Unceded
a short story about annexation
Forward
This story is an illustration of the threat I talked about in this Toronto Star OpEd I wrote last week. In the Star piece I talked about those on the right who are demanding that we throw out all the ‘red tape’ to turbo charge the economy to fight Trump. Part of the ‘red’ tape they’re thinking of is clearly consultation with First Nations. I explain more in the OpEd, and in this story, I want to show you what that would actually look like - if Canada took their advice, threw consultation on the back burner, and tried to ‘drill-baby’drill’ its way to a post-American world. Here’s the story:
1. The End
September 1st, 2026—Ottawa, Canada
“Right shoulder—ARMS!”
“What’s he saying, mom?” Jason asked.
“Shhh, just watch.”
She turns up the TV.
A red faced soldier screams into the camera:
“The British Columbia Regiment… Retires…”"Regiment, FORWARD—MARCH!"
The stomping of boots rumbles through the speakers, and is echoed back through the windows as homes across the neighbourhood watch the same spectacle.
The shot on screen rises above the marching soldiers, and closes in on a flag pole to show that the red and white is still there.
The army band begins playing a slow, familiar tune.
“Listen! They’re singing!” Jason rushes to open the window, and a dirge drifts in, broken and patchy, carried on voices from across the city:
…don't know where, don't know when...But I’m sure we’ll meet again some sunny day...
Tears well up, and she steps away from her son and the TV, escaping before the oncoming bout of ugly crying.
How did it happen so fast? she wonders.
She breathes hard, letting control come back to her. If her son remembers this day, it’s not going to be the image of her crying.
From the living room, a new song rises now. Through the windows, more and more voices pick it up:
Here may it wave, our boast, our pride
And, joined in love together,
The order of the ceremony was in the paper this morning. And this song means the flag - her flag - is coming down for the last time. She can’t bear to watch, but she believes in her heart that she shares the blame for this happening. She should see it happen. Steeling herself, she steps back into the room.
On the screen, the flag descends into the soldiers’ hands.
She mumbles along:
Our fair Dominion now extends
From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;
The song trails off and a thousand rifles fire into the sky, a final salute. The crowd of invited guests erupts in cheers as the flag is handed to Prince William. His expression is tight, his face pale, even for him.
What must be going through his head? Did he even know this place existed before they asked him to come here and give it away?
With the flag gone, a low screeching sound draws the crowd’s attention and the camera searches the sky for the first signs. And there it is, an enormous wing of jets screams across the sky from the south—black stealth bombers, F-35s, dozens upon dozens. The camera tracks them as they pass.
And then, the marching.
“It’s the Marines!” Jason exclaims.
Carol wishes he were older, so he understood. This is exciting for him. He doesn’t know what he’s losing.
They appear in neat lines more than she can count. In dress blues, swords gleaming. At the head, a pair of flag bearers step forward.
An unofficial moment of silence as the new owners take their places. At the dais He stands, his signature hair still in the wind. It’s Him, here in her country. With an angry face, he surveys all that is now His. He nods to the Prince and raises his arm in a salute.
A military band begins to play:
‘Oh say can you see…by the dawn’s early light’
A new flag creeps up the pole. Too slowly, drawing out the moment, the sight piercing her like a knife twisting in her stomach. At last there it is:
‘O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave’
No one is booing. Not anymore.
2. The beginning of the end: “Move fast and Break Things”
April 3rd, 2025—BBC News
“...We now turn to our North America correspondent, Katie McArthur, for the latest on Canada’s response.”
“After several rounds of tariffs and retaliation, tomorrow the Trump administration will increase tariffs on Canada to 50%, dealing what economists warn could be a fatal blow to the Canadian economy. Experts predict an economic contraction surpassing even the depths of the Great Depression.”
“Yet, despite the looming crisis, Canadian nationalism is surging. Polls show a sharp rise in public expressions of national pride.”
“So, Katie, what does this mean for Canada’s response?”
“The new Prime Minister has signalled a major shift—Canada is no longer retaliating. Instead, the focus is on survival. The government is fast-tracking resource and trade projects, stripping away regulations at an unprecedented pace.”
“And what does that mean in practice?”
“Environmental protections are being suspended, Indigenous consultation requirements scrapped, and regulatory hurdles dismantled. The message is clear—nothing will stand in the way of economic recovery.”
September 15th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada
“The polls are clear—Canadians won’t stand for another Native blockade. Not now. Not when unemployment’s at 12% and companies are dropping like flies. Tariffs changed everything. This isn’t business as usual,” Carol said.
The Minister stood almost still, his lips moving rapidly, as they always did when he was weighing pros and cons in his head. The polls should be enough for him to decide, she thought.
