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It was a calm, tranquil night. The sky was clear, the stars were shining, and the moon was full. Despite it being the start of the year's hottest month, the cool breeze made one almost forget it was summer rather than spring or fall. Nights like these were wonderful for getting a good night's rest, and the perfect opportunity to wake up at a reasonable hour—
"GOOD MORNING U.S.A.!"
Oh, yes.
If one is a member of the highly-esteemed Guild…
…The privilege of a "good night's rest" does not apply on the Fourth of July, no matter how lovely the night is.
Fitzgerald strode down the hall, singing with a fervor so intense you'd think he was singing the actual national anthem. Mark raced up and down the hall like a child, dual revolvers in hand, shooting bullets at the ceiling and causing a frustrating amount of damage.
"I've got a feeling that it's gonna be a wonderful day!"
If the singing hadn't awoken the other members, the gunshots certainly had. While the majority of the members were not surprised by this (although they were still annoyed), having dealt with Fourth of Julys in this group before, two of the members were not accustomed to this "tradition."
Lucy's door flew open, and the redhead narrowed her eyes at the arrogant billionaire. "For fuck's sake—"
Fitzgerald paid no mind to her, cutting her off and continuing to sing (somehow even louder than he had been when he had started). "The sun in the sky has a smile on his face!"
"Mr. Fitzgerald…" Louisa sighed as she adjusted her glasses, already sounding defeated as if she knew that her words would do nothing to change either's behavior. "Please. It's three in the morning. There is no 'sun in the sky' yet."
"And he's shining a salute to the American race!"
"I'm pretty sure American isn't a race ," Lucy corrected.
"I think it is!" Fitzgerald replied.
"Oh, you know about races? Name one."
"Daytona 500!" He said proudly, continuing his song. "Oh boy, it's swell to say…"
"Mr. Fitzgerald," Louisa half-pleaded.
"GOOD MORNING U.S.A.!"
"So much for sleeping, I suppose," Margaret sighed as she appeared in the hall, taking her honey-colored hair out of its braid and running her fingers through it. "Why must this happen every year, Francis?"
"There is no time for sleep!" Fitzgerald declared as he raised his arm for dramatic effect, Mark firing both his guns once more (causing the rest of the members to enter the hall, a few out of genuine concern and the rest out of annoyance), the holes in the ceiling becoming increasingly noticeable.
Karl ran out into the hallway and over to Louisa (who, despite being extremely tired from making a new set of plans last night, welcomed him with a gentle smile). Poe appeared soon after, still wearing the same clothes he had last night, save for the new ink stains smudged on the side of his hand. "Apologies, I did not quite understand... we were supposed to sleep?"
"Yes?" James asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ah. You were up all night writing for Ranpo again."
Poe flushed red and refused to answer, redirecting his gaze to the floor.
"It's the Fourth of July! There are important things to do, founding fathers to honor, and traditions to uphold!" Fitzgerald said.
"What traditions?" Lucy scoffed.
"Why don't you all take a guess?"
"Indigenous genocide?" Lucy suggested without missing a beat.
"Oppression of the working class and the lifting of the one percent?" John leaned against the doorway, voice filled with contempt. "Hell, oppression of everyone who isn't a white non-immigrant upper-class Christian cisgender heterosexual abled male?"
"Severe lack of gun control?" Hawthorne glared at Mark as he said this, the latter of which did not notice.
"Slavery?" Margaret added.
Melville lit his pipe, a light cloud of smoke drifting from it. "Hate crimes."
"Rejecting refugees and immigrants during famines and wars," James said. "And then throwing those who manage to get through into a complete and utter hell?"
Poe fidgeted with his sleeve, trying to assess how bad the ink smudges were. "Starting needless wars...?"
Fitzgerald stood there for a moment, not expecting this response. "We will be partaking in none of those activities today!"
Mark held up two more guns, preparing to fire, before Hawthorne stormed over. "Give me those."
"I HAVE A RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS—"
Hawthorne snatched the guns from the ginger. While Hawthorne usually woke up early to pray, three in the morning was far too early to be woken up, and as such, he was quite cross. "Stop."
"Give me my guns back! I don't steal your rosaries! So why would you steal my guns?"
"You do steal my rosaries."
"Okay, well, I don't take them while you're using them—"
"...You do."
"OKAY, WELL—"
"Alright, besties!" Fitzgerald began.
"I'm sorry, what? " Lucy asked.
"I am dripped out!" Fitzgerald was already prepared, wearing a three-piece suit with the American flag on it. "Let's get our rizz together for this event!"
