Mexico's POV:
I wasn't having a delightful day. America was being as dense as ever. Sometimes I question why he even calls meetings when he doesn't take in any criticism. Sometimes being his number two sucks. Like what am I supposed to do? Jump through windows? It seems to be all I'm good for. Well, at least in the eyes of America.
I left Scotland to talk with the others in the cafeteria while I dealt with... other business. I went down to one of the privacy rooms. It was one of the few rooms without surveillance. Ever since America started getting paranoid, he made sure every inch of his base was under complete surveillance. After a while, some of us got uncomfortable with the thought we were constantly being watched, so he created three privacy rooms, but you need to have clearance to use them so only a few of us have access. Luckily, I was trusted and had a personal key.
I sat down on the singular chair in the room and pulled out my phone. I had taken notes on the meeting and needed to write up a small report detailing the meeting and send it off. I sat there typing up the report. It is annoying typing on a phone, but I couldn't use the laptop. I know America monitors all devices. I disconnected my phone from his monitoring servers.
Sometimes I wonder why America hasn't called me out yet. I'm not very good at my job and probably the most suspicious of everyone under his Empire. He thinks he can trust me. That is good for now.
Once I finished the report, I sent it off to the NZE. They promised me glorious rewards for helping them and a respected position in their Empire when they put their ultimate plan in motion.
Do you know how annoying it is living in America? He doesn't even treat me like his second in command. He treats me like a battering ram... sometimes literally.
"Hey, Mexi, are you in there?" I heard someone say as they knocked on the door.
"Who gave you permission to call me Mexi?" I argued through the door. I recognised it as Scotland.
"No one, I just thought it was a cool nickname," Scotland explained.
It was quiet for a couple of seconds before Scotland spoke again.
"Chile told me to tell you that they are going out drinking later tonight and wondering if you wanted to join them, I'm going," Scotland said.
"I can't, I'm busy tonight," I answered.
"You are always busy! Seriously, since when did you turn down a drinking night?" I heard Chile shout angrily.
"Are you guys all outside the room!?" I shouted back.
"What are you even doing?" Brazil asked.
"If I go out drinking with you guys tomorrow, will guys forget about it?" I argued. I had a small meeting tonight with the intel and communications expert in the NZE.
"He'll never come out drinking with us," I heard someone whisper. I heard the group of them leave. I let out a small sigh and waited for a response on my report.
New's POV:
It was hard not to scream throughout the torture, but if I screamed, it would be a sign of weakness. As soon as Samoa was done, I sat alone in that small cell as I covered the bleeding hole in my knee and tried to hold back tears.
The scent of blood was incredibly strong and caused terrible headaches. These headaches still plagued me after a few years in these conditions. They were not something you could get used to.
My flag over the years had been losing its colour and turning grey. I fear that I will lose my flag along with my identity of who I am. Or... was. I am very sick. The frequent torture does not help with your physical state nor your mental state. Which is probably why I'm talking to the wall. I don't know why, but I feel like the wall listens to me. It wants to know who I am.
I think I am going crazy. The cracks almost completely cover my body and my arm is missing. The people in the vents bring me duct tape and glue to stick it back on, but I never do. They have left some super glue in the vents for me. It is kind, but sustainable food would be more helpful.
One little girl. Well, not really little. One girl, probably about the age of Samoa, has been named the keeper of the arm. It sounds kind of cool, but really, she is the one that keeps my arm safe. I don't know why, but whenever there is glue or tape in the vents, the arm is always there too. When I don't use it, she takes the arm back. I wonder who she is.
I get these weird feelings when I hear voices from the other side of the door that sound familiar, but I don't know their names. I only know Samoa and NZ, who visit me frequently to do unethical torture. Samoa is the only one who is reluctant. I know him! I just don't know why?
I could list off a bunch of information about him, but there is always something missing. His name was Samoa, his father was European, he had two or three other siblings; he was the second in command and never looked me in the eyes. He was ashamed of something.
I let out a small sigh and touched my knee again. As my finger came in contact with the hole, I winced in pain and left it alone. I looked around at the empty walls, only occasion stained with the red juice that occasionally leaked from my cracks.
I knew the red juice was a bad thing, but my memory is so bad these days, I don't know what I am looking at half the time. I don't remember who I was before being looked up here, but they have always referred me to as the rebel leader. I like laughing at that statement. What qualities do I possess that make me a leader?