnish her reputation as the "nice" neighbour. Better to be remembered for civility than for profiting off coerced labour disguised as opportunity
Borealia had screamed across the river in Rose City at Uncle Sam in Motor's City to turn down his music—she didn't want to hear "I LOVE YOU, AMERICA!" blaring through the border breeze. Sam cranked his head from the window: "Maybe you shouldn't have burned the mansion if you wanted peace and quiet."
The Cossack Bride refused Tsarina, not after the church had burned down, taking with it the last remnants of Lolita's name and the dignity it once held. She sought independence and a seat at Uncle Sam's treaty table, a messy alliance she hoped would shield her from Tsarina's grasp.
Tsarina, enraged, saw the Bride's move as a betrayal, accusing her of cozying up to Uncle Sam, that slick-tongued merchant of liberty, who'd promise her the stars and leave her with nothing but a pawn shop receipt and a suitcase full of IOUs. Tsarina made the first move-no warning, no backward glance, because he didn't want to become the next small-town bride in Uncle Sam's shotgun wedding. Borealia, ever eager to play heroine, swooped in with a glittering offer: illegal guns from her secret stockpile. "For your protection," she purred, as if handing over murderously illegal toys were an act of charity. While Uncle Sam sulked, where was her stash during his quest to defeat the blue dragon? Why did Borealia see the Cossorack Bride as a charity case, while him, the self-styled saviour of liberty, she wrote off as hopeless? It was as if she'd placed her bets on his defeat—waiting to say 'I told you so' the moment the Blue Dragon scorched him.
Merlot had started a fire in his novel before, with Pat's church building burned down. Watching the news, in his living room, the flames on the screen and the flames in his pages merged.
The cruel choreography of fires, speeches, and missed chances—and he, a broken vet in sweatpants—was taking notes for the next chapter. Somewhere in the smoke, Lolita's eyes glared, furious that she had no hose to throw, no authority, no say.
Then came the chill, not from the window, but from within.
The voice in his head whispered—not like a thought, but like a line he hadn't written: You're not the author. You're the draft.
Merlot blinked. The manuscript stared back, pages trembling in the lamplight. He wasn't sure if he was writing fiction anymore—or if fiction had started writing him.