Hunted
A Hetalia fanfiction by Snakefire.
French translations provided by Akikazehana.
Nova Scotia's eyes slowly opened.
Sunlight trickled in through the open window, streaming into his eyes. He blinked once, yawning a little, and rolled over to check the time on the clock opposite his bed. He blinked blearily at the device, confused for a moment- the timepiece was blurry without the aid of his glasses. The boatbuilder groaned aloud, reaching out his hands and patting his bedside table. Come on, where were his glasses?! He finally wrapped his fingers around the thin wire frames, shoving them on at once. His vision cleared immediately, and he blinked at the clock.
Ten past eleven. Thank god it was his day off. He'd have completely missed the first shift…
Nova Scotia grunted a little as he pulled himself out of bed. He threw the sheets off his body, turning around to plant his feet in his slippers on the floor. Groaning a little, the boatbuilder stood up and rubbed his eyes, stretching and wincing each time one of his joints cracked. He yawned; tiredness had seeped into his bones, and was refusing to leave with a steadfast stubbornness that would have been commendable- had the redhead been fully awake, that is.
He stomped out of his room, slouched and mumbling, and dumbly, automatically, followed a path trodden many times before. Nova Scotia bumped into a wall on his way to the kitchen, leaning his head against it and sliding all the way there.
The door was always open, and the boatbuilder walked through on autopilot, stumbling across the tiny, homey space towards the coffee machine.
It took him a few minutes to grind the beans, put them in the filter, and drop it in the machine. When that was done, he yawned, stretched, and, arm still locked outwards, pressed "brew."
The coffee began to percolate immediately, and Nova Scotia stomped off to the bathroom to go brush his teeth. As he scrubbed away at his back molars, he absent-mindedly wondered if he needed to shave before dismissing the notion. He spat and rinsed, before stomping back to the kitchen to go check on the coffee.
An eighth of a pot. Not yet.
The province wandered back to the bathroom, yawning sleepily. Time for a shower.
He turned back and closed the door to the tiny bathroom.
The sound of water running and loud, off-key singing echoed through the house. The noise wasn't deafening, but it was more than enough to conceal another rather insignificant sound.
On Nova Scotia's bedside table, his cellphone started ringing the tone it played when someone sent him a text message.
Twenty minutes later, with his shower completed and feeling far more awake than he had previously, Nova Scotia opened the bathroom door, wrapped up in a towel, and walked into his bedroom. He rummaged through his dresser, grabbing a few random bits of clothing and putting them on after pulling them out- his favorite boxers, a pair of blue jeans, a t-shirt and a nice felt sweater with a plaid pattern to finish . It was early September, and though the forecast predicted no snow for awhile it was starting to get a bit chilly.
He grabbed a plain leather belt from the top of the dresser, slipping it into his belt loops and tightening it up. The province looked into the mirror that hung behind his dresser at his messy hair and sighed. He grabbed the comb that had been sitting on top of the dresser's plain wooden top and smoothed out his curly mess, once again attempting to force the Bay of Fundy, rising from the messy sea of red like the prow of a ship amidst a storm, to lie flat. Once again the little sprig of hair sprang right back up to its former position the second the comb was gone, whipping the small strand of curled hair that was identical to his father's back and forth like a bullwhip, until it finally settled in its flopped-back position as part of the little clump of red.
He sighed and put the comb down. He had to admit that that had been pretty pointless. The Bay of Fundy wasn't EVER going to co-operate with anything, including and especially gravity . He walked over to his bedside table, and absentmindedly grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone and stuffed them into his jeans' rather spacious pockets.
Back to the kitchen to check on the coffee. This time he had three-quarters of a full pot, and so with a smile he grabbed the glass jug, raised the brim to his lips, and had a long drink.
He sighed with content, turning to look out the kitchen window. The sun was sparkling over the waters, and the deep blue ocean was dotted with waves and whitecaps.
"...That's odd..." he murmured quietly as he looked out at the bay, taking a few steps closer to the window. He surveyed the bay again, confirming his initial evaluation, and raised an eyebrow in concern. Halifax was world renowned for its harbours and its shipping lanes, and for some reason the largest shipping port in the country was completely devoid of ships.
He squinted. There HAD to be at LEAST a few small fishing boats or an oil tanker or something.
All he could see going into the harbour was the wind and the waves.
Nova Scotia took a deep breath as a knot of fear formed in his stomach. Oh god, what if all the boats were going up to Newfoundland's ports?! Or worse, MAINE?!
But that still didn't explain the lack of fishing boats, lobster boats, shrimp trawlers, sailboats, motorboats...all his people's ships and skiffs should be on the water in full force with the lack of international traffic in the normally busy waters.
All that was on the water was the waves.
Nova Scotia took a deep breath to calm his nerves, following it up with another large swig of coffee. The warm brew failed in dissolving the knot in his gut; instead, it made it twist even tighter.
Where were all the boats?
As much as he needed some conclusion to this question, the boatbuilder realized that staring out the window wasn't going to magically make the ships come back. He knew that much.
Nova Scotia tore himself away from the window and walked down the hall, coffeepot in hand. If there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that if he let the pressure build up, he'd crack.
Distraction. Distraction. He needed a quick distraction to calm himself down, and then he could call his boss and find out where all the ships had gone. Something like...
He let his thoughts trail off when he noticed something that he had framed on the wall.
Yes, that would do nicely.
He smiled a little, a smile tinged with a hint of bratishness. It was a framed drawing on a piece of handmade paper. The paper was ancient; yellow and tattered, and the drawing on the surface was done in charcoal. Literally charcoal; he'd watched the artist grab a cool lump of it out of the firepit and scratch out something quick.
He read the clumsy, overlarge printing that was preserved for all time underneath the glass.
"Pour le meilleur grand frère au monde! Avec amour, ta soeurette..." he read aloud quietly, smiling at the words. He stumbled over the French pronunciation, but it honestly didn't matter.
"To the best big brother in the whole world! Love, your little sis."
Nova Scotia smiled a little. He remembered being...well, LOOKING, about fifteen, and making that paper, himself by hand. He just wanted to see if he could do it; his adopted uncle talked up paper like it was some great thing, and even told him how to make some himself. So he made a sheet of this gloppy...stuff, and after it had dried, he'd given it...
To New Brunswick.
He smiled happily at the doodle, lost in a happier time, with memories only recently recovered from his rebirth at confederation. The picture itself was a childish scrawl of two smiling stick figures by the sea, one very short with scribbly long hair and a triangular dress, and one tall one with short hair and a big scribble sticking up from the front. The two were holding hands...or at least had conjoined stick-arms.
He sighed again. She was so cute when she was just a little colony...Granted, if he said that to his sister now, she'd break his nose again, but that was why he kept the picture up.
