hellzabeth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellzabeth) wrote2010-02-25 07:14 pm
hellzabeth) wrote2010-02-25 07:14 pm
Entry tags:
Family Ties [Part 16]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): England, Wales, Ireland, an army of Frenchmen, Russians and Scots, eventually America, Canada and Mexico.
Rating: 15
Warnings: There are guns. Lots of guns. And England singing. And the rampant and gleeful slaughter of 200 men.
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.
They camped in Ireland’s house.
There was still heat and light, at least, but the television yielded only a rush of static fuzz and the internet service providers were shut down. However Scotland’s team had blocked out the satellite signals, they couldn’t fathom just yet, but that had been the last to go down, and Arthur had hazarded a guess at either Estonia being pressured into action, or perhaps the work of magic. The Fae rarely chose sides, after all, and if Scotland named Names there would be no choice in the matter.
Nobody wanted to go to bed, but they didn’t want to do much by way of talking either. Ireland absently cleaned her guns, eyebrows starting to look a little unruly where they pinched together in thought. England had made tea, and was staring off into space, mind going back to god only knew when. Wales, on his part, had picked up a book to read, but eventually felt himself dozing in his chair. Giving up, he put the book down on the table and leaned back, shutting his eyes for a quick nap as the sun set.
— he pities his brother, truly. Cymru rarely knew such favor, and he was glad of it.
Whenever Albion— Britannia, he must remember, because their Names must not be known to Rome, even if these new ones are so wrong and he hates them— returns to their allocated rooms or tents, he always has this hollowed look, like Rome has robbed him internally of everything he is. It takes a while for it to come back, before the fae will touch him again, for they avoid him at these times like he is cast in iron.
It might be a good thing they don’t touch him, because he flinches at every move. Cymru pretends to be asleep while Albion cleans himself up, like he can wash away the dirty hand-prints the Empire leaves everywhere. When he’s done with that, he’ll sit on his bedroll for a long time, maybe an hour or two, crying as quietly as he can, like that will purify him too. And after all that’s done, he’ll crawl into bed with Cymru and whisper.
“You could run,” he always says, voice so soft and near his ear that it could be mistaken for a pixie’s. “your people are still free in the highlands, the mountains. He doesn’t hold anything sure over you. You are not his yet.”
And Cymru always replies “How better than to know when my enemy moves than to sleep in his camp?”
Some times this makes his brother cry. This time, it didn’t.
“When he comes for you, I will try to stop him from-- touching you.” He trips over the word, chokes on it like it will cause the man to appear and enact it. “Though he says it is for my good, he is only half right. He built the wall to keep Alba out, but in doing so he traps me here, where he can always get to me.” The tone was deadened, and Cymru wondered if Albion had finally broken. “You have no such wall yet. Run.”
“Why is it always yet?” he countered, seeing through the dark so their green eyes meet. “Are you so certain he’s undefeatable? My people roll stones down the mountains and it crushes their armies, so they scatter like birds.”
“I do not have mountains, only hills, and forts on them.” A shuddering sigh. Their bodies were those of ten year olds, thinly built and not quite giving off enough heat to warm the autumnal evening. “It weighs on me that you are here, that he can touch you. Please,” not begging, Albion didn’t beg, but requested “please, escape so I have no more weight than my own to bare.”
The fae are returning, and Cymru gets out of bed to put on his sandals and—
“Wales, wake up!”
Darren’s eyes snapped open, broken from the dream that was more like a memory and nearly surprised to find himself fully grown. Someone had covered him with a blanket, and he threw it off. It was almost morning, if the dawn he could see through the windows told anything. Arthur was shaking him, frowning, and Aine was swooping about the room, grabbing everything she could and putting it in a bag.
“What?” he questioned as England straightened, and Wales noticed the pistol at his belt.
“Someone’s approaching the house.”
Ireland’s house was old, not ancient though. About 100 years in it, built in 1920, with high windows and a sturdy build. Unfortunately large windows were very hard to hide behind. Wales could feel his legs cramping from where he was crouched with one of his sister’s assault rifles. England had his old Webly, though god only knew where he’d got it from, and was also checking over a shotgun.
