Take Me Out [Scotland]

[Liechtenstein]

((Ceiling Liechtenstein is also stalking this thead. I hope you won't get mad for me posting here...I had to confess, the guilt was too much))

[mlpnkobnhjui]

((I stalk every thread, just so you know...Sorry but I couldn't help it))

[England]

England refused to be second to his brother, so maybe it was out of sheer stubbornness that he accelerated, just enough to take the lead before falling back into a steady speed. Scotland was a few meters behind him, as security dictated, so he really couldn't yell any snide remarks to him, which was okay, because England didn't feel like talking very much. Maybe his sharp tongue would return once he awoke from his drunken stupor (something he unfortunately was looking forward to), so he didn't count on it for the moment.

The ride would be long, he knew, but if he kept his eyes on the prize at the end, it would be alright. At least, he hoped it would be. Something always seemed to go awry in everything he ever did. Another pang went through his heart as all his failures rushed back to him, and the promise of sweet darkness was getting even more alluring by the second. England sped up. Only two more hours left.

[[Wtf so many people Uhhh... Okay. Short post is short. You can indicate the timeskip, if you want.]]

[Scotland]

[Artie, I said to take them to the Capitol. That's it, England is paying for this.]

The ride was pretty long, especially when it was spent staring at England's behind. So Scotland amused himself the way he usually did while drunk, sober or otherwise. He sang. He sang loudly and without care, not even trying to stay on key. Each time England changed speed, perhaps to escape him, big brother changed to match him. He serenaded his little brother with such classics as:

"Oh, You take th' high road and I'll take th' low road, an' I'll be in Scotland afore ye!"

as well as:

"They crept up on yon sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be, lifted up 'is kilt aboot an inch so they could see! An' there behold, fer them tae see, beneath his Scottish skirt, was nothing moor than God had graced 'im wit' upon 'is birth!"

Others were sang as well, mourning for lost loves and bonnie lasses, ballads of longing for the lands of his home, as well as songs he had once sang to the infant kings of Scotland's past, not to mention to baby England and Wales.

"Dance tae yer daddy, me bonnie laddie, dance tae yer daddy, me bonnie lamb! An' ye'll get a fishie, in a little dishie, oh ye'll get a fishie, when th' boat comes home!"

The skyscrapers of the old capitol came into sight first, dark spots upon the horizon like ships looming as they came in from the sea. They passed abandoned cars whose owners had probably fled on foot or died inside. He didn't look in the windows. He tried his hardest to keep watching ahead and not look in the windows. There were undoubtably undead in the cars, trapped inside with their rotten brains unable to figure out how to work the door latch or the window cranks. He followed England in as far as he dared. Once they were close enough he could see hints of movement in the city, he slowed down and came to a full stop off the side of the raod. Riding the bikes into the city would be far too noisy. They were better off leaving their bikes in plain sight, away from the cars so they couldn't be ambushed on the way out, and walking in.

He revved his engine several times to get England's attention. They had to work out a plan.

[Ceiling nations assemrrraaawwllggh:



while the brothers are like this:

]

[Argentina]

(Scotland. I officially want you to marry me.)

[England]

((Scotland, let me bow down to you forever xD))

If England had to use one word to describe how the ride was for him, it would be this:

Please just blow my ears out and kill me already.

Which was a bit more than just a word, but it qualified how hellish the ride was very well. Irritation was going up and down inside of him, and every time he heard Scotland bellowing some lyrics in an awfully horrid version of the song in question, he physically had to retain himself from turning his bike and ramming into him. He didn't comment, either, because he knew it would be futile (also, because a few of the songs he sang, England did know, and they did bring memories to attention, and he did spend quite some time trying to push them into the back of his mind again).

It felt like forever before the city came within sight, and another forever before they stopped to get off. England groaned and did a couple of squats to shake the numbness out of his lower body, then stretched before turning to Scotland.

"So, any bright ideas, or should we just barge into the first liquor store or supermarket we see? Because I'm alright with anything, as long as we don't have to stay here more than we have to." the consequences of his acts were floating dully in his mind, constant reminders of how stupid he was being, but he didn't pay attention to those: he'd leave feeling guilty for the morning after.

[Scotland]

The bike's kickstand was engaged as Scotland stood and stretched. "First store wit' liquoor innit sounds good. An' smokes!" He walked up next to the other and heavily clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Twas braw /good/, aye? Anythin' ye remember?" He was of course, talking about his singing.

He shifted his hand from the shoulder to stroke at England's cheek with the tip of his finger, like one might pet a kitten on its cheeks. England typically wasn't much for physical affection (or at least, not Scotland's), so he knew the touch wouldn't be well received, and it was meant to irritate. Scotland liked that he could use touch to drive the other away. It was one of the few methods he had to extend a little control over the head of household. It was the times England stood his ground despite the touching that Scotland understood just how angry and/or serious the other was. If Scotland was just as serious, it could turn to blows.