Tariffs started at 25%, then 50% as retaliation escalated. The country held firm—more patriotic than she’d ever seen. The national unity government pushed through emergency laws, fast-tracking everything to stop the bleeding.
Unfortunately, one of those fast-tracked projects crossed the wrong First Nation. Their chief called out his people to blockades, invited in professional protesters, and shut down the Trans-Canada Highway leading to Vancouver and its port.
Canadians were united in their anger at their disloyalty. When everyone was going the extra mile to save the country, who did this chief think he was, to try and pull this old trick? Didn’t he understand we have to work together?
It risked getting ugly if the blockade lasted any longer. Canada’s businesses couldn’t take another hit, and shutting down the Port of Vancouver was making the country look like a basket case to the new Asian clients it was so desperately courting.
“We need to put an end to this blockade. Firmly, or we risk more. Canadians demand it.” Carol finished.
“I meet with the Prime Minister in half an hour. She needs to know if Canadians will accept a crackdown. The Emergency Powers Act exists for this exact reason—to keep business moving, to keep us from falling apart. I respect their rights, I do. But this isn’t the time.” He sighed. “There’s no other way. We have to draw the line here.”
Carol handed him the paper with the statement she had drafted.
“Carol, if the Prime Minister agrees, I want you back here tomorrow morning, early. We need to manage the reaction from the, uh, the First Nations.”
“Yes, Minister.”
September 16th, 2025—Highway 1, near Xwelmexw First Nation, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada
The morning rain worked its way through the earthen blockade. Two twenty-something Xwelmexw land defenders huddled under a tarp, propped up by bent trees on the roadside. They watched ten others pacing the muddy highway, keeping an eye on the perimeter.
The chief had come and gone earlier that morning to talk about the Prime Minister’s speech. He thought the RCMP would come today. They were out of sight, beyond the hill, and the rain kept even their drones away. Maybe the weather would buy them time, enough for other First Nations to rise up in support. That was the discussion at hand.
“Check it out,” Sophie said, holding up her glowing phone. “The Mohawks say they’re setting up a sympathy blockade on the train tracks in Ontario.”
“No way,” Jeff said. “Them, the port blockade, and now I’m hearing people might block ships with canoes up in Prince Rup—”
Whump, whump, whump, whump, whump.
Hollow thumps from all directions.
“Incoming! Gas masks on!” a defender on the highway shouted.
Sophie scrambled for her mask, fingers slipping in the rain. Then—a flash. White. The world went silent. Her ears rang, her body refused to move. A breath—burning, acrid. She gagged, the gas curling into her throat like barbed wire.
Hands yanked at her, dragging her through the mud.
Jeff? A cop?
The grip loosened. A sharp crack to her face—pain. Stars. No doubt now.
September 16th, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada
Rain pattered on the plastic band office roof. Inside, Chief Donny Pierre was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in two days—managing the media, supporting the land defenders, fielding calls from other chiefs after the Prime Minister made her threat. He was a young chief, but not that young, and his body was near its breaking point. He wished again that he had lost the last election, he was not a man made for fighting.
The PM had declared his nation’s blockade a national security threat. It was coming down immediately.
Half an hour earlier, the sharp pops of stun grenades could be heard coming from the direction of the highway. Before they themselves had to flee the cops and dogs, his spotters had seen someone escape. Now, that person was pushing through the band office door—wet and caked in dark mud, he was trailed by dozens of band members eager to get news of the police attack.
“Oh my god, what happened to you?” said Linda, the band’s nurse, as she sat Jeff down and began tending to a ragged gash along his cheek. He squished as he dropped into a chair, so wet from the rain, it was like ringing out a sponge.
“It was a branch, I fell down when I was getting away. I’ve got another one stuck in my leg.” He groaned, lifting his leg.
“It’s in the back. It really hurts.”
Linda raised his leg to get a better look.
“This is what you need, Donny—I got video, I got everything.” Jeff said, handing his phone to the chief. “They… oof… they… fff-f-f-ucked everyone u-p-p-p,” Jeff stammered, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.
“That’s good work, man. Let me get you a blanket, you’re shivering,” Donny said.
“Jeff, I need you to hold still so I can look at the branch, okay?” Linda pleaded.
Jeff trembled, his face pale. “M-m-my f-face is tingling. My fingers t-t-too.”
“It’s just adrenaline, buddy,” someone called from the crowd.
Holding Jeff’s wrist, Linda muttered under her breath, “Oh no. Oh no.” Then, louder: “I need some help! Clear the floor, put some blankets down. Jeff, stay with me, come on, you can do this!”
A collective gasp rippled through the room as Jeff was lowered to the ground, revealing the pool of blood beneath his chair.
“Help me turn him over,” Linda said. Two men stepped forward, rolling Jeff onto his stomach.
