Chapter 7 – Jesus Killed Mexico

Spying on European nations was sadly never as fun as it appeared to be, unless it involved vast amounts of dangerous weaponry. Brazil had enough experience under her belt to know an upcoming arms race when she sensed one. She sniffed contemptuously, containing her excitement. "What," she said, "Some war-nerd makes a superweapon, and Europe gets the fits about it? Gosh, this has never happened before."

Colombia bit her lip. "You're right. I don't think any other 'war-nerd' managed to wipe out a nation."

"False." Brazil swung her legs down from off the table, lifting herself to her feet. Colombia's lingering gaze did not go unnoticed, and she smirked. No one had to tell her that she moved with impeccable grace, that her figure was supple, that her dark eyes entrancing. Just looking into other people's lustful eyes was enough for her. "Didn't Christ prove us all wrong about that, what… 130 years ago?"

Colombia's eyes regained their lucidity. "I. What an odd way of putting it."

"Why?" It was metaphorical, of course. Colombia could never quite handle a metaphor. "It's true, isn't it? Mexico was killed by Jesus Christ." She gave a boisterous, genial smile. "Who was helped by plenty of war-nerds."

"You can't blame the Religion Wars on our Lord and Saviour."

"Have you ever heard the saying 'Clue's in the name'? Religion Wars."

Colombia zoomed in on the digital transcript of the Peace Meeting, narrowing her eyes, as if there were nuances in the font which could reveal more details. "England's not giving up his weapon. France is on the verge of declaring war on him. And yet…"

"And yet none of them are thinking of developing their own superweapons." Brazil let her implication sink in, watched for any change in Colombia's expression. The woman was not beautiful, Brazil was fairly sure, in quite the same way as the rest of the Latin Americans; she and Mexico had held that in common. They both wore rougher, more textured faces and skin, but in Colombia's case, she made up for any physical brusqueness with an enigmatic demeanour. Now, she turned away from the transcript and raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," she said softly, "They remember how every other arms race of history has ended. Perhaps they are tired, after just finishing one war."

"Bullshit." Brazil leaned down to examine the text. " 'Such a weapon is simply not suited for England's hands.' That wording! Edelheim wishes he held the reigns for… Glucose Volanticus, was it? Nome estúpidio." She brought fingers to her lips, and smiled with her teeth behind them. "He is just too lazy to make it himself."

"And you?"

"How hard could it be?"

Colombia smacked her shoulder, forcing Brazil to look her in the eyes. "Don't you care?" she hissed. "That weapon wiped out an entire nation, Brazil! Those Europeans are right for once – it shouldn't exist at all!"

"But it's going to, whether we like it or not," Brazil said. "Whoever wins this upcoming battle – do you really think they'll destroy something as powerful as this? And do you want to be prepared or not when they decide to stop ignoring us?" She reached for Colombia's small, dark hands. "It's only a matter of time before they get tired of blowing each other up in that godawful Eastern landmass, and you know once they're finished, it's us they'll start targeting. Hell, maybe even Panem." Colombia wrenched her hand away.

"I won't have a part of it. I got you the transcript from the meeting, let's leave it at that." She rose, and kissed Brazil's hand. "Good luck with your mad science."

"Hm." She'll come crawling back for protection, once I've cracked the code. "As they say in your place, Adios, amigo."

She lingered in the office for some time after Colombia had gone. It was a quaint little thing, used for the occasional smattering of Latin diplomacy. Mexico had always complained about how favourable it was to those in the Southern continent, how he had to travel much further. Now, his picture hung on the Northern wall, along with Honduras, Chile on the Western and Uruguay on the Eastern… How many other continents did this for their fallen? She sauntered up to Mexico's scowling face, his tempestuous eyes – dark and dazzling, just like her own, never to meet hers again. "You would love this, querido, she murmured. "It's got just the right amount of violence. And a certain amount of sexiness, in its own way." She planted a kiss on the glass. She wondered, not for the first time, if he still hated her from God's pastures. If death gave one time to reflect, in the way that grieving did. "Forgive me for the mistakes I am about to make."

After two minutes, she was outside, in her own air of Manaus, clammy and comforting. She whistled to it. "So, a return to biochemistry, with a sprinkling of nuclear physics on top – all to be done in total secret?" She grinned. "No match for my government."