"Who teaches you these words?" Louisa asked as if she were about to break down and cry from stress right then and there.
"The internet!"
"If you know 'dripped out,' then I hope you know what DNI means," Lucy snapped.
"Distributable net income, of course!"
"Do Not Interact." Lucy stormed back inside her room, slamming the door.
"Distributable net what? Isn't that a tax thing?" Mark asked. "I thought you didn't pay taxes, Fitz."
"I don't!"
Louisa looked at Fitzgerald in abject horror. "You... don't pay taxes?"
"Paying taxes is cringe!"
Melville sighed, sympathizing with the stressed girl. "I don't know what you were expecting, Miss Louisa."
"FUCK YEAH AMERICA!" Mark fired three bullets in rapid succession.
"Where did you obtain that firearm from?" Hawthorne stood there in confusion, holding the two guns he had confiscated only a few minutes ago.
"I just have some tricks up my sleeve," Mark said with a flirtatious wink. Hawthorne narrowed his eyes and held his hand out, a silent demand for Mark to hand it over. "Aww… don't ruin the fun, Nate!"
"Give it to me."
"Fine!"
"I will leave you all to get ready!" Fitzgerald said, and Mark followed him to the elevator.
The floor right above was Fitzgerald's office, and after a blissful twenty seconds of silence and a fleeting hope of peace, the screeching of many bald eagles and a loud jumble of swearing from both Fitzgerald and Mark could be heard. The remaining members froze and looked at each other, the same expression on all of their faces — "What is this fuckery?"
"God…" Hawthorne sighed and put his hands together in prayer. "Please save our souls."
Margaret laughed in reply, and Hawthorne turned to her, annoyed. "What is it, Mitchell?"
"Did you forget it's the Fourth of July?" Her smile was almost evil as she spoke. "God can't hear you."
The Guild had an established, actually structured headquarters in America (not just a giant flying mechanical whale), and Fitzgerald had insisted on returning for the holiday. He had initially wanted to host the event on his yacht, but Louisa had immediately vetoed the suggestion, seeing as he had already crashed four yachts in the past month.
The outdoor setup was a collection of white plastic lawn chairs arranged around a folding table covered with a tablecloth resembling the American flag — the "classic Fourth of July" experience, as Fitzgerald had insisted — and a grill.
Despite the festivities having begun hardly five minutes ago, it was already a disaster.
"The sun is awfully bright today," Margaret adjusted her sunglasses and parasol (the usual white replaced with red, white, and blue). "I'm not sure sunscreen will be enough."
John walked past her and adjusted his hat, Lovecraft following behind. "It's because we're white, Margaret."
Poe came frantically running out in a great panic. "Karl? Karl! Oh, Karl, where did you go?"
"I have him!" Mark said, lifting the raccoon to show off the Uncle Sam hat he'd placed on Karl's head, matching with Mark's shirt (who had just changed from his usual white one to one with an American flag motif, still unbuttoned).
"Please give him back."
"He's a capitalist now!"
At that, Karl jumped out of Mark's arms, running over to Poe, trying to shake off the hat. Poe freed him from the metaphorical chains and the weight of America, placing the hat on the ground instead.
"Karl prefers communism. I do not know why."
"Hey, we were matching! Look, that hat and my shirt!" Mark complained.
Lucy side-eyed Mark, arms crossed. "You look gay in that shirt."
"Fellas, is it gay to like America?"
"Literally none of us are straight and cis."
"MY PRONOUNS ARE U.S.A!" Fitzgerald shouted.
"AMERICA!" Mark screamed, shooting two pistols into the air.
Hawthorne stormed over, wrestling both the guns from Mark's grip. "No. And where do you keep finding these?"
"That's for me to know and for you to never find out!"
"I am ready to cook!" Fitzgerald rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the grill. "Okay! Now. Turn on, please."
The grill did not turn on.
"You have to turn it on yourself." Melville reminded him.
"I knew that!" Fitzgerald said, continuing to stand there and do nothing.
After a few more seconds of silence, the older man walked over and turned on the grill.
"Thank you, Herman!"
"He insists he can cook," Margaret said as she leaned over to Louisa, not even bothering to whisper. Regardless, Fitzgerald didn't hear her, too wrapped up in his delusions that he could manage to make something edible. "It gets worse every year."
"I fear this will not end well," Poe said.
"You fear everything," Margaret said, a bit harshly.
Poe sighed. "I suppose that is true."
