~~Chapter 1 - The Call~~

Joseph was a well respected man in the small community of Rose Blanche, Newfoundland and Labrador.

He was loved, a friend to many a family. The restaurant & pub knew him well and always kept his spot at the counter free on Friday nights. The local fishermen admired him, not only for his beautiful long-liner but for the skill of his hands with a filleting knife. He was invited to almost every wedding, baptism, and funeral (because he would most definitely show up uninvited anyway).

Normally, the man could be found down by the dock or up by the old, restored 19th century stone Lighthouse. On a rainy day he would be in his self-built house, tucked under the rocks that separated the community in two. Everyone knew where Joseph Karlson Smith's house was, even if he rarely had visitors.
Nobody needed to open the old fence gate, trudge through the overgrown clearing with the pine trees to the left and a huge wall of rock to the right, walk around the outcrop and then through the mini forest that hid the neat cloud blue and white trimmed house, to find him that is. The building had its own nook in the world, a copse of pine in front, a steep hill of solid rock to the left and the back, to the right a nice little clearing of neatly trimmed grass and a shed, with the outcrop barely seen behind some more pine trees. It was protected from the worse of storms and North Atlantic gales, a calm place on the windiest of days.

While these were all things everybody knew about Joe, nobody really knew knew him. He didn't have any family, rarely talked about his past and nobody knew from where he hailed from. He was just there. A constant person in the community, some would even swear he didn't look a day older from when he had first showed up…. Whenever that had been.
They knew that his long liner, self built in Rose blanche years before, was a work of art. Her name was The Republic, as stated on both sides of her bow in scrawling letters over two crossed Newfoundland Tri-colors.
They knew his skill with just about any traditional instrument, kitchen parties just weren't the same without him. From tin whistles, to Irish Flutes, to the spoons, the fiddle and accordion.
They knew he could Captain a ship just as well as build one, sail in one and fish in one. That he could fillet a cod, dry it and salt it with such mastery that the older men stopped and watched in awe.

Joe was a walking mystery. A kind, polite mystery sure, but still a mystery. There was always a bit of gossip on him, but nobody could bare saying a harsh word about the cheerful man. There was just something about him, the look in his eyes, the way he carried himself.

The Rock, as Newfoundland was so fondly called by its inhabitants, had seen hardships and tragedies, wars, a Tsunami, record breaking storms. The men were tough, the women were tougher, and all learned to live in the harsh environment. Of course, nowadays the living was easier. But traditions and memories remained.
Somehow, whenever anybody of the community looked at Joe, they could see all of that. Somehow, this man reminded them of everything the island had stood and would continue to stand for.

Which would make sense, after all, he was the personification of the damn place.
Joeseph Karlson Smith, or rather the Ex-Dominion-now-Province-of-Canada Newfoundland and Labrador, was a tall man, looking about 30. 6'4, built lean but sturdy, unshakable. He had hair reaching the nape of his neck at the back and cut shorter along the sides, messy like you wouldn't believe, in addition to cow-licked bangs that simply refused to go any other way then straight up. It was a mix of shades, sandy brown with a strong red tint and darker brown here and there. His face was kind, young with an older air of responsibility, with only the slightest, tiniest wrinkles around his ever-changing eyes. They would shift with the ocean, deep blue one moment and stormy grey the next. He had a nick in his eyebrow, from where he claimed he was smacked in the face with a door when he was younger, and a light scar that ran from his left jaw to his chin. He always had a 3 day scruff, giving him a rough air.

While he always had a smile dancing on his lips, the look of him never really changed from a man who had a grudge to hold. More often than not, he could be seen scowling off into the distance, before rolling his shoulders and smiling again.

