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Post by England on Jul 14, 2012 0:10:31 GMT -5
((My titles. Hush. It's a songgggggg xD))
There were times when even the ever so stuck up England felt like throwing his tie away, grabbing a flask of good, strong alcohol, and lighting himself a fag.
Right then would've been one of those times.
"I don't get it!" he groaned to himself as he crossed the warehouse, entering the meeting room and immediately heading for the map on the wall. "I've tried finding possible coordinates for the centre of radiation, but all drones sent by Europe reported no findings at all. England was back to square one, and he hated feeling so useless.
"Damn it." he swore, eyes raking the map for some kind of lead. He couldn't let this go on any longer. Another Nation had gotten bitten under his watch, and despite knowing how to create a vaccine, he still didn't want anyone to get bitten in the first place. He just wanted it all to end, but none of his efforts seemed to pay off.
"If only I could ask my fairy friends to seek out the radiation centre..." he mused out loud. "But... I haven't seen them at all, ever since I got here." the entire thing was worrying (never mind the fact that he was speaking to himself...) and England wouldn't rest at ease until every single one of these mysteries was solved.
"I should ask my brothers if they've seen any fairies around..." his eyes trailed a bit longer, and then settled on Canada's old capital. A glint resurfaced in the green of his gaze, and he found himself sinking into old habits as his frustration at his own helplessness rose to dangerous levels.
Throwing off his tie, grabbing a flask of good, strong alcohol and lighting himself a fag didn't sound all that bad, after all.
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Post by Scotland on Jul 15, 2012 6:33:13 GMT -5
[to the ball game?]
To the Scottish, being sober was viewed as akin to being depressed. It was not a state of being a healthy person should be pleased to find themselves in. So he walked into the meeting room with a glass of whiskey in hand. A single precious glass from his stash that he was rationing until he could get more. A stash that was dwindling as the days passed.
He had been seeking England to tell him of the upcoming crisis, and followed the tips given to him by others that led him here, to the meeting room. Spotting his blonde brother, he lifted an arm above his head to lean it against the doorframe, and slightly rested the side of his forehead against it. Taking a precious, precious swallow from his glass, he watched his little brother study the maps on the wall and talk to himself. Anyone else might have assumed he was muttering to his faerie buddies, but the redhead could clearly tell there was a definite lack of fair folk in the area.
"There isnnae any," he finally said, holding the glass up as if offering a toast. "Have'na seen a one."
It was true. Ever since they had left the Isles, whatever fair folk that lived here in Canada hadn't seen fit to show themselves. Or maybe there just weren't any. Maybe only the spirits the natives had described in their stories existed. Either they hadn't shown themselves either, or the brothers were just unable to see them. Canada had only talked about the animals and trees in his homeland, so maybe there just weren't any.
"I'm runnin' low on whiskey," he continued as he swirled the amber liquid around in the glass. "Goin' oot ta get moore."
He was used to asking for permission to do things, or rather, announcing he was going to do things, and let England protest if he was going to. If he'd announced he was going to eat all the fish in the kitchen, he would have just turned and left then, as England likely would have waved him off. But heading out of the compound, he was aware that England might have protest to that. So he waited for the outburst, or possibly permission. England should know what he was capable of. Especially after the last mission. He could take care of himself.
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Post by England on Jul 15, 2012 21:42:49 GMT -5
((Nah, it's a song by Franz Ferdinand. Pretty good. And the title inspired me xD))
England jumped at the sound of the newcomer's voice, tensing in preparation to attack, but relaxed once he recognized his brother's particular accent. Predictably, felt a rush of frustration inside his veins, and he momentarily felt like yelling to his brother about how stupid that would be, and if he had learned nothing of what had transpired not too long ago. The outside was dangerous, and nobody could go out alone.
"So you haven't seen them either." he bit his lip inside, letting the pointless frustration die down. That wouldn't help his case at all. He had to calm down. "I don't know if it's whether there aren't any fairies around, or if they're all hiding. If so, then why are they even hiding from us? They won't come when I summon them, and I haven't seen any around. I'm worried." he admitted, because hell, those fairies were his very first friends and had stuck with him through the centuries and millenniums. He wasn't about to give them up now.
Still, the fact that he didn't know anything about his so-called best friends' whereabouts annoyed him to no end, and he could practically feel the unwise decision rearing its ugly head in the back of his brain. He was just so tired and so frustrated with their situation, his decisions, and the sacrifices he was making everybody endure. Something was cracking inside of him.
"You know, for once, you have brought up a smart idea." he found himself commenting as he turned around to face his brother. "A drink or two never hurt anyone. The Nations might enjoy a shot of bliss, too." He knew he was only trying to justify what he was about to say next, but truth was, he didn't really care. Something was screaming at him to do something impulsive and stupid, and here it was.
