Family Ties [Part 20]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): England, America, Wales, Canada, Mexico, Ireland sibs.
Rating: 18
Warnings: Guns, Gallows humor, England singing again, and some hand stabbing which is not for the easily squickable.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
England had decided a long time ago that God probably hated him. Probably some time around when St Paul’s had gone up in flames during the Blitz, there had been a little revelation that he had been doing everything wrong, and God was not simply going to let him walk away from it.
Which was the reason why he was in a helicopter, flying over endlessly stretching sand.
Well, one of the reasons.
“Why couldn’t we go by sea again?” he grumbled over the rhythmic sounds of helicopter blades slicing poor abused air. Mexico smirked at him.
“Because Turkey fortified his sea boarders once Russia took the info. Why, can’t stand the heat, Inglaterra?” she asked, priming her sub-machine gun as the target came into sight. At first glance, it was a small town, but there would be no civilians there, no market. It was crawling with soldiers instead. NWO soldiers.
America was grinning. “Lock and load folks!” He over-enthusiastically loaded his gun with a loud ker-CHAK.
“You’re going to quote movie lines all the way through this aren’t you?” Canada sighed. It wasn’t really a question.
“I’m in the mood for kickin’ ass and chewing bubble gum, and I’m all out of bubble gum.”
“Doesn’t he always?” Mexico rolled her eyes.
“I’m in the NWO killin’ business, and cousin business is a BOOMIN’!” shouted Alfred.
“Oh god, not that movie, please, have mercy.” England droned, sarcasm dripping from every word. It wasn’t like they could stop the younger Nation. Besides which, everyone had battle habits. If this was how he pumped himself up for a fight and coped with it all, then who were they to judge?
“Mercy is for the weak!”
Closing in… now! “Go go go go! Move it ladies!” barked England into his radio, knowing that the troops at the various other locations they’d found would begin the attack as well. The chopper hovered low, kicking up sand to use as cover. Visors slammed down to keep it out of their eyes, they stormed the streets.
Gunfire was immediate. England and Mexico ducked back down a side street, heard someone go down. A sniper on the roof fell to Arthur’s bullets, but earned him retaliation and revealed his position. Dodging out of the way and kicking his way into a house, he downed three of the soldiers in there, Mexico following behind him, dashing up the stairs three at a time. From the slick sounds and yelps, she’d found more.
The battle raged. Every man felled was felt by the Nations, but it only made them more determined. Dying for one’s country was what you did when you were a soldier. Mourning would come later.
By sunset, Wales found England sniping fleeing enemies as they tried to run to the desert like cowards.
“Arthur, we’re done.”
Thu-chack. That one had made an impressive flailing motion before collapsing into the sand. Really now, England had only got him in the leg.
“Arthur.” Wales kicked him lightly in the uninjured side. America clambered up onto the roof in the background.
“Haha, all your base are belong to me!” he laughed, before both Mexico and Canada smacked him.
“One, you mean ‘us’.” Mexico corrected.
“And two, that’s not a movie, so we get to hit you for it.” Canada finished, taking off his glasses to clean the blood off them. “Ick.”
María smiled sweetly. “Alfred, I could clean your glasses for you.”
“Not a chance in hell.” America said quickly, before frowning. “Okay, England, that song you’re singing is fuckin’ creepy. Stop.”
Arthur blinked at him, unaware he’d been still singing. His mouth clacked shut, but the Beatles still played “Here Comes the Sun” on a loop in his head. He shuffled to his feet.
“Okay, World Defense Force, transform and roll out!”
Mexico hit him again.
“Ow, what the hell, that’s from a movie!”
“I know, I just felt like it. Also, our team name sucks.”
“I liked World Defense Union.” England commented, shouldering his sniper rifle. America made a face.
“Yeah, no. The southern half of me kind of balks at the idea of being called ‘Union Soldiers’. It would be like me calling you ‘Mr Commonwealth’.”
Wales and England paused to give America a long look.
“You are so lucky Ireland isn’t here.” Wales said, mildly stunned. “Moreover, since when have you paid attention to our history?”
“Just making a point. S’bad memories.”
England huffed, punching America lightly on the shoulder. Unfortunately for him, this made him stumble sideways, trip over a body, and land hard on his back.
“Haha! Only you could get out of a fight unscathed, only to be beaten up by your allies!” Mexico laughed.
It was almost like a bad parody of a sitcom ending, with all of them walking off into the sunset and laughing, covered in blood and a few of them limping. Wales took a moment to wonder how Ireland was doing back at base.