“How long do you think she’s been hiding these?” Darren whispers. Arthur shrugs.
“Probably a long while. Would you deny her if she walked into an armory?” he didn’t look up, instead loading and cocking the shotgun, then peering down the sights.
“Well, yes.”
England gave him a look, and opened his mouth to say something before his eyes caught on something through the window behind Wales, and he yelled “Down!”
The bullets shattered the glass and rained diamonds on them all, but they were well covered. Ireland ducked behind the sofa, having hidden her brother’s limp body earlier. Someone shouted something in accented English to another, from outside, and the fire stopped. Wales strained his ears to listen.
“Did we get zem?”
“I do not know, I cannot see. It is dark in that house.”
They weren’t voices they knew. Accented French and Russian respectively, but not the Nation’s themselves. Someone Scottish spoke up next.
“Commander said this is where the insurgents had been hiding. But, well. I cannae see anyone in there.”
“Dibs I don’t go get a closer look.” Said another Scotsman. Wales estimated there were about twenty.
“Dibs out!” followed another.
“And you call us zee cowards.” Scoffed a Frenchman, and the sound of boots crunching on glass and dirt getting ever closer. The morning air that flooded the house made their breath visible, and England narrowed his eyes. He signaled Wales to stay down, prepared his own pistol. A shadow fell through the window. “See? Zer is nothing-”
England rolled out from his hiding spot, fired twice before ducking back to escape the resulting volley. He gave a breathless laugh over the gunfire.
“Ha, it’s been a while since I shot a Frenchman!”
“You’ll get more chances than this!” called back Aine, popping up from behind the sofa and emptying her clip at them. From the few yelps, it appeared she had good aim. “Eat lead you sons of whores!”
Wales took up his own window, an unbroken one, and fired on them from an unexpected position. Five more went down, two from England’s shotgun, while the others ducked for cover behind shrubbery and one of the fountains in the garden.
The return of fire was brief, and before long the enemy seemed to have run out of ammo. Wales was standing now, and England was singing as the soldiers began their retreat and they shot at their backs.
“Ohh the Grand old Duke of York, he had Ten Thousand men!” he laughed, reloading the shotgun as Ireland whooped and joined in, the adrenalin surging.
“He marched ‘em up to the top of the hill and marched ‘em down again! Run like the cowards you are, bastards!” She was on, what, her third clip? Probably wasting bullets. Who even cared, she had a stock bigger than some countries army’s.
“Better save ammo, sister, should they come back.” England chuckled, half giddy, peering out at the wounded and perhaps dead on the garden path. Aine snorted.
“They won’t come back if they know what’s good for them.” But she lowered her gun anyway, ducking out of the room to wherever she had hidden Northern Ireland. England cleared the glass off the sofa and sat down on a part that had the least bullet holes.
“Well that was fun.” He breathed, still smiling. Wales kicked at the remains of the window.
“This is going to take a lot to repair.”
“At least she has a house to repair at all.” England noted, poking his finger in a bullet hole. Wales noticed the blood then.
“Arthur, your side.” He came over, and his brother blinked down at himself. There was a slight red stain spreading from his side and he grimaced.
“I must have opened the wound again.” He grumbled, letting Wales lift his shirt to get a closer look. It wasn’t a big split, but it was red and irritated with the fabric.
Wales sighed, rolling his eyes and straightening. “I’ll get a bandage.” He made to walk out of the room, but instead found himself with a face full of red hair. “Aine?”
“They brought reinforcements!”
Wales resisted the urge to facepalm. “How many?”
“I’d call it at least 200!”
England groaned something like “bugger” from the sofa.
There was enough time to barricade the front door before the army got there, as well as reload weapons. If need be, the backdoor was open and ready for them to run through, even if it meant they were vulnerable there. The soldiers would need to scale the walls in the first place to get to the back door, in which case Wales, who was stationed at the upper windows, would shoot them down.
