Family Ties [Part 85]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): India, Taiwan, Afghanistan, Scotland, France, Turkey, Ireland, England, Portugal, Wales
Rating: 15
Warnings: Descriptions of gore, more headcanon, sob.
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.
India massaged her temples as her soldiers searched the wreckage of the train along with New China's, or rather Taiwan's explosive experts picking up the pieces. There was one politician missing, that they couldn't find enough body parts for. Even one getting away would be bad, could start another campaign, and they all just wanted this over with already.
"What a headache." she murmured to herself. Taiwan crunched through the snow to stand beside her, a steaming mug in her hands.
"Want some bubble tea?" she offered, smiling at her elder. India sighed in relief and gratefully accepted the drink, sipping at it. Hm, sweet, served hot thanks to the cold weather. In the middle of enjoying it, her phone beeped urgently at her. Pulling it out of her pocket, she peered at the caller.
Afghanistan?
Pressing the accept caller button, she watched as the video image flashed onto the screen. Afghanistan was covered in soot and blood, but didn't seem injured. She did, however, seem extremely worried about something.
"India?" she asked, a wobble to her voice.
"I'm reading you loud and clear." India replied, a small frown forming. "What's the report?"
"A mixture of good and very, very bad." Afghanistan squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, shaking her head. "For the good; we've captured NWO Headquarters."
India's spirits lifted for a moment, and Taiwan relayed the message from where she'd been half listening to the others working on the wreckage. A cheer went up, a couple of the men even hugging each other, high-fiving at least. But the older Nation frowned deeper.
"What's the bad news..."
The Persian girl's eyes filled with tears. "England is... the UK is..."
---
Scotland shook with effort as his body retched up salt water from nowhere, and the skin on one of his legs was turning an angry mottled red, like a burn from something unseen. He pitched forward off his seat and onto the floor of the mobile medical centre. The nurses scrambled to help him, one finally finishing the stitching on France’s arm. The blonde Nation twisted to try and see, arms still useless.
“James!” Why could he only ever call his name? Was he really so helpless? Was he going to have to sit here, again, as Scotland burned?
The ever downward spiral of thought was interrupted by a loud and insistent yell. “Make way, coming through, haul ass, I have wounded here!”
Turkey barged through the crowds of people and soldiers on his way to the medical trucks, his large build making the perfect buffer against all the people. Held in his arms was Ireland, though the term “held” should probably be used loosely. The woman was writhing, the skin on one side of her body and arm nearly burned entirely off, the whole left side of her face red with blisters, and screaming high enough that it occasionally hurt to hear, and it was only when she was going slightly lower pitch that he heard what she was saying.
“Éibhear! Éibhear!”
Behind him was Portugal, looking like he was about to murder the next person in his way, carrying an unconscious England on his back. The blonde seemed to have been knocked out by the pain he was in, his arm twitching spasmodically and running with blood, and half his face burned bright red, pinched with pain even when he wasn’t awake to notice.
The four Nations tumbled into the mobile hospital, their patients quickly taken from them, though Portugal followed England and watched him like a hawk. Turkey gave a long, stressed sigh and shook his head.
“Hi Francis.” He said, not even looking at the man. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“What on earth just happened, Sadiq?!” the blonde demanded glancing back at where Scotland had at least stopped spewing water everywhere, but now twitched unconsciously as he stared at his burned limb. The trauma from the last time was probably rearing it’s head and France longed to hold him, make it go away for a while, but he still couldn’t move his arms and the doctors were swarming him now.
“Russia is a massive douche and tried to kill England off.” The Turk said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They tried to get it to go off course but it landed in the Irish Sea anyway. If it’d hit land it would have been worse, but as it is…” He watched the doctors struggle to restrain the thrashing Ireland. They could barely hold her arm still long enough to sedate her, and even as she calmed under the effects of the drug she whimpered her brother’s name. “Reports we’re getting so far are vague, but there was apparently a massive wave, and it’s raining boiling, irradiated water.”
There was some kind of irony in that statement, but France wasn’t going to take the time to find it.
“Where are the other two?”
Turkey shut his eyes and shook his head.