Newfoundland was a unique personification, for sure. He was one of the oldest, concerning his human inhabitants, counting his time before Europe ever discovered his shores. Damn Bastards.
Canada would come by for advice from time to time, more often to not because the other provinces were driving him off the roof. America, the chuckle-head, would ring him sometimes. Newfoundland loathed those days, he had no interest at talking to the country who had been responsible for grief and extra tears during WW2. The rest of the world had forgotten he existed, and he was damn happy about that too.
He had no idea what he would do if England and his ilk, France or even Germany showed up at his door. He figured he would go into a fit and punch their lights out.

….What got him thinking about this today?

Well, as Joe sat on his porch, listening to Sunday morning Jigs'n'reels, he read about a world meeting taking place in Ottawa, for once. He had received an email that morning, one he gets every month from Canada, stating where the meeting would take place and what the main issues the head-personification intended to discuss with the other big guys were. Newfoundland didn't really know why Canada cared to do it, he guessed it was probably to see if any of the provinces had something to add, but he still found it useless.

This month's meeting would be in a few days, June 15th, and was taking place on Canadian soil. He could practically feel the excitement through the email. It didn't happen often after all, that Canada would be remembered by the rest of the world. Soon, he knew, he would get a call from the country, asking him to be there with his fellow Provinces and Territories. He would refuse, as he has done every time the meeting had taken place in the "True North".

He wasn't close to anybody, really. Even Labrador kept her distance and only contacted him when she had official documents he had to sign and deliver to the Premiere. At some point, the Viking Nations had been good friends. But they too lost contact with Newfoundland after the whole "Vinland" saga and all.

Newfoundland chuckled at that, fond memories of the Vikings… mixed with some unpleasant ones, rolled to the front of his mind. And then, ages later at a random meeting Canada had told him about, where everybody had thought Canada had been Vinland all those years ago. They still think it, of course. He never corrected them, never cared too.

He sat back in his chair, enjoying the salty, ever present breeze and a bit of sun. His Newfoundland dog, Skipper, lay by his side snoring lightly. A thought occurred to him then, as he rested there, gazing lazily at the clouds going by.

Maybe I should go to the meeting.

Why? He grunted at the thought. He still felt anger toward the majority of the G8, and a scattered few other nations.

Maybe… Maybe it's time to let things go.

He raised his eyebrows at himself. Let things go? That entailed a lot. A lot of pain, hardships, injustice, arrogance… A lot. But maybe… maybe his thoughts were right. Maybe it was time to let go. This coming July 1st would mark the 100 year anniversary of Beaumont Hamel.

That means something. Beaumont Hamel is only one of the things bothering me, and that was 100 years ago. So much more happened before that, and look at me, I'm still bitching about it.

Newfoundland snorted. A thousand years plus worth of "shit happened". That was something to think about. He wondered just where this little stray bugger of a thought had come from. He refused Canada's offer whenever the chance came up, rarely even showing up at the "Provincial/Territorial and Country meetings". Canada would always nag him about it after, but in reality what could he do to make Newfoundland move? Nothing. That's what. The Ex-dominion never had boat loads of power, or influence, or a great big load of land. But he was damned if that meant he couldn't take down the best of them if he set his mind to it. He had knocked Russia senseless once, and he would do so again. Which meant that, at the end of the day, Canada left him to his decision in peace.

Maybe I should go…

He signed. Maybe, just maybe.

That's when "O Canada" started blaring from his cellphone (damn thing), and he found himself glaring at the Canadian flag he had put as Matthew's contact picture. This was it. He had to decide.

"Afternoon Joseph! How've you been?"

"Well b'y, some day out 'ere. 'Aven't seen a better 'ne yet. Sun' out an'a'bout, fer once." Joe gave him a moment to process what he had said. Joe could speak right proper when he wanted too, but only then and not a second longer. When Canada had figured out what he meant, he chuckled.

"That's good then, b'y." Canada attempted and failed to mimic Newfoundland, before giving up completely. "Did you get my email? Are you going to come over to Ottawa?"

" 'Course I got yer mail." Joe bit his lip. It was now or never.

"Soooo you going to come over?"

