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usa-manors-library · 4 months ago

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Toledo: Prologue

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"Pout, pout, pout," Rhode Island mused, retrieving the discarded pillow off of the room's green carpet-decorated floor, "...That seems to be all you want to do today, eh?"

The victim of Rhode Island's comments continued to— you'll never guess what— pout, face buried behind his hair and in his pillows.

Rhode fluffed the cushion thoughtfully, taking a seat on the edge of the sulky boy's bed. He glanced down at his younger brother, wondering how on earth he was saddled with the responsibility of comforting him on this brisk afternoon. It was December for crying out loud. Shouldn't the kid be frolicking in a winter wonderland? Eating ice off the ground? Chucking snow at everything, inanimate or not? Contracting hypothermia? Whatever it was, he knew damn well that there were better candidates than him for the job of convincing the boy.

Alas, it would be admitting defeat if he left to find one right now. Especially if the only other soul he could discover was New York. Ew. Disgusting. Repulsive. If Rhode had a thesaurus on hand, he'd keep going for the rest of the chapter's word count. I can't allow that. I'm not that desperate yet. Besides, it's 1816. The first official thesaurus wouldn't be published for another 36 years.

"...Michigan, you shan't be carrying on like this at the old age of eleven if I can help it," Rhode Island joked light-heartedly, "Look at you. Lying here like a sack of flour. You should have a wife and children by now, if you had a shred of respect for yourself."

Curiously, the territory peered up from his bedding, "...Where are yours, then?"

"I gambled away my dignity years ago in a game of—" Rhode Island paused, having a small flashback sequence to a series of Virginia's threats regarding stories she saw unfit to tell the younger siblings. Traumatizing, "...None of your business. Now. That does it. Get off of the damned bed."

Michigan plopped his head right back into the pillow cave he made for himself, "...No."

Shoot. That was a convincing argument.

Rhode Island started to drag the child off the bed. Unfortunately, little Michigan had a grip of steel to the frame. Which was very disheartening yet impressive for Rhode Island, who (like many of his siblings) couldn't help but notice Michigan's serious lack of right arm since the War of 1812. He had to give the kid credit, losing a limb didn't make him any weaker. Or less stubborn.

What the fresh hell had Georgia been feeding this kid...? He'll never know. It might be crack. Actually, he's met Kentucky. It's definitely crack.

Rhode Island stood, grumbling a few not-so-Virginia-approved words to himself before huffing and turning back to Michigan, "You're being an addle-plot."

A very muffled voice responded with a little; "Your mother's an addle-plot."

"And your father's a whore."

"We have the same father."

"Well, you see, that's funny because—" Rhode Island raced over to the room's door and poked his head out, "OHIO!"

Listen, listen, listen. Calling someone in to take over the second he recognized their footsteps in the hallway wasn't quitting. No. He wasn't bested by a tween. It was calling in reinforcements. That's nothing to be ashamed of. He lasted about one minute and thirty-two seconds longer than he usually did, and he didn't think about smacking a child. He's a warrior. He's a leader. He's—

"Are you beefing with the 11-year-old again?"

He's moving out. He needs his own place. He doesn't need to get disrespected like this. How could they do this to him. It's not like he helped raise them or anything. It's not like he was the one to teach them certain rude hand gestures at the age of six. He knows he already has a spot in his state he could go to. It's a humble little mansion. He can move there permanently instead of using it exclusively for business. He can throw parties and not invite any of his siblings. He can—

Ohio whooshed past Rhode Island as the older continued plotting his escape to freedom. Taking Rhode Island's former seat on the edge of the bed, Ohio patted Michigan's back. Michigan responded by kicking his legs into the mattress.

"...You know you can't talk to him like that," The Buckeye State sighed, "He's little."

With that comment as a sharp slap of reality Rhode Island swerved around and squawked indignantly, "I—!"

Ohio blinked and glanced over his shoulder, "I don't believe I was talking to you."

A small, muffled giggle escaped from the pillows. This was just bleak. He was 0-4 right now.

"I don't need this," The oldest grumbled, retrieving a book of his off of Michigan's small desk, "I have people to spite. Grudges to carry."

"Shelves to not reach?" Michigan's muffled voice suggested.

One day.

One. Day.

May the good Lord give him an abundance of patience, because if He gave him strength there would be lawsuits.

With Rhode Island gone, Michigan flopped from his stomach to his back and offered Ohio a nod, "Morning."

"Morning," Ohio greeted casually, "What's today's tragedy?"

