Family Ties [Part 49]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): Portugal, France, Scotland, Russia.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Brain explosions happen here. SUPERMASSIVE PLOT POINTS.
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.
The sea salt stung the eyes of those sailors who weren't quite as used to it as Portugal was. Ploughing through the Mediterranean sea like it wasn't even there, the Iberian Nation felt a surge of pride for his navy, as well as nostalgia. Turkey thought he had control of the Med, did he? Portugal hadn't been called the Lion of the Seas for nothing.
"Captain," a sailor caught his attention. "We've got radar detecting a blockade of ships."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, then grinned. "Good. Put the men on high alert and ready the guns."
"Sir!" the man (though now he thought about it, he couldn't be more than a boy of 19) ran back below deck to inform the others and to relay the orders.
Reclaiming the sea would not be so easy as taking down a blockade, he felt. But the fact they had slipped under the NWO radar using their scramblers and counter-intelligence gave them an advantage in that nobody knew they were coming. Or if they did know, then they would have no idea where they'd be coming from.
Their target for landing was Israel. Portugal personally had no real attachment to the boy; he was more familiar with his mother than anything. They'd chatted, of course, world meetings allowed for such. The only real reason he was here was on behalf of Arthur, and perhaps to appease Sarah's worries.
Besides, kicking Turkey's ass again would be great.
"Incoming!" someone yelled, and Portugal reflexively grabbed onto the railing of the ship. The torpedo didn't hit the ship he was on, but rather the one just behind him, grazing the starboard bow and detonating, sending a pillar of water into the air and rocking the fleet dangerously.
"Steady, men, steady!" Gabriel called them to order, planting his feet firmly. "Get her firm, we're not out yet! Tavares Silva, are we ready for retaliation?"
"Yes, captain!"
The visual of eighteen ships appeared on the horizon. Oh, they had been seriously underestimated it seemed. Portugal had brought twenty five with him. "Return fire!"
-----
France could see red, and it had nothing to do with the colour of the carpet.
"France, where are-" Scotland was practically jogging to keep up with the speed his partner was storming through the halls of Moscow Headquarters. Usually, with the blonde's shorter legs, it would be the other way around, but France had rage fueling him, and Scotland had only his orders.
"James, stop following me." he growled, eyes narrowed to angry slits and fists clenched hard enough for his nails to bite into his palms.
"Ye know I cannae do that. Russia said-"
France stopped and whirled round to face him. "I don't care what he said! Listen to what I say! I'm the one that's here with you, right now! Damn Russia to hell!"
The red head looked at him like France had proclaimed himself to be king of Wonderland. "Give me a break, first ye're not tellin' me what's goin' on with the cryin', now ye're goin' against Russia? Francis, I think ye need to calm down."
Shorter in stature he may have been, but when France grabbed the front of Scotland's uniform and pulled him down just so he could see the fury on his face more clearly, he was a sight to be feared. Blue eyes, still red at the edges from tears, searched for any kind of personality, some spark of life, of comprehension, in Scotland's green.
"When you lose a son, then you can tell me to calm down."
The expression on Scotland's face was not one that France enjoyed. Innocent confusion didn't belong there. But at least he was shocked still while his mind struggled to comprehend what he'd said. Seizing his chance, France ran around the corner, straight towards Russia's office.
He would not be a passive player any longer. He refused to.
The halls were oddly empty once he started nearing Russia's rooms. The carpeted floor changed to marbled black and white, and France's shoes clacked along the silent corridor. With little ceremony, the doors of Russia's office were flung open, one of them slamming into the wall so hard that the handle embedded itself there. Russia looked up from his papers, only mildly surprised, if at all.
"What did my doors ever do to you?" he asked, indicating the slightly cracked paintwork that snaked out from behind the door with his pen. France wasted no time crossing the room to Russia's desk and, unable to reach straight for the commander's neck, slammed his hands on the table hard enough to knock over an empty vodka bottle.
"This has to end." he snarled. Who cared if his hair was beyond saving, or that he had lost all pretenses of being a rational Nation. It's not like anyone else was better than he was in this war.
Russia leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Why do you say that?" He spoke in French, perhaps in an attempt to sooth him. Even if his accent and pronunciation were much better than China's, it didn't work.
"You know exactly why!" France jabbed a finger at the world map on Russia's desk, at where Canada was- used to be. "You killed him. You and your damned sisters and this pointless war!"
Violet eyes considered him, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Who said that it was pointless? I think it has a large array of useful points."
"Oh, please do tell," he sneered sarcastically. "We can see if it was worth Matthieu."
