Ernst Thaelmann

The tape recorder felt white-hot against his chest, to the point Canada was positive that it would leave a life-long scar. That was fitting, he supposed.  He deserved it for betraying a close friend in favor of the biggest grievance he had to deal with.

America had convinced him to do this over dinner last night. He'd used the same mystical techniques he always did when his plans ranged from suicidal while fiercely optimistic to suicidal while knowingly full-hardy. And somehow, despite that Canada had known exactly what was happening, he'd still allowed himself to be wired for sound and flown to Cuba.

The chances that he would never make it back home were not only high, they seemed inevitable. With his ability to be forgotten, he wondered if his grave marker would even have the correct name on it. His only consolation was the thought of America having to jump through innumerable hoops to convince people he wasn't dead when the grave said otherwise.

Canada shouldn't have been thinking that.  It was his brother, after all, but mostly because he near laughed.  That was dangerous.

He needed to focus, now, on the mission at hand. For public appearances, that meant the mojito sweating through his fingers and onto the beach. He needed to work his way through the party full of high-ranking communists and make sure that they all stayed thirsty, trusting, and most of all talkative. To be perfectly honest, all he had to do was stand there. They were more than happy to take care of it on their own.

Cuba was hosting this party, and of course that made him the primary person of interest. The party was held for the GDR but, while he was a target, he wasn't a priority. If not Cuba, the fact that Russia was there and steadily becoming intoxicated had America near salivating. Of course, his hopes were erroneous as there wasn't a single person talking shop that day. The only concern truly seemed to be whether or not the rum would hold out through the whole event.

Canada had to wonder what would happen when he made it back and America's experts got a hold of the tapes. Maybe their Russian was better than his, and they'd get something out of it, but so far it seemed like this whole night was a bust. If he was to gain nothing else, he figured he might as well enjoy a party. It wasn't like he had many other opportunities to attend things like this, much less ones which invited him on purpose.

He ignored the searing heat against his chest and swapped his empty glass for a full one. The beer he'd brought was finally being served, and he wasn't going to miss out on it. When he still had the very real possibility of being killed, the feeling of home and safety slipping down his throat was exactly what he needed to stay calm.

"You Canada?"

It was hardly the first time he'd been acknowledged all night, but it was the first time he'd been given the right name on the first try (it always took Cuba a few attempts). He felt he was allowed a bit of surprise before looking over.

These new eyes boring into him were shockingly dark against a pale complexion near that glowed in the dim light.  The increasingly-reclusive GDR stared at him, and as Canada had been instructed he stared right back.

"Yes, that's me." Canada put a hand out to shake, and blinked when a beer was shoved into it.

"This is swill," GDR said roughly. "It's a disgrace to beer."

Canada was taken aback by the remarks. Not because he particularly cared for the man's opinion, but he loved his beer. An insult of that level hurt; however, he had to consider the source.

"I've heard you say that about all beer that isn't German."

The GDR shrugged. "That's because it's true. It's not my fault nobody but my brother and I can figure out how to brew anything worth drinking." Traditionally, there'd been a choke when he spoke of his younger brother, but this time it wasn't noticeable if it were there at all. Either he'd become used to being separated, or he'd become a much better actor. Could be either, but Canada didn't care so much as the matter or protecting his brewing process was more pressing.

That, and that he was fairly sure he needed a doctor for the burn on his chest. He really needed to leave, and if he could just make it to the pier he could wave his ride over.  Unfortunately, the GDR stuck right beside Canada as all the stories of him being being a persistent, annoying bastard said he would. His eyes were on Russia, but his attention didn't waver from either of them.

"I hear you're playing both sides," he said, voice low. "That you have rather strong connections in Western Europe."

Canada froze while he attempted to look as if he hadn't. He couldn't tell if this meant that he'd been found out, or if the GDR was waiting for a reaction to confirm some sort of suspicion. Or, if by giving a reaction, there would be suspicions that wouldn't have been there otherwise…

He really wanted to curl up at home where it was safe, and to be able to tell America where to go the next time he came to the door with a smile that dripped with sugar. But, instead, he gave a nod.

"I'm not really a part of this whole thing," he said. "I'm trying to stay neutral."

The GDR laughed, a sound that seemed forced and was interrupted with a cough. At least, he did look more relaxed than before.

"Everyone too lazy to fight stays neutral. It's a copout, but whatever the fuck keeps you alive I suppose." He continued to keep his eyes on everyone but Canada as his voice lowered. "Do you speak to the other half?"

"On occasion," Canada told him. "He doesn't talk much when he isn't working."

His companion relaxed just slightly more. "Yeah, that sounds about right." He turned to Canada, forced their eyes to lock again. "You tell him that, wherever he opens shop, I'm right behind him. Fucker should know I don't lose to assholes like him."

He straightened himself a bit, which may have looked threatening when he'd been healthier.  Right then, if it was anything beyond the movement, it showed how much his joints were fighting against him.  He was old, as Europe was old, and it showed then as much as ever.  "Can you handle that?"

Canada nodded, and wondered what exactly the Americans were going to make of this once they got the tapes. This wasn't a threat, but when America was in a panic (or 90% of the rest of the time), he didn't usually make those sorts of distinctions.

"Tell me what happens next time, if I don't know already," GDR said, his voice dull again. "And learn to brew some fucking real beer before then. I'm gonna go get that taste out of my mouth now." He walked away without another word.

Canada waited through the party, but there wasn't another look back. Not that there were many looks at all for the rest of the night in his direction, his invisibility was probably alcohol-aided at least.  The conversation of the night stayed within island, about the local birds, turtles, and nothing that anyone really cared about.  The soviets focused upon if the steady flow of drink was going to run dry, or if the band would stay around for another hour or two because the dancing that wasn't going on shouldn't stop.  The result of the investigation, Canada asserted, was that this group threw very dull events.

He spent his time weaving through the crowd until Russia finally tired. Obediently, Cuba made the final toast, and the GDR slurred out an invitation to get off what he was obviously quite happy to refer to as his land. The members of the Motherland filed neatly after their leader to wherever they would sleep that night. Their faces were as red as their eyes, but somehow they remained sober-minded enough to stay quiet.

Canada, likewise, returned to America.  It was only when he was on the plane, far away from prying eyes, that he was finally allowed to have the recorder removed from his chest. There was a sudden coldness, was a shock to his system, but not one he necessarily felt anything for. He couldn't help but be disappointed in the lack of relief, but he kept quiet on that.  It wasn't as if, with the flurry of excitement surrounding the device, people would be paying attention to the person it'd been attached to.

America took the recorder into a room deep within the seclusion of his intelligence organizations. Surrounded by men in suits and thick clouds of smoke, he listened to every drunken second of the party. Faster, slower, and repeated well past the point of being healthy or necessary.

All in all, he probably spent four or five times what the party had taken in analysis.  Eventually, reluctantly, he slunk out of the room and admitted to Canada that there was nothing of value to be found.

He smiled, and assured his brother that they'd get something much better next time. Canada offered a humoring nod as he lied to himself that there wouldn't be a next time. As long as they both lived, he knew there would.

As early as the next day, there was no evidence on his chest of any type of recorder.