England had grumbled something about getting pixies to curse them, but they were avoiding them, with the stench of iron and machines on all three Nations and throughout the house. Ireland tossed the gun she had been using at England’s head and told him to shut up, before diving into the back of her weapons cupboard.
“Don’t think that the Fair Folk will pick sides for us, England.” Her voice was muffled, as she stood on tiptoes to reach to the back. “If anything there may be banshee wails by the end of the night.”
“You keep your banshee, I’ll keep my eardrums.” Wales commented as he passed by with a bag of ammo. So much for wasting precious resources. Did she store her whole army’s supply of bullets in her house? Some of these were even anti-tank, so did that mean-
“Fire in the hole!” Aine darted out of the room as something small and disturbingly grenade shaped flew in through the broken window. England and Wales ran behind her into the hall, flattening against the wall just in time to watch the door sail off its hinges. Wales ran back up the stairs, and manned his surprisingly large supply of sniper rifles. The soldiers had taken up various hiding spots, and Wales both thanked god and cursed that Ireland had located her house surrounded by woods and far from everyone.
“Holy shit, are those tanks?” came England’s voice from downstairs.
They were, Darren noted. Exactly how many “insurgents” were they expecting to find here? Then again, this could just be a giant game of Chicken to Russia.
“I got it, don’t sweat!” called back Ireland, sounding gleeful. Something landed downstairs with a thud.
“Is- where the sodding hell did you get a minigun?!”
“Cupboard.”
“Is that thing the TARDIS or something?! Besides which you don’t have those in your army, and I didn’t… oh, ohhh, I see.”
“What?! It was a Christmas present!”
“Is that what you ask for every year? ‘Oh please America, give me some more weapons, I won’t do anything bad with them’.”
“Shut your mouth you-”
“Not the right time guys!” Wales called down at them. The tanks rumbled to a stop.
“Oh yeah, Wales, look under my bed, there’s an LMG!” Ireland seemed to have only just remember that. Wales considered getting her checked out by a psychiatrist. Who keeps a machine gun under their bed? Apart from the Middle Easters. And Switzerland. And America. And- okay, point made.
“I’m not even going to ask who you got that one from.”
“Geez, it’s only Israel’s model, Artie.” Aine grumbled, somehow still audible up the stairs, and with a loud kercha loaded the minigun. “They’re moving into position. Last person to break the 100 kills mark buys the first round.”
“That’s assuming there’ll be any pubs left when this is over.” Wales muttered to himself, setting up the machine gun and beginning fire.
Aine’s minigun proved a blessing to them all, as one of the most powerful guns out there, minus the tanks. Wales was sharpshooting those himself, ever so glad these weren’t his people and avoiding the idea of if Scotland could feel this.
England was singing something again, started up about five minutes in, but the roar of noise meant he could only be heard between loading. He might have been singing Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”, but god only knows.
Half an hour later, and Wales had lost the use of his left leg where a bullet got a lucky shot in. From the irritable swearing sounds downstairs, England’s injury was also giving him grief, and Ireland had screamed something in Irish ten minutes ago that might have been “thick as manure and only half as useful”, if Wales translated correctly.
“We can’t hold this forever!” England called between reloads. “Also, I just broke 100!”
“Bollocks you did, I’ve taken at least 120 and there’s only 200 out there!” Ireland shouted back. “But you have a point, we need to move. My house is fecked.”
“Anybody see America?” Wales interrupted. He didn’t hear England scoff, but knew he had.
“He’s America; always fashionably late to every war!”
“Hold on, are those jets?”
‘Hm,’ Wales mused, slightly dizzy from the blood loss. ‘Looks like it.’ “Better question, are they ours?”
The planes encroached so fast that Wales half expected a sonic boom when they passed over the house that low. As it was, everyone ducked.
“It’s about bloody time!” England crowed, firing off another few rounds on his shotgun. “How long had he had two-seater Recon Harriers?”