"I'm coming with you. Let's go."
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Post by Scotland on Jul 16, 2012 4:36:17 GMT -5
To say the redhead was shocked was an understatement. England wanted to come with him? He looked warily into his glass of whiskey, wondering just how potent this glass was. There was a warm spark pleased with the idea England would WANT to do something with him. Then that spark was jumped, drug in an alley and beaten near to death with a whiskey bottle by the WTF Brothers: Anger, Distrust and Confusion.
"Artie, I coulda sworn ye jus' said ye want'ta go." He didn't try to hide his disbelief, along with a little smirk as if he were making an obvious joke. His little brother had just come back from the very brink of death, and he wanted to run back out there? With HIM? Scotland's mind flashed back to the look of horror on Canada's face in the tunnels under the city, and the way Argentina's voice had tremored after having kicked the head off of what used to be a child. In his eyes, they were just children themselves, each nation having officially existed for less than 300 years. Even the children had gone all out to save the land of Angles.
He finally stalked into the room, directly over to his brother, and shoved the glass against the other's chest, making the liquid inside slosh a bit.
"Have a swally." The order given was flat and plain, with no inflection, but the redhead's eyes weren't exactly friendly. There was maybe two more swallows in the glass. He let go of the glass, whether England was going to take it or not. It didn't matter if the alcohol actually made it inside the blonde, though England might wish it had.
Once he let go of the glass, he waited a moment for England to drink it or not, and then he directed a small kick for England's right ankle. The very ankle he'd been bitten on. It wasn't a hard kick, but it was meant to hurt. Hurt enough to remind the blonde about his situation.
"Ye bloody bassa /bastard/!" He wanted nothing more than to follow up by grabbing his little brother by the shirt labels and slamming his head against the meeting table until he passed out, then head out the door while the blonde was unable to stop him. Better he be here with America fluttering over and about him like some massive burger-loving fae, than right back in the situation that had started the race-against-time missions into the destroyed cities. What if something happened to the compound while they were gone? Would America be able to take charge? China, maybe? Germany? Would Russia make everybody one with him? Who would look after France? What if Poland found some pink paint?
He had no idea how to express all of his thoughts into appropriate speech. If he managed to talk at this moment, it would have been composed of more curses than meaningful words.
[Scotty is having a hissy fit in my head right now. *waits to see how England handles this*]
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Post by England on Jul 16, 2012 21:53:02 GMT -5
England felt the heat coursing inside of him even before he took a gulp of whiskey. The burning was familiar, and with the quantity he'd taken in a single shot, it actually did hurt somewhat, but he didn't care. He was playing a dangerous game, but he had to admit that he had been craving the burn since he got there.
And then, Scotland kicked him, and he spat out the second gulp in surprise, choking. He'd scarred over on that ankle, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Glaring up at his brother, he set the empty glass down on the table with barely-controlled frustration and crossed his arms, standing up to full size (which wasn't much, compared to Scotland).
He hadn't done anything wrong this time... So he didn't know why his brother had gotten so riled up in such little time. He didn't know why he'd gotten so aggressive, either. But just like before, just like way before, his self-defense mechanism kicked in, and he knew that he had to protect himself whenever his brother got mad. So he did.
"What the bloody fuck was that about!?" he swore through gritted teeth, returning the aggressiveness with the same intensity . "Listen, I don't know what your problem is, but I am going. It's your idea, be a man and go through with it!" he shoved his brother just enough to clear himself a way and stalked towards the door. "I wasn't going to let you go out alone, not as a base supervisor, and I won't send anybody else with you, not as a brother." he turned around and looked at him wistfully for just a split-second before smirking. "Nobody else can endure you. I barely can, too. You act like a wanker over half the time, so it's not very surprising."
[Be an ass in return?]
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Post by Scotland on Jul 17, 2012 12:51:58 GMT -5
Green eyes narrowed in frustration at being unable to express himself properly. Again he felt the default desire to leave England lying in a crumpled pile for America to find and fuss over. He didn't want the blonde going out there when the need for him here was so much greater. Unfortunately, England had spoken, and he was left with no other options. All he could do was voice his displeasure. And maybe trip England on the way out.
"Can't stand me, eh?" he finally snarled as he stalked after the young brother. "Who's th'one drove yer colonies an' Ireland away?"
It was a low blow, and he used it often enough, so he followed it up by purposefully ramming his shoulder at the other's, trying to make him stagger into the wall as he attempted to push past. "I'll be out in 15. Wit or wit'out ye."
That was his only sign of capitulation. If England wasn't ready in time, then he could only blame himself for being left behind. Scotland was already cursing himself mentally, thinking of how much harder he was going to work to stop the fool from being bitten again. Canada was smart and level-headed. Argentina was a bit of a hot head, but she was smart enough to not be overconfident and followed his lead. He'd probably have to chase after England. He wasn't looking forward to it.