Because even if he'd never admit it, deep down, Nova Scotia was six years old and completely proud of it.
He would also never admit how proud, how incredibly PROUD he was of his siblings. PEI and New Brunswick had grown up from little parts of him into provinces in their own right, provinces he would trust with his life in any situation. He smiled. Thinking about when he was just a boy himself, visiting his little sister, always filled him with a feeling of peace and happiness. Even though she spoke French and he could only speak English, the two of them communicated through the universal language of hugs and play.
Nova Scotia sighed . Now that he was a lot calmer, it was time to give his boss a call. He took out the cellphone in his pocket, his other hand still touching the glass, and typed in his password. The phone unlocked with a little 'click' noise, and he was about to tap the little icon for his contacts when he noticed a little alert in the corner. A small envelope was poking out of the icon for the IM chat program that some of his siblings liked to use to bridge the distances across their vast country. He raised an eyebrow.
He'd set up the family chat to not send him alerts, otherwise every time BC had a joint it would start beeping incessantly. For the most part he didn't reply to text messages either, so nobody ever really texted him; he much preferred they call. The icon was flashing rather urgently, as if it really wanted him to check that message.
But he needed to phone his boss...
Nova Scotia rolled his eyes. Okay, he'd bite. Just check the IM real quick, and then he'd call his premier.
He tapped the message icon. The little orange circle that glowed next to the list of contacts was flashing right next to New Brunswick's icon- of her giving him a noogie.
"...What."
New Brunswick didn't send text messages.
She'd use the group chat once in a while, but in all the years he'd known her to own a phone he couldn't recall her sending him a single text.
He stared at the winking orange light. The knot of fear from before was beginning to rear its ugly head again, growing in ferocity the longer he stared. Something was wrong.
He tapped the button.
Nova Scotia's eyes widened.
He scanned over the words his sister had typed, his brain doing a flip-flop trying to process the meaning.
NB: They're coming for you.
NB: Run.
NB: Trust nobody.
He stared at the messages blankly.
"Why would she... and just who the hell are 'They?'" He muttered to himself.
He mulled it over in his mind. Call his boss, or do as his sister said and run?
"...No contest."
Nova Scotia drank the last of his coffee and shoved the phone into his pocket. Whoever the hell 'they' were, if his sister told him to run from them, then run from them he must. He wondered what he ought to take, before realising that he hadn't yet eaten anything.
Nova Scotia stomped into the kitchen, tossing the coffeepot back into its spot in the machine roughly before running to the fridge and grabbing a small pile of food. He threw a few pieces of toast into the toaster roughly, jamming the little switch down to start them cooking, before turning back to the food. The boatbuilder shoved a few pieces of cheese into his mouth, chewing the massive wad of dairy frantically. It was his favorite kind of cheese, but honestly trying to force-feed himself as much nutrition as possible so early in the morning was making him a bit sick.
He swallowed the wad of cheese, and the toast popped up. Grabbing a knife and some butter, Nova Scotia frantically buttered each slice, throwing some leftover bacon and the slices of a hard-boiled egg onto it, taking a bite of the slap-dash sandwich as he ran to his bedroom. After another huge bite, more frantic and slightly disgusted chewing, he ripped open his closet door and yanked a familiar leather bandolier off the rack.
Another massive bite - to his relief, the sandwich was almost halfway done - and he slipped the bandolier over his back so the single large loop was behind him. He tightened the leather strap a little - it was a bit loose for his liking. That done, he spun around and scooped the large iron adze that was leaning against the head of his bed up, shoving it into its slot in the bandolier so the iron cutting head was at the top. He paused to have another bite of the sandwich that was really starting to make him feel a bit sick, and readjusted the bandolier so it was a bit more comfortable.
Nova Scotia ate the last few bites of sandwich and ran back to the kitchen, yanking an apple off the table and biting into it. He chewed frantically, trying to keep himself calm. This was no time for panic.
Something had happened to New Brunswick. Something bad. He'd made a snap decision to get the hell to Fredericton, figure out what happened and what was going on, and save his sister from whatever it was she'd warned him about. He double-checked he had his keys in his pocket and ran to his front door, grabbing his favorite pair of running shoes and sitting down to pull them on and tie the laces.
That done, Nova Scotia grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open, taking two steps outside and slammed the door behind him. No need to lock it; seriously, if anyone stole his stuff, then they probably needed it more than he .
The boatbuilder froze in place when he looked at his driveway.
"What."
His beat-up, unused, unloved old hatchback should have been sitting RIGHT THERE. He looked up and down the deserted cliffside road frantically; there was no sign of his car.
The wind howled over the lip of the cliff. He looked out at the wavy, shipless sea; that palpable knot forming in the pit of his stomach was twisting ever tighter.
Where was his car?
Nova Scotia looked around helplessly. His car was nowhere to be found. He had no way of knowing if someone had stolen or if something else had happened; and in that moment it honestly didn't matter. The Scotsman's heart sank when he realized that his only way of getting to Fredericton in a timely manner was gone.
He still needed to get there. No matter what. No matter how long it took. If he couldn't save his sister, he could at least avenge her.
Nova Scotia turned again to the sea.
"I'm gonna need a really big boat." He muttered, dredging up many ancient memories when "going to visit his sister" meant sailing around the coast for hours on end, trying to recall the directions he needed to take.
Nova Scotia nodded to himself, and took off running down the street. Get to the harbour, get on a boat, save his sister. After all, it was entirely possible that for whatever reason the port had been closed down while he'd been sleeping, meaning that the local pleasure craft and fishing vessels should still be moored at the wharfs. With little more than a nod to confirm his plan, he was already sprinting down the rough, unpaved road.
As he ran, the maritime's thoughts shifted back to the messages. Why would his sister be telling him to run? What was coming after him? In all honesty if she'd gotten so desperate as to send him a text message, she was the one in danger, not he. He absently-mindedly wondered who "They" were again, dismissing it as silliness before he reached the end of the road.
Nova Scotia stopped and looked down at the city below him, accessible by a gently sloping street that made the abrupt shift to paved at the top of the hill. He looked down, eyes wide and mouth agape at what he saw.
He had wondered why he hadn't seen a single pickup truck at the top of the cliff, why he hadn't heard the hustle and bustle of the city- but he hadn't been expecting...this.
Halifax - his heart, his breath, his Halifax - was empty.
The boatbuilder panned his gaze over the city that lay before him. It was... silent. Silent as the grave. Not a single sound echoed from the depths of the city streets, from the far distant skyscrapers bordering the biggest of the shipping lanes. Looking down at the more immediate edges of the city, or the street itself, he saw not a single car. Not a bike, not a bus, not a truck, nothing. The street was empty. Completely empty.