“Since we gave them to him.” Wales replied, blinking spots out of his eyes. Uh oh. “And to Canada, at the start of all this. We stockpiled everything, remember?”
“Do you accuse me of lunacy, sir?” laughed England, also likely losing it a little from blood loss. “Now count that one, Aine, that was definitely 110 of the braggarts!”
“Did you get to my booze while I wasn’t looking, because you must be seeing double, Arthur!” she didn’t sound quite as pained as her brothers, maybe because the minigun had a shield.
The noise redoubled so loud that Wales imagined it might wake Northern Ireland up. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that America was landing the plane in the garden. “Time to abandon ship, sailors!” England yelled, ceasing fire and indeed running for it. Wales took a rifle with him, just in case, and used it as a crutch to limp down the stairs. Ireland was at the back door already, with her deadened brother on her back. England’s entire side was red, the white dress shirt split in two colours.
“Man, you Brits know how to party!” America bellowed over the roar of the jets. England gave him a grin, still toting his pistol.
“It’s easier to fight when you’re on your own soil!” replied Aine at a similar volume, while Arthur made mock-surprised faces.
“Has the world ended? Did the great America just admit I’m not a stodgy old man?” Definitely blood loss.
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Just get in the plane, Iggy.”
By the time Wales had climbed in with Canada and the Ireland siblings with Mexico (who was a surprise to see, and simply flashed them a thumbs up and a toothy grin), America was already taking off and flying over the enemy army, letting England take the shooting controls to take the last of them down as they left.
Notes:
- The first song England is singing is "The Grand Old Duke of York", which is about military incompetence. His military incompetence, but still. The second song is "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen.
- Banshee are an Irish fae, whose scream is loud enough to make men's ears bleed. It's considered an omen of death, though is often confused for being a deathbringer itself.
- Miniguns are awesome. And huge. And not manufactured in Ireland.
- LMG = Light Machine Gun. They're almost hand held, and again, are manufactured differently by different places, but not in Ireland. Israel's one is cool looking.
- Harriers are a kind of aircraft that can take off vertically. They're a British invention. No, there are not actually any 2 seaters, but this is set in the future and I say there are so there.
Part 17
Characters (in this chapter): England, Wales, Ireland, an army of Frenchmen, Russians and Scots, eventually America, Canada and Mexico.
Rating: 15
Warnings: There are guns. Lots of guns. And England singing. And the rampant and gleeful slaughter of 200 men.
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.
They camped in Ireland’s house.
There was still heat and light, at least, but the television yielded only a rush of static fuzz and the internet service providers were shut down. However Scotland’s team had blocked out the satellite signals, they couldn’t fathom just yet, but that had been the last to go down, and Arthur had hazarded a guess at either Estonia being pressured into action, or perhaps the work of magic. The Fae rarely chose sides, after all, and if Scotland named Names there would be no choice in the matter.
Nobody wanted to go to bed, but they didn’t want to do much by way of talking either. Ireland absently cleaned her guns, eyebrows starting to look a little unruly where they pinched together in thought. England had made tea, and was staring off into space, mind going back to god only knew when. Wales, on his part, had picked up a book to read, but eventually felt himself dozing in his chair. Giving up, he put the book down on the table and leaned back, shutting his eyes for a quick nap as the sun set.
— he pities his brother, truly. Cymru rarely knew such favor, and he was glad of it.
Whenever Albion— Britannia, he must remember, because their Names must not be known to Rome, even if these new ones are so wrong and he hates them— returns to their allocated rooms or tents, he always has this hollowed look, like Rome has robbed him internally of everything he is. It takes a while for it to come back, before the fae will touch him again, for they avoid him at these times like he is cast in iron.
It might be a good thing they don’t touch him, because he flinches at every move. Cymru pretends to be asleep while Albion cleans himself up, like he can wash away the dirty hand-prints the Empire leaves everywhere. When he’s done with that, he’ll sit on his bedroll for a long time, maybe an hour or two, crying as quietly as he can, like that will purify him too. And after all that’s done, he’ll crawl into bed with Cymru and whisper.