"Now Matt, ya knows why I usually n'ever come by. Them G8 fellers 'ave been getting on me nerves since tha day they was introduced ta me."

Canada blinked. That was a change from the usual 'get on with ya b'y, I ain't coming to no meet'n'. Could it be, Newfoundland was actually considering it!? The nation couldn't help but feel hopeful.

"Annnd?" He prompted.

"…." Canada thought Joe had hung up, and checked if he was still on the line. "I'm still right contrary with 'em all. But… I… I might as well get on the go fer once. I'll be there."

In the capital city, Canada's face lit up. The man he considered an uncle, an unshakable rock, was actually coming to the meeting! This had to be his day!

Newfoundland could hear the squeal of joy coming (the flag only knew how that boy managed such a high pitched sound) and promptly put 3 feet of distance between the phone and his ear. As his nation yelled happily, the Ex-Dominion rested his head on his other hand, fingers playing with the double gold loops hanging from his left ear. He watched the clouds some more, mentally making a list of things he needed to bring. The meeting was in 2 days, as today was Sunday June 13th. He would've preferred more time to drive up, but it was manageable if he left today…. He could fly up…

"Joe… you still there?" Joe blinked out of his thoughts and brought the phone back to his ear.

"Yah B'y, I'm still 'ere. Didn't go no-where." Was that …Regret Joe felt? Probably. …Yes it was, he was starting to regret this already. Damnit.

"I'm so happy Joe! It's the first time since—" Canada cut himself off

"Yeh, some good mem'ries there." Newfoundland snorted.

Canada stuttered, and Joe could imagine the kid darkening to a deep shade of red. "I-I'm s-sorry Newfoundland."

"Yeh Chucklehead. Anyway, b'y I got stuf'ta do, fish ta c'tch, the jigs'n'reels as usual." Joe continued shortly, practically demanding an end to the conversation right then and there.

"Wait wha—! Joe wait! When are you—"

"Canada! Yeh got me nerves run right raw! I's comin' yeh succeeded in yer mission. Now I'll Sees yeh later!"

And Newfoundland promptly hung up in a huff of childishness. This was why he never went to a world meeting. He would be barking up everyone's trees, asking for a fight. He wasn't naïve. He knew how he would personally react, and he knew how most countries would react when faced with a pissed Newfoundlander. Memories, time barely dulling their edges, floated behind his eyes. German submarines, the war front… Slaughter. Famine….

No. He refused to think about it. They were just panels of his life, just the newest atop a very tall tower of vivid, painful images that would never leave, never be forgotten.

"Hey b'y Skip." He sighed, a small smile on his face. The huge dog looked up at his owner with a tilt of his bear-like head. "Seems to me that we're a headed to good ol' Sint'John's." That bit of road alone would take 12 hours, 10 if there wasn't any construction or delays. Then, he would go straight to the airport. No point in taking a night's rest if he could get there first, and then sleep. Skipper would be coming, of course.

The dog barked happily and stood. The beast stretched, tail wagging, and then wandered down the stairs of the balcony down into the lawn and copse of trees. Joe let the animal to himself, and walked inside the house to pack up a few things.

He washed himself up, packed enough clothes for a week (and a bottle of screech), figured he could buy Skipper some food in the capital of his province, and with that, closed his house up for the week. He didn't bother to lock the doors, nobody in the community ever did. With his black duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Joe started down the lane to his old, beaten up, white-on-blue 1970 C10 Chevy pick-up. Dinged she may be, but that truck ran like a charm. Mostly because Newfoundland overhauled her when he got her, and has been taking care of the vehicle since.

He plopped the bag in between the two front, and only, seats. He looked back up toward his house, and then around the yard. Skipper was nowhere in sight, so Newfoundland proceeded to wolf-whistle loudly. Odd as that may be, wolf-whistling was the only way to get his mutt to come to him.
Not even 10 seconds later, the bear-like black dog bounded out from the trees heading straight for Joe. The man stepped aside, and without breaking stride Skipper jumped up into the cab of the pick-up (rocking the vehicle on its wheels) and sat himself down in the passenger seat.