“That’s not a branch,” one of the men muttered. “That’s a fucking bullet.”
“Turn that off!” a woman shouted from the crowd.
Chief Donny looked up. A teen was filming on her phone, her aunty pawing at her to stop.
“No,” Chief Donny said. “Keep filming. People need to see this. Jeff would want that.”
Somewhere in the Xverse (Formerly known as the Twitterverse)
Video plays. An ashen Native man, close-cropped hair, a grey hoodie bearing the tribal logo beneath a smear of blood. Behind him, a crowd of Natives—angry, some visibly bloodied—fills the frame.
Chief Donny Pierre: “Siyam e Siyaya, Chief Donny Pierre te skwee. My name is Donny Pierre, chief of the Xwelmexw First Nation in British Columbia, Canada. Today, Canada declared war on my Nation, invaded our unceded lands, murdered one of my people, and took a dozen more as hostages.”
@Patriot1776Forever
What the fuck? I knew Canadians were communists, but what the fuck!
Video plays. A woman in a medical uniform is seen giving chest compressions on a young man. His eyes are open. As she moves you can see blood on his face, and a pool spreading on the floor beneath both of them.
@TrumpTrain88
Their Prime Minister is a Nazi, someone needs to step in!
Chief Donny Pierre: “Before he died, that man gave me a video—to show you the violence of these Canadians.”
@AmericaFirst_52
You heard him, they want America’s help! #MAGA
Chief Donny Pierre: “Our elected council met and passed this resolution for the world to see. ‘Be it resolved that the Xwelmexw First Nation calls for the assistance of the United States of America, and in exchange, will enter into Treaty Negotiations with them over our unceded territories in so-called Canada.’”
@UltraMAGA_Donny
Holy shit, this is a map of their territory—that’s as big as West Virginia!
Video plays. Smoke rises from a rainy highway cutting through a mountainous rural area. Green-clad paramilitary police with assault rifles surge through the barricade. A dozen small figures huddle on the ground—blinded by stun grenades and tear gas. Some struggle. Police?—Soldiers? beat them with sticks. One uses the butt of his rifle–right to the face of a young woman.
@BasedBaldEagle
@ElonMusk - Sir, have you seen this? Those communists in Canada are exterminating the Indians! Their chief asked for help!
Video plays. Camera swings toward the treeline, shaking. Dogs are barking, a man is running for his life. A crack. The camera hits the forest floor. The screen goes black.
@ElonMusk
Interesting. Let me take care of this.
September 18th, 2025—Trump National Golf Club, Florida, USA
“Mr. President, Eva Stryker, OAN: What is your response to the plea for help from Chief Pierre of the, uh, Zzz, the Wexel Mex First Nation? Will America stop the Canadians from killing them?”
“I have to tell you, folks, it’s very sad. Just terrible. Canada—people think of them as friendly, but I saw the video, and these were some very bad things, very bad. Horrible. And honestly, it doesn’t surprise me, because their Prime Minister, she’s a nasty woman, okay? A real disaster. Canada has not been good to the United States, folks. Not good at all.They’ve taken advantage of us for years, and now look at what’s happening.
“Now, this Indian Chief, Chief Donny—beautiful name, Chief Donny—he’s a very strong leader, very tough, and let me tell you, he’s got a lot of support. And here’s the thing: unceded land. That means Canada doesn’t own it, folks. It’s his land! And what Canada is doing there, it’s just—honestly, it’s criminal. I’ve asked my Secretary of Defense, my Secretary of State, and our terrific Attorney General to look at it, to see what we can do. And we will do something, believe me. We’re gonna help. We need to see what they want in this treaty, and let me tell you, that’s some beautiful territory up there, really great land. And I’ll tell you this—Canada won’t make them a good deal, but we will. We will make them a much better deal. Much better. That’s for sure.”
“Mr. President, does that mean you’ll send troops to help Chief Donny?”
“Well, look, that’s something we’re looking at, we’re looking at very strongly. It’s on the table. A lot of people are saying we should, a lot of people. And you’ll be hearing something very soon. Very soon.”
September 18th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada
Click. The screen went dark. The Minister stood still, the room thick with the president’s words. Carol didn’t move.
A long moment passed.
Carol exhaled. “Fuck.”
The Minister ran a hand over his face, then staggered to the globe in the corner. He flipped it open, uncapped a bottle, and poured two drinks.
The phone rang. They let it.
They each took a glass and drank, saying nothing.
3. Let’s make a deal
September 23rd, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada
“I had to do something! They attacked us! We had a man die!” Chief Donny shouted.
A small, deceivingly frail elderly man raised his hands in a peacemaking gesture. Grand Chief Sheldon Klein, head of the BC Chiefs Alliance—the body that represented every First Nation in the province—stood calm, his face unreadable.