Michigan lifted his head up ever so slightly, "Can't a territory around here act overdramatic and on the cusp of a devastation for fun...?"

Silence. The answer was definitely 'yes'— it's been done many times before by territories, states, and the country himself alike— but saying that wouldn't improve the situation at hand.

Michigan's head flopped back down, "I'm short."

"Devastating," Ohio deadpanned, wondering how he'd break it to his little brother that he was, in fact, a child, "What else?"

"No," Michigan rolled his eyes, "I'm shorter."

Ohio blinked, blank expression on his face. As of right now, Michigan was shorter than a lot of things. Not quite as short as South Carolina's attention span, but still, a lot of things. "...Than who?"

"Than ME."

"You're you. Who's this 'me'?"

"You're Ohio."

"Then who's you?"

"Me? I'm Michigan," Michigan offered a handshake, "Your favorite sibling. Nice to make your acquaintance—"

"That's not— No. Who's shorter?"

"I'm shorter."

"Than who?"

"Than me!"

"Who's taller?"

"Me!"

"You're you!"

"Right!"

Ohio took a deep breath, trying to channel his inner Virginia, "Territory of Michigan, I swear on the grave of New Jersey's hopes and dreams—"

Michigan wailed, quickly getting up to his feet. He grabbed Ohio by the left shoulder and shook him to the best of his ability, "Look at me! Just look at me!"

"Before— before you give me whiplash," Ohio managed to get out, somewhat playing along with Michigan as he pretended to be incapable of pushing back the shakes, "What- What am I looking at?"

"Brace yourself," Michigan released him and looked at him gravely, "Are you ready?"

Ohio nodded, attempting to smooth the wrinkles the territory's grip had left in his shirt, "As I'll ever be."

"I," Michigan solemnly confessed, "Have lost a whole ten miles."

Ohio paused. He glanced around on the room. He looked left. Right. Up. Down. And, if I may be so bold; all around.

"...Where'd you put them, then?" He joked lightly, pretending to check under one of the many pillows.

Michigan threw his left hand up, nearly hysterical, "This is a grave matter, Oheeo!"

"Gesundheit."

"I woke up shorter! I am a VICTIM of ROBBERY!" The younger declared, slapping his thigh for emphasis on each over-pronounced word.

Ohio raised his eyebrows incredulously. Michigan looked perfectly healthy, with his room in perfect order. Nothing seemed out of place, except... "The only thing you're a victim of is that haircut."

Don't judge him. It was his brotherly duty to bully the child. He was doing his job as an upstanding American citizen. All in a day's work.

Michigan guffawed indignantly, trying not to be obvious as he glanced in the mirror beside Ohio. Smoothing down his unkempt mess of waves and curls nonchalantly, the territory resumed his sulking, "Don't you realize what this means for me?"

"You need to hire a new barber?"

"YoU nEeD tO hIrE a NeW bArbEr?" Michigan mocked, scrunching his nose, "Shove over a couple of steps, I need to fling myself dramatically onto my bed again."

Ohio obliged, letting Michigan partake in his moment. A mere handful of seconds passed before Michigan scrambled off of the bed in a hasty movement.

"I didn't like that one," The younger one said quite decidedly, storming past Ohio, "Let me try that again!"

Ohio shrugged, remaining in his spot as Michigan backed up to the door of his room to get a running start this time. Bolting with the grace and agility of a diseased yet well-meaning gazelle, Michigan flopped back onto his bed. Ohio made a mental note to ask where his father got the set of furniture for this room over dinner. Obviously, it was high-quality and sturdy if it survived the little Mitten this long.

Michigan, after surveying how many pillows the force of his landing knocked off, deemed the fall acceptable. He knew his theatrics well, given his familial connections. I cannot conjure up a single name in this family who isn't some variation of a theatric mess. That could be the curse of personifications. Or humans. Or any of the subjects of my writing, for that matter.

Oh no.

I may be the problem.

"O.H.," The child continued, ignoring whichever sister echoed 'I.O.' in the hallway as she passed, "You don't seem a quarter as invested in this as I imagined you'd be."

Ohio shrugged, "You seem far more invested than I imagined you'd be. Weren't you in the room when everyone was talking about this?"

"So we are in another war?"

The state stared at the wide-eyed, disheveled territory. He'll take that as a 'no.' To the misfortune of Michigan's vocal cords, Ohio wasn't able to correct him before the kid screamed into his mattress with the force of a thousand dying seals.

"I knew it!" Michigan groaned, "Oh, Canada! It hasn't even been two years since the last one!"