The shops had their doors open, looking rather forlorn and unloved. The view of the rest of the city showed him that it was equally empty . The harbour was devoid of the massive cargo ships that normally would have been going in and out as fast as the port authorities could fire them through, offloading their goods, picking up a new load, and getting the hell out of there. But not one was visible to him; nor was the distinctive triangular shape of sailboat sails, or a far distant wake of one of the hundreds of motorboats that should have been out in force. Everything was silent, cold, sterile, and immobile.
Lifeless.
Halifax - his Halifax - didn't feel like a city.
It felt like a grave.
Nova Scotia gulped and started walking down the silent street.
"Hello!? HELLOOOO!? ANYONE THERE?!" he yelled into the emptiness.
His only response was the mournful howl of the ever-present wind.
"IS SOMEONE OUT THERE?! HELLOOO?!"
Nothing but the sound of his own footsteps and the creaking, flapping, and squeaking of anything not nailed down in the breeze.
Nova Scotia licked his lips and took a deep breath. One more time.
"CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?! IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?!"
He stopped for a second and listened.
Nothing.
Nothing. Not even seagulls. Nothing.
Nothing but silence .
Nova Scotia kept walking. He looked left and right, heart pounding. Around every corner he half expected to see…he honestly didn't know.
"... .Is... Is anyone there?" he whispered quietly, more to himself than the silent street.
His favorite cafe was ahead, tucked into the corner of the street. The veranda's decorative blue-and-white tassels flapped forlornly in the breeze, and the tiny handful of tables for coffee out of doors were all set up, chairs pushed slightly out as if to invite him to sit down. On a whim, he slowly turned, walking across the road towards it, heart filled with dread.
As he walked across the street, the province noticed that the cafe's little wooden sign had toppled over. At the sight of it, he quickened the pace, striding up to the fallen sandwich board. It was a smallish thing; not nearly as big or obnoxious as some of its downtown counterparts. The daily special was apparently clam chowder with a side of delicious. Granted, it wasn't the special that caused his stomach to lurch sickeningly. It was the simple fact that the owners of the cafe, a couple he knew quite well, NEVER let their sign fall down.
Nova Scotia stared at the sign for quite a while, trying to process the fact that it was lying on the ground, unrighted and unloved. He was forced into the conclusion that something had happened to the shop's owners. The Scotsman looked up from the sign, looking at the cafe. The door was propped open by a small painted rock rather invitingly, and with a heavy weight in his stomach, he walked inside.
The inside of the cafe was just like it always was: tables, chairs, comfy armchairs, a counter with barstools, and a large plexiglass case under which sat a variety of treats. The key difference was the lack of any people in the shop. Nobody called his pseudonym in greeting, ('Robert Williams' had to do a lot less explaining of his name that Nova Scotia did) nobody was having their morning coffee or tea while reading the paper; the tiny, lively cafe that always felt so cheerful and homey now felt like a hollow, empty husk, sucked dry of its life and charm.
Nova Scotia looked around the cafe, heart sinking at the silent tomb of good cheer.
"I... Where are... Where are they?" He whispered quietly.
The realization was slowly beginning to sink in that Halifax - his Halifax - was truly empty. The Cafe- the cafe that was ALWAYS crammed- was empty. Nova Scotia's chest tightened as he let his eyes wander over the empty barstools, the empty tables, the empty chairs, the empty... everything.
His people. Where? Where could they be? He needed them. Not just as a person needs company, but as a province he needed them . His heart was linked with Halifax itself; but not just the city. His father had often told him that if all of Halifax, every building, even the legislature itself was razed to the ground, and yet the people that once lived there still survived, he would not die.
He felt his heart tighten in his chest, and without thinking he turned to leave the tiny cafe. Sitting here staring at the emptiness of his favourite little eatery would do him no good, and it still wasn't getting him any closer to the docks to rescue New Brunswick.
He left the little shop, stepping back out onto the deserted street, his footsteps making a maddening echo off the walls of the street.
He hummed a little, feeling a bit nervous. Emptiness...Nova Scotia didn't do emptiness. Emptiness was for the prairies, emptiness was not for him. Every footstep that he could hear seemed to deafen him, causing the twisting knot of unease in the pit of his stomach to tighten sickeningly.
He swallowed. Why was he so nervous? He had no proof that there was even anyone else in the city, and even if there was, it was highly unlikely that they would be in the same area as him, with malign intentions.
This thought somehow failed to dissipate the tightly twisted knot of fear and tension in his belly, which instead simply twisted a little tighter in response to his footsteps.
Out of the corner of his eye, the boatbuilder spotted some movement, standing out starkly against the dead city street.
Above a door to one of the little shops, jutting out at an angle, was a small wooden pole. A shaft, weather-beaten and worn, with an aged brass topper that looked like it was about to fall off.
And blowing lazily in the wind, looking like it was about to detach and fly away…
Him.
His flag.
The white and blue, with the lion rampant, tattered and torn, almost detached from its anchor, and about to fly away.
As he stared at the flag, unsure why it captivated him so, a small gust blew the lazily floating flag a little harder than it could bear.
It snapped, and the small piece of tattered fabric detached from its anchor, blowing away in a lazy arc, looping slightly…
And landing right at his feet.
He stared at it blankly, thoughts whirling about in his head at mach two. He bent down to touch the ragged fabric, hand trembling with nervousness. God, why was he so nervou-
The pent-up tension released in a single instant as his phone rang suddenly , the tone startling a muffled half-shriek out of Nova Scotia, who almost fell over at the deafeningly loud noise. Again and again the phone rang out, the racket quickly rebuilding the feeling of suffocating nervousness from before.
He gasped, trying to get his breath back to normal and failing horribly. One hand, shaking like a leaf, reached into his pants pocket and made a grab for his phone, missing once, twice, finally grabbing the device on the third try.
He removed it quickly, his hand still shaking so bad he input his password wrong three times before he finally managed to unlock it.
The ringing ceased at once, and the IM screen had a new message for him.
A new message from New Brunswick.
NB: We are coming to Collect You, Brother.
The rising panic in the boatbuilder's chest leaped up and twisted itself into a sickening knot. He looked at his sister's icon- the picture of her giving him a noogie had been removed, showing the blank grey silhouette that remained as the default .
He took a deep breath, trying to quell the boiling unease in his gut. The redhead reached out and tapped the small button that called up the reply field, and began to frantically type up his response.
NS: I don't need collecting! What's going on? Are you okay?!
He hit 'send', and waited for the little spinning circle to disappear, meaning his message had been delivered.
"….What."
The province blinked at the error message that popped up.