“Let’s not talk woulda, shoulda, coulda. I had to go through three army checkpoints to get here. We’re in it now,” Klein said. He leveled his gaze at Donny. “Look, was this offer you made—was it serious?”
Donny exhaled sharply. “At that moment? Yes. But now? No.”
A look of frustration flickered across Klein’s face.
Donny began pacing the length of his private office, hands fidgeting as if he could wring the stress from his body. “We were furious, Sheldon. A man bled out just outside that door. A hundred people were crammed in here, shouting. Some had guns. The council wanted blood. I had to do something before things spiraled. I made the call.”
Klein’s face darkened: “Then unmake it, Donny. BBC is out there, Fox News, Al Jazeera, a bunch of reporters from China, this is the biggest story in the world. You’ve got to shut this down. If you don’t, we’re all fucked. Trump isn’t going to stop with you, if he gets his way here” he trailed off. “And if it’s not Trump, it’ll be Canada–they’ve got the army on that highway now.” Klein raised his voice “You have to tell them it wasn’t a serious offer. End this!”
Before Donny could respond, a sudden, sharp knock rattled the door.
Then a voice—loud, furious—muffled by the wood.
“Like fuck he will!”
The door slammed open before anyone could react. Councillor Willow Johns stormed in, broad-shouldered, white-haired, and radiating fury. She towered over the diminutive Grand Chief.
“Jeff’s still dead, and those fuckers did it. We’re done with them.” Her voice was steel. “I talked to our elders and our young people. They agree—we need to teach Canada a lesson. If you want to change the offer to Trump, you bring it to Council.”
Donny turned to her, voice tight. “We could be ground zero in a war. Canada’s part of the Commonwealth of Nations, the King could order troops here, he’s King of Canada too, and—”
Willow rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist in a dismissive dice-throwing gesture.
“The Commonwealth and the King? This isn’t Game of Thrones, Donny, this is the real world. The King isn’t going to do shit. And no one even knows what the Commonwealth is. This is America. Even if England wanted to fight, they can’t fight the U.S. There isn’t going to be a war—just a lesson. We have to choose if we want to be the ones teaching the lesson, or the ones having it taught to us.”
Donny shook his head, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I thought we’d rattle them, scare them into backing down, force them to hold someone accountable. I didn’t think the Americans would actually notice, let alone take it seriously. Now I’ve got goddamn Trump talking about making ‘a deal’ with me. What the hell do I do now?”
Klein stepped forward, his voice flat, measured. “Turn this off. Take the offer back.”
Willow squared her shoulders. “I’ve already called the Elders to join the council tonight.” Her eyes locked onto Donny’s. “We’re going to write the treaty terms to send to Trump.”
September 24th, 2025—Office of the Assistant Secretary for Indian Affairs, U.S. Department of the Interior, Washington, D.C.
“They want 15% exclusive control of their traditional territory,” Deputy Assistant Secretary David Johnson said, flipping through the treaty draft. “Wildlife and environmental consultation rights in the rest. A funding guarantee equal to what they got from Canada. Full control over health care, justice, marriage laws… it’s all social services stuff.”
Assistant Secretary Alberto Gutierrez leaned back in his chair. “That’s it?”
Johnson snorted. “Canada treated them like garbage. Look at this—” he tapped the last page.
“They’re asking us to guarantee them a drinking water system.”
Gutierrez blinked. “They don’t have drinking water?”
“Apparently not.”
Before Gutierrez could react, a sharp knock at the door cut through the room. His secretary barely had time to announce the Secretary of State, Darren Hogswurth, before the man strode in, trailed by two aides.
Both Gutierrez and Johnson rose to their feet.
Hogswurth didn’t sit. “Where are we with this offer?”
“Offers, sir. Plural,” Gutierrez said, handing him a folder.
Hogswurth’s brow furrowed. “How many?”
“Two so far,” Gutierrez said. “This one’s from the Westside First Nation in central British Columbia. They’re offering to cede 7,000 square miles—about the size of New Jersey. In return, they want control over 15% of it and a long list of legislative rights. Nothing substantial.”
Hogswurth snatched the document and flipped through it. He let out a dry chuckle. “So they want us to give them land they already own, and—” he smirked, stopping at the final demand. “Drinking water?”
Gutierrez and Johnson exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Hogswurth snapped the folder shut. “Let’s get it done. Hell, throw in some shiny beads—tradition and all.” He smirked, then turned and walked out without another word.
September 25th, 2025—The White House, Washington, USA
The press conference was already in full swing. Trump stood at the podium, gesturing as he spoke, while the new Syrian President, Abdulaziz watched from the side.