Hopefully, Northern Ireland would be back with them too.
“Wales, your phone is ringing.” Canada prodded him lightly. Darren blinked, then groaned. At least it was daytime this time. He flicked it open.
“Hello-”
“Let me join in! I want to join in!” yelled an excited voice. Someone was fussing in a language that was vaguely familiar-
“Peter, get off the phone and don’t bother your Uncle Wales!”
“But I was a military base once, I can fight too!”
“You’ve had state recognition for all of two months, you can’t fight yet!”
“But Mamaaaaaa!”
“My god, is that Sealand?” England groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell him no. Whatever it is.”
“Ah, Tino’s beaten you to it.” Wales commented, just as there was a clattering sound from the phone.
“Moi moi, sorry about that! Ignore this call, we’re still neutral- ah, Peter! Svi, catch him!” Dialtone again.
“What was that about?” grumbled America. Wales shrugged.
“Nothing important. Never mind.”
-----
Finland sighed, sitting on the sofa next to Sweden.
"'s he in b'd?" mumbled Bertwald, slipping an arm around his 'wife's' shoulders. Tino leaned into him.
"Yes, but he's not asleep. I think he's sulking." The TV hummed pleasant nonsense in the background, the fire crackled in the herth. It seemed like this would be a pleasant evening, regardless of Sealand's momentary madness. Honestly, that boy could be so troublesome sometimes.
Sweden was just about to reach for the remote, when Finland went rigid in his arms. "T'no?"
The Finn had paled considerably, and his eyes were wide. "There are Russians on my land."
-----
There was probably a horror movie with a similar storyline somewhere out there. One of America’s trashy B-movies, or something to that effect.
Real life didn’t usually put people through this.
“Aine, please, at least a TV or something to do!” Northern Ireland whined, voice muffled by the concrete and steel between them. “If you won’t tell me why I’m in here, then at least prevent me from dying of boredom!” It was a weak joke, but Ireland didn’t smile. Giving up for now, Éibhear heaved a sigh, leaning against the closed door and sliding down to sit on the floor. The cell was concrete, dimly lit and seemed to alternate between stiflingly hot during the day and freezing cold at night.
“I can’t let you have access to any information, North.” Ireland replied stiffly. He’d been pestering her all day. She was beginning to regret not going with America to shoot some NWOs.
“Yeah, you said before.” Northern Ireland grumbled. “I wish I knew what was going on. But, well, I guess I have to trust you for now, sister.”
‘Don’t crack’, Ireland told herself, biting her lip, ‘don’t crack now, it could be a trick.’ She couldn’t see North’s face, and so she couldn’t see his eyes, which meant she didn’t know if Russia was listening or not.
“A cross word? Some pen and paper? I could murder a Sudoku book right about now.” He weedled, and if he had been able to, Aine was sure he would be poking her on the shoulder and the cheek and then dancing out of reach when she tried to hit him.
A pause and a long sigh later, she got up and fetched a puzzle book and a mechanical pencil. Feeding it through the hatch at the bottom usually used for food, she heard her brother snicker.
“Dot to dot colouring?”
“Well you are the baby of the family.” She snipped back, lips quirking up slightly. The returning pout was audible.
“Why does everyone have to rub that in my face, hm?” he moaned melodramatically. “Just ‘coz I’m 220 and you guys are like a million years old.”
“And looking good for it, you brat.” She smiled, sitting down on the other side of the door.
A hand darted out of the slot, grabbing Ireland’s. It was ice cold, and she yelped slightly at the touch.
“Get-”
“Geez, relax, so I have cold hands.” North sounded a little put out to have spoiled the mood. “It’s freezing in Canada’s house.”
“No it’s not.” Ireland mumbled, stroking her thumb gently against those blue fingertips. The temperature inside Canada’s home was pleasantly warm; she’d had to change out of her jumper (which America insisted was called a sweater and sparked off yet another “butchering the English language” argument) earlier. “You’re still sick, that’s all North. Just feeling the cold more.”
The hand tightened. It hurt a little. “North?”
There was a soft groan in response. “My head hurts…” came the mutter, and Ireland came to a sudden realization. She tried to move her hand away, but Éibhear’s grip was vicelike. “Cold…” it was a bare whisper, but it repeated itself like a broken record even as Ireland struggled. “Cold cold cold coldcoldcoldcolcolkolkolkol.” His voice rose higher pitched, the chant becoming a childish giggle.