April, 2233

"Then it is settled," France packed up the documents, scooping the paperwork with his and England's signature on it into his delicate hands. His composure had been very well gained since the war ended. His hair had a little more bounce in it, and he was applying make-up again. "I will not surrender until you withdraw your ownership of the Glucose Volanticus. All clear?"

England nodded. France rose from his seat and turned to leave. "I'll see you on the battlefield, then. I will not go alone. I don't think I can say the same for you." The door closed quietly, but the rest of the room was also quiet, so the sound echoed tauntingly in England's ears.

It was only an hour later that the gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on him: he had virtually no allies. With France, and without a doubt Edelheim against him, there was no one in Europe who would join him, unless under his tyranny, and England had fought enough wars to know that a terrified ally was as useful as an extra enemy. Africa? Totally empty, as far as he knew. Not a word had been heard from any of them, not for decades. Asia? India clearly did not want to associate with him – even less, now he was a murderer by any other name – which ruled out almost the entire sub-continent. The Muscovites was, well, dead; Mongolia lay on the cusp of civilisation collapse. Wei Yao probably couldn't string a coherent sentence together, let alone fight a war,Iraq had hated him since their first meeting, and besides, he had plenty of powerful weapons on his side…

England made himself a drink. He used his old-fashioned coffee-maker, with its chromatic-black surface, its spasmodic streams, and the shuddering rumbling sounds that accompanied them. Since his last meeting with India, tea had fallen somewhat out of fashion. As in, she refused point-blank to sell him any, no matter how much he attempted to negotiate.

He took his coffee facing the window, with a clear view of the streets. A few rotting stumps stood where the trees had only ten months ago, and it occurred to England now that he was used to seeing the cherry blossom at this time of year. There was a unique pleasure he associated with the sight of his own trees spreading their branches. They weren't magnificent, like Australia's or Panem's, nor were they as vivacious as some of the Latins'. They were polite, unassuming and, when the time was right, pretty: small specks of reaffirmed life where there seemed to be none.

And now, well.

The image of cherry blossoms brought another to England's mind. Japan? His heart pounded. Could he? Even if Japan was willing to side with him – an unlikely prospect, given their only too recent enemy-ship – what sort of alliance would it turn out to be? He would be involved with the Eastern nations then, and all that entailed. Japan could very easily demand all sorts of terrifying things from England, particularly regarding Glucose Volanticus, things which defied the most basic human morality. He could betray him and destroy him in one fluid action.

It never took England too long to weigh out the pros and cons of a situation. He reached for his tele-communicator, and prayed that his time zone was not too out of synch with Japan's.

"Hai?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were aware that England will be attempting to call me very soon. Potentially within the hour."

"You have arranged a meeting, then?"

"Oh, nothing like that. I just know that he will try and call. He has no one else to turn to."

"I see."

"So, in the event that you receive a call?"

"You're extremely busy and will not be accepting international contact at this time."

"Absolutely, Nakamura."

May, 2233

Japan had yet to look England in the eye. His attention was split between multiple air-screens; he scrolled, zoomed, and flicked them to the side remotely, all with subtle motions of his black eyes. "I hope," he said, in an almost perfect English accent, "that you understand just how much of an inconvenience this meeting is to me. I am doing you an immense favour by giving you my time." He paused. "Igirisu-sama."

England smiled through his loathing. "I'm sure you'll give me plenty of time once I've levelled several of your cities."

The desired effect did not appear. Japan's eyes continued to swivel from screen to screen, never meeting England's, never showing a glimmer of fear. "Are you aware of my treaty with India?"

England swallowed. "No." Secret fucking diplomacy.

"Ah. Well, you see, England, before the Muscovites waged war on the world, we gave each other a guarantee of support, in case of the other's endangerment. A blank cheque, if you will. It began with my promise of India's amnesty."

Fuck. "I remember that. She wouldn't ally with me."

Japan finally closed a screen blocking England's face from his, and looked at him. He was not smiling, but his voice was. "I'm sure you understand why, as well. What with the state of Asia being the way it is, and India and I the most stable nations…" You, stable?! "We look out for each other here, England. We're not all like Europe."

