KRWLING, Shattered, World So Cold, Epica.

It took the longest time to figure out what this chapter was going to cover, and then I had to come in at the 11th hour and pull a section out and give it to the still-unfinished chapter 32.

Recovery

Jagged Little Moments

They couldn't start too big: they'd wind up in more danger and lose everything if they tried that. The Swiss handgun Romano hadn't known Veneziano owned was handed over without comment, but they both understood that it was the deal: they would use the laws, not force, and rely on the system one more time to save them.

The easiest but slowest method was to use their laws and fix the system instead of going through the trauma of tearing the whole thing down. But they needed money: more than the organizations bleeding them could afford. They needed enough to keep ministers clean and judges honest, the kind of cash that would make businessmen loyal to the government and give bankers the freedom to do make honest loans and decent gains. They needed Europe's money, they needed France and Germany and England and the rest to sign off on a deal to rescue them the way Portugal, Spain, and Greece had been given a change to save themselves. They needed help, because if Romano couldn't finance the campaign to weed out corruption from the top of the pyramid down, then they would have to resort to Veneziano's method before it was too late.

They could kill the cancer with fire, but at this point ran the risk of killing the victim too. They would need a new boss, a new master in Rome and one who either swept into office on a tidal wave of popularity or marched into the capital with enough power to silence the opposition. Being forceful without real political strength would only cause mayhem: Veneziano couldn't just march the army through his cities tomorrow and crack-down on every major infraction he saw or suspected. They couldn't afford it economically, and in terms of morale it would splinter the North's identity if he tried bringing the hammer down on his disaster-ridden population without warning.

Even with a strong human master in Rome, Romano also didn't know how he'd handle the politics of a direct attack when facing the other nations. He'd let Veneziano, and Spain, and Vatican, and Grandpa handle these things for him for centuries. He hadn't taken his own foreign affairs into direct account in such a long time that China's every word of attack had been warranted.

He had to start someplace small, and they both needed to move slowly.

Romano needed the time to teach himself.

And Veneziano needed to brace for the coming storm.

Veneziano remained up north with Seborga to finish dealing with arrests and procedures for two weeks, then joined Romano back down in the capital once their brother seemed through the worst of it. They set-up Veneziano's office in a different wing of the complex from his old one- just in case someone came storming in who wasn't meant to see him. His communication privileges and titles were restored, quietly, and under different government branches from before, buried through back-doors and sub-divisions. On paper there was only one Italy, and only the people actually working as part of the government had any idea of the truth.

Spain had accused Romano of lying to people, and that had hurt, but now he knew that there was no other way to describe what was happening. His only defense was a simple one: Veneziano didn't want to work with the other nations, so for administrative purposes there was no sense giving him an office or advertising his titles as one. He didn't want to go out of his way to tell anyone, and he definitely didn't want to see anyone, he just wanted to stay within their borders and deal with their immediate problems.

And if he was taking care of one of their main issues, then Romano could focus on all the other ones circling around them like sharks. The only time they both needed to be anywhere was when they met with their boss, because they had to give the man a chance to do his job.

"Your laws exist for a reason. What would happen if we reverted back to old, draconian ways of guilty until proven innocent?" Justice. That was what they'd get. "I think you mean chaos and corruption. The situation is difficult, but not dire."

Romano could tell just by looking at Veneziano that they both had the exact same thought before leaving that office. If it had been the Prime Minister's brother who'd been mutilated by gunshots, or his body riddled with painful tumours, things would have been more "dire" from the human perspective.

But they couldn't express that kind of feeling out-loud yet. They just shared it silently with one another while Romano firmly reminded his brother that they'd made a deal, and they were both going to follow through on it. Romano would find the money to fund Veneziano's enforcement of the law, so unless Rome itself came under storm they weren't going to deviate from that plan.

But that deal brought Romano no small amount of grief, because the first major step in not fucking up his side of things was finding help. Dealing with his brother was more a relief than a chore, but sitting down across from his father in the Micro-nation's alcove was a little bit like hell.

"I need you to teach me." To say Papa was upset by all the things happening to them was an understatement, and Romano had to time his request right after Mass for the Solemnity of Saint Joseph, in mid-March, to make sure the crotchety old man was in a good enough mood to agree. They were standing in the aisle in Saint Peter's after the service and the thousands of worshippers had passed through. Romano didn't want to think it, but he was fairly certain Veneziano's hand on his shoulder was there to keep him from running away. "I embarrassed myself every time I opened my mouth in London last week, I can't keep going through this."

Please don't lecture him, please don't lecture, no lecture please.

Vatican pinched his thin lips and worried the silver cross hanging around his neck. It wasn't the same one he'd always kept, Veneziano had that one with him; this was a new one.