"…Could...not... send message. No service." Nova Scotia read aloud, hands trembling. His phone, by all rights, should NOT have been vibrating. The bars for connectivity- all empty with a red 'X' through them. He couldn't send messages, and he sure as hell shouldn't be receiving them.
He looked up from his phone in a panic, looking all around at the silent city streets. A flash of movement caught his eye as the tattered scrap of flag floated up and away on a breeze he'd neither seen nor felt. He stared at it as it flew away, the leaden feeling in his stomach growing no lighter from tracing its trail across the sky.
As he looked at each and every one of the silent, empty buildings lining the block, a flash of paranoia shot through him. He wondered if his sister's message meant that maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.
"HELLO!?" He screamed hoarsely into the empty lane, "IS ANYONE THERE?! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?! PLEASE! SAY SOMETHING!"
Nova Scotia froze again, looking all around for any kind of reply.
Listening.
He strained his ears to try to hear any conceivable response to his frantic shouting.
And for a fraction of a second, the province could have sworn he heard something.
It was faint.
Very faint.
But he could swear…
He could swear he heard the sound of marching.
The sound was like a jolt of adrenaline right to his system. Without quite knowing why, he broke into a run, tearing down the street, heedless of the noise of his shoes slapping the pavement, echoes of life off down the deserted streets.
Nova Scotia ignored everything as he ran down the street, adze bouncing in its holder against his back , fear and adrenaline speeding on his flight. He ignored the lack of music from the men with instruments on the empty street corners, he ignored the lack of cars, the lack of laughter, the lack of creaking, and especially that damn, ceaseless -
- Ringing?!
Nova Scotia came to a screeching halt, breathing heavily.
Ringing.
From his phone.
His eyes widened and he frantically shoved a hand into his pocket, fumbling around for the small device, desperate to silence it. He was the only man in the city; if there really WAS anyone else, he sure as hell didn't want them knowing where he was, and the best way to let everyone know his location was to let the blasted black plastic gizmo keep on ringing.
He succeeded in removing it, the tone getting louder and louder, and he nearly dropped it trying to frantically input his password. The cellphone immediately opened up the message screen, silencing at once as he looked at the IM.
He gulped.
One new message.
Prince Edward Island: We are coming to Save you, Brother.
"No no no NO…NOT YOU TOO!" the redhead yelled in fear and frustration, heedless of subtlety. He felt his breathing increase, sucking in one adrenaline-jacked, ragged breath after another; his heart hammered in his chest at a pace it hadn't for a good fifty years. First his sister, and now PEI?
A small sound made him freeze in place, limbs locked, the breath he'd just sucked in locked in his chest.
He slowly, very very slowly, turned his head upwards to look back up the street, listening, straining to hear it.
The boatbuilder could have sworn he'd just heard…
Footsteps. Again. A group of people, marching towards him, marching in lockstep.
And unless he was going completely crazy, it sounded a little louder than the last time.
He let out the breath he'd been holding, the small noise providing an interruption to the faint sound of marching.
And once again the street was silent.
He jammed the phone in his pocket and ran.
Down the street, past the shops, terror and adrenaline mixing together to form a potent mixture that kicked his muscles into high gear.
He took a sharp left down a side street- if he kept going straight, he'd get trapped in a dead-end that looked like it went down into the sea, but actually did not. This side street was more residential - he raced past a few three-storey apartment blocks and some houses- all empty and silent, like… mausoleums.
His initial plan to rescue New Brunswick had fallen by the wayside in favour of getting down to the docks, jacking a boat, and keep sailing until he either hit France or ran out of gas, whichever came sooner.
"Get to the harbor…ignore the phone…get to the harbor….ignore the phone…get to the harbor…ignore the phone…." He muttered to himself. He chanted this quiet mantra again and again, over and over as he hurried past a duplex, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
Ignoring the phone would be a lot easier if he made sure it wouldn't ring anymore.
The boatbuilder slowed down from a run to a brisk walk for a moment, thumbing over to the IM screen and opening up the option to manage contacts. He looked up to make sure he wasn't going the wrong way, before tapping his sister's icon and hitting "BLOCK CONTACT". He did the same for PEI, nodding his head when he was done and breathing a sigh of relief. He shoved the gadget into his coat pocket before looking back up and breaking into a run. The harbor was still a good hike from where he was, but that was fine; he'd made longer jogs before, in less time.
He was about halfway down the street when the impossible happened.
Nova Scotia staggered the last few steps to a stop, breath caught in his chest amidst the sound of his loudly ringing phone .
He frantically dug it out of his pocket, the terror and panic leaping from his stomach to his chest and squeezing his lungs. Nova Scotia pulled his phone out and unlocked it, staring at the IM screen, his breath caught in his throat, pupils dilated in terror.
New Brunswick: You cannot Silence Us, Brother.
Prince Edward Island: You cannot Hide from Us, Brother.
Newfoundland and Labrador: You cannot Run from Us, Brother.
He looked up, looked around, and then back down at the messages.
You cannot run from us. You cannot hide from us.
And...hadn't PEI said...?
"...Save me from...Save me from what?!" Nova Scotia spluttered out in fear, jamming the phone in his pocket and breaking into an adrenaline-jacked sprint.
Past the duplexes, past the condos, past the brief glimpses of the bright blue sea that flitted by in between the buildings; he reached the end of the street in record time, panting raggedly. The shaken province paused there for a fraction of a second, turning left and right to look up and down the street; in his panic, he'd forgotten which way he was supposed to go.
It took the Atlantic province several excruciating seconds to recall the proper path to take towards the harbour, several seconds of agonizing over the choice in almost complete silence; it was as if everything in the city was conspiring to be still in unison in that instant, save for his heart, beating steadily, and his ragged breath, panting painfully in and out.
Taking a deep breath, he finally made up his mind, his loud footsteps bouncing off the walls of the street as he ran as fast as he possibly could towards the harbour. Two more streets. Two more streets...
Past a pharmacy, past a bookshop, past a house, past this and that and the other thing, all laid out in neat little rows, like a massive tomb.
It took Nova Scotia several seconds to notice that another sound had joined the echoes of his shoes hitting the pavement in a steady, repetitive rhythm; a noise that was far less calm and collected, a sound that echoed off the walls of the silent tomb and silently gave him a heart attack.
He stopped running for a moment, panting in fear and fright, hands fumbling, fumbling for his accursed phone.
Password. Unlock. IM screen.
You have two new messages.
Ontario: You are not Listening, Brother.
Québec: You cannot Run, Brother.
He stared at the messages, gaping in shock.
"On…O-Ontario?! Québec?! No no no, not you, please God not you too…." He mumbled, stuffing the phone in his pocket and wringing his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, trying to get his breathing back to normal.