“We’re making some incredible deals right now. People are saying we’ve never had this many before. My good friend, President Abdulaziz, just made us an amazing deal—one of the best. Beautiful port on the Mediterranean, fantastic location. The Russians don’t need it anymore, so now we get it. A 50-year lease, unbelievable terms. A great move for America.
And you know, we’re getting a lot of great deals lately. A lot. One of them—a really smart deal, a very strong deal—came from my good friend, Chief Donny. He sent me a treaty yesterday. A great deal, if I do say so myself. And I know a little about deals. Very generous. Good for the United States, good for his tribe.
And he’s not the only one! Another chief, from the Westside Tribe—also great people—sent me a treaty too. And let me tell you, folks, we are looking at it very carefully.
Now listen, folks, these tribes—really great people, very smart—they’re making deals. Canada did some not nice things to them. But here’s the thing: some of them are claiming the same land. And I’m not buying the same land twice, okay? So if you want a good deal, you better get your treaty in fast. First come, first served.”
September 30th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada
Carol read the top-secret CSIS briefing document in front of her, forehead creased, headache worsening with each line.
Across the table, the Minister read his own copy, punctuating lines with coughs, gasps, and groans.
“This is half of BC! If this happens, we lose the Pacific—no ports, no Asia strategy, no recovery.” the Minister exclaimed.
“First Nations think it’s now or never. If they don’t cut a deal with Trump first, someone else will—and give away their land. They’re afraid they’ll be left with nothing but their tiny reserves,” Carol said.
“And now there’s one in Saskatchewan? At least we locked those bands into treaties before this mess. Trump isn’t entertaining those—”
“Yet,” Carol answered.
She raised her head from the briefing document, and said: “We need to outbid Trump.”
“We can’t.” The Minister ran a hand over his face. “We give the Natives the land, they get a veto. This is no time for that kind of red tape. Our entire economy could collapse.”
Carol tapped at her keyboard, scrolling through an old policy file. “So if we can’t outspend Trump, maybe we can give them something he won’t…”
The Minister gave her a skeptical look.
“Power… Influence” she said distractedly
She scanned the document quickly, then turned her monitor toward him. “Here. The Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. It’s a report from back in the 90s. It proposed a separate house of Parliament for First Nations. It won’t change the rest of the country, just handle the Indian Act, the reserves”
The Minister leaned in, scanning the screen.
“This won’t cost much,” Carol continued. “And it keeps the economy intact.”
He exhaled. “I’ll take this to the Prime Minister. It’s risky, it’ll require a constitutional amendment, but it should be enough for them.”
October 1st, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada
The band council room was stuffy, packed shoulder to shoulder, including for the first time with international media.
Chief Donny called the meeting to order. “Our only order of business today is to consider the Prime Minister’s ‘New Deal’. Here’s what they’re offering if we withdraw from treaty talks with the United States.”
He glanced down at the paper in his hands. “One: They’re transferring two parcels of federal military and parkland to the band. Total, including our current reserves? 0.5% of our territory.”
A laugh rippled through the room. Someone muttered, “Sounds big when you say ‘two parcels.’”
“Two: An absolute veto over any natural resource or infrastructure projects that touch reserve land.”
Muttered cries of “Not enough,” “Bullshit,” and then louder, directed at the council—“What about the rest of our territory? They can do whatever they want with it?”
Willow scoffed. “Yeah. The rest of our land? They say it’s theirs. They can do whatever the hell they want. And yeah, it’s bullshit.”
Donny continued, “The promise of a constitutional amendment to create a separate house of Parliament for First Nations, with jurisdiction over any bills impacting the Indian Act.”
Muted cross talk in the room. They were interested.
Willow spotted a raised hand. “Kevin, go ahead.”
“Yeah, thanks. So they’re promising a constitutional amendment—great. But that means it needs a vote, right? What happens if it doesn’t pass? What do we get then?”
“Sweet fuck all.” Willow didn’t hesitate.
Donny sighed. “Yes, it has to go for a vote, and every province has to approve it.”
A quiet voice spoke from the council table. Councillor Aaron Steve, the youngest on council, cleared his throat.
“Uh, Chief, if I can add something—” He hesitated, adjusting his glasses. “Quebec’s having an election right now, and, uh, they asked about this amendment in the debate last night. The Parti Québécois leader—he straight-up said he wouldn’t support it.”
The room erupted. Some swore. Others shook their heads. A few journalists in the back whispered to each other. Aaron flinched at the noise.
Donny got unnaturally loud, using his longhouse voice. “Quiet down! Let him finish.”
The room settled, but Aaron still looked shaken. “Quebec has a veto over constitutional changes. If they say no, it’s no. The election isn’t over yet, but the PQ is way ahead of the CAQ. They’re going to be government. There isn’t going to be a constitutional amendment. It’s an empty gesture.”