The audacity of the statement nearly cut off England's air supply with a choked laugh. Japan would talk about amnesty, when he razed the entire Orient to rubble. Japan, who reduced China's glory to a few scattered tribesmen, wandering the collapsed detritus of nature and civilisation, calling themselves Wei Yao…

"Now, if you want to risk a war with the Indian subcontinent by attacking me, that's entirely your decision. International military has never been their strong point." The smile was gone from his voice now. "But don't forget that I am not the Muscovites, England. I won't be down long, no matter how many missiles you throw my way."

England's throat was constricted, still. The thought of India – his lovely, intelligent India! – choosing to ally with the likes of Japan over him was having a rather adverse effect on him. Even more so, he realised with a painful internal twist, than France waging war. Japan did not seem to want a response anyway. He brought up the screen again, placing a grainy blue barrier between them. "Now, that threat you made earlier was tantamount to waging war on me, technically." Why, oh bloody why? "But simply because I do value my people's lives over my pride –" Like Hell you do, you kamikaze freak -! "I will ignore it. Goodbye, Igirisu-sama."

May, 2103

Mexico was dying. He was imprisoned now, but America had not sent anyone to treat his wounds. They festered and he sat in the corner, broken hands and legs hanging uselessly off him. When Brazil entered his cell, his eyes followed her, but they were sluggish and haggard, lacking the intense hatred she was used to seeing. It was strange, but it disappointed her. "I'll say it for you, shall I?" He said, "Look how the tables have turned."

Of course, Brazil would never have said something so clichéd. Mexico couldn't stop underestimating her. "It certainly feels good to be free again," she replied, raising a hand to her ponytail, untying it.

"Fucking hell. Why couldn't you just side with me before, huh?" He gasped and clenched his arms to his side, trying to soothe some stab of pain that his hands could not reach. "Cristo, I'm… I don't want to die…" His nose wrinkled in disgust, chastising his own admission. Brazil crossed the room and knelt at his side. He made a feeble effort to shrink away from her, but his back was already firmly against the wall. She placed a hand on his chest, and let herself, just for the moment, relish in his fear. He was not shaking, or making any sound other than laboured, pained breaths, but it was there in his eyes.

"Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain," she whispered. "How many times must I tell you?"

"You heard America. He's going to take anything and," he spat out a red globule, straight from his throat, "Everything. There'll be nothing left… Then you'll be sorry..."

"Sorry? I am envious, querido." His heart thumped beneath her palm; she felt it as something alive and angry and, at long last, at her mercy. Her fingers crawled upwards, past his ragged shirt collar and onto his skin. "You are able to make peace and meet our maker. A gift, bestowed to but a few god-fearing nations."

"You crazy –"

"Sh. I have wondered for so long, how it is different. For us. My citizens, and Spain's, and Colombia's are saved for the heavenly host, but what about us?" The touch between them was natural; to her it was beautiful, even as he lay glowering at her, wishing their positions were reversed. It was becoming more and more difficult to restrain herself, but Brazil remembered her vows of chastity. "You will be able to find out before any of us, after America's assimilation. Would that you could tell me from beyond, what it is like."

"I hate you." So venomous, so honest, so passionate that – Brazil was close enough to see – there were tears clinging to the corners of his eyes.

"I know you do." Brazil knew that she hated him back. She certainly had felt so in their last meeting. But she also knew that Mexico ached to hear her say it, so she smiled at him instead. A jolt of rebellion assaulted her; she knew it was blasphemous, but she found herself unable to resist as she bent her head down and kissed him on his cheek. Her mouth was slightly open and every sensation was blissfully magnified: the scratch of his stubble, the tang of his sweat. The muscle jerked under her lips, there was a definitely sharper intake of breath, but other than this, Mexico did not respond until she had pulled her head back.

"I'll be revenged," he said, "You and America will get what's coming to you for this!"

The heat was dizzying. Brazil got up to leave. The realisation that she was finally able to do this, that she finally had her freedom back, nearly brought tears to her own eyes. "Don't blame us. There is only one will that matters, only one that will be carried out." She turned her eyes to the sole window in the cell, high above the prisoner's head, casting dusty streams of light over the stones. "The Lord wants you dead, Mexico."