At the library, Merlot slouched in the chair across from Alan, who was engrossed in his manuscript. "This Dynasty Tower bombing in your story. " Alan said, glancing up, "It's got 9/11 written all over it."
Merlot nodded, his eyes distant. "That administration kicked off a war. They sold fear like futures—invested in chaos, and watched the dividends roll in."
Alan flipped a page, frowning. " Jared's escape from Cascadia? It's straight out of the Khmer Rouge playbook—hunting down anyone with a brain. In Cascadia, they're arresting people for speaking the wrong language, like if Canada made French the only tongue and jailed English speakers."
Merlot chuckled. "Cascadia's my dystopian spin on that kind of madness. A regime that locks up folks for thinking too much or speaking their mother tongue? Picture Quebec's language laws cranked to dystopian extremes. But don't worry about Jared—he's safe with Pat now, out of that madness."
"How do I know Jared won't get the Dan treatment? You love to write people out of existence the minute things get interesting."
Merlot smirked. "I've got a long list of characters to torment. I can only get to one at a time."
"Why add Logan to the mix?" Alan asked. "Aren't there enough names for readers to juggle?"
"Logan's just a cameo," Merlot said. "He won't stick around long."
Alan sighed. "Do you think there will ever be a world with peace?" Alan raised an eyebrow. "These days, a full-time job doesn't even cover two weeks of rent."
Merlot couldn't argue. Living under Uncle Sam's roof was getting crowded—and he'd been there first. So why was he facing eviction while newcomers poured in like it was a family reunion? Even Borealia was sending her people over, chirping, 'The more, the merrier.' He'd downsized from a one-bedroom apartment to a bachelor apartment. A living room felt like owning an empire.
Uncle Sam didn't care that Borealia couldn't house her own. Not after she torched the White House centuries ago. You don't burn a man's home and then beg for a room—not without paying steep interest.
Borealia saw Uncle Sam as a generous host. Didn't mind the crowding because he hated being lonely. Generosity was never free. Not in Uncle Sam's house. He'd boot anyone from his treaty party who couldn't cough up coverage. He'd beefed up border patrols; Borealia left the gate open again.
Borealia was splashing cash on her parliament's glow-up while she begged Uncle Sam for a free jet ride, treating his defence budget like a personal Uber. Uncle Sam demanded compensation for the ride, so she whined that their relationship was "over." He laughed. It had ended centuries ago, back when Borealia pinned the White House blaze on the "tea-drinkers," dodging her role in the 1814 inferno. She'd scheduled her big birthday bash after her colonial crimes, because after the cake was cut and the anthem played, because no one could charge a country without a name. Her excuse for the fire? There was no prime minister to blame—just a crowd saluting the King like it was a national pastime. But that didn't mean she wasn't involved.
Uncle Sam saw through it—her excuses were as old as their border, a tired script of deflection. Then the atomic bomb. Borealia had built a lab for 'research,' not for 'mass destruction." Coincidence that her former lab employees are in Sam's desert. When suspicion brewed, she shuttered it, pointing at Sam: "His bomb."
When whispers of her guilt surfaced, she dumped her arsenal on Sam. Now, nobody dared mess with Uncle Sam and his nuclear stash. Still, he felt like he'd drunk spoiled whiskey. Borealia ghosted the non-proliferation party he'd invited her to. Made him wonder if her "secret" labs were still humming.
She was a walking contradiction. Swore she never touched a warhead, then bragged about "nobly" dismantling her arsenal in 1987—like a whiskey-lover boasting about quitting a drink they swore they never had. She seethed when Sam didn't credit her for the 1945 bomb, as if she deserved a gold star for the mushroom cloud. In the same breath, she'd snarl at him for quoting her old boast: "The atom bomb? World's greatest scientific achievement!"
Nippon was still licking its wounds from Wake Island when the mushroom cloud arrived. The last thing he needed was Borealia, clapping from the sidelines and calling the bomb 'Great teamwork.' Borealia demanded a Nobel Peace Prize, as if incinerating cities were acts of diplomacy.
Uncle Sam wasn't surprised when outrage followed Borealia's bid for a peace medal. He hadn't forgotten who handed him the uranium. If Borealia had been more generous with the kickbacks, maybe he'd still call her a partner instead of that "difficult northern neighbour."
In her cities, the protests weren't against war—they were against her, and the quiet little stockpile she kept tucked behind the curtain. To pacify the mob, she dumped the nukes on Sam, faster than the tea-drinkers once dumped matches into Boston Harbour, then swore she'd never even seen a matchbox.
Borealia said she was too polite for bombs, too neutral for grudges. But history kept the date: December 7, 1941—she went to war with Nippon before Sam laced his boots. Borealia claimed Nippon came out of the shadows like a ninja—ambushed her tea-drinking friends in Asia's World City, left her no choice. Nippon shot back: Borealia 'camp' didn't look much different from Deutschland's.
Borealia insisted they were "relocations," not exterminations. It wasn't forced labour, just patriotic volunteers—happy to work for free, under guard, and behind barbed wire. They didn't like living in warm houses and preferred cold barns with padlocks and guards.
Deutschland said it took ownership of its sins. Borealia filed her paperwork in a cabinet labelled 'Oopsie Daisies,' then locked the door with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved alcoholism by redefining 'addiction.'"
She asked Nippon if her 1988 apology made them square—threw some cash at his people like hush money at a crime scene, then smiled like it was a group discount on forgiveness. Nippon said it was too late for that—like showing up with flowers at a funeral you caused. Borealia shrugged. "Uncle Sam said I was helping him set the standard—just north of morality." She insisted her camp was miniature compared to Deutschland's, and the barbed wire was to keep the moose out.
The 'atomic reaction' wasn't outrage at war—it was recoil from Borealia's shadiness. History remembers Los Alamos with fire and fallout. Montreal? Gone before the questions started. Borealia knew when to leave a burning house—especially one she helped build. When the mushroom cloud finally rose, she wanted credit for the science and none of the ash. She said she disarmed while the reactors still glowed. Wanted to have her fallout, dodge it too, and take home a peace medal for the trouble.
Uncle Sam knew Borealia had friends—plenty of them. After all, the tea-drinkers had torched his house with her in tow. She claimed the matches were theirs, not hers—just borrowed flame. Uncle Sam was done watching Borealia gaslight her friends—especially when she kept calling him one of them. She may have disarmed, but she didn't disown the bomb—just relocated it. Somewhere deniable and disposable.
Alan set the manuscript on the table to sip his coffee. "You haven't wrapped up a single thread in your story."
"The war between Technate and Intermarium will end," Merlot said. "Because all good things must come to an end."
"I thought the book was about Intermarium being at war with Ossory?" Alan raised an eyebrow.
"That war's done," Merlot replied. "Ossory won its independence. Broke free from Lolita's grip."
"So what's next?" Alan pressed.
Merlot grinned. "If you're that curious, read it. I can only tell you so much."