Silence.
A quiet voice broke it. “So what’s left? What’s the offer now?” an elder asked.
Willow leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “A park they say we have to keep a public park, an army base that’s so polluted we would need to spend a billion dollars to make it useable, and a promise not to strip mine the band office.”
“That’s about the shape of it.” Donny sighed. “The letter that came with this says we have to vote immediately. If we take this deal, we cancel our treaty talks with Trump.”
The room was still. Then, a young woman stepped forward.
Her face was a mess of bruises, a patch covering where her eye used to be. The silence deepened.
“Why these things? I don’t remember anyone in this room ever asking for a House of Parliament. Did they actually ask you what we want, Chief?” Sophie’s voice was hoarse, but steady. “Did anyone come and talk to you?”
Donny shook his head. “They didn’t ask. They didn’t meet with us. They sent a letter—the same one every Nation got. Us, Westside, even Nations that never spoke to Trump.”
He exhaled. “I talked to Grand Chief Klein at the Chiefs’ Alliance. He’s talked to everyone. A few got parks, some got decommissioned bases or building lots they didn’t want. There’s nothing here.”
Willow didn’t even look up. “What else is new?”
She pushed back from the table. “Let’s vote it down and move on. This isn’t a New Deal—it’s the same thing they’ve been offering for 150 years. It’s an insult.”
4. Traitours
December 1st, 2025—Vancouver Indigenous Community Centre, Vancouver, BC, Canada
“I don’t get it. Trait? Ours? What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda, asked.
“It’s traitors” Dave answered
“They misspelled it, t-r-a-i-t-o-u-r-s” Brenda said, carefully spelling it out.
“It’s intentional, they add the U to make it more Canadian.”
“Huh, I don’t get it” Brenda said
“You know, like with the word “colours”, c-o-l-o-u-r-s –that’s the Canadian spelling, Americans spell it without the U. So Traitours with a U, makes it more Canadian, get it?”
“I’m not a great speller”
“Well U or not, it’s a hate crime. I think we should think about closing, this is getting dangerous.”
December 15th, 2025—Xwelmexw Nation, Disputed Territory
A line of angular silver Cybertrucks rumbled up the gravel driveway, kicking up ash from the burned-out house. Only the prefab metal toolshed remained untouched, though ‘TRAITOURS’ had been spray-painted across its side in dripping red letters.
As the trucks rolled to a stop, Chief Donny stepped out from the charred remains of the house. Sophie followed, dressed in combat fatigues, a rifle slung across her chest. She walked with purpose, her one good eye scanning the newcomers.
The door of the lead truck opened, and a tall Native American man stepped out—thin, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore the “technically not a uniform” of an American military contractor: cargo pants, a jacket with no insignia, and a sidearm holstered at his hip.
He extended a hand. “Chief, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr…?”
“Doe. John Doe.” His handshake was firm, practiced. “A mutual friend sent me. He heard what’s happening here.”
John gestured to the burned-out home. “He asked me to bring you some things. To help you defend yourselves until the cavalry comes.”
He motioned Donny toward the back of the first truck. Inside were long crates. John cracked one open and pulled out a black rifle with a wooden stock.
Sophie’s eyes widened. “No way. Is that an AK?”
She stepped forward, reaching for it before waiting for an answer.
“Yes, ma’am.” John handed it to her. “This is an AK-19. The newest, toughest version of the AK, upgraded to shoot NATO-standard 5-5-6 ammo. And you’ll find plenty of it in those trucks behind us.”
Sophie ran her fingers along the rifle, then took the banana clip from John and slid it into place with a click.
“Can I?” she asked, glancing between Donny and John.
Both nodded.
Sophie turned to the graffiti-covered shed. She flicked the safety, set it to full auto, and squeezed the trigger.
The AK roared. The metal shed shuddered under the impact, splintering, sparks flying. A final shot sent it tilting forward before it crumpled into a heap.
“Thank you.” Donny exhaled. “These will save lives.”
His voice hardened. “Canada’s letting these rednecks attack us every night—driving through our blockades, shooting at houses, throwing Molotovs. They smashed every window in the band office. Someone’s going to get killed. The Mounties, the Canadian Forces won’t stop them.”
John nodded. “I know. We’ve been watching. Our friend is alarmed at how they’re treating you.”
“We need protection.” Donny’s voice cracked slightly. “We’re trapped. The roads? Blocked. The hospitals? We can’t get to them. No mail. No money. Our bank accounts are frozen. The moment we step off-reserve, they shoot at us. Last week, they beat an old man just trying to get to dialysis. And the RCMP? They stand there and watch.”