Russia didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, walked deliberately slowly to the doors, took his time in pulling them out of the dents they'd made in the walls, closing them, and with a fatalistic click, locked them. The silence continued until he'd fixed his scarf, walked back behind his desk, spent a few minutes studying the world outside the window behind it and the yellow-gold curtains that hung from the high ceiling. Just when France was about to snap something crude and below him, Russia spoke.
"I am a very big country, da?" his eyes didn't move from the window, and Francis glared at the back Ivan had the gall to show him. "With lots of people. People who can never decide all together what they want. Is very hard to unite those people. Many have wondered how I have managed to stay in one piece.
"There is good reason for it. People will unite when they have common enemy. That is, when there is a war. Make war, country becomes united. China agrees with me on this one. There is more to it too, but I don't think it would interest you." He glanced over his shoulder at France, whose expression had gone from furious to slightly disturbed. "That is one point to this war. But your face says that is still not good enough." He smiled, pressing a finger to his lips like a child. "Is fine, I have other reasons, but this one you must keep extra secret."
France really would have liked nothing better than to beat that smug face in , but he stayed where he was, the temperature of the room steadily dropping despite it being late August. He could see his breath.
"Have you ever had one person you wanted to look at you, and only you?" A pause, then a giggle. "No, maybe not. Your dear Scotland might understand better, da? I wonder at him sometimes, how he managed to stay quiet all these years, let you do as you pleased. Maybe it is because he is small and powerless. I am not."
The glass on the window had ice spreading from the corners, and France couldn't feel the ends of his fingers. "He will never look at me the way I want, though. Not the way he looks at England. With a smile, a friendly one, one that holds nothing back. I will settle for second best, I am not a picky person. I wonder if you remember that smile he had on his face, in 1962, when we had pistols to each other's foreheads and the world waited for someone to pull the trigger. He smiled then, the different smile that he only shows me, where the monster that is inside all of us, as Nations, comes out."
"You really think- that America-" the cold made the air itself painful to breathe. This, combined with the knowledge that Russia was truly and completely mad and he was locked in a room with him, sent shivers down his spine.
"That is why I said you must keep it secret, da?" Russia smiled, the pinkness in his cheeks the only indication that he was even aware of the chill. It made him look so innocent. "If he knows, he will purposefully not do it, and that will be such a shame." France had barely blinked, when Russia was quite suddenly right in front of him, towering tall and smiling cheerfully.
"Ah, but maybe you do not like that reason either." Faking thoughtfulness, the giant of a Nation tapped his chin. "Maybe you will believe me if I said I was very, very bored? I mean, weren't you too? Didn't you miss having fun fighting England? Or if I said I wanted allies again, people in my house to control and to command, does that sound convincing?"
"W-which is it?" the shivers made his voice shake too, though nervousness was the last thing he felt. It was all being crushed beneath the heavy weight of knowledge, that he had helped Russia get exactly what he wanted, no matter what his reasons, by helping start this war. "Which reason is the real one?"
Russia laughed. Not a giggle, or a chuckle, but a loud, booming, quite mad laugh. "Oh, but isn't it more fun for you to decide yourself? You have known me for a long time, France, what do you think?"
The shorter blonde started backing up, willing his feet to unfreeze from the floor. His attempt to bolt for the door was ended when Russia's pipe caught him across the jaw before his fingers could reach the handle.
"Ah-ah-ah! I am not done talking to you." France blinked stars out of his eyes, registering that he was sideways on the floor a few seconds after the fact. "I can't have you running away with all my secrets unless you promise me that you're not going to say. I trust China with them, he has motivation to keep them, but you? You have long history of backstabbing."
France tried to get up, but the faucet that landed on his right shoulder with a painful crunch saw to the end of that.
"I want to hear that promise, France. I am patient. This will continue until I get it."
Notes:
- Motives, GET! You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this. Sorry to dash your conspiracy theories.
- "But Pidge, it's multiple choice!" Yup, because even when clearing things up, Russia is going to screw with your head for fun and profit.
- "Holy crap, so this is where the Rus/Ame has been lurking all this time?" Yup.
- "Russia hinted at there being more to his first motive. Stop being a cryptic bitch." Hahaha no.
- "Poor Port got overshadowed! D8" *pets him* Sorry about that.
- Portugal's boats: picture those, but bigger and with scrambler paint, since this is the future and I can make up technology if I do so wish.
- Turkey's navy is actually surprisingly huge even in the modern day so I just linked the whole thing.