"That's not—"

"Pack your bags, we're going north," The child grumbled, trudging over to his wardrobe and throwing it open with gusto. He took random articles of clothing, piling them up on the floor, "We're going to kidnap him this time. Perhaps our hands will slip and he'll lose an arm. Maybe both. A leg, perchance. Who knows? I'm can be clumsy—"

Choosing to ignore how concerning that thinly veiled threat was, Ohio grabbed the bunched up mess of clothes from Michigan's hands before he can put them in his growing pile, "We're not at war, Mitten."

"Don't call me that, it's undignified."

"Apologies, Mr. Mitten."

"Thank you. However, it's Mr. Dr. Rev. Mitten to you."

"Right, Mr. Dr. Rev.— Since when were you ordained?"

Michigan stared at him blankly.

"...No matter," Ohio decided to pick and choose his battles today, "As you know, Indiana became a state rather recently."

"Rather off topic, but good for her. I'm very proud," Michigan feigned a sniffle, "They grow up so fast... I hope she remembers to write me every couple of month..."

"...She was given a smidge of your land on her way out—"

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

"I imagined I was getting KIDNAPPED!" Michigan screeched, slamming his hands on the table, "Again!"

Massachusetts patted the kid, who couldn't quite pinpoint if he was shaking from relief or the fear he finally processed from this morning, on the back. He had no idea what was going on, but, to put it bluntly; the small homeboy looked traumatized.

With a slight hint of sympathy, Indiana apologetically patted the territory on the head, "My sincerest apologies, Mr. Dr. Rev. Mitten."

Michigan shot a deadpan stare at Ohio for half a second. Ohio pretended to not notice it, staring off into the existential void. AKA the window that overlooked the backyard. AKA the joys of the great outdoors. AKA Florida— who was the only adult among the outside crowd and shouldn't technically be condoning that kind of behavior— dangling from a tree while 15-year-old Louisiana was preparing the hit him with a sizable branch as 7-year-old Illinois held 4-year-old Missouri's hand and watched. AKA another unavoidable doctor's bill to America, from his feral offspring, with love. Love, and a little spite. Deserved or undeserved, who knows?

"Ten miles isn't quite much," Indiana continued, ignoring the very loud *THWACK* followed by a Floridian with way too much confidence in the resilience of the human body insisting 'AGAIN!' from outside, "I wouldn't mind if you wanted to reclaim—"

"The land? The land...?" The territory scoffed, "Are you kidding me? I'm happy it turned out to be you. Keep it. I don't care, I haven't the slightest need for it. Happy statehood. But Indie, I had so many revenge plans! Tomfooleries! Shenanigans! Now I can't execute them against the British! My justification is out to sea...!"

Michigan buried his face in his hands, entirely devastated. It was a bit of a shoddy excuse— he will most definitely try to carry out his schemes anyway—, yet he refused to be thought of as a coward. Especially in front of the older siblings. Ew. Yuck. Disgusting. Blegh.

Cowardliness is reserved for the weak. The weak, and when his father gets home from work. In which Michigan will be clinging to him like a stubborn koala and claiming he had something in his eyes. America wouldn't believe him, primarily after getting the day's synopsis from Ohio, but he would make a comment about allergy season and pretend he did nonetheless.

"Michigan," Massachusetts gently reassured, "Connecticut still exists. You still have people to torment. And for good cause."

Michigan sniffled, "...What cause?"

"He exists," The eldest brother tilted his head, "And that's very, very sad."

Michigan slowly took his face from his hands, meeting Massachusetts's genuine, earnest expression.

"...Very well," The territory sighed heavily, shoving his chair back, "I'm going to go bury his shoes in the snow out back. If I'm not back by sunset, assume I moved a single garden pebble and New Jersey is preserving my remains to fertilize the plants come spring."

Indiana's eyebrows climbed up, "Just like that?"

"Consider the matter forgiven," Michigan shrugged as he stood, doing his best to sound like an adult. A Virginia impression, to be exact. It was thoroughly believed among her younger siblings— for better or worse— that she feared nothing on this piddly mortal plane of existence.

As if he were going off to work a regular nine to five, the child sauntered to the doorway of the almost vacant dining room. Looking back at the small assembly, his facade wavered as he pouted— Er. Made an expression that conveyed a serious complaint. "Not forgotten, though. Next person to move my borders without telling me is experiencing bodily harm."

Amused, Ohio watched as his little buddy went off to cause havoc and turmoil.

The issue of Michigan's land was solved, and will never come up again.

...