John’s expression didn’t change. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve also brought some people to get your Land Defenders trained up and ready. You’re not alone anymore. Our friend is putting pressure to get this finished.”
Donny hesitated, then forced himself to play along with the coded language. “Your… friends said once Congress passes the treaty, the Marines will be here. How soon after that?”
John smirked. “Not right away.”
He leaned against the truck. “Once the treaty passes, we give Canada 48 hours—withdraw, or face 500% tariffs and removal from the world banking system. If they fold, we’re in.”
Donny’s stomach tightened. “And if they say no? How long then?”
John tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to say.
“Depends.”
Sophie adjusted her grip on the AK, eyes dark. Her mind on the current problem. “Give me ten guys, a few rifles, and a TikTok live stream. We fire a few shots in the air, and I bet those blockades disappear overnight.”
John gave a slow nod. “That’s not a bad idea.”
January 11th, 2026—Ottawa, Canada
As the Prime Minister strode into the Cabinet room in her signature red dress, the ministers rose in unison. The moment she sat, the room fell silent.
She sorted her papers and began.
“Congress passed the treaty. It’s signed. Xwelmexw, Westside, the Chilcotin, Chilliwack, Cowichan, more—ten so far. And they’ve been strategic. Their lands cut through our roads, rail lines, and pipelines. If this stands, we can’t reach Vancouver or Prince Rupert without going through the United States first.”
Murmurs. Concern.
“Madame Prime Minister,” the Minister of International Trade pressed, her Quebecois accent thick with tension. “Our recovery depends on Asia. Without Asia, we can’t even replace a fraction of what we lost from U.S. tariffs—let alone survive the 500% they’re threatening now.”
The Finance Minister cut in. His polished accent carried authority.
“Moody’s is downgrading us to C-A-level tomorrow. Same level as Ukraine. They think we won’t survive long enough to pay our debts. If that happens, we lose access to international credit markets. Borrowing costs will skyrocket.”
The room erupted in gasps and cross-talk.
The Prime Minister raised her hand. Silence.
“We have to answer this bill. We can’t lose the Pacific. We can’t just—”
A voice interrupted from the far end of the table.
“We should have wiped them out when we had the chance.”
The Minister of Fisheries.
A beat. A few exchanged glances. Then, from the other side of the table—accented in French.
“It’s absurd we’ve given them so much. Every country has these savages. We’re the only ones who let them pretend they have power.”
The taboo was broken.
The room erupted. Complaints came from every quarter.
“The greatest mistake this country made was letting Trudeau’s White Paper die. It would have wiped out the reserves. Assimilated them.”
“What did they ever contribute? They were always in the way, always taking from us.”
“They never paid taxes, and now we’re going to let them destroy the country?”
“They should be thankful. Do they really think the Americans will treat them better?”
“Goddamn traitours”
It went on for some time.
Fortunately, there were no Natives in the Cabinet room to be offended.
After a long discussion on the failures of Indigenous people, the Prime Minister brought them back on task.
She exhaled. “It’s clear we all agree—if the Residential Schools did their job, if the White Paper had passed, if someone, at some point, had put these people in their place—we wouldn’t be here now. But we are here.”
She looked across the table.
“We have three choices. One: accept Trump’s treaties and let the Natives separate. Two: refuse, and take 500% tariffs and global economic exile. Three: war with America.”
Silence.
The Finance Minister cleared his throat. “Madame Prime Minister.”
She nodded.
“With Moody’s downgrade, the tariffs, and the U.S. controlling access to Asia—no matter what we choose, financially, at best, this country won’t last six months before default. Even that would require extracting every ounce of available gold.”
A voice from the back: “Won’t we need to go through the Natives to get to the gold?”
They were ignored.
The Prime Minister continued. “We vote.”
Faced with war, immediate collapse, or six months of borrowed time, Cabinet chose the only option left.
They notified the United States of their decision to recognize the new treaties between the Natives and America.
On June 1st, 2026, the Xwelmexw, and the rest - with their unceded lands - would be ceded to the United States.
That night, after addressing the country one last time, the Prime Minister resigned.
February 20th, 2026—Ottawa, Canada
Carol switched the phone to speaker mode, to free her hands to take notes.
“Chief Pierre, I’m pleased to be able to speak with you,” Carol said, forcing warmth into her voice.
“Carol, right? I was expecting the Minister,” Chief Donny replied.
“I handle all high-level negotiations on his behalf, Chief Pierre. Speaking with me is as good as speaking with the Minister directly.”
A long silence.
“Chief Pierre? Are you still there?” Carol pressed.
“Yes.”
“Well, Chief Pierre—or I suppose Chief Donny, as they call you on the news—I understand you’re calling about your Nation’s trust money.”