Fitzgerald began to set the hamburgers and hot dogs out on the grill, what he called "traditional American cuisine." His apron read "Proud Member of the 1%," a "gift" from John that Fitzgerald didn't understand was sarcastic. He wore it religiously any time there was a Guild cookout (unfortunately, it happened multiple times a year — Labor Day had been a disaster, and Memorial Day even worse). The cookouts often went up in flames (re: the last Memorial Day cookout), and the Fourth of July was the most chaotic of them all.
Speaking of going up in flames, fire started to extend from within the grill to the food that was — well, had been — cooking.
"That's not supposed to happen, is it?" James asked.
"That is the fire from the sparks within us, the freedom of America!"
James sighed, going to get a bucket of water.
"AMERICAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Mark screamed, starting to rap (albeit poorly). "I TAKE MY HEART INTO BATTLE! GIVE THAT FREEDOM BELL A RATTLE!"
"GET MY INDEPENDENCE SIGNED, DECLARE IT ON THE DOTTED LINE!" Fitzgerald turned around to face Mark and continued the rap (even worse than Mark), ignoring the grill-turned-raging-bonfire behind him.
"IN PHILADELPHIA FREEDOM RING, AND PATRIOTIC VOICES SING!"
Louisa stared in shock at the grill. "Please, Mr. Fitzgerald, step away from the fire—"
"RED, WHITE, AND BLUE!"
"Did we think to bring a bucket of water?" Margaret asked.
"NEVER GIVE UP!"
"No, because grills aren't supposed to catch on fire like this— Mr. Fitzgerald, please pay attention to your surroundings—"
"WE REPRESENT!"
"Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"AMERICA!"
At that moment, James returned, throwing the water onto the grill and (partially) accidently onto Fitzgerald, who laughed heartily, unfazed and unannoyed, and turned back to the grill. The only things remaining were the cremated remains of what had been an attempt at a cookout.
Somewhat-carefully gathering the ashes onto a plate, Fitzgerald then proudly placed the indistinguishable charred mess onto the table. What had begun as a meal for many had ended as a meal for absolutely none.
Lovecraft stared at it. "I may not be familiar with human customs... however, I do not believe that is edible."
"I would rather eat a raw potato," Lucy said.
"James might have some if you are truly interested!" Fitzgerald announced.
James glared at Fitzgerald. "Why would I have raw potatoes in my possession?"
"You are Irish, no?"
"That does not mean I carry around raw potatoes."
John pulled one out of his pocket and tossed it to Lucy. "Here."
"Why do you have this?" she asked.
"Why not?"
"You and Lovecraft act so weird. All the time. What even is up with you two—"
"You know what I think?" John interrupted her, trying to redirect the conversation. "Capitalism creates extremely unbalanced inequalities between the social classes and only harms the working class. The concept of it is inherently exploitative—"
"FUCK YEAH, CAPITALISM!" Mark screamed, firing another gun into the air.
Hawthorne turned around at the sound, obviously irritated. "Where do you keep getting those?!"
"AMERICA!"
"Give it to me."
"We will think about dinner later!" Fitzgerald said, standing up even straighter and masking his embarrassment behind a "great idea." "Perhaps we can order some great American foods."
"Such as…?" Louisa asked, fear settling on her face.
"Hawaiian pizza, first of all! Named after the lovely fiftieth American state, created in Hawaii, and enjoyed by all across the nation!"
"Hawaiian pizza is Canadian." Lucy corrected.
"Preposterous!" Fitzgerald laughed.
"No, it is— there's Canadian bacon on it—"
"He never listens," James said.
"Canada is irrelevant today!" Fitzgerald announced.
"Lucy…" Poe said. "It is not worth it."
"Okay, so are we just ignoring the fact that I'm Canadian?"
"America in the hizzy!" Mark yelled.
"You mean Canada."
"Well, Canayda Canahda, that's not the point."
"It's Canada."
"Today, you are American," Fitzgerald said.
"No, I'm not—"
"Today, you are American."
"That's not how citizenship works? "
"Moving on!" Fitzgerald said. "We also ought to enjoy California sushi rolls! Created in Los Angeles—"
"Created in Vancouver," Lucy corrected.
"Created in Los Angeles, California rolls are another staple of American-themed food spreads. There is also American fried rice—"
"That is from Thailand…" Poe said.
Fitzgerald ignored her and moved on. "Americanos—"
"Italy and Latin America," Margaret said.
"Apple pie—"
"England," James said with disgust.
"Hot dogs and hamburgers—"
"Germany," Hawthorne sighed.
"Macaroni and cheese, invented by Thomas Jefferson —"
"Italy," John said.
"Peanut butter!"
"Canada," Lucy said.
"Bacon—"
"Celts," James said.