"Calm…calm…calm… it's not a problem, not a problem, not a problem . They're just joking. It's just a joke. It's just a joke. They're all too far away, right? Right?! RIGHT?!" the last word he raised to a frenzied shout, demanding answers of the houses and the condos, and the tattered bit of flag that was now blowing away in the wind. It flew up, high into the sky, and blew out of sight on a gust of wind he'd neither seen or felt .
"C…come on, Nova Scotia…Vimy ridge, eh? What would have happened if you'd fallen to bits there? Man up, and keep moving!" He said to himself, sounding very unconvinced by his own pep talk. Nevertheless, the boatbuilder kept on moving, shakily getting to his feet and breaking into a run down the residential street. He was getting closer to the harbor. Take a left at the road up ahead, follow it down…
"Vimy…That was different, though!" he mumbled to himself as he jogged, "I had..I had a gun, I had my family…and I wasn't being...and I wasn't being hunted."
"Point taken…Um..."
"I don't know what to do. Maybe I should just hide. Maybe it's not that bad."
"Or, they could, you know, be trying to kill you. Did you think of that? If you hide like a turtle in his shell, you'll die for certain. Get to the docks, get on a boat, and get out, and you'll live. But not if you let them get to you. Now for fuck's sake, GROW A PAIR AND KEEP MOVING, NOVA SCOTIA!" He yelled into the vacuum of silence that was the street.
"…Y…Yes. Yeah. Let's keep moving. I'll keep…on…moving." He whispered, maintaining his jog.
"Good. See? Nothing's happening. You'll be just fine. Just f-"
The sound of a ringing phone cut through the "conversation". It was loud; in the silence, the deathly emptiness, the cellphone's ring was like a gunshot right next to the Nova Scotian's ear.
He stopped short, grabbing almost robotically for the device. His hands still shook; this time, thought, it only took two tries to get the damn thing unlocked.
Manitoba: We can Hear you, Brother.
Saskatchewan: We are Tracking you, Brother.
Alberta: We will Find you, Brother.
British Columbia: We will Free you, Brother.
He read and re-read the messages, grip on his phone tightening.
Brother. Brother. Brother.
They kept calling him that.
Only New Brunswick called him that.
Brother. Brother. Brother.
"St…STOP CALLING ME BROTHER!" He howled into the emptiness, head thrown back to scream at the sky, at the vengeful god that was torturing him like this.
He fell to his knees- and froze once more, panic seeping ice-cold into his veins, realizing he could have just given himself away.
He listened for the sound of the footsteps, the sound of the marching. Anything.
All the boatbuilder heard was silence, save for a faint, mournful howl of wind from the pier.
"Get…Get up. Move. Move NOW." He mumbled to himself. His leaden legs dumbly complied, hoisting him to his feet. He swayed as though drunk, and then half in fear and half from the adrenaline, broke into a run, his running shoes slapping at the ground, the din echoing off the walls of the street. He was almost at the end.
Nova Scotia ran out of the shadowed street, looking up the new street. Nothing. He turned around the corner and took off again, panting for breath, muscles tiring as lactic acid built up, slowly but surely. He felt himself slowing down; he'd never been much of a sprinter. His adze bounced in its holder on his back, smacking him with each stride.
All the same, his terror had gotten him much closer to the docks. At the end of this street, the road turned right- and a fence separated the road from the ocean port. He just had to follow the road alongside the harbour about a kilometer, turn right, and then pick any of the boats that…SHOULD…be there, bobbing at the docks.
He took a second to breathe, collapsing to his knees. A bead of sweat ran down his nose, and he panted, tiredness almost consuming him.
He climbed to his feet again, wiping the sweat off his brow, and preparing to set off again-
His accursed phone rang, louder this time. Far louder.
With a different tone.
Nova Scotia reached into his pocket to remove his phone automatically. He trembled as he pressed the button that woke it up- and bit his lip when he saw that instead of the unlock screen, there was the overlay that came up when he got a call.
New phone call from:
Dad.
He trembled.
"We can hear you..." he whispered in fear, realizing the warning in those words.
He had to stop the ringing, consequences be damned. And odds were, if he just his "block call" his father would simply call back until he answered.
Shaking like a leaf, he hit the green button and raised the device to his ear.
"He…h…Hello?"
"Hello, Son."
He bit his lip HARD to keep from screaming.
The voice. His father's warm, caring voice…
It wasn't. It just…wasn't. It was his voice….but…
No emotion. It was devoid of inflection, feeling, personality, HUMANITY. It was a robotic monotone, droning from the mouth of his father. It was….cold. Not in tone; it had no tone, but in…feel. It was cold, blank, drained, and empty.
He wanted to scream and scream and scream until he could scream no more. Those two words had his hair standing on end, his heart hammering, and beads of sweat running down his face.
"D…Da…D...wh…why are you calling me?! WHAT DO YOU WANT!? WHO ARE YOU?!" he screamed into the phone, spraying spittle and foaming at the mouth a little, his face as red as the maple leaf.
"I am Canada, your Father." The man on the other end of the line said. Each word, devoid of love. Each word, devoid of life. The voice was dead. Dead but still speaking.
"…YOU. ARE. NOT. MY. FATHER. YOU'RE. NOT. CANAAAAAADAAAAAAAAAA!" Nova Scotia howled. "WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHERE IS HE!? WHAT DO YOU WANT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
"We Want nothing from you, Son."
Nova Scotia froze, his blood like ice in his veins. "…N…nothing?"
"They Want you, Son." came the dead, empty reply.
"….WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY?! WHY ARE YOU HUNTING ME?! STOP IT! STOP CALLING ME! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!"
"I Can't, Son."
"WHY THE FUCK NOT?!""
"They do not Want me to, Son."
Nova Scotia screamed, a pure, animalistic howl of fear and fury and rage. He threw the phone upon the ground, ripping his adze out of its holder, and bringing the sharp end down on the device.
The glass and plastic flew apart; the screen shattered into a thousand different pieces, shards spiraling off in different directions, the plastic casing was crushed into a v-shape, deforming at the apex of the ancient shipwright's tool.
He raised the adze again, smashing down upon the remains of the gadget with another scream of frustration and rage, and then again, and again, and again. Each smash destroyed the expensive device even further, reducing it to little more than a cracked, sharp-edged smear on the pavement.
Nova Scotia panted. He let the adze rest on the pavement. His face was bright red from the exertion of the running and the fear and this final, rage-driven explosion. He panted a few more times, straightening up to wipe the sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve.
Nova Scotia closed his eyes and let his head hang in exhaustion as he listened to the sounds around him. The fear coursing through his body seemed to have burned itself out, leaving nothing but vacant exhaustion in its wake. There was nothing more for him to do but stand there, panting, and listen.
Waves crashing.