Part 50
Characters (in this chapter): Portugal, France, Scotland, Russia.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Brain explosions happen here. SUPERMASSIVE PLOT POINTS.
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.
The sea salt stung the eyes of those sailors who weren't quite as used to it as Portugal was. Ploughing through the Mediterranean sea like it wasn't even there, the Iberian Nation felt a surge of pride for his navy, as well as nostalgia. Turkey thought he had control of the Med, did he? Portugal hadn't been called the Lion of the Seas for nothing.
"Captain," a sailor caught his attention. "We've got radar detecting a blockade of ships."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, then grinned. "Good. Put the men on high alert and ready the guns."
"Sir!" the man (though now he thought about it, he couldn't be more than a boy of 19) ran back below deck to inform the others and to relay the orders.
Reclaiming the sea would not be so easy as taking down a blockade, he felt. But the fact they had slipped under the NWO radar using their scramblers and counter-intelligence gave them an advantage in that nobody knew they were coming. Or if they did know, then they would have no idea where they'd be coming from.
Their target for landing was Israel. Portugal personally had no real attachment to the boy; he was more familiar with his mother than anything. They'd chatted, of course, world meetings allowed for such. The only real reason he was here was on behalf of Arthur, and perhaps to appease Sarah's worries.
Besides, kicking Turkey's ass again would be great.
"Incoming!" someone yelled, and Portugal reflexively grabbed onto the railing of the ship. The torpedo didn't hit the ship he was on, but rather the one just behind him, grazing the starboard bow and detonating, sending a pillar of water into the air and rocking the fleet dangerously.
"Steady, men, steady!" Gabriel called them to order, planting his feet firmly. "Get her firm, we're not out yet! Tavares Silva, are we ready for retaliation?"
"Yes, captain!"
The visual of eighteen ships appeared on the horizon. Oh, they had been seriously underestimated it seemed. Portugal had brought twenty five with him. "Return fire!"
-----
France could see red, and it had nothing to do with the colour of the carpet.
"France, where are-" Scotland was practically jogging to keep up with the speed his partner was storming through the halls of Moscow Headquarters. Usually, with the blonde's shorter legs, it would be the other way around, but France had rage fueling him, and Scotland had only his orders.
"James, stop following me." he growled, eyes narrowed to angry slits and fists clenched hard enough for his nails to bite into his palms.
"Ye know I cannae do that. Russia said-"
France stopped and whirled round to face him. "I don't care what he said! Listen to what I say! I'm the one that's here with you, right now! Damn Russia to hell!"
The red head looked at him like France had proclaimed himself to be king of Wonderland. "Give me a break, first ye're not tellin' me what's goin' on with the cryin', now ye're goin' against Russia? Francis, I think ye need to calm down."
Shorter in stature he may have been, but when France grabbed the front of Scotland's uniform and pulled him down just so he could see the fury on his face more clearly, he was a sight to be feared. Blue eyes, still red at the edges from tears, searched for any kind of personality, some spark of life, of comprehension, in Scotland's green.
"When you lose a son, then you can tell me to calm down."
The expression on Scotland's face was not one that France enjoyed. Innocent confusion didn't belong there. But at least he was shocked still while his mind struggled to comprehend what he'd said. Seizing his chance, France ran around the corner, straight towards Russia's office.
He would not be a passive player any longer. He refused to.
The halls were oddly empty once he started nearing Russia's rooms. The carpeted floor changed to marbled black and white, and France's shoes clacked along the silent corridor. With little ceremony, the doors of Russia's office were flung open, one of them slamming into the wall so hard that the handle embedded itself there. Russia looked up from his papers, only mildly surprised, if at all.
"What did my doors ever do to you?" he asked, indicating the slightly cracked paintwork that snaked out from behind the door with his pen. France wasted no time crossing the room to Russia's desk and, unable to reach straight for the commander's neck, slammed his hands on the table hard enough to knock over an empty vodka bottle.
"This has to end." he snarled. Who cared if his hair was beyond saving, or that he had lost all pretenses of being a rational Nation. It's not like anyone else was better than he was in this war.
Russia leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Why do you say that?" He spoke in French, perhaps in an attempt to sooth him. Even if his accent and pronunciation were much better than China's, it didn't work.
"You know exactly why!" France jabbed a finger at the world map on Russia's desk, at where Canada was- used to be. "You killed him. You and your damned sisters and this pointless war!"
Violet eyes considered him, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Who said that it was pointless? I think it has a large array of useful points."
"Oh, please do tell," he sneered sarcastically. "We can see if it was worth Matthieu."