“You could run,” he always says, voice so soft and near his ear that it could be mistaken for a pixie’s. “your people are still free in the highlands, the mountains. He doesn’t hold anything sure over you. You are not his yet.”
And Cymru always replies “How better than to know when my enemy moves than to sleep in his camp?”
Some times this makes his brother cry. This time, it didn’t.
“When he comes for you, I will try to stop him from-- touching you.” He trips over the word, chokes on it like it will cause the man to appear and enact it. “Though he says it is for my good, he is only half right. He built the wall to keep Alba out, but in doing so he traps me here, where he can always get to me.” The tone was deadened, and Cymru wondered if Albion had finally broken. “You have no such wall yet. Run.”
“Why is it always yet?” he countered, seeing through the dark so their green eyes meet. “Are you so certain he’s undefeatable? My people roll stones down the mountains and it crushes their armies, so they scatter like birds.”
“I do not have mountains, only hills, and forts on them.” A shuddering sigh. Their bodies were those of ten year olds, thinly built and not quite giving off enough heat to warm the autumnal evening. “It weighs on me that you are here, that he can touch you. Please,” not begging, Albion didn’t beg, but requested “please, escape so I have no more weight than my own to bare.”
The fae are returning, and Cymru gets out of bed to put on his sandals and—
“Wales, wake up!”
Darren’s eyes snapped open, broken from the dream that was more like a memory and nearly surprised to find himself fully grown. Someone had covered him with a blanket, and he threw it off. It was almost morning, if the dawn he could see through the windows told anything. Arthur was shaking him, frowning, and Aine was swooping about the room, grabbing everything she could and putting it in a bag.
“What?” he questioned as England straightened, and Wales noticed the pistol at his belt.
“Someone’s approaching the house.”
Ireland’s house was old, not ancient though. About 100 years in it, built in 1920, with high windows and a sturdy build. Unfortunately large windows were very hard to hide behind. Wales could feel his legs cramping from where he was crouched with one of his sister’s assault rifles. England had his old Webly, though god only knew where he’d got it from, and was also checking over a shotgun.
“How long do you think she’s been hiding these?” Darren whispers. Arthur shrugs.
“Probably a long while. Would you deny her if she walked into an armory?” he didn’t look up, instead loading and cocking the shotgun, then peering down the sights.
“Well, yes.”
England gave him a look, and opened his mouth to say something before his eyes caught on something through the window behind Wales, and he yelled “Down!”
The bullets shattered the glass and rained diamonds on them all, but they were well covered. Ireland ducked behind the sofa, having hidden her brother’s limp body earlier. Someone shouted something in accented English to another, from outside, and the fire stopped. Wales strained his ears to listen.
“Did we get zem?”
“I do not know, I cannot see. It is dark in that house.”
They weren’t voices they knew. Accented French and Russian respectively, but not the Nation’s themselves. Someone Scottish spoke up next.
“Commander said this is where the insurgents had been hiding. But, well. I cannae see anyone in there.”
“Dibs I don’t go get a closer look.” Said another Scotsman. Wales estimated there were about twenty.
“Dibs out!” followed another.
“And you call us zee cowards.” Scoffed a Frenchman, and the sound of boots crunching on glass and dirt getting ever closer. The morning air that flooded the house made their breath visible, and England narrowed his eyes. He signaled Wales to stay down, prepared his own pistol. A shadow fell through the window. “See? Zer is nothing-”
England rolled out from his hiding spot, fired twice before ducking back to escape the resulting volley. He gave a breathless laugh over the gunfire.
“Ha, it’s been a while since I shot a Frenchman!”
“You’ll get more chances than this!” called back Aine, popping up from behind the sofa and emptying her clip at them. From the few yelps, it appeared she had good aim. “Eat lead you sons of whores!”
Wales took up his own window, an unbroken one, and fired on them from an unexpected position. Five more went down, two from England’s shotgun, while the others ducked for cover behind shrubbery and one of the fountains in the garden.