Wind howling.
...The sound...of marching?
His eyes snapped open in an instant, head bolting upright, the illusion of calm shattered. All he heard was the sound of booted feet stomping forwards in unison, and this time, he knew he wasn't imagining it. It was faint, faraway; but this time, the sound wasn't a brief snatch carried on the wind. It grew louder and louder with each progressive second, as the sound got louder and louder, or rather...
Closer and closer.
The boatbuilder froze, a statue staring at the harbour. He could hear them, and now the sound was much louder. He spun around to look up the street, from whence he'd came; all he could see was an empty road, bordered by shops, and the blue sky behind it. Yet the marching...it was getting closer now. Still faint, but closer.
"Run. Just fucking RUN. Come on dumbass, stop staring, and fucking run!" he hissed at himself, desperately trying to force his frozen muscles into action. His unresponsive legs refused, and the marching just kept getting louder.
And the redhead was still frozen in place.
That was when the payphone across the street from the pier started to ring. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating into pinpoints, as the phone rang on and on and on. The sound echoed up and down the street, a cacophonous racket that doubtlessly gave him away.
...Was it his imagination, or had the marching sped up considerably?
Nova Scotia didn't wait. He couldn't. Barely three feet from the crushed remnants of his phone, he ran towards the payphone, almost smashing into it headlong and stopping short just in time. He groped for the phone, lifted it off the receiver, fumbled and almost dropped it, caught it, and-
-AND HE'D JUST LIFTED THE RECEIVER.
WHY WAS IT STILL RINGING?!
With no other choice and the marching getting louder, he lifted the receiver to his ear.
"He- hello?" Nova Scotia stammered.
"KHZZZSHHT-lo?! Hello?! Fuck, pick up the G-BZZZT-amnphone!" the voice half-whispered in terror into his ear in reply. The speaker was crackling with static- the same sort of static as before, from...that THING that most definitely wasn't Canada.
"Yu- Yukon?!"
"Hello?! HE-BZZZT-O?! IS ANYONE THER-KZZZZT-RY?! TERRY, ARE -TZZZZZ-THERE?! ANSWER ME!" Yukon howled through the static.
"I! AM! NOVA! SCOTIA!" he screamed right back at the territory, face red as a beet. it was almost like his brother couldn't hear what he was saying! The province gripped the phone so tightly that he could hear the plastic cracking slightly in his rage. Either Yukon was being an ass, or something serious had happened. Whatever the case, his brother's staunch refusal to acknowledge him was really just-
"Hello, Brother."
Nova Scotia slammed the receiver down in a panic, staggering back several steps from the phone in terror. His heart was beating like a hummingbird caught in a net, his frantic panting tearing through ragged lungs.
That VOICE...
It was a dead, robotic drone. That...voice, that thing was NOT the Northwest Territories. The voice that had responded to Yukon's frantic screaming was just like Canada's call; a soulless monotone bereft of life, of spirit.
And since when could a payphone call two people at once?!
The realization hit him then, a cold slap of terrifying reality that froze the blood in his veins and made the province's skin crawl.
If, for example, the message he'd just heard was simply a recording.
He let out a single shaky breath, staring at the phone.
A recording of Yukon's last call.
His head whipped around, turning in a blink to look down the street, eyes locked on another payphone that had also started ringing.
And then another.
And then another.
Nova Scotia's pupils dilated. Every payphone up and down the street save the one he'd just answered was ringing.
And that cacophonous racket, that impossible sound; that wasn't the only thing.
You see, while the province had been answering the call, he had neglected to pay attention to the sound of his pursuers. Now that he was paying attention, he came to the sickening realization that the marching was incredibly loud. It was loud enough to be plainly audible over the ringing of the phones, itself completely deafening; it was loud and it was coming from around the street corner; echoing down the road that Nova Scotia had run down not five minutes before.
"FUCK!" he shrieked almost automatically, letting the profanity slip out as he pivoted and fled in the other direction. He just had to run down a stretch of road alongside the channel, get to a boat, fire her up, and get the hell out of there. That was it. That was all.
You can do this. You can make it. Just don't stop. If you stop they'll get you. Don't stop. He mentally repeated this mantra to himself, over and over and over, shoving his exhaustion, the pain that accompanied each ragged breath, and his fear and fatigue into a corner of his mind.
There was a sudden, sharp tug on his left foot, and Nova Scotia gasped in shock as he plummeted, seemingly in slow motion, arms wheeling frantically as he fell to the pavement.
It honestly wasn't a major impact; nothing truly, deeply serious. Nova Scotia caught himself before he smashed into the pavement too hard; honestly the worst damage he sustained was a pebble sinking into his skin slightly. He rolled over with a grunt, eyes locked on his shoe. The laces dangled from the sides onto the ground.
He pulled the untied shoe towards himself, cursing his rotten luck and re-tying the string in an endlessly practiced motion that took less than a second. Several additional seconds were spent clambering back to his feet, automatically adjusting his coat, and readying himself to run.
Several additional seconds were all the time it took for the source of the marching to finally round the corner and stride with a precision that seemed inhuman towards him.
Nova Scotia, in that most critical of seconds, froze and slowly turned to look. Each breath came in a slow, terrified gasp as his lungs struggled against the tightening of his chest.
He wanted to scream, but his throat refused to move .
He wanted to run, but his legs were frozen; he was a stupid, brightly coloured statue, staring down the street at what had to be some sort of hallucination.
All he could do was stare, stare as they marched towards him.
The row of cold, dead eyes glared as they marched towards him.
The perfection in each stride was... impossible. Or rather, inhuman. Terrifyingly inhuman. They marched in perfect sync, something that their differing heights and leg sizes should have made impossible. Their legs and arms moved in union, the shoulder- to -shoulder row advancing like a row of soldiers on parade.
He swept his gaze across the row of faces. Each one, he knew so well . Each one wore a blank, uniform mask of cold emotional sterility.
And even as he stared, they kept on marching.
Newfoundland. PEI. New Brunswick. Québec. Ontario. Manitoba.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
Alberta. Saskatchewan. Yukon. Nunavu t. NWT. BC.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
Nova Scotia's throat unfroze enough for him to swallow hard. They... his siblings, his family, his flawed, goofy, dysfunctional, wonderful FAMILY, marched towards him in a manner that could almost be described as robotic but not quite.
Their limbs moved smoothly and fluidly, how a creature of flesh and blood should; as opposed to the stiff, jerky movements of a machine. Yet that precision, that synchronization that only machines could have; it sent a cold shiver down his spine and his gut wrenched sickeningly.
"Bru-Brunsie?!" He stammered out, scrabbling backwards and away from his sister.