“What?” growled Scotland, getting halfway to his feet despite the attending nurses trying to force him back down. He barged past them and grabbed the front of Turkey’s shirt. “What the fuck is that meant to mean?!”
“James!” France scolded, eyes watching Scotland’s burned and bleeding leg, not healing as fast as it usually would, turning a worrying black in places. “Stop it! It’s not his fault!”
“That fuck does that even mean, did you leave them behind?” the red head wasn’t listening to reason, shaking the Turk back and forth. “Go back and get them! Don’t just stand there like a useless bint!”
“I would if there was anything to fucking get!” Turkey yelled back, pulling Scotland’s hands off him and pushing him roughly back into his seat. “Their bodies were already gone by the time we knew what was going on! They’re dead, alright? Dead!”
A horrified silence settled.
Ireland sobbed quietly, covering her eyes with her uninjured arm. “My baby, my baby, oh god, North…”
“No…” came a moan from across the room, where England was now sitting up despite Portugal’s hand on his shoulder needing to steady him. “No, no, no… no, this isn’t happening…”
“Amor, lay back down.” The Iberian tried to soothe, but England wouldn’t. The doctors used the chance to wrap the bandages around his chest.
“God, no, no.” he repeated, hand to his face, pressing into his eyes. “Please no, no, this can’t happen! “ His voice grew louder, and he shook his head back and forth, trying to rid himself of reality. “No! Damn it Darren! Don’t leave me all alone!”
---
The hallway of doors was just as plain and unmarked as the door Wales had just come through. It stretched off into the distance, where it seemed to vanish into the horison, if this place had such a thing. Every door was like the next, featureless, but each hummed with a kind of energy. It was warm and inviting, like a log fire on a cold day, or a hug from a loved one, or a favourite chair. He could have happily stood basking in it, if he hadn't looked to the side.
The first door on the right...
This door was not plain and featureless. The edges were blackened, as though with soot. There were scratches around the handle like someone or something had desperately tried to get in. It was cracked and repaired with staples and tape but still splintered in places. A cold draft blew out from under it and Wales shrunk away instinctively.
"He wants me to go in there?" the blonde muttered to himself. The humming of the other doors was much nicer. Was he really sure that was the door Prussia had mentioned? Maybe he meant on the left. He looked at the door on the left, and found it a pristine white as the others, but even more inviting. Friendly even, like an old comrade you hadn't seen for a long time, someone you used to fight side by side with for years. That had to be the right door. It just felt right.
His small hand reached for the handle, when he felt something bite his hand.
"Owch!" he pulled back sharply, looking at his injured finger. Still sinking its teeth in and hanging from the end like a doll, was a tiny pixie. It chewed on his digit and looked up at him with beady black eyes, seeming almost furious. The emotions of tiny faeries like pixies, as anyone knows, come in two flavors; furious and gleeful. They're so tiny they can only fit two feelings in their bodies. "Get off me!" Wales scolded, shaking his wrist, but the little bugger held tightly, now digging in its tiny claws to his soft palms. "Ow ow ow! What do you want you little demon?!"
He accidentally backed into the door on the right, and felt a cold shiver run up his spine, like he'd leaned on a pane of glass without a shirt on. The pixie let go, licking the blood from the tiny wound on his finger, and fluttered over to sit on the handle of the cold door. It stared at him pointedly.
Wales frowned. "You want me to go in there?"
The faerie folded her arms in an expression that amounted to "duh."
Darren sighed. "Alright, fine. I'm blaming you forever if this is a trick."
The little creature shrugged, clearly not bothered by this, and floated off the door handle so the Nation could grab it. It chilled his fingers and he wanted to let go, nearly did, but the faerie was tugging at his hand, trying to twist the knob for him, so he bit his lip and turned it.
The second he did, a blast of cold air blasted out at him, forcing him to squint his eyes shut. Inside the door was nothing. Vast, empty nothing, black for as far as he could see through his half-shut eyes. Something whimpered in fear. It took him a moment to recognise it was his own voice.
As quickly as the gust had come out, it turned around, sucking back into the door and dragging him with it.
He couldn't help but scream as he fell into the inky black void.
Notes:
- Early update!
- England is a selfish person, but he just really hates the idea of being alone. Loathes and detests it. It's why he's such a clingy bastard.