Yep. No reason to continue following this novel. I told you it was short. That's it. Nothing else happens.

...

Click off of this story. Go read some of NewLostIslands's instead. Shoo, now, shoo.

...

You can go. The show's over. Thank you for your time and— Why is this chapter titled 'Prologue'?

...

Oh, Heckerberry Finn. I have to commit now, don't I?

#USAManor! Michigan #USAManor! Toledo #USAManor! Ohio #USAManor! Rhode Island #Screw Quebec #Statehumans #Countryhumans America #countryhumans usa #Statehumans Michigan #Statehumans Ohio

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weirdestbooks · 3 months ago

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The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 19

Attack on Quebec (Wattpad | Ao3)

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November 13, 1775

Quebec was convinced that Thirteen Colonies had lost his mind. It was bad enough that he was fighting against their father, but to invade Quebec’s land? To try and pull Quebec into his foolish rebellion?

Quebec hated him for it.

What he hated even more was that things seemed to be going well for him. He had besieged Boston and Uncle England, he had injured Uncle England severely, and was now having success in Quebec’s land as well.

Quebec was thankful when General Guy Carleton had managed to fight back a rebel force in September and take their leader captive, but now it seemed to have been all for naught. In their focus on attacking that rebel force, they ignored another force that had been laying siege to Fort Saint-Jean.

Fort Saint-Jean was a crucial part of their defense strategy. It was the last fortification between the rebel army and Montreal. Quebec had hoped it would hold, but the rebel army had captured it ten days prior. There was nothing to stop them from taking Montreal now.

“General Carleton, what are we going to do now?” Quebec asked. The rebels were near and would be at the city soon, and Quebec refused to be captured. He had to prove that he was a loyal son of the British Empire and had to prove to his father that he would not join the Thirteen Colonies in his mad schemes.

It was the duty of Quebec and the other colonies in the area, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and even little St. John's Island, to ensure that their lands did not join in rebellion and that they stayed a part of the empire that loved them so.

Quebec wished that Thirteen Colonies was a part of the invading force, wished that the man was not holed up in the safety of his Boston siege so that Quebec could force him to go to London or somewhere else, away from the rebels, so their father could purge the madness from his mind.

“We will defend the city, but you will fall back. We cannot let the rebels corrupt another colony’s personification,” General Carleton said. Quebec scowled.

“I am not as weak-willed as my brother that I can be corrupted into—” he began, angry, before General Carleton cut him off.

“Quebec. Please listen. It is your father’s orders that no colony is to be captured by the rebels like Thirteen Colonies was. These are your father’s orders, and you are to obey them,” he said, voice stern. Quebec immediately backed down, bowing his head slightly.

“Of course, sir, my apologies,” Quebec said before leaving. He needed to grab his personal items before he could depart. Better not to let the rebels get their hands on them.

He hated Thirteen Colonies for doing this to them. Father said it was because Thirteen Colonies had been corrupted that rebellions could cause a certain kind of madness in countryhumans, a trait he said was more common in colonies than in countries. He said that although Thirteen Colonies had been misled, they must forgive him once his behavior had been corrected and his mind fixed in order to remind him where he belonged and that his family did love him, despite what the rebels claimed.

Quebec still found it easier to blame Thirteen Colonies.

After all, things had been going well before his rebellion. Quebec got a new father—a better father—he got to be at peace, he got a wonderful new family, and things had been going well. Then, Thirteen Colonies grew irritable and selfish, and suddenly, everyone was suffering from it, from the punishments they all shared. They all wanted him to stop, but he ran away, ignored their letters, and then injured their uncle.

Father had been furious about that.

Quebec still felt like he could feel the bruises from that. He didn’t like that Father had punished them, but some colonies were lying in the wake of Uncle England’s injury, and it was better to punish them all to ensure they all stayed in line as Father dealt with a growing crisis. Father didn’t need more stress on his hands.

So Quebec would obey, no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he wanted to scream and fight and do everything he could to hold on to Montreal.

He had his orders. He could fight the rebels off again another day.

The rebels had no hope of winning against the empire. Hopefully, soon, they would see that.

• ───────────────── •

December 3, 1775

United Colonies was excited about his new flag. As much as he loved the Red Ensign, which had been his flag for so many years, with the conflict that had been happening, with his new flag, his new strength, it was time for a new flag.

The Union Jack was going to be kept on his face; that was a given, another way to profess to his father that he loved him, that he was loyal, and that he would come home as soon as his people’s rights were recognized. The rest of the flag would be thirteen stripes of red and white, one for each of the colonies that were currently making a ruckus in his head.