He ran his eyes over the rest of them, heart skipping several beats at the sheer...wrongness of the deadness, the uniformity...it was just...wrong.
Newfoundland liked to roll his feet outward a bit with each stride, lean back a bit, and take his time; maybe whistle a tune. New Brunswick...
Nova Scotia managed to shake himself out of his terrified daze. The LOOK on his sister's face...the horrible, empty look...
He turned and he ran , feet slapping the ground in terror, breaths coming in short, insufficient gasps. The docks were so close now, all he had to do was get there. He just had to get there.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
Only a few strides separated him from the wooden wharf, his escape so close at hand he could almost taste it, rushing into the embrace of safety that a single lonely skiff offered to him with open arms.
"You Will not Escape Us, Brother."
He almost leaped out of his skin when they spoke . All in unison. All with the exact same dead, soulless tone. It was a terrifying thing, to hear twelve familiar voices, all devoid of their personality, of their life; to hear them droning in the same voice was enough to make him pause slightly, just for a second, just to glance over his shoulder for the briefest fraction of a second-
Nova Scotia got a glimpse of something, something he wasn't entirely sure of.
His vision was…gray. As if for an instant he had lost the ability to see colour. He saw the world through a grayscale filter with patches of white and black and dark and light blotting out bits and pieces of his vision, seemingly scattered randomly. Through the haze that his sight had become, (it really was as if his eyes or his brain had gone on strike) he caught a glimpse of them. Marching towards him.
Every pair of eyes glowing a sickly white.
The next thing he heard was the faint crackle of electricity that made his hair stand on end, followed by the high-pitched whine of white noise. He dimly realized he was falling, if his vision was anything to go by; it appeared that the ground was coming up to meet him as he plummeted at a strange angle. The whine of white noise was all he could hear, and his last snatches of sight were quickly eaten up by black from the corners of his field of view. He couldn't feel, couldn't see, couldn't smell, and couldn't move. His thoughts became just like the white noise; a meaningless jumble that was impossible to organize. Nova Scotia's brain was well and truly scrambled.
Time ceased to have any meaning to him. For all he knew, he had been there, like that, his entire life. Words, logic, order- it made no sense. Nothing will be orderly in Their brain; Their brain were confusing Their tenses and will hurts their head with every thought that slamming its way through Their Head and they will be HURT and the thoughts of self HURT them.
For Nova Scotia, it seemed like time had slowed to a crawl in regards to his brain being returned to him. Everything was dragged out into an eternity, from the restoration of his hearing as the white noise faded into silence, to the regaining of his sight as the black slowly seceded to the field of colour he knew so very well. The boatbuilder's body was slow to recognize that his limbs were capable of feeling and movement; as the life slowly flowed back into them, those scrambled muscles began to twitch and jerk autonomously of their owner's wishes. To him, the relief of being restored to normal couldn't have been more slowly and painfully drawn out.
In reality, it was only on the order of around thirty seconds.
It took the redhead several long seconds to process what he was seeing in front of him as soon as his sight and mind were clear again; several long seconds of lying on his side, crumpled as if he'd toppled over from kneeling, staring at it.
It was a boot . And it was less than five meters away.
And it kept getting closer and closer.
Nova Scotia grunted, forcing his twitchy, unpredictable muscles to co-operate and started to rise off the ground slowly, very slowly. First the arm that had been pinned to the ground, using it to lever himself upwards. It quivered as it begrudgingly did so, lifting him up off the paved street below him.
The boots, and now the jeans that were stuffed into them, were less than a meter away now.
He somehow managed to lever himself into a halfway sitting position, fighting the waves of protest from his suddenly weak, trembling muscles. His body wanted him to curl up someplace and go to sleep for a very long time, something which was simply not an option.
He forced himself to make an attempt at standing, managing to rise most of the way up. His legs shook under the weight they found themselves supporting- the uncomfortable tremors resonating up the rest of his body as he struggled to maintain his balance. Nova Scotia swayed a little, rocking back and forth.
He looked down. The steel-toed work boots were right there in front of him. He looked up, craning his neck upwards slightly to look at their owner's face.
The eyes that glared down at him looked like their inner light had been extinguished. The cold green irises drilled their gaze into him, as if they were boring a hole straight through to his soul. There should have been a wealth, a treasure trove of emotion contained in those dead verdant eyes; their owner showed the lion's share of his emotion in them.
Saskatchewan without any shine in his eyes seemed almost inhuman.
Nova Scotia looked for several seconds, and then made another attempt to flee to the skiff. He had collapsed at the end of the road where the pier met the street; a mere ten steps from the solace that the boat offered him.
Saskatchewan's arm shot out, and a gloved hand grabbed his shirt collar in an iron grip. Nova Scotia's momentum caused the front of the collar to slam rather forcefully into his trachea, momentarily sunning him from the pain and sudden lack of oxygen. In that moment, Ontario marched up and seized his arm in a tight lock that he could not escape from; a lock that Saskatchewan copied for his other arm.
They began to drag him, drag him away, away from the ocean . He could see the expanse of salt water, he could see the skiff, and he could see both getting farther and farther away from him as they dragged him across the empty street.
He thrashed weakly, making a largely futile attempt at resistance; both his brothers had strength that dwarfed his own by a factor of ten. Especially now, as their hands clenched his arms with a tightness that hearkened more to cold iron shackles than flesh and blood.
The last of the numbness slowly dissipated, restoring feeling and motion to his extremities. The realization slowly dawned that he was being dragged, dragged across the street. For what, Nova Scotia didn't know.
They had fallen into a march behind him, two rows on either side; should he somehow get free of the iron grip sinking into each arm, there were ten more waiting in the wings to ensure he could not escape.
He was suddenly lifted, his brothers moving in unison to raise him to his feet rapidly and then slam him into a wall between two shops on the far side of the street. They did not release his hands; rather they held him there, stunned by the blow, until his siblings had all formed a defensive semicircle around him.
He looked up at the half-circle of dead faces.
There was not a glimmer of mercy in any of their eyes.
"LET ME GO!" he screamed hoarsely at the wall of his stone-faced kin, "Please...Please just let me go..."
"We cannot." came the reply, delivered in an identical monotone, every voice like every other.
"...Why?" He whispered, eyes locked on his little sister, on New Brunswick.
"They do not want You to escape Us, Brother." came the flat and dead reply.
He gulped.
"Wh-WHO CARES WHAT THEY WANT!? LET ME GO!"
"We care about what They want. They do not want You to escape Us, Brother."
He shuddered at their responses, hating the sound of the monotone. His eyes ran over the row of blank faces- and in a panic, he realized that there were only twelve.
One was missing.
"W-WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH DAD?! WHERE'S CANADA?!" he shouted in terror, terror for his father's safety.