Russia didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, walked deliberately slowly to the doors, took his time in pulling them out of the dents they'd made in the walls, closing them, and with a fatalistic click, locked them. The silence continued until he'd fixed his scarf, walked back behind his desk, spent a few minutes studying the world outside the window behind it and the yellow-gold curtains that hung from the high ceiling. Just when France was about to snap something crude and below him, Russia spoke.
"I am a very big country, da?" his eyes didn't move from the window, and Francis glared at the back Ivan had the gall to show him. "With lots of people. People who can never decide all together what they want. Is very hard to unite those people. Many have wondered how I have managed to stay in one piece.
"There is good reason for it. People will unite when they have common enemy. That is, when there is a war. Make war, country becomes united. China agrees with me on this one. There is more to it too, but I don't think it would interest you." He glanced over his shoulder at France, whose expression had gone from furious to slightly disturbed. "That is one point to this war. But your face says that is still not good enough." He smiled, pressing a finger to his lips like a child. "Is fine, I have other reasons, but this one you must keep extra secret."
France really would have liked nothing better than to beat that smug face in , but he stayed where he was, the temperature of the room steadily dropping despite it being late August. He could see his breath.
"Have you ever had one person you wanted to look at you, and only you?" A pause, then a giggle. "No, maybe not. Your dear Scotland might understand better, da? I wonder at him sometimes, how he managed to stay quiet all these years, let you do as you pleased. Maybe it is because he is small and powerless. I am not."
The glass on the window had ice spreading from the corners, and France couldn't feel the ends of his fingers. "He will never look at me the way I want, though. Not the way he looks at England. With a smile, a friendly one, one that holds nothing back. I will settle for second best, I am not a picky person. I wonder if you remember that smile he had on his face, in 1962, when we had pistols to each other's foreheads and the world waited for someone to pull the trigger. He smiled then, the different smile that he only shows me, where the monster that is inside all of us, as Nations, comes out."
"You really think- that America-" the cold made the air itself painful to breathe. This, combined with the knowledge that Russia was truly and completely mad and he was locked in a room with him, sent shivers down his spine.
"That is why I said you must keep it secret, da?" Russia smiled, the pinkness in his cheeks the only indication that he was even aware of the chill. It made him look so innocent. "If he knows, he will purposefully not do it, and that will be such a shame." France had barely blinked, when Russia was quite suddenly right in front of him, towering tall and smiling cheerfully.
"Ah, but maybe you do not like that reason either." Faking thoughtfulness, the giant of a Nation tapped his chin. "Maybe you will believe me if I said I was very, very bored? I mean, weren't you too? Didn't you miss having fun fighting England? Or if I said I wanted allies again, people in my house to control and to command, does that sound convincing?"
"W-which is it?" the shivers made his voice shake too, though nervousness was the last thing he felt. It was all being crushed beneath the heavy weight of knowledge, that he had helped Russia get exactly what he wanted, no matter what his reasons, by helping start this war. "Which reason is the real one?"
Russia laughed. Not a giggle, or a chuckle, but a loud, booming, quite mad laugh. "Oh, but isn't it more fun for you to decide yourself? You have known me for a long time, France, what do you think?"
The shorter blonde started backing up, willing his feet to unfreeze from the floor. His attempt to bolt for the door was ended when Russia's pipe caught him across the jaw before his fingers could reach the handle.
"Ah-ah-ah! I am not done talking to you." France blinked stars out of his eyes, registering that he was sideways on the floor a few seconds after the fact. "I can't have you running away with all my secrets unless you promise me that you're not going to say. I trust China with them, he has motivation to keep them, but you? You have long history of backstabbing."
France tried to get up, but the faucet that landed on his right shoulder with a painful crunch saw to the end of that.
"I want to hear that promise, France. I am patient. This will continue until I get it."
Notes:
- Motives, GET! You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this. Sorry to dash your conspiracy theories.
- "But Pidge, it's multiple choice!" Yup, because even when clearing things up, Russia is going to screw with your head for fun and profit.
- "Holy crap, so this is where the Rus/Ame has been lurking all this time?" Yup.
- "Russia hinted at there being more to his first motive. Stop being a cryptic bitch." Hahaha no.
- "Poor Port got overshadowed! D8" *pets him* Sorry about that.
- Portugal's boats: picture those, but bigger and with scrambler paint, since this is the future and I can make up technology if I do so wish.
- Turkey's navy is actually surprisingly huge even in the modern day so I just linked the whole thing.
Part 50