“After that Proclamation of Rebellion, I don’t know why we are even entertaining the idea of having a Union Jack on our face. It’s clear Grandfather will never believe our loyalty. We might as well go all the way.” the voice that called himself Massachusetts said. United Colonies sighed.

“Must you all be discontent with everything I have to say,” he muttered quietly.

“Only when the things you have to say are dumb,” the voice that called himself Connecticut said, sounding so insufferably smug. United Colonies sighed, wishing there was more he could say to them. However, he was in public, so he would have to settle for ignoring them.

The first appearance of his new flag would be at the commissioning of Admiral Esek Hopkins' flagship. United Colonies had decided it would be best to watch the commissioning so he could see the exact moment he would get his flag.

“Excited, are we?” the voice that called herself Pennsylvania said.

“Of course! This is the first time we get to pick the flag! And we’re all represented in it! Even me, and I’m still legally a part of you, Penny-Pen!” the voice that called himself Delaware said, excitement clear in his voice. United Colonies couldn’t help the smile that spread at that.

There was something about them that really just warmed his heart.

“See? Is it so wrong to acknowledge us?” The unfamiliar male voice said. United Colonies scowled and crossed his arms, deciding to ignore voices for now and focus on the ship in front of him and the flag he could see at the top of its mast.

Eventually, the commissioning ceremony ended, and United Colonies looked down at his hands, seeing that they still held the same Union Jack pattern they had since the Union Jack was formed.

United Colonies then rolled up his sleeves, seeing the new red and white stripes on his forearm. He smiled at that, happy to see that he had his new flag.

It was beautiful.

• ───────────────── •

December 31, 1775

Quebec could not believe the audacity of the rebels. Attacking Quebec City in the middle of a blizzard? It was an insane plan, one that had to be brought on by desperation. Battles were rarely fought in the winter if one could avoid it.

But if the rebels were defeated by their own incompetence, Quebec welcomed it. The sooner this rebellion ended, the better for everyone.

The rebels were not having much luck. Whether it was the storm, fear, or some other reason, maybe of the rebels began to flee the battle as the grapeshot began. As much as Quebec hated seeing the traitors getaway, it was good to see their invasion of his land halted and pushed back.

The back and forth continued for a while, but more and more rebels fled as they realized their defeat was inevitable, as they realized they could not breach Quebec City’s defenses. Quebec felt pride well up in him. The sooner he drove off the rebels, the sooner he could prove his loyalty and devotion to his father and empire.

They had driven them away from Quebec City. Now, they just had to drive them away from the rest of Quebec’s land. Suddenly, Quebec’s internal celebration was cut off by someone tapping his shoulder.

“What?” he snapped, turning around to see a young soldier standing there.

“Rebels have breached the northern walls and entered the city,” the messenger said. Quebec barked out a harsh curse.

“Where’s General Carleton?” Quebec asked. The messenger gestured for Quebec to follow him. Quebec’s happiness had plummeted, anxiety flooding through him as he tried to figure out what had happened. Was the force he drove off just a feint? Were these troops part of the actual attack? Was he about to be captured by the rebels and dragged off to be corrupted by his mad brother?

Approaching General Carleton, Quebec was quick to blurt out his questions, fearing that this was all just a repeat of Montreal.

“No, the rebels are confused. I think whatever force you drove back must have been a backup force. I’m reorganizing the defense into an attack force now. I promise you, Quebec, we will not give up this city,” General Carleton said. Quebec nodded, tightening his grip on his weapon.

“Tell me where you need me to be,” he said. Quebec was then reorganized into another unit, as he refused General Carleton's offer to stay out of the battle. If this really was the battle where they drove the rebels back, he needed to be a part of it.

The rebels then entered the street Quebec’s reorganized forces were on, and the fight quickly began, right there in the streets of Quebec City.

Then, the greatest windfall of the battle occurred. Many of the rebel guns seemed not to be working, probably as a result of the weather. Not only that, but the rebels also seemed to be running out of ammunition.

Hope fluttered in Quebec’s chest as he realized he would win this battle.

Finally, the rebels realized their situation was hopeless and surrendered. And Quebec felt months of stress leave his shoulders at the realization that he was not going to fall to the rebel army.

They would drive the rebels out of his land and then out of Thirteen Colonies’ land, and his family would be made whole once more.

#countryhumans #countryhumans america #historical countryhumans #the shot heard around the world by weird #countryhumans canada #countryhumans 13 colonies

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