"Father will join Us soon, Brother."
"BUT WHERE IS HE?! WHAT DID YOU SICK FUCKS DO TO HIM?!"
"Father is safe. Father will be joining Us soon, Brother."
"And I can't...You can't let me go?" His voice started to crack a little as the panic began to seep in, the shouting of defiance petering off to pure fear.
"We cannot, Brother."
"Then...I...At least tell me...Tell me where they...Where my people are." He whispered, his heart full of dread. He was still a servant of his people...and he had a duty, a duty to know.
"We have removed that which was not necessary. The people known as "Nova Scotians" have been Culled, Brother."
Nova Scotia felt his knees give out from under him. Had his arms not been in the vicelike grip of his two brothers, he would have fallen to the ground.
He'd been told, by every aunt, uncle, brother, sister and father that their kind was tied to their people. If all his people were to die, he, too, would suffer his final death. It was that simple. No Nova Scotians, no Nova Scotia.
"That's...that's impossible! I'm...I'm still alive! If they're all dead, how am I still alive!?" he managed to stammer at them, eyes wide in horror. He looked up at his family; their silent, dead glares were quietly horrifying.
The response chilled him right to his bones.
"You are one of Us. We have already freed you of your burden and now We wish to cleanse you of its Taint, Brother."
"I...I...No. No. NO. FUCK YOU. NO. I'M NOT ONE OF YOU! I'LL NEVER BE ONE OF YOU, D'YA HEAR ME?! FUCK YOU! FUCK Y-"
New Brunswick stepped forward and placed a hand on his throat, squeezing it like a ripe fruit. His voice cut off mid-sentence, descending into a mess of thrashing and pained choking noises.
He couldn't breathe.
His sister's hand was squeezing his throat and he couldn't breathe.
"You will be Silent, Brother." They commanded in unison.
He croaked, unable to breathe or speak- was his sister's grip getting tighter?- and managed, just barely, to nod ever so slightly.
His throat was released, air rushing into his lungs as he gasped and gasped, gulping down as much air as he possibly could, as if he feared it would be taken away again.
When his breathing had returned to normal, he looked up, directly into the eyes of New Brunswick. Nova Scotia shuddered and looked away. He couldn't bring himself to look at those dead blue pits that felt like they were leaching at his soul for want of their own.
Then the chorus of voices, so alike it was hard to tell it was truly his family speaking, chimed out.
"We tire of repeating Ourselves. You are one of Us. We have Culled that which burdened you. Your burden left you Tainted, and We will Cleanse you of it. Do you understand Us, Brother?"
New Brunswick started to walk towards him. His eyes widened as she slowly turned her palms upwards, still maintaining the slow pace. He looked left and right, seeking some venue of escape- all he could see was the emotionless, soul-sucking glares of his brothers, still holding him in place, holding his arms up like a man to be crucified.
His eyes snapped back to his sister- and he screamed.
Her eyes were glowing a cold, sickly white - the sterile white of a hospital room, or the sheet they draped over the dead at a morgue. Cupped in each palm was a crackling ball of blinding light, snapping and growling like a live wire. She kept advancing, and the light kept growing, glowing brighter and brighter with each passing second.
He screamed and thrashed and howled at the sky, he swore and cursed and prayed and pleaded, tears streaming from his eyes as he begged his sister to stop, no, no please don't kill me...
"DON'T KILL ME I DON'T WANT TO DIE YET I DON'T WANT TO DIEEEE!"
"Your life shall be Spared." They all stated in unison.
"NO NO FUCK I DON'T WANT TO BE ONE OF YOU FUCK NO NO NO FUCK FUCK FUCK LET ME GO LET ME GO!"
"You will thank Us for this, Brother."
New Brunswick was right in front of him now, her eyes glowing blindingly.
The tears streamed down his face and onto his shirt, onto the ground. He was dead. He was going to become one of them, and there was nothing he could do. He slumped, still upright thanks to his captor's grip.
He was dead.
He lifted his head to see his sister slowly raising her hands, the sparks glowing brighter and brighter as she did so.
Nova Scotia looked up at that beautiful blue sky one last time, and smiled, a horrible, broken grimace of a man who has lost all hope.
He then looked down, past his sister, out at the sea, as New Brunswick brought her hands up as if to grasp his temples.
He began to hear a deafening crackle of static, and he looked at her, wearing a lopsided smile of bitter tears and abject misery.
He had only one more thing to say.
"Sis?" he whispered, "Sis...I..."
"...I'm sorry."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than New Brunswick clapped her hands to the sides of his head.
Nova Scotia screamed in pain, tears streaming down his face, as the static increased in pitch until all he could hear was its high-pitched whine. The blinding white light was already everywhere; already all he could see was its horrid glow. He screamed and screamed as it felt like his brain was being picked apart with a hammer and rusty chisel, as hot pokers were rammed into each exploratory hole with burning, flaming pain.
His glasses fell off his face in the midst of his panicked thrashing and howls of utter agony. The static was physically painful; the screaming whine of white noise felt like it was burning his ears, burning at his mind. Even with his eyes clamped shut he could still see the horrible whiteness, the horrible sickly force that had enveloped all his senses and was slowly suffocating them. But it was what it was doing to his mind that was truly grotesque.
Thoughts, memories, words, emotions, everything he'd ever thought or seen or felt flitted by him, slipping out of his grip and spiraling down to the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. His memories flowed out of his grasp like grains of sand in an hourglass over a century old, each precious moment lost and locked away where he couldn't recall or reach them.
Two words in particular attempted to escape his grasp. Two words that he knew, cherished, respected, needed. As the pain from the light and the static ravaged his mind, he held on, silently repeating those two words over and over and over again, resisting any attempt to have them torn out of his grasp.
Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia.
Then the static howling in his ears stopped.
"YOU WILL JOIN US." Twelve voices, raised in unison, to the exact same pitch, the exact same volume, screaming a command that seemed to reverberate through every fiber of his being.
Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia. Nova-
Without warning the static returned, a thousand times worse than before.
The screaming, the crying, the tears and the howls of agony lasted for what felt like an eternity.
Like sentinels, they stood there, emotionlessly watching.
As the seconds ticked by, the howls and wails of torture and pain began to peter out until there was nothing but silence.
Ontario and Saskatchewan released the arms they'd been holding, and New Brunswick let go of his head and took a step back. He collapsed into a heap, a mess of twitching limbs in a small ball on the sidewalk.
The wind blew through the silent gathering, all eyes riveted on Nova Scotia. He slowly stopped shivering as the seconds turned into minutes, the only sound that of the howling wind and the lapping waves of the incoming tide.
Nova Scotia slowly sat up.
Two of his siblings helped him to his feet.
And all thirteen blinked in unison.