Skipper barked eagerly, giving the impression of impatience. Joe snorted.

"Whatever, Mutt, I was'a wait'en fer you, not tha other way 'round."

The dog barked again, whined and looked at Joe thoughtfully. Joe rolled his eyes, clambered up in the truck and closed the door behind him.

"Al'right, Al'right. Here we go's."

He started the engine, put the truck in gear and officially started regretting his decision to humor Matthew for once.

(I DONT KNOW HOW TO DO LINEBREAKS)

Port aux Basques, 45 minutes into the trip… (10 am)

The town was busy, people that came in on the ferry from North Sydney, NS were all over the place. Newfoundland liked to think the tourists were here for the big Beaumont-Hamel ceremonies, but he knew that the nice weather and beautiful scenery were much more likely to be the reason. Unless it was neither, and in that case Joe didn't really give a cod fish.

(IT'S PISSING ME OFF)

Corner Brook, 3 hours 5 minutes into the trip… (1:05 pm)

It was now 1:05 in the afternoon. Newfoundland had stopped at a Subway in the town of Corner Brook, took 3 roasted steak sandwiches to go, and was munching on them in his parked truck. He took 1 and a half for himself, and gave the rest to Skipper. Once they were both done the meal, one making a considerably bigger mess then the other, and once Joe had cleaned the aforementioned mess up, the duo hit the road once more.

(WHAT THE HELL)

Grand Falls-Windsor, 5 hours 46 minutes into the trip… (3:46 pm)

Passing through Pasadena, Deer Lake, South Brook and Badger on their way to Grand Falls made Newfoundland realize that he was actually doing this. He was actually heading to St-John's, to catch a plane from St-John's international to Ottawa, to meet up with a bunch of idiot semi-mortals and co. He was surprised at how fast they were going, convinced that either traffic (as if) or construction would delay them. He was mostly hoping either of those things would prevent them from arriving in time, the other part of him hoped for a provincial officer to stop him and have a chat.
Grand Falls marked a rough half of the trip done, the next half would be going down the East coast, through Terra Nova and then the Avalon.

Joe wolf-whistled for Skipper, earning weird looks from people walking by, and once the dog was back in his seat, both set off for the next leg of their journey.

(FANFICTION!)

Terra Nova National Park, 7 hours 55 minutes into the trip… (5:55 pm)

The TCH, or Trans Canada Highway went straight through Terra Nova National Park. This was fine, except that construction workers were completely redoing this stretch of road. Newfoundland was stuck in a medium-long line of cars, driving slowly through the park. Not even the good ol' rock n' roll on the radio could cheer the province up. He was in a dark mood, cursing everyone and their uncles. Why hadn't he just told Canada to suck it up and stop begging him to come? Or better yet, ignore his call all together!

And for a cherry on top, he was going to meet all the nations!

Why had he agreed to this?!

(MEW)

Just outside Terra Nova, 9 hours into the trip… (7 pm)

If one were to look into the white-on-blue, dinged up old Chevy truck cruising down the highway, they would see an older looking young feller, belting it out in harmony with his great big Newfoundland dog to the tune of The Rumjacks "An Irish Pub Song".

…What an alarming sight.

(NEWFOUNDLAND!)

St-John's, 12 hours 10 minutes from Rose Blanche. The end of the road. (10:10 pm)

Newfoundland decided to frig his decision of "catching a plane right away" in favor of parking the truck on top of Signal Hill, now deserted save for a few ambitious photographers, to watch the stars. It was a clear night, warm with a cool, crisp breeze.
Like this, the castle almost seemed like the proud fortress it had been. It brought back memories, and it wasn't hard to picture the historical monument as Joe had known it, bustling with activity. Red coats, canons ready to fire, great big schooners of fish and war, all of which long gone save for artifacts and stories.

Newfoundland ended up falling asleep there, visions of days long past dancing in front of his eyes.