“Yes. You won’t release it to us.”
Carol sighed. “I understand your frustration, but our policies don’t allow for full trust fund transfers to First Nation governments. The concern is that without the proper resources in place—”
“You stole our land. Sold it off. Took the money and stuffed it in your own accounts. Now, when we ask for what’s ours, we’re the ones you don’t trust?” Donny cut in.
“It’s not about trust, Chief. It’s about capacity. If these funds aren’t managed properly, it could cause—”
“Money you stole from us.”
Carol felt her patience slipping. “It wasn’t stolen. It was sold, under federal legislation, and—”
“You stole our money. And now you won’t give it back. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Carol clenched her jaw. She was done being diplomatic. Not with this traitour. Her frustration took over.
“Donny, real talk—your name is mud in this city. You’re not getting that money unless your friend in Washington forces our hand. You must know that. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be looking at secession right now.”
“My fault?! You shot and killed one of my people!”
“One of your people who was manning an illegal blockade. That project would have saved us. Gotten new exports to Asia. I don’t know how you expect us to send you money every month if you don’t let us do the hard work of running an economy. We were fighting to stay afloat. Everyone has to sacrifice.” Carol exhaled sharply. “What did you expect? What do you want?!”
Donny’s voice turned ice-cold. “You really don’t know?”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I’m an elected leader. I answer to voters. And we are in the same financial crisis. But we’re going through it alone. This country includes my reserve, too. My people—my voters—depend on our fishery. That money sees them through the winter. The emergency project you forced through? It would have destroyed the river right during the fishing season. I told your government. I asked you to build elsewhere, to wait 2 months. You ignored me.”
Carol scoffed. “You broke up the country… over fish?”
“No” Donny answered coldly, “You broke it up over a phone call about fish.”
“How can you expect us to work with you? To you it’s “just fish”. To us, it’s just survival.”
Carol rolled her eyes and made the yapping gesture with her hand. Thank God video calls never took off. She’d heard too much of this from Natives over the years. It was always fish or beavers, some magic mountain or mystical tree.
Her voice sharpened. “Do you actually think you’re going to be treated better by the Americans? They’re going to bulldoze over you—”
Donny cut in. “We’ve already been bulldozed—by you. Ignored—by you. Lied to. And now you’re telling me the Americans will be what? Just as bad? That’s not the threat you think it is.”
Carol’s face burned. “Chief Donny, we’ve given you everything you need, we’ve taken care of you. We bent over backwards. And now you just sit there and—”
Donny interrupted: “You know, I have internet. I can see the Minister’s TikTok account. There he is dancing at a temple. Here he is at Lunar New Year. A food bank in his riding. Wow, he gets around—he has time to talk to everyone.”
A pause.
“But he never talked to me.”
“I’m an elected official. Representing a sovereign people. I wanted to work with Canada. But I don’t matter.”
Carol’s hands curled into fists. She didn’t wait for him to finish.
“Never, in the history of the world, has an Indigenous people been so coddled. So ungrateful. Always more demands, always taking. Not once a thank-you. Not even when we give you millions. This is a national emergency, everyone else was doing their part for the common good. Not once have you people—”
Click.
The line went dead.
Carol sat frozen.
The words still hung in the air.
She had let it slip—no, she had let it all out.
And it was too late.
March 1st, 2026—BBC News
“We turn now to the ongoing Canadian Crisis, where a major political shift has just taken place in British Columbia.”
In a dramatic turn, two New Democratic Party members crossed the floor yesterday, handing the British Columbia Conservatives a confidence vote victory. They have now been invited to form government.
The Conservatives have pledged to hold a referendum on joining the United States. Here is the newly sworn-in British Columbia Premier, James Raymond:
“Canada has abandoned us. As of June 1st, British Columbia will be surrounded by the United States on four sides. This is not sustainable. The government in Ottawa has made its decision—and now, we must make ours.”
The referendum bill will be introduced this evening, with the vote scheduled for 60 days from now. Under Canada’s Clarity Act, a province may secede if voters are presented with a clear referendum question.
British Columbia has already lost 40% of its land, following the secession of thirty Indigenous governments who signed treaties with the United States. Their departure excluded only territory within non-Indigenous town limits.
This secession has effectively cut British Columbia off from Canada. Roads, rail lines, and pipelines now crisscross the new U.S. border multiple times, creating a logistical nightmare for trade and travel.
Joining us now is our North America correspondent, Katie McArthur. Katie, how is this referendum shaping up?
“Polls show a major shift toward union with the United States. The defiant nationalism seen in early polls last year has faded.
After nearly a year of recession—what some economists are now calling a depression—most Canadians have lost the will to fight. Support for secession has reached 65% in the Province, and of those, 90% favour union with the United States…”