The return of fire was brief, and before long the enemy seemed to have run out of ammo. Wales was standing now, and England was singing as the soldiers began their retreat and they shot at their backs.
“Ohh the Grand old Duke of York, he had Ten Thousand men!” he laughed, reloading the shotgun as Ireland whooped and joined in, the adrenalin surging.
“He marched ‘em up to the top of the hill and marched ‘em down again! Run like the cowards you are, bastards!” She was on, what, her third clip? Probably wasting bullets. Who even cared, she had a stock bigger than some countries army’s.
“Better save ammo, sister, should they come back.” England chuckled, half giddy, peering out at the wounded and perhaps dead on the garden path. Aine snorted.
“They won’t come back if they know what’s good for them.” But she lowered her gun anyway, ducking out of the room to wherever she had hidden Northern Ireland. England cleared the glass off the sofa and sat down on a part that had the least bullet holes.
“Well that was fun.” He breathed, still smiling. Wales kicked at the remains of the window.
“This is going to take a lot to repair.”
“At least she has a house to repair at all.” England noted, poking his finger in a bullet hole. Wales noticed the blood then.
“Arthur, your side.” He came over, and his brother blinked down at himself. There was a slight red stain spreading from his side and he grimaced.
“I must have opened the wound again.” He grumbled, letting Wales lift his shirt to get a closer look. It wasn’t a big split, but it was red and irritated with the fabric.
Wales sighed, rolling his eyes and straightening. “I’ll get a bandage.” He made to walk out of the room, but instead found himself with a face full of red hair. “Aine?”
“They brought reinforcements!”
Wales resisted the urge to facepalm. “How many?”
“I’d call it at least 200!”
England groaned something like “bugger” from the sofa.
There was enough time to barricade the front door before the army got there, as well as reload weapons. If need be, the backdoor was open and ready for them to run through, even if it meant they were vulnerable there. The soldiers would need to scale the walls in the first place to get to the back door, in which case Wales, who was stationed at the upper windows, would shoot them down.
England had grumbled something about getting pixies to curse them, but they were avoiding them, with the stench of iron and machines on all three Nations and throughout the house. Ireland tossed the gun she had been using at England’s head and told him to shut up, before diving into the back of her weapons cupboard.
“Don’t think that the Fair Folk will pick sides for us, England.” Her voice was muffled, as she stood on tiptoes to reach to the back. “If anything there may be banshee wails by the end of the night.”
“You keep your banshee, I’ll keep my eardrums.” Wales commented as he passed by with a bag of ammo. So much for wasting precious resources. Did she store her whole army’s supply of bullets in her house? Some of these were even anti-tank, so did that mean-
“Fire in the hole!” Aine darted out of the room as something small and disturbingly grenade shaped flew in through the broken window. England and Wales ran behind her into the hall, flattening against the wall just in time to watch the door sail off its hinges. Wales ran back up the stairs, and manned his surprisingly large supply of sniper rifles. The soldiers had taken up various hiding spots, and Wales both thanked god and cursed that Ireland had located her house surrounded by woods and far from everyone.
“Holy shit, are those tanks?” came England’s voice from downstairs.
They were, Darren noted. Exactly how many “insurgents” were they expecting to find here? Then again, this could just be a giant game of Chicken to Russia.
“I got it, don’t sweat!” called back Ireland, sounding gleeful. Something landed downstairs with a thud.
“Is- where the sodding hell did you get a minigun?!”
“Cupboard.”
“Is that thing the TARDIS or something?! Besides which you don’t have those in your army, and I didn’t… oh, ohhh, I see.”
“What?! It was a Christmas present!”
“Is that what you ask for every year? ‘Oh please America, give me some more weapons, I won’t do anything bad with them’.”
“Shut your mouth you-”
“Not the right time guys!” Wales called down at them. The tanks rumbled to a stop.
“Oh yeah, Wales, look under my bed, there’s an LMG!” Ireland seemed to have only just remember that. Wales considered getting her checked out by a psychiatrist. Who keeps a machine gun under their bed? Apart from the Middle Easters. And Switzerland. And America. And- okay, point made.
