He didn't know how long it had been. He remembered when that child (no—scratch that), that brat came into existence. It was before he even achieved independence from that tomato-loving bastard (not that he could say anything against tomatoes. Heck, he even used them occasionally in his meals).

And when the tomato-loving bastard finally gave him independence as well as his sweet and innocent sister…and The Brat. It was something he really didn't like about that little decision. He wished Spain could have just kept him. Who really cared if the idiot kept a bunch of his land granted at independence?

The boy was a skirt chaser. Obviously Spain had spent too much time with that wine and roses freak. The blonde's personality was rubbing off on the child badly. Like he couldn't see the boy 'playing' with his younger sister 'oh so happily'.

Okay. Fine. He was probably overreacting. It was just so darn FRUSTRATING. By that, he meant the fact the boy was starting to spend more and more time with that absolutely frustrating freak-that-demanded-independence-and-got-it-by-kicking-England's-butt. He didn't even have a real race. What the heck was an American? His people were a bunch of immigrants and children of immigrants. Nothing new there.

But he was getting off topic with his rants here. Back to that brat.

That brat was now declaring independence from him of all things. Him and his people (who were part of that fake American race). He allowed him to bring in American settlers for a sum of money. But then he got witty and decided to allow that blasphemy to happen.

By that blasphemy, he meant slavery.

Mexico was quite sure his bosses had written that into his constitution—no slavery. What in the world made that stupid piece of land mass think his people could own others? And that gave him the right to declare independence and raise his own flag of red, white, and blue?

Luckily, none of his other territories had decided to rebel up against him. Those other two areas could be put down easily; they didn't really count for that matter. They had no help anywhere. But that stubborn rancher. He was getting aid from the large country gone north.

He knew that Doctrine protected him from any further colonization from Europe, but did that apply to the less civil nation? He was this close to invading.

But no worries. He'd deal with the threat later. For now, his eyes were all on that independence-wanting territory. That brat. If he allowed the brat to become independent, he'd never hear the end of it.

He had to protect the girl from that mess the boy—brat—created. No way in hell would the younger territory be dragged into this. She was too young to start a rebellion on her own, but as the way things were going now, it looked pretty darn close. She was just way too close to that Texan when he was still in their house.

Dammit! Dammit to hell!

He was on a roll right now. There was no stopping his lack of manners now. Not that he had any anyway. Spain had reluctantly allowed him independence, and the rest of the older nations were now considering him on the same wavelength as the America, except quite a bit younger.

The same wavelength as that moron. Back when they were all in Spain's house (along with the tomato-loving Italian) they all laughed and cheered when England went down. They (along with almost three quarters of the world) fought on the side of the Americans. They raided and sunk English ships in the waters surrounding the small island country.

The American opened pathways for other countries. Never before had they seen a nation fight off their mother country for independence. It was the first of its kind…and now this was the third (Canada did not count) fight for independence in North America.

Texas. He allowed him to bring in Americans into his territory for more money (seriously, his treasury needed it). The Americans violated his "no slavery" and "be one with Mexico" deal and warped the rancher's mind.

And now said rancher raised his own flag to be called the Republic of Texas. That flag was probably made of pants and sheets, where he got the blue and yellow, he had no idea (stained it maybe).

That bastard. Not only did his boss send soldiers over there to reclaim the territory (and have their butts kicked by that madman Houston), he was now having to deal with the Americans themselves.

The immigrating Americans were new to war. They didn't have any battle experience. These were farmers and settlers from the Midwest, the people too poor to live in the larger and more populated areas of the eastern United States. It was embarrassing to struggle against them.

The Alamo. Goliad.

No problem there. His army slaughtered the rebels. The new sovereign nat—no—rebellious territory, glared at him and spit at his shoes. There was a fire in his eyes that reminded him of his independence days against Spain.

They had both refused to give up.

The Texans' small army had been reduced to almost nothing. The only thing in his way of bringing the rebellious territory back under his control was that troubling Houston.

The boy was reduced to tears after the massacre of his people. His tearful words still haunted him in the late hours.