[Short post is short]
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Post by England on Jul 17, 2012 21:36:58 GMT -5
England definitely did reel back at that comment, but in his defense... he always did. That was one comment that would never stop giving him pangs in the heart, no matter how long it had been since it had happened. The worst part was... Scotland had known that. Scotland had been there when he had been at his peak, and Scotland had been there when he'd returned home in nothing but a broken shell of who he'd used to be. His brother knew how much the comment left him bitter and unpleasant, and he still waved it around like it was nothing. More frustration welled up within England, only fueling his desire to become smashed in the near future, preferably in the thirty minutes following their return home with alcohol.
"Twat." he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists, but his tense posture did nothing to hold him to the ground when Scotland shoved him into the wall, eliciting another string of swears from him. He didn't pay it any mind, though. His brother didn't care, so why should he? For all he knew, if they got attacked, he'd just take the whiskey and run. And England was convinced that it was because he hadn't proved to his brother just yet that he, too, could be strong.
Well, that solved the problem. All he had to do was get a little more reckless than usual, and hope that Scotland would finally acknowledge him as nothing less than an equal. And preferably stop reminding him of how low he'd once fallen after having been so high.
"Please, do be outside in fifteen minutes." he merely replied in a slightly mocking tone. "I'll be waiting for you at the entrance, so we can leave whenever you're ready."
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Post by Scotland on Jul 19, 2012 3:47:24 GMT -5
"Wheesht /shut up/," the redhead snapped as he walked away, heading back for his bunk. There was no sign of his elusive bunkmate, which he found odd. France was usually easily found, no matter where he was. He just had that 'everybody notice me!' aura. Scotland usually liked to have a chat with his old friend whenever he had fights with England. No help for it. He only had 15 minutes.
He pulled on an extra pair of wool socks and long underwear before redressing in his uniform. The harness for his sword went on next, as well as the belt for his hand axes. He wasn't taking his gun this time; it wasn't a time-critical mission. He could indulge himself in hacking down zombies, hopefully followed up by a lot of whiskey and smokes, instead of a lot of patching up his little brother.
His weapons were slid into place, and a dark cloak thrown over the lot. The cloak had a hood lined with fur to help keep his neck and ears warm, but he left it resting on his back for now. He folded the cloak over his right shoulder so it didn't cover the hilt of the sword and make him look like Quasimodo. This bared his right side, but he could deal with that. He was wearing enough layers so even if one of the undead started chewing on him, they wouldn't be able to bite through to his skin. He left the more noticable parts of his clothing on; he wasn't really worried about stealth.
He pushed into his pockets a pair of gloves, his ear light, his riding goggles, and a thin folded scarf. An empty duffle bag slung onto his exposed right shoulder would be their means of transporting their treasure back. With that, he headed for the front door, marching with purpose. He didn't bother to talk to or even look at anyone else. Let them think he was being grumpy and just be happy he was leaving the area. Less questions were asked that way.
He stepped outside and into the grey light of late morning. The sun mostly stayed hidden behind cloud cover with winter taking up residence. It wasn't snowing at the moment, which was a blessing in itself. His breath became a trail of fog before he quickly lit up a smoke. If he was unlucky, he wouldn't be able to have another one until after they returned. Feeling the calming smoke fill his lungs, he headed for where the bikes were stored, humming Loch Lomond to himself.
[Who the heck is creeping on us? *staring at number of views*]
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Post by Argentina on Jul 19, 2012 6:09:56 GMT -5
(Not Tina. It's not like I constantly stalk every single current thread that gets started on this website or anything. *Shifty eyes* Surely England can make an exception for me writing this here. I couldn't resist answering. Off to stalk your thread once more! *Dives into Japan's ninja loft*)
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Post by England on Jul 19, 2012 8:47:08 GMT -5
“Arse.” England made a ‘tch’ noise as he watched his brother go, and only once he was out of sight did he move to make his way out of the meeting room. His head was now pounding heavily, the gulp of whiskey he’d had reminding him of how sweet oblivion could be. Oblivion that was out of his reach, of course, seeing as alcohol around the warehouse was not common. The last thing they needed during a zombie apocalypse was a drunk and hung over Nation.
(Some part of him protested, saying that if he went through with this, he would be that drunk and hung over Nation, and the leader, nonetheless! The other part of him, which was becoming disturbingly overwhelming as time went by, shut all common logic out and sought solace within the numbness of alcohol. England would have thought that after nearly dying with his senses deprived from a zombie bite, he’d insist on feeling everything at all times. Well, old habits die hard, it seemed).