Part 86
Characters (in this chapter): India, Taiwan, Afghanistan, Scotland, France, Turkey, Ireland, England, Portugal, Wales
Rating: 15
Warnings: Descriptions of gore, more headcanon, sob.
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.
India massaged her temples as her soldiers searched the wreckage of the train along with New China's, or rather Taiwan's explosive experts picking up the pieces. There was one politician missing, that they couldn't find enough body parts for. Even one getting away would be bad, could start another campaign, and they all just wanted this over with already.
"What a headache." she murmured to herself. Taiwan crunched through the snow to stand beside her, a steaming mug in her hands.
"Want some bubble tea?" she offered, smiling at her elder. India sighed in relief and gratefully accepted the drink, sipping at it. Hm, sweet, served hot thanks to the cold weather. In the middle of enjoying it, her phone beeped urgently at her. Pulling it out of her pocket, she peered at the caller.
Afghanistan?
Pressing the accept caller button, she watched as the video image flashed onto the screen. Afghanistan was covered in soot and blood, but didn't seem injured. She did, however, seem extremely worried about something.
"India?" she asked, a wobble to her voice.
"I'm reading you loud and clear." India replied, a small frown forming. "What's the report?"
"A mixture of good and very, very bad." Afghanistan squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, shaking her head. "For the good; we've captured NWO Headquarters."
India's spirits lifted for a moment, and Taiwan relayed the message from where she'd been half listening to the others working on the wreckage. A cheer went up, a couple of the men even hugging each other, high-fiving at least. But the older Nation frowned deeper.
"What's the bad news..."
The Persian girl's eyes filled with tears. "England is... the UK is..."
---
Scotland shook with effort as his body retched up salt water from nowhere, and the skin on one of his legs was turning an angry mottled red, like a burn from something unseen. He pitched forward off his seat and onto the floor of the mobile medical centre. The nurses scrambled to help him, one finally finishing the stitching on France’s arm. The blonde Nation twisted to try and see, arms still useless.
“James!” Why could he only ever call his name? Was he really so helpless? Was he going to have to sit here, again, as Scotland burned?
The ever downward spiral of thought was interrupted by a loud and insistent yell. “Make way, coming through, haul ass, I have wounded here!”
Turkey barged through the crowds of people and soldiers on his way to the medical trucks, his large build making the perfect buffer against all the people. Held in his arms was Ireland, though the term “held” should probably be used loosely. The woman was writhing, the skin on one side of her body and arm nearly burned entirely off, the whole left side of her face red with blisters, and screaming high enough that it occasionally hurt to hear, and it was only when she was going slightly lower pitch that he heard what she was saying.
“Éibhear! Éibhear!”
Behind him was Portugal, looking like he was about to murder the next person in his way, carrying an unconscious England on his back. The blonde seemed to have been knocked out by the pain he was in, his arm twitching spasmodically and running with blood, and half his face burned bright red, pinched with pain even when he wasn’t awake to notice.
The four Nations tumbled into the mobile hospital, their patients quickly taken from them, though Portugal followed England and watched him like a hawk. Turkey gave a long, stressed sigh and shook his head.
“Hi Francis.” He said, not even looking at the man. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“What on earth just happened, Sadiq?!” the blonde demanded glancing back at where Scotland had at least stopped spewing water everywhere, but now twitched unconsciously as he stared at his burned limb. The trauma from the last time was probably rearing it’s head and France longed to hold him, make it go away for a while, but he still couldn’t move his arms and the doctors were swarming him now.
“Russia is a massive douche and tried to kill England off.” The Turk said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They tried to get it to go off course but it landed in the Irish Sea anyway. If it’d hit land it would have been worse, but as it is…” He watched the doctors struggle to restrain the thrashing Ireland. They could barely hold her arm still long enough to sedate her, and even as she calmed under the effects of the drug she whimpered her brother’s name. “Reports we’re getting so far are vague, but there was apparently a massive wave, and it’s raining boiling, irradiated water.”
There was some kind of irony in that statement, but France wasn’t going to take the time to find it.
“Where are the other two?”
Turkey shut his eyes and shook his head.