"Why? Why?" the tears poured down his cheeks and onto his bloodstained shirt. He had lost about 600 people at once, most of them executed as prisoners for treason. "We just wanted to be separate from Coahuila. Just separate. With our own capitol. Why must you do this?"

The American responded to his cry for help. He escalated the war, and soon the rebellious territory was demanding far more than his separation from his sister state. He wanted to be his own nation. A nation on its own.

With aide from the American, he quickly turned the tide of the war. They met at the River San Jacinto after several scattered bloody battles. His boss had decided to rest, realizing the Texan's army was far too small and outnumbered to take them on.

Mexico didn't blame him for being tired. He still didn't blame him after he witnessed what happened next.

His army was completely overrun. Once he knew the battle was over and his men lost the will to continue the battle, he was prepared to surrender.

But the rebel didn't stop there.

He could see the Texan on the hill. He knew he could see him too. He knew the battle was over and his men worn.

But he didn't stop.

There was rage in his eyes. Rage and revenge were burning behind his dark brown eyes. He wanted revenge for all his men. All the ones he ordered to butcher after they surrendered. The Alamo. The Goliad. All the small campaigns at the beginning of the war. Slaughtered mercilessly.

And surrounding Mexico—his elder brother—he could see more than enough men to fulfill his revenge.

More than enough to equal the pain he felt after the battles. More than enough to double his guilt.

More than enough to pay.

"You BASTARD!" his scream split the still and silent air after the battle. He had been reduced to nothing on the dusty ground. His blood soaked the thirsty soil around him.

Men were lying all around him. All dead.

The brunette didn't even move when his older brother scrambled up and ran at him, a loaded gun from one of his soldiers lying dead in his hand. He brought the rifle down at him first, but the Texan blocked it with his own rifle. He parried each attack the larger nation gave to him until Mexico had the end of the gun pointed between his eyes.

"Are you going to shoot me?"

The battle at San Jacinto had been decided. The Texan had only lost nine of his people in the decisive battle. Mexico had lost most of his army sent over to stop the rebels. Americans were cheering across the border. America himself was dancing along with his people in the streets.

He hesitated, a few tears slipping down his cheeks as he cried for his people. His finger was on the trigger. The Texan wasn't even moving. He just narrowed his eyes at him, daring him to shoot.

He started pulling the trigger back. The Texan still didn't move.

He was going to kill his younger brother.

"NO!"

Something smashed him in the stomach, throwing him backwards and onto the ground. But he had already fired his rifle. His shot echoed through the silent battlefield.

"No." He lifted his head and saw a smaller brunette looking at him, tears in her eyes.

"California." He mumbled, looking at the child.

"Don't kill Tejas. Don't kill him, hermano." He looked into her watery brown eyes. She whimpered her fists balling up on his uniform. She pressed her face against the bloody cloth and started crying.

"Don' touch 'im. You'll get dirty," He saw hands reach out to take the small girl away from him.

"Don't touch her!" He didn't even know his body could handle another outburst. He didn't realize what power he still had in his beaten body.

He drew the smaller territory in his arms and held her tightly against his chest, glaring at the offending rebel.

"Don't touch her."

He would never allow the offending rebel to touch his precious sister. Precious California. She was the most loved out of all his states. Spain had seen something in her too, and when they were all colonies under his house, he showered her with attention.

It wasn't the amount of land they saw in her. Texas had more land than she did. It was her personality. She had fertile land—beautiful land. Lots of nice people. The ocean was breathtaking where she lived. Her personality was shaped with all this surrounding her.

He remembered Spain bringing her home after he found her on one of his voyaging trips. She looked so small and innocent in his arms.

Even now, when she started growing up, Mexico—and Texas (he grudgingly added) had seen her.

She was still pure.

Which was why he had to protect her from her brother's bloodthirsty nature. He murdered his people, demanded independence. Worse yet:

He allowed the enslavement of others.

Once he healed, he was getting that rebellious teen back into his house. Even if he had to drag him back screaming. Even if he had to wound him so badly he would never heal. He was going to bring him back.

And he was going to beat some sense into that boy. And make it hurt.