"Why didn't you say something sooner? Come back tomorrow." Oh thank God.

Japan landed in Athens in the last week of March, hoping the sun and Greece's unique culture would sooth the rough, tumbling emotions he had been given by Spain. The Latin nation would not stop contacting him: asking him if he'd made a decision, if he was going to act, when he wanted to tell Germany, and if he was even going to help Spain at all. It was too much anxiety for Japan to handle right now. On any other topic he would have conducted himself appropriately and without much strain, but this one?

No. So it was nice to visit a nation that was dear to him for many reasons, not the least of which being the way Greece had never been involved with the Mansion or the Monster. In a way it kept him pure in Japan's eyes. So even if it was a breach of trust Japan told him exactly what was disturbing his emotions like this, and he hoped for some kind of sympathy or help. He had taken weeks to mull over the issue in private, and now he needed guidance.

"I sort of which you hadn't told me…" But it was such an uncomfortable issue that not even Greece's laid-back way of viewing the world could fix it. They were standing on the white plastered balcony attached to Greece's home, looking across the stepped design of his city and down towards the green sea. "It could be true, I don't know. Italy hasn't wanted anyone to visit Rome since the Earthquake, but that might change with all the Bail-out talks picking up again." Bail-outs, loans, grants: money had the loudest voice in difficult times like these. It wasn't about friendship anymore, it was about business.

"Germany came straight here after the meeting in London," Greece continued, and Japan let himself admire the way the sun struck his tanned face as he listened. "He's been watching my industries and markets like a hawk making sure I don't do anything bad with the money he gave me. So Spain's right, if something upsets him right now it will be bad for all of us." All of them meaning Spain, Portugal, Greece, and Italy, and by extension anyone else in Europe who wasn't completely stable and self-sufficient, which in this century meant no one. Germany had four nations resting directly on his shoulders, but he wasn't carrying all of Europe on his own.

"Maybe I should speak to France…" Or England, he was helping too, wasn't he? Japan looked down at the small honey and yogurt dessert in his hand, half-heartedly poking at the treat the other nation had served him earlier. The weather had cooperated with his trip, but that was the only atmosphere working in his favour.

"Why not Prussia?" Oh, actually that might have been a better idea. "France knows the numbers, but Prussia knows his brother. I would ask but I don't think he wants to talk to me: I'm still a liability to them." Greece had a way of smiling through painful words that Japan would never stop loving… "Tell Prussia."

"Thank you…" and he meant it.

"Do you know what America needs? I do." He needed a stiff drink, that was what. "America needs focus. We need to stop standing on our toes and peering over the fence of the Atlantic, we need to remember what it was that made us the most powerful nation on this earth." Because there was more than one earth, obviously, so he had to be specific.

America had considered breaking Romano's radio, or at least popping the batteries out of the damn thing so he'd stop turning it on. He'd been outside Naples for a month, sitting in the shadows of the Appennine mountains and following the older nation's warning about not dicking around with his tomato plants.

"This nation was not built on useless baubles from Korea, or fancy shears from Germany." Fucking hell. "Every government desk and chair is carved from solid American oak, not flimsy Swiss plastic." Swedish, the manufacturer he was thinking of was Swedish, and America buried his face in his hands trying to tell himself Sweden and Switzerland were too high-tech to bother with radios anymore.

"This nation does not need foreign debts and international crisis alerts." Shut up. "We have been the world's nine-one-one for too long, rushing north and south, east and west across the planet in search of those in need and suffering just to exist." Shut up. "But what about our own? When was the last time America made time for America? If our so-called friends up north think they can just turn their backs on a century of friendship, and climb into bed with the Asian powers, then-" Shut up!

America slammed the black plastic box against the brick wall and listened to it crack and fracture, cutting off the voice of the man who'd held fifty-one percent of his better judgement for the twelve hours it had taken the polls to open and close. He stood there, furious, staring in frustration at the ruined electronic, and then he pulled out his cell-phone and waited.

He'd do it this time.

When Canada called he'd pick up the phone this time. He'd answer the ringing tone, he'd talk to his brother, and he'd finally get all of this off his chest. "I was fired, Mattie." He'd say. "I didn't know he'd say something like that. You know I don't feel that way." He'd tell him everything, he'd share the little things like: "I can't even pick pop or soda anymore", and the big things like "a Real Christian knows love is love, but a Real Christian would never change the definition of marriage". He'd do it this time, he promised himself and he meant it. When Canada called this time, after this latest speech, America would answer and he'd tell his twin everything.

He'd tell him. As soon as Canada called, he'd tell him.

He just had to call.

So call, Mattie, please.

He just had to make the call again.

One more call, bro, please.

Just one.

