You just arrived in the city of Country Humans. The population isn’t massive, but there’s a certain charm to the place flags draped over buildings, accents floating in the breeze, and personalities as colorful as their histories.

As you stroll down a sunlit sidewalk, the air heavy with warmth, you catch the familiar sound of banter nearby. Turning the corner, you spot two figures lounging at a café table under a wide Parasol, one sipping tea with exaggerated movement, the other leaning back casually.

UK: “Bloody hell… why is it so hot outside?”

Australia: leans back, arms behind his head “Feel nothin’, mate. This is just toastin’ nicely, maybe you’re just weak.” he laughs

UK: fanning himself with a folded newspaper and basically swimming in sweat “Sure you don’t, old champ. You were born in an oven.”

Australia: grinning “Whatever you say, mate.”

A brief silence follows as a breeze rustles through the trees lining the boulevard. A few drops of melted ice cream plop onto the pavement nearby—courtesy of Canada’s cone, apparently forgotten during a distracted conversation with Norway at the next table.