“Goddamn!” Aine cursed as Northern Ireland’s, no, Russia’s grip tightened more, moving to grasp her wrist. “Get out, stop it already!” she yelled at him.
Something clicked. Clicked again, click click click.
Click click click crunch.
Ireland screamed as the mechanical pencil she’d given her brother found itself lodged in her hand. The cellar windows rattled and the glass of water she’d placed by the door for herself shattered at the pitch of her screaches. High and angry and pained, she didn’t let up screaming until the death grip on her hand loosened and eventually slipped away completely.
“Aine?!” Northern Ireland yelled over the noise, barely audible. Her screams quieted down a little more, then stopped as she gasped for breath. “Oh god, what the hell just happened- your hand!”
Blood was running everywhere. The pencil hadn’t penetrated all the way through, but the whole nib was buried in her flesh.
“The hell was that screaming?!” America called, running down the stairs and jumping the last few steps in his hurry. “Woah, what the hell?!”
“Ireland what’s- shit!” England followed, eyes widening at the blood as America rushed forward and the others followed the commotion downstairs. Ireland got to her feet, holding her bleeding hand by the wrist, Wales steadied her. “Ah bollocks, Canada, go grab the bandages!” England barked. Matthew scrambled back upstairs.
“Russia, you conniving bastard!” America growled at the door.
“Russia?” replied Northern Ireland, confused and scared. “I don’t understa- oh, you do know big words America.” The switch midway was accompanied by a chill that seeped from through the slat at the bottom of the door. “And now look, little Éibhear knows what you’ve been keeping from him!”
“Mierda.” Mexico cursed. Wales helped Ireland away from the door and upstairs. She resolutely refused to cry.
Russia seemed to deem his damage done, and the WDF were chased by cries of “Aine? Aine!” all the way up and out of the basement.
Notes:
- And now we're caught up with everything that I posted on the kink meme! 8D I decided to compile all of the parts together like this for easier reading, as well as to save myself time.
- Special prizes for the people who identify all of the lines Alfred is spouting!
- Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles. A sweet little song that turns extremely creepy when used the right (wrong?) way.
- Finland will be picked up on later. MWHAHAHAHAHAH.
Part 21
Characters (in this chapter): England, America, Wales, Canada, Mexico, Ireland sibs.
Rating: 18
Warnings: Guns, Gallows humor, England singing again, and some hand stabbing which is not for the easily squickable.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
England had decided a long time ago that God probably hated him. Probably some time around when St Paul’s had gone up in flames during the Blitz, there had been a little revelation that he had been doing everything wrong, and God was not simply going to let him walk away from it.
Which was the reason why he was in a helicopter, flying over endlessly stretching sand.
Well, one of the reasons.
“Why couldn’t we go by sea again?” he grumbled over the rhythmic sounds of helicopter blades slicing poor abused air. Mexico smirked at him.
“Because Turkey fortified his sea boarders once Russia took the info. Why, can’t stand the heat, Inglaterra?” she asked, priming her sub-machine gun as the target came into sight. At first glance, it was a small town, but there would be no civilians there, no market. It was crawling with soldiers instead. NWO soldiers.
America was grinning. “Lock and load folks!” He over-enthusiastically loaded his gun with a loud ker-CHAK.
“You’re going to quote movie lines all the way through this aren’t you?” Canada sighed. It wasn’t really a question.
“I’m in the mood for kickin’ ass and chewing bubble gum, and I’m all out of bubble gum.”
“Doesn’t he always?” Mexico rolled her eyes.
“I’m in the NWO killin’ business, and cousin business is a BOOMIN’!” shouted Alfred.
“Oh god, not that movie, please, have mercy.” England droned, sarcasm dripping from every word. It wasn’t like they could stop the younger Nation. Besides which, everyone had battle habits. If this was how he pumped himself up for a fight and coped with it all, then who were they to judge?
“Mercy is for the weak!”
Closing in… now! “Go go go go! Move it ladies!” barked England into his radio, knowing that the troops at the various other locations they’d found would begin the attack as well. The chopper hovered low, kicking up sand to use as cover. Visors slammed down to keep it out of their eyes, they stormed the streets.
Gunfire was immediate. England and Mexico ducked back down a side street, heard someone go down. A sniper on the roof fell to Arthur’s bullets, but earned him retaliation and revealed his position. Dodging out of the way and kicking his way into a house, he downed three of the soldiers in there, Mexico following behind him, dashing up the stairs three at a time. From the slick sounds and yelps, she’d found more.