“I’m not even going to ask who you got that one from.”
“Geez, it’s only Israel’s model, Artie.” Aine grumbled, somehow still audible up the stairs, and with a loud kercha loaded the minigun. “They’re moving into position. Last person to break the 100 kills mark buys the first round.”
“That’s assuming there’ll be any pubs left when this is over.” Wales muttered to himself, setting up the machine gun and beginning fire.
Aine’s minigun proved a blessing to them all, as one of the most powerful guns out there, minus the tanks. Wales was sharpshooting those himself, ever so glad these weren’t his people and avoiding the idea of if Scotland could feel this.
England was singing something again, started up about five minutes in, but the roar of noise meant he could only be heard between loading. He might have been singing Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”, but god only knows.
Half an hour later, and Wales had lost the use of his left leg where a bullet got a lucky shot in. From the irritable swearing sounds downstairs, England’s injury was also giving him grief, and Ireland had screamed something in Irish ten minutes ago that might have been “thick as manure and only half as useful”, if Wales translated correctly.
“We can’t hold this forever!” England called between reloads. “Also, I just broke 100!”
“Bollocks you did, I’ve taken at least 120 and there’s only 200 out there!” Ireland shouted back. “But you have a point, we need to move. My house is fecked.”
“Anybody see America?” Wales interrupted. He didn’t hear England scoff, but knew he had.
“He’s America; always fashionably late to every war!”
“Hold on, are those jets?”
‘Hm,’ Wales mused, slightly dizzy from the blood loss. ‘Looks like it.’ “Better question, are they ours?”
The planes encroached so fast that Wales half expected a sonic boom when they passed over the house that low. As it was, everyone ducked.
“It’s about bloody time!” England crowed, firing off another few rounds on his shotgun. “How long had he had two-seater Recon Harriers?”
“Since we gave them to him.” Wales replied, blinking spots out of his eyes. Uh oh. “And to Canada, at the start of all this. We stockpiled everything, remember?”
“Do you accuse me of lunacy, sir?” laughed England, also likely losing it a little from blood loss. “Now count that one, Aine, that was definitely 110 of the braggarts!”
“Did you get to my booze while I wasn’t looking, because you must be seeing double, Arthur!” she didn’t sound quite as pained as her brothers, maybe because the minigun had a shield.
The noise redoubled so loud that Wales imagined it might wake Northern Ireland up. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that America was landing the plane in the garden. “Time to abandon ship, sailors!” England yelled, ceasing fire and indeed running for it. Wales took a rifle with him, just in case, and used it as a crutch to limp down the stairs. Ireland was at the back door already, with her deadened brother on her back. England’s entire side was red, the white dress shirt split in two colours.
“Man, you Brits know how to party!” America bellowed over the roar of the jets. England gave him a grin, still toting his pistol.
“It’s easier to fight when you’re on your own soil!” replied Aine at a similar volume, while Arthur made mock-surprised faces.
“Has the world ended? Did the great America just admit I’m not a stodgy old man?” Definitely blood loss.
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Just get in the plane, Iggy.”
By the time Wales had climbed in with Canada and the Ireland siblings with Mexico (who was a surprise to see, and simply flashed them a thumbs up and a toothy grin), America was already taking off and flying over the enemy army, letting England take the shooting controls to take the last of them down as they left.
Notes:
- The first song England is singing is "The Grand Old Duke of York", which is about military incompetence. His military incompetence, but still. The second song is "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen.
- Banshee are an Irish fae, whose scream is loud enough to make men's ears bleed. It's considered an omen of death, though is often confused for being a deathbringer itself.
- Miniguns are awesome. And huge. And not manufactured in Ireland.
- LMG = Light Machine Gun. They're almost hand held, and again, are manufactured differently by different places, but not in Ireland. Israel's one is cool looking.
- Harriers are a kind of aircraft that can take off vertically. They're a British invention. No, there are not actually any 2 seaters, but this is set in the future and I say there are so there.
Part 17