"Please…"

March bled into April, and Canada drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, waiting.

"Did you want China to be here instead?" Taking a deep breath in through the nose, Canada closed his eyes for a moment behind his glasses, then put on a smile and looked at the nation sitting next to him. Russia didn't seem nearly as tense as he felt, which was nice because he didn't like being this high-strung.

"No, no of course not. I can handle this. You don't mind being here, do you?" It had been a long ways to call Russia, and the contracts he'd drawn up for this did have more to do with China and Korea, but Canada had known who he wanted sitting next to him. He needed a stable, sensible presence on his side, not the great enigma that was the People's Republic of China.

"I'm happy to be here. But you seem upset." Well he was, but Canada ceased his drumming and curled his fingers under his palm, knocking his knuckles against the dark table top before sitting up in his chair. He straightened the papers in front of him and tucked most of them away in the file folder they'd come in.

"We should be out of here soon, if he ever feels like arriving."

"He wasn't on time in London either." No, and that had been almost as bad as his arrival in Hong Kong. "I thought you had a lot of business with the American..?"

"I have a lot of final offers." Canada chewed the inside of his cheek as he spoke, hoping to get the nervous sting out of his face before that door could finally swing open. It worked, but the door stayed shut. "My new boss gave me the green light, so I can tell him exactly how I feel today."

Russia sank back into his seat with a knowing smile and a nod. They stayed there for another five minutes in silence, and just as Canada was getting fed up with the wait, the polished wooden door hidden in the panelling around them finally clicked. The brass handle twisted and Russia stood up as the American diplomat quickly stepped inside.

Canada kept his seat. This was his capital and he was not impressed.

"Ah, it's you aga-"

"Sit down." This was a small meeting room, windowless and sparsely decorated except for the wood panelling around the chamber. The ceiling lamp was gold at first glance and Canada didn't want the American to take the time to check twice. He wanted to be done with him within the hour, if not sooner.

Canada folded his hands in front of him as the human in the suit sat down across from him, not waiting for him to open his brief-case and pull anything out of it. But he did, against his better judgement, let the American from Washington speak as he slid down into his seat.

"I was expecting to bring a fellow member of the administration to this meeting, but-"

"These meetings don't include flunkies; I thought we covered that for you in London?" Flunky was not the word Canada would ever use to describe any of his own ministers, deputies, or beurocrats, but right now the word worked. "We're here so I can brief you on my decisions and give America a chance to salvage a reputation your president has taken great strides towards destroying." The American straightened right up, and the nation he was speaking too didn't care how affronted he looked.

"That's too harsh-" Canada sucked in a breath, and was thankful that Russia stepped in before he could lose his temper:

"That badge you're wearing carries executive powers, you know this, hm?" Of course he did, the human looked insulted. "Someone like you can't use it effectively, but at least try today so we can leave."

"Now what is that supposed to-?" Canada touched Russia's arm with one hand, but didn't take his eyes off the squirming human in front of them. It irritated him that his brother wasn't here, it hurt him that he'd been getting the cold shoulder for months and attacked through the air-ways by another nation's unchecked boss.

"These are the quotas and prices I am willing to sign off on, not a point lower." Turning the first file over and sliding it across the table, Canada didn't lean to make sure it landed in easy reach, he wanted the human to stand and bend over for it. "Copper, nickel, and steel are valuable resources, and if you think I'm going to negotiate on lumber then you might as well leave now."

"What?" The human didn't even bother going through the portfolio. He barely even opened it before dropping it shut and looking up. "Wait, you don't have the authority to-"

"Don't tell me what I am authorized to do, human." Hissing the words in French, he couldn't keep them bottled up: his French blood would boil if he tried, and the human didn't speak the language anyways. "This is my final offer, and if your government rejects the package then I will take my resources out of the American markets." Which would drive up the prices of everything, absolutely everything.

"The Canadian economy is export-driven, where exactly does your government-?"

"Do you know the input and output capacity of the People's Republic, American?" Canada didn't like this, he didn't like hounding someone, even someone this insignificant, or chasing them like a mouse into a hole. But he was finished with this game: he was done playing along and dancing to his brother's off-beat tempo. "Numbers, I want precise, accurate numbers. In the last six months do you know how many factories and industrial platforms have been opened in the far east?" He was going to have to change that term soon. The far east was fast becoming Canada's closest neighbour.

"I don't have them on hand, no-"

"Well you should." He snapped back, and from the corner of his eye he saw Russia's hands folded neatly in his lap, giving no sign that he felt the need to interfere with what was going on. "Because in the last twelve months I've created two jobs for every one lost south of the border. I've increased the flow of capital from my western ports by sixteen percent, I've driven the price of European imports down, and I've kept my dollar a solid thirty cents above yours. I have also accepted more American immigration applications than any other nation: engineers, doctors, accountants, tradesmen, and their families, and their businesses. China is raising prices and if your major retailers don't find a way to make up for the lost revenue then I will be the one to snap them up, subjecting them to my tax laws and pouring no less than six billion dollars into my economy per-quarter."