He silently weaved his way around the main area of the warehouse and got to the front door, where the equipment for the minutemen was stored for easy access and quick response to an attack. With trained, quasi-automatic movements, he slid his socks on, his boots following, and threw his coat over his shoulders. He pulled his gloves on, and then wound a scarf around his neck, following with a hat and topping it all off with his riding goggles. He grabbed his gun from the front as well and threw the strap across his shoulders.
Once he was fully equipped, he turned back around and avoided all the other Nations as he made his way to the roof. Inside the greenhouse, he quickly opened the storage box that contained all the emergency backpacks and grabbed two of them. His brain was still screaming at him, telling him that this was a bad idea, that it was wrong and that he wasn’t setting the right example, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. The cold air was biting, but not cold enough to make him reconsider. Without further ado, he took the ladder on the roof back down to the front, and jogged lightly to catch up when he spotted Scotland at the storage for the bikes.
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Post by Scotland on Jul 20, 2012 10:46:12 GMT -5
The bike started up with a satisfying roar and then idled into a coughing purr. He was checking the fuel levels when England showed up, burdened with packs. A red eyebrow raised at the packs, wondering why they were burdening themselves before they even left. He held his tongue though. Maybe there was some great powerful weapon in there that would be worthwhile.
While the bike's engine warmed a bit, Scotland waited, smoking as he watched his little brother situate his own bike. There was a touch of excitement at the idea of heading back out and getting out some frustration on creatures he didn't have to feel bad about taking out. He also had to deal with worry that England was going to be a foolish ass and either end up dead or undead on his watch. If that happened he was probably better off ending them both rather than go back. The others wouldn't be able to forgive him losing the guy holding the world together just because he wanted some damn whiskey. It left him with mixed emotions, so he pulled his goggles onto his head, resting them on his forehead for the moment as he climbed onto the bike.
The cigarette was finished so he tossed the butt down and stepped on it, then he held his hand out towards his brother expectantly. If England was carrying two packs, one was probably meant for him to carry. Unless England was going to carry both and look like some odd twin-shelled turtle.
[Ceiling Tina is watching us derp]
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Post by [x] Spain on Jul 20, 2012 14:17:49 GMT -5
((And Ceiling Spain. I stalk this thread too. XD PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR POSTING THIS IGGY. FELT LIKE SHARING.))
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Post by England on Jul 20, 2012 23:43:59 GMT -5
England just raised one of his trademark eyebrows at him, and threw the pack at him before starting his bike. He didn't know how long they would be gone, but in case of emergency, he always wanted to have a way of surviving until they could get back home. Bringing the emergency packs was the only logical move his brain had made until now, and honestly, it felt like he'd filled up his quota already.
"So, are we leaving, or does drunk driving not agree with you all of a sudden?" oh god, he felt horrible saying all these things he shouldn't. Not when he was supposed to be the responsible one, and certainly not when he just wanted to set the good example for everyone. He was cracking, though, and some part of him recognized that he would never carry the same authority as he had once done. The times that England was desperately trying to latch onto were dead and gone, and he just wished he could accept that already.
Wordlessly, he kicked off the stand and threw one of his legs over the bike, mounting it and throwing an expectant look at Scotland. He really just wanted today to be over. He didn't even know what he was doing. Hopefully, he could forget by tomorrow morning.
(And hopefully, the others could forgive).
[[That explains where the views are coming from... ]]
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Post by Scotland on Jul 21, 2012 8:16:12 GMT -5
Scotland grinned at his brother's question, kicking back the kickstand after he slung the pack onto his pack, over the sword. "There 'noth' type o' drivin'?"
Having less than a glass wasn't even enough to get him tipsy, much less drunk. Just as a swallow or two wouldn't be enough to give more than a warm, fuzzy feeling in England's belly. Even if he was three sheets to the wind, Scotland would insist he was a great driver. Even after going off the road. If he went off the road, it was the road's fault. It was that sudden rut in the road that caused the accident, not him.
He pushed the bike forward with a foot and pulled out, heading to the gate. He hopped back off the bike once they reached the gate, staring through the chain link to check for movement beyond. When all was still but for the wind, he unlocked it and held it open for England to drive through. Once the younger brother was through, he pushed his bike through and then closed the gate, pulling the chain around to the outside to lock once more. He couldn't imagine anyone else would go out in the time it would take them to get back. With the gate secure, he hopped back onto his bike and took off, heading away down the road that led to the compound. He figured England would keep up, if for nothing else, just out of stubborness.
[ERMAHGERD, Ceiling Tina and Ceiling Spain are watching us derp. *feels special* You can take us to the capitol, because I have no idea just how far away its supposed to be, nor how infested.]
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Post by Argentina on Jul 21, 2012 8:32:41 GMT -5
(...Yeah... "derp"... that's what we're watching you do.... ssssssuuuuuurrrrreeee..~ Let's go with that.)
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