(NEWFIES!)

"OH CANADA~~"

Oh for god's sake…

"OUR HOME AND NATIVE LAND~~"

Joe fumbled around, looking for his phone in a half-slumbering state.

"TRUE PATRIOT LOVE, IN ALL THY SONS COMMAND~~"

Where the hell is my phone!? Newfoundland found it before Oh Canada could go into its French phase and make the province even grumpier.

"WHAT?!" He growled into the device, making the Nation on the other end shrink back for a second.

"D-did I wake you?" Canada asked timidly, making Newfoundland scowl and start to blink the sleep from his eyes.

"No b'y, it's only," he checked the time on his phone. His scowl deepened. "8 in tha morn'en." Which actually didn't bother the ex-dominion. He normally woke up at 5:30 am anyway. No, what made him grumpy was how sore he felt. Plus, making Canada guilty was always Jjdinfiuf

"Oh jeez I'm so sorry!" That was when Newfoundland realized the time difference, and cut Canada off from whatever he was going to say next.

"Why's ya call'en me at 6? Yah barely manage tah get up at 10 on a good day!" Newfoundland yawned and looked around, noticing he had fallen asleep in the pick-up on top of Signal Hill. Skipper was still asleep, remarkably. Tourists were out and about, but nobody had noticed them.

Canada chuckled. "Well, I'm getting things ready for tomorrow! I also wanted to ask when you're coming, 'cause I got everything set up already! All the provinces have their own floor at the hotel—" Newfoundland went to protest in outrage, but Canada knew this and continued briskly, "—But you got a room right next to mine on the level I booked for Nations."

Newfoundland deadpanned. "An' tha's better?"

"….Joeeeee come onnnnnnn." Canada whined like a child. Newfoundland had to resist the urge to slam his face on the steering wheel. "It's only for a few days!"

"A few days too long."

"Newfoundland!"

"Pfft."

There was a silence, and the province could just imagine Canada was rubbing his temples. He didn't know why the nation even bothered. Everyone but the provinces would probably just think they were in "North USA" and forget about all about the host country.

Newfoundland's blood boiled a bit at that. He had lied, he did know why Canada bothered. This was important to him, getting noticed. He tried his best every time, and every time he failed. Not this time. The eldest-yet-not-at-the-same-time member of Canada's provinces smiled darkly. He could get his revenge and get Canada noticed at the same time!

"Newfoundland!"

"Hmm?"

"Did you hear my question?"

"Nah b'y, sorry 'bout that." The nation sighed.

"I asked, when are you arriving?"

"Oh. I'm catch'en me self some breakfast and head'en to tha airport now."

"Call me when you get here, I'll pick you up!"

"Fine, I'll see yeh later lad."

"See you soon Joe!"

Newfoundland half-heartedly muttered an answer before hanging up and immediately got out of his truck. Skipper had woken up during the call, and followed him out.

"How 'bout a walk 'round the hill, ol' Skip? Before we heads to tha Capital."

The dog barked and bounded ahead a few steps, leaving Newfoundland to follow him before the mutt got himself into the center of tourist attention.

(NEWFOUNDLAND DOGS!)

An hour and a half, many tourists, pictures, and breakfast later, Newfoundland found himself at the St-John's airport, freshened up and in a clean set of clothes. He had locked up his truck in the traveling parking space, and already sent both his bag and Skipper (in a last minute bought XXL dog kennel) through the luggage control.

Turns out the next plane to Ottawa had free space and was leaving right away, so a quick scramble through security and the boarding gates later found economy class, infrequent flyer Joseph K. Smith in a window seat looking around tiredly.
Newfoundland never liked planes.
When America and Canada were Pilots in the wars, he was ship Captain. He would take the rolling sea over air turbulence any day.

The plane started its taxi toward the runway, and the ex-dominion settled down for an uneasy flight.

He couldn't help but think he was going to regret his decision even more than he was now.