"I do not know what you all are talking about!" Fitzgerald insisted. "These are all normal, typical, all-American foods!"
"This country is not normal at all," Lucy said.
"America is normal!" Fitzgerald insisted.
"No, it's not."
"At least we don't put milk in bags, Lucy."
"It's better for the economy, and it's fresher."
"It sounds stupid," Mark said.
Lucy glared at him. "You can't speak on stupidity."
"HEY—"
"As entertaining as this is," Margaret said, "There are other matters and events today."
"Margaret, what is this event you speak of?" Hawthorne asked. As if summoned, Louisa reappeared, cake in hand (although no one had noticed her disappearance).
"Did you forget about your birthday as well?" Margaret laughed.
Hawthorne hesitated. "Certainly not—"
"Oh my, you did."
"I have been concerned with other matters. My birthday is of no importance in comparison to the needs of the Guild."
"Nonsense!" Fitzgerald announced.
Louisa set the two-layer cake down on the table. Louisa and Margaret had been in charge of baking it, and a few others had "assisted" with decoration. There was a beautiful line of roses along the very bottom of the white-frosted cake (Louisa's hand, no doubt), and in delicate green icing the message atop the cake read "Happy Birthday" in flawless cursive.
Beyond that, the cake was a chaotic mess.
Louisa and Margaret had made the grave mistake of leaving the cake unattended for five minutes to retrieve the cake cover and came back to "decor" that was beyond salvation. Mark and John had discovered cross-shaped sprinkles a few months prior and found it so overly hilarious yet fitting there was a border of golden cross-shaped sprinkles on the top, arranged in such a way that it looked like they had tried to be neat but failed in the end. Fitzgerald had, for some reason, chosen to stick ten-thousand-dollar bills along the sides.
"Where are the candles…?" Louisa asked, discovering they were no longer in her pocket.
"Oh, I got rid of those!" Mark laughed. "I found ones that would be more fitting."
Louisa sighed. "May I have them?"
Mark handed over three identical candles, all in the shape of the number six. Margaret snatched Hawthorne's bible from across the table and chucked it at Mark, hitting him square in the face. "OW! MARGARET!"
"Shut up," Margaret replied.
"That's gonna…" Lucy started. "That's gonna leave a mark."
"DUDE!"
"We… let's not… sorry, Hawthorne, we lost the candles." Louisa sighed, putting them in her pocket before Hawthorne could see exactly what Mark had done.
"It's alright," Hawthorne said. "I appreciate it."
"So how old are you now?" Margaret said sarcastically. "Fifty?"
"I'm twenty-seven. I thought you knew this."
"Your clothes don't seem twenty-seven."
"I hope you go to hell."
"Aw, you're so sweet."
"Be quiet."
"I don't take orders from men, Nathaniel. You should know that already."
"Fair point."
"GUYS!" Mark shouted, pointing at the darkened sky. "FIREWORKS!! IT'S ALMOST TIME FOR FIREWORKS!!"
Hawthorne stood and gently put the cake cover back on, nodding his thanks again. "I suggest we do this after the fireworks."
"Agreed," Margaret said.
The Guild assembled on the lawn, looking up at the sky where the stars were beginning to emerge. Although these fireworks did not belong to the Guild — it was an event they were within sight of that took place at the local park. They no longer went to said park, as the first time they had gone, Poe had gotten overwhelmed and Fitzgerald had made too much of a scene with his rich-people problems.
"Capitalism is a flawed system meant to keep the working class entrapped in a prison that they are tricked into believing is their creation," John said as he lay on the grass, staring at the starry sky with Lovecraft next to him.
"Hush." Margaret scolded. "Fireworks are a sacred event."
"Miss Louisa and Miss Lucy, congratulations." Melville said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "You have survived your first Fourth of July with us. Consider this your official induction."
At that, red, white, and blue started to bloom across the sky, a truly a beautiful sight. While the Fourth of July was unquestionably an American celebration, the beauty of fireworks is international — no matter what language you speak, who you love, or where you're from, there's always something beautiful to be found in it.
"I love it when fireworks make you feel something." Louisa exhaled a deep breath, finally getting the relaxation she had been craving all day. "Sometimes I do hate this country, though."
"I miss Canada," Lucy replied. "I don't understand why today is such a big deal."
"Similarly, I miss Ireland," James said.
"You know, no matter how much we hate it…" John's voice softened as the beauty of the sky set in for everyone, allowing them to forget about how bad this country could be, only living in this moment where it would not be just them watching fireworks, but rather, an entire nation, a rare moment of unspoken unity (despite the time differences, it was the same concept). "...It's still home."