The battle raged. Every man felled was felt by the Nations, but it only made them more determined. Dying for one’s country was what you did when you were a soldier. Mourning would come later.
By sunset, Wales found England sniping fleeing enemies as they tried to run to the desert like cowards.
“Arthur, we’re done.”
Thu-chack. That one had made an impressive flailing motion before collapsing into the sand. Really now, England had only got him in the leg.
“Arthur.” Wales kicked him lightly in the uninjured side. America clambered up onto the roof in the background.
“Haha, all your base are belong to me!” he laughed, before both Mexico and Canada smacked him.
“One, you mean ‘us’.” Mexico corrected.
“And two, that’s not a movie, so we get to hit you for it.” Canada finished, taking off his glasses to clean the blood off them. “Ick.”
María smiled sweetly. “Alfred, I could clean your glasses for you.”
“Not a chance in hell.” America said quickly, before frowning. “Okay, England, that song you’re singing is fuckin’ creepy. Stop.”
Arthur blinked at him, unaware he’d been still singing. His mouth clacked shut, but the Beatles still played “Here Comes the Sun” on a loop in his head. He shuffled to his feet.
“Okay, World Defense Force, transform and roll out!”
Mexico hit him again.
“Ow, what the hell, that’s from a movie!”
“I know, I just felt like it. Also, our team name sucks.”
“I liked World Defense Union.” England commented, shouldering his sniper rifle. America made a face.
“Yeah, no. The southern half of me kind of balks at the idea of being called ‘Union Soldiers’. It would be like me calling you ‘Mr Commonwealth’.”
Wales and England paused to give America a long look.
“You are so lucky Ireland isn’t here.” Wales said, mildly stunned. “Moreover, since when have you paid attention to our history?”
“Just making a point. S’bad memories.”
England huffed, punching America lightly on the shoulder. Unfortunately for him, this made him stumble sideways, trip over a body, and land hard on his back.
“Haha! Only you could get out of a fight unscathed, only to be beaten up by your allies!” Mexico laughed.
It was almost like a bad parody of a sitcom ending, with all of them walking off into the sunset and laughing, covered in blood and a few of them limping. Wales took a moment to wonder how Ireland was doing back at base.
Hopefully, Northern Ireland would be back with them too.
“Wales, your phone is ringing.” Canada prodded him lightly. Darren blinked, then groaned. At least it was daytime this time. He flicked it open.
“Hello-”
“Let me join in! I want to join in!” yelled an excited voice. Someone was fussing in a language that was vaguely familiar-
“Peter, get off the phone and don’t bother your Uncle Wales!”
“But I was a military base once, I can fight too!”
“You’ve had state recognition for all of two months, you can’t fight yet!”
“But Mamaaaaaa!”
“My god, is that Sealand?” England groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell him no. Whatever it is.”
“Ah, Tino’s beaten you to it.” Wales commented, just as there was a clattering sound from the phone.
“Moi moi, sorry about that! Ignore this call, we’re still neutral- ah, Peter! Svi, catch him!” Dialtone again.
“What was that about?” grumbled America. Wales shrugged.
“Nothing important. Never mind.”
-----
Finland sighed, sitting on the sofa next to Sweden.
"'s he in b'd?" mumbled Bertwald, slipping an arm around his 'wife's' shoulders. Tino leaned into him.
"Yes, but he's not asleep. I think he's sulking." The TV hummed pleasant nonsense in the background, the fire crackled in the herth. It seemed like this would be a pleasant evening, regardless of Sealand's momentary madness. Honestly, that boy could be so troublesome sometimes.
Sweden was just about to reach for the remote, when Finland went rigid in his arms. "T'no?"
The Finn had paled considerably, and his eyes were wide. "There are Russians on my land."
-----
There was probably a horror movie with a similar storyline somewhere out there. One of America’s trashy B-movies, or something to that effect.
Real life didn’t usually put people through this.
“Aine, please, at least a TV or something to do!” Northern Ireland whined, voice muffled by the concrete and steel between them. “If you won’t tell me why I’m in here, then at least prevent me from dying of boredom!” It was a weak joke, but Ireland didn’t smile. Giving up for now, Éibhear heaved a sigh, leaning against the closed door and sliding down to sit on the floor. The cell was concrete, dimly lit and seemed to alternate between stiflingly hot during the day and freezing cold at night.