“What?” growled Scotland, getting halfway to his feet despite the attending nurses trying to force him back down. He barged past them and grabbed the front of Turkey’s shirt. “What the fuck is that meant to mean?!”
“James!” France scolded, eyes watching Scotland’s burned and bleeding leg, not healing as fast as it usually would, turning a worrying black in places. “Stop it! It’s not his fault!”
“That fuck does that even mean, did you leave them behind?” the red head wasn’t listening to reason, shaking the Turk back and forth. “Go back and get them! Don’t just stand there like a useless bint!”
“I would if there was anything to fucking get!” Turkey yelled back, pulling Scotland’s hands off him and pushing him roughly back into his seat. “Their bodies were already gone by the time we knew what was going on! They’re dead, alright? Dead!”
A horrified silence settled.
Ireland sobbed quietly, covering her eyes with her uninjured arm. “My baby, my baby, oh god, North…”
“No…” came a moan from across the room, where England was now sitting up despite Portugal’s hand on his shoulder needing to steady him. “No, no, no… no, this isn’t happening…”
“Amor, lay back down.” The Iberian tried to soothe, but England wouldn’t. The doctors used the chance to wrap the bandages around his chest.
“God, no, no.” he repeated, hand to his face, pressing into his eyes. “Please no, no, this can’t happen! “ His voice grew louder, and he shook his head back and forth, trying to rid himself of reality. “No! Damn it Darren! Don’t leave me all alone!”
---
The hallway of doors was just as plain and unmarked as the door Wales had just come through. It stretched off into the distance, where it seemed to vanish into the horison, if this place had such a thing. Every door was like the next, featureless, but each hummed with a kind of energy. It was warm and inviting, like a log fire on a cold day, or a hug from a loved one, or a favourite chair. He could have happily stood basking in it, if he hadn't looked to the side.
The first door on the right...
This door was not plain and featureless. The edges were blackened, as though with soot. There were scratches around the handle like someone or something had desperately tried to get in. It was cracked and repaired with staples and tape but still splintered in places. A cold draft blew out from under it and Wales shrunk away instinctively.
"He wants me to go in there?" the blonde muttered to himself. The humming of the other doors was much nicer. Was he really sure that was the door Prussia had mentioned? Maybe he meant on the left. He looked at the door on the left, and found it a pristine white as the others, but even more inviting. Friendly even, like an old comrade you hadn't seen for a long time, someone you used to fight side by side with for years. That had to be the right door. It just felt right.
His small hand reached for the handle, when he felt something bite his hand.
"Owch!" he pulled back sharply, looking at his injured finger. Still sinking its teeth in and hanging from the end like a doll, was a tiny pixie. It chewed on his digit and looked up at him with beady black eyes, seeming almost furious. The emotions of tiny faeries like pixies, as anyone knows, come in two flavors; furious and gleeful. They're so tiny they can only fit two feelings in their bodies. "Get off me!" Wales scolded, shaking his wrist, but the little bugger held tightly, now digging in its tiny claws to his soft palms. "Ow ow ow! What do you want you little demon?!"
He accidentally backed into the door on the right, and felt a cold shiver run up his spine, like he'd leaned on a pane of glass without a shirt on. The pixie let go, licking the blood from the tiny wound on his finger, and fluttered over to sit on the handle of the cold door. It stared at him pointedly.
Wales frowned. "You want me to go in there?"
The faerie folded her arms in an expression that amounted to "duh."
Darren sighed. "Alright, fine. I'm blaming you forever if this is a trick."
The little creature shrugged, clearly not bothered by this, and floated off the door handle so the Nation could grab it. It chilled his fingers and he wanted to let go, nearly did, but the faerie was tugging at his hand, trying to twist the knob for him, so he bit his lip and turned it.
The second he did, a blast of cold air blasted out at him, forcing him to squint his eyes shut. Inside the door was nothing. Vast, empty nothing, black for as far as he could see through his half-shut eyes. Something whimpered in fear. It took him a moment to recognise it was his own voice.
As quickly as the gust had come out, it turned around, sucking back into the door and dragging him with it.
He couldn't help but scream as he fell into the inky black void.
Notes:
- Early update!
- England is a selfish person, but he just really hates the idea of being alone. Loathes and detests it. It's why he's such a clingy bastard.
Part 86