He stood up, and he did it slowly, and as much as his tongue wanted to lash out in the language of protest, the first colonial voice he'd ever had, he kept it in English. Canada was not going to waste his mother tongue on a man who couldn't understand just how furious he was.

"In the last twelve months, American, I have been accused of harbouring terrorists, cheating tourists, eco-bombings, laziness, corruption, disloyalty and fraud. I have watched your media turn my image into a joke and an insult. I have had my very foundations questioned and my borders flaunted: your agents have pursued Canadian citizens across the border, they have blocked their own brothers from returning home, they have performed illegal wire-taps and investigations on citizens who fall so far out of American jurisdiction you shouldn't even be able to see them! You have changed your border and travel laws without consulting me, enacting them without providing fair and adequate warning under any standing treaty. How dare your president and his administration invalidate wedding and insurance documents signed and enacted by my children and government! How dare you disrespect my family openly in every speech, and then have the unmitigated gall to show up late in my capital, on my time, and then without the most basic information necessary to do your job with a modicum of success?"

"S-Sir I don't-"

"Get out!" he was angry, he was so, so angry. And it hurt to feel like this, because it wasn't like him. He could take a joke. Canada could be the big dumb moose who liked hockey and maple syrup: that was fine, he could laugh at that. But a thick, violent, terrorist-grooming commie wasn't the same thing. Being called a remnant of an Empire "better left for dead" was insulting and brutal, to have rallies that used his name as an example of Godless evil was demoralizing and it just hurt far, far too much, and he would rather get angry than take it anymore.

So he wasn't going to take it anymore: he had every reason to be proud of himself and his people, and Canada wasn't going to let one nation tear him down because his brother didn't want to be alone in his isolation.

"Get out, American, and tell your President that unless he sends Alfred F. Jones back here to fix your damned mistakes, Washington can save its breath and leave me the hell alone." And that was the end of it.

Use the laws.

Use them to set a trap, lay the wires down and eventually, hopefully, someone would trip and get snagged by them.

It happened after April left them with May, it happened on one of the days where he forgot he was living in a dream. They caught one: one from Calabria, one from high in his organization. His was a family with satellite clans and fingers all over the banking industry in that region, along with a foothold in government that had thought, why not? Let's make our own nation in the North of Italy. So they'd planned to just slice apart the region of Imperia and declare their own little kingdom, and had sent men with guns to do the dirty work.

He was a man who they transported with documents and evidence to Rome, a murder charge hanging over his head along with the corruption scandals. Monaco's interests were pulled in too but he stood in her way and wouldn't let her interfere. This man had not pulled the trigger, but he had ordered it, they were sure.

They had a witness who said as much, and it was hard to take Romano's advice and not feel excited. They'd caught one, and even if he only spent the rest of his life in prison, they'd followed the laws and they were going to win. It was a small battle and he had learned more than he thought he would on the road to get here, so nothing could crush this feeling when he stood on the courthouse steps in the crowd, watching Romano wave off reporters where he was standing a few yards away in the limelight.

And when the witness' car pulled up with state police and snipers and even a helicopter there to keep him safe… they opened the door to a corpse that had suffocated en-route.

Someone had plugged the exhaust pipe.

Someone had sealed the driver's compartment and locked the doors so no gas leaked out.

The tinted windows had done their job too well.

How the driver had heard nothing and the dead escort officer hadn't been able to radio out for help was a mystery they could not solve. It took every single shred of self-control in his aching body to stop himself, when he heard the driver's thick southern accent and he realized this was not the man he had chosen for today, from killing him.

In that single moment of blind rage he would have shot the driver. He would have done it in front of an entire crowd if the man he had brought with him, the human Captain who served him so well, had not put a hand on his arm to stop his shaking.

The rat that had ordered his brother shot and almost killed walked free. The law of Double Jeopardy meant he was absolved of the crimes he had committed but was now acquitted for.

The law had failed them again and in the same day their boss and his council called it justice. Clearly, this dream did not understand what that word meant.

So, 32 is not done yet and that's a new thing for this story. I cannot CONFIRM next Sunday's update, but I'm at about 80% completion for that chapter so I guess I'll be fretting over 33 once I finally deal with it. The pacing is giving me so much grief, it's the sole reason why from March to May Japan told all of 2 people. The reunion IS coming, I'm just struggling to get stuff written...

Good night, and I hope to see you next week!