The Fall of Power

Meant for this

(Mexico's point of view)

You know, it's not too bad here, all things considered.

Sure, it's almost always raining and smells like fish, but it's damn better than the mainland. Fucked 7 ways to up their asses, too many rules and they all lead right to jail or with your head in a lock and blade.

"You gonna keep gazing out to sea like my dad used to out the window when the neighbors would fight, or are you going to help load these?"

"Calling me old?"

"Na, but I'll put you in an early grave if you don't stop thinking with your eyes."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I take it back. You might as well be as old as the ground I'm about to put you in."

I turn to the walking dictionary of death threats. There, soaked to the bone because he forgot his rain gear, again, is Poland. In his hands is a cargo box, one of a seemingly endless supply.

"Come on," He dragged the last syllable out. "I want to go back inside. I'm cold and feel like a wet cat."

"And who's fault is that?" I trudge my way back to where he stands, water always finds its way into my boots eventually.

"Yours! You keep hiding my raincoats and-!" A particularly strong breeze cuts through his words, sending freezing rain right into his eyes.

I grabbed the crate he had been holding before it dropped onto the dock, then haul it over the railing. It lands with an imposingly loud bang on the ship's deck.

Not a second after, a second bang rings my ears.

Thunder.

"That's my cue to get the fuck out of here!" Poland yells at me over the sound of the downpour. He's already almost off the dock anyway.

"Save me a spot by the lantern!" I yell back to him. The response I was about to get is cut off by him slipping and falling butt-first into the mud right after the dock meets the ground again.

There are only two more crates to load, nothing new. I grab onto the sides of the one closest to me and throw it over the rail right next to all the others. I can hear Poland's distant cursing getting quieter and quieter.

When the last crate lands on the ship's deck with a heavy crash, I turn to the end of the dock once more.

Waves of salt spray crash up against it, and the heavy downpour of the storm sends constant little hits against my back. Just past the roaring waves and dense storm clouds lays the mainland. The storm is the only thing keeping this little town from being swallowed whole by the death that has seeped into the life of those who lived there.

"Aye!" A shout from behind me causes me to flinch.

"I know!" I turn and make my way to them.

"You know, when Poland came running back looking like a drowned dog, I was hoping I wouldn't find you spacing out again."

An arm gets thrown around my shoulder, pressing me close. "Really Mexico. For the one having to keep the storm going, you really don't pay attention too much."

"Thanks, Ireland, for the enlightening words of wisdom."

"Don't sass me. I'm not gonna drag your body from the waves again if you keep it up."

"Good luck with the USCN with that. Last I checked, that'd go on your record."

"What isn't at this point?"