“I can’t let you have access to any information, North.” Ireland replied stiffly. He’d been pestering her all day. She was beginning to regret not going with America to shoot some NWOs.
“Yeah, you said before.” Northern Ireland grumbled. “I wish I knew what was going on. But, well, I guess I have to trust you for now, sister.”
‘Don’t crack’, Ireland told herself, biting her lip, ‘don’t crack now, it could be a trick.’ She couldn’t see North’s face, and so she couldn’t see his eyes, which meant she didn’t know if Russia was listening or not.
“A cross word? Some pen and paper? I could murder a Sudoku book right about now.” He weedled, and if he had been able to, Aine was sure he would be poking her on the shoulder and the cheek and then dancing out of reach when she tried to hit him.
A pause and a long sigh later, she got up and fetched a puzzle book and a mechanical pencil. Feeding it through the hatch at the bottom usually used for food, she heard her brother snicker.
“Dot to dot colouring?”
“Well you are the baby of the family.” She snipped back, lips quirking up slightly. The returning pout was audible.
“Why does everyone have to rub that in my face, hm?” he moaned melodramatically. “Just ‘coz I’m 220 and you guys are like a million years old.”
“And looking good for it, you brat.” She smiled, sitting down on the other side of the door.
A hand darted out of the slot, grabbing Ireland’s. It was ice cold, and she yelped slightly at the touch.
“Get-”
“Geez, relax, so I have cold hands.” North sounded a little put out to have spoiled the mood. “It’s freezing in Canada’s house.”
“No it’s not.” Ireland mumbled, stroking her thumb gently against those blue fingertips. The temperature inside Canada’s home was pleasantly warm; she’d had to change out of her jumper (which America insisted was called a sweater and sparked off yet another “butchering the English language” argument) earlier. “You’re still sick, that’s all North. Just feeling the cold more.”
The hand tightened. It hurt a little. “North?”
There was a soft groan in response. “My head hurts…” came the mutter, and Ireland came to a sudden realization. She tried to move her hand away, but Éibhear’s grip was vicelike. “Cold…” it was a bare whisper, but it repeated itself like a broken record even as Ireland struggled. “Cold cold cold coldcoldcoldcolcolkolkolkol.” His voice rose higher pitched, the chant becoming a childish giggle.
“Goddamn!” Aine cursed as Northern Ireland’s, no, Russia’s grip tightened more, moving to grasp her wrist. “Get out, stop it already!” she yelled at him.
Something clicked. Clicked again, click click click.
Click click click crunch.
Ireland screamed as the mechanical pencil she’d given her brother found itself lodged in her hand. The cellar windows rattled and the glass of water she’d placed by the door for herself shattered at the pitch of her screaches. High and angry and pained, she didn’t let up screaming until the death grip on her hand loosened and eventually slipped away completely.
“Aine?!” Northern Ireland yelled over the noise, barely audible. Her screams quieted down a little more, then stopped as she gasped for breath. “Oh god, what the hell just happened- your hand!”
Blood was running everywhere. The pencil hadn’t penetrated all the way through, but the whole nib was buried in her flesh.
“The hell was that screaming?!” America called, running down the stairs and jumping the last few steps in his hurry. “Woah, what the hell?!”
“Ireland what’s- shit!” England followed, eyes widening at the blood as America rushed forward and the others followed the commotion downstairs. Ireland got to her feet, holding her bleeding hand by the wrist, Wales steadied her. “Ah bollocks, Canada, go grab the bandages!” England barked. Matthew scrambled back upstairs.
“Russia, you conniving bastard!” America growled at the door.
“Russia?” replied Northern Ireland, confused and scared. “I don’t understa- oh, you do know big words America.” The switch midway was accompanied by a chill that seeped from through the slat at the bottom of the door. “And now look, little Éibhear knows what you’ve been keeping from him!”
“Mierda.” Mexico cursed. Wales helped Ireland away from the door and upstairs. She resolutely refused to cry.
Russia seemed to deem his damage done, and the WDF were chased by cries of “Aine? Aine!” all the way up and out of the basement.
Notes:
- And now we're caught up with everything that I posted on the kink meme! 8D I decided to compile all of the parts together like this for easier reading, as well as to save myself time.
- Special prizes for the people who identify all of the lines Alfred is spouting!
- Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles. A sweet little song that turns extremely creepy when used the right (wrong?) way.
- Finland will be picked up on later. MWHAHAHAHAHAH.
Part 21