He couldn't see a liquor store right away, or a market for that matter, but it shouldn't take long to find one. He could probably even stay above ground for this trip.

[Short post too. Have to see how big of a hissy fit Artie throws. Scotland is basically doing this:

]

[England]

He remembered a lot of them: songs he'd heard Scotland humming, songs he'd heard him belting out, songs he'd heard him sing with an accompaniment, songs he'd heard him teach others... Songs that had once indicated to run away in the opposite direction, songs that drew him to his big brother's voice, songs that had once helped him fall asleep, and songs that had once made him cry. Songs that reminded him of the past, and songs that made him look towards the future.

"None. I could barely make out anything you said with that bloody barbarian accent of yours. Maybe wearing some pants under your skirt will make you a little more civilized. You should try it one day." England then slapped his hand away, irritated. "And don't treat me like some kind of cat. You're not being amusing. I'm already enough on edge, so if you don't watch yourself, I won't hesitate before kicking you right at some zombies and watching from above as they eat you inside out."

Admittedly, the image gave him sudden and violent nausea. Like he controlled his emotions (most of the time), though, he controlled the shivers that were begging to rack his frame.

"Let's just go." he huffed before taking a few steps in advance of his brother. "We'll take the rooftops. Much safer route."

((England is secretly resisting the urge to roll on the ground and twitch his leg like that. Haha, so cute <3 ))

[Argentina]

(This is how Iggy really reacted:

)

[Scotland]

Scotland had been half-smiling before his hand was slapped away. He wasn't smiling anymore. The words stung like a sand storm against exposed skin. It wasn't so much that he was shocked his little brother could do such a thing, so much as he was certain his little brother would do it. He'd seen with his own eyes what England was willing to do. He'd been there, fighting for France, when Joan of Arc was taken. He'd endured the tender mercies of Cumberland the Butcher in the aftermath of the failed Jacobite rebellion.

With a snarl he darted forward and grabbed for the pack on the other's back, trying to jerk the other back towards him. "Ye wear pants wit' a kilt an' tis just a bloody skirt! Ye take yer civilized an' shove it up yer kitty erse!"

He was yelling, and maybe the undead could hear him at this distance, or maybe they couldn't. He didn't care. The shambling undead were easy to dispatch. He'd always held out hope that cute little brother that followed him around before Ancient Rome put up the wall to keep them separated still existed, somewhere in there. Sometimes there were signs he was still in there, just below the surface. Other times, Scotland was certain he'd died under Rome's care.

[Scotty wants to leg sweep England and leave him there. But trying not to god mode. And Tina, I think you hit the nail on the head XD]

[Argentina]

(It's funny how, if you know what exactly to type into Google, you can find a gif or meme that describes pretty much anything that happens in a roleplay. XD

For example, here's Drunk!Tina in a nutshell:

)

[England]

[Tinaaaaaaa, I thought there wasn't a reply because your name was the one I kept seeing on the front page D: Huwfhowirgijwr I'm so late, so sorry ;___; ]

England immediately bristled and struggled to get out of Scotland's grip, twisting around to face him although he fought to swallow the fear and slight hurt that sprung up in his heart. He hated it when his brother and he fought like this. He wondered if some day, they'd be able to get on properly together. They'd lasted throughout centuries, during which they only antagonized each other, and every time things went too far, England found it in himself to feel guilty, guilt he reflected on the outside with more yelling and more antagonizing. The twinge in his heart was familiar: he'd had to live by it for over the last millennium.

"Listen, just calm your bloody tits!" he growled right back at his brother, disappointed by how he never -ever- seemed to be able to start a civilized conversation with him. "Christ, are you trying to get us heard? You're getting worked up over something so pointless!" Which was England-speak for 'please disregard what I said before, I didn't mean it'. "Just take a breather and let's move before the undead decide to join the party." Which was England-speak for 'I don't want to fight anymore'. Or, alternatively, 'I can't fight anymore'. Or even 'please don't make me fight anymore'.

Either way, England was tired of fighting, be it against the undead, against the laws of nature, or against his own brother. He was just so tired.

[Scotland]

Scotland is still glaring at the other while being berated. He'd let go of the pack when England turned to face him. The words were meaningless. The expressions on England's face were much more telling. He noted the flash of fear in the wrinkles that appeared between the thick brows that uniquely identified their family, and the show of the whites of his eyes. The whites became less visible as the eyes narrowed, and the skin around his mouth tightened in a display of frustration. When the eyebrows dropped low over his eyes, anger took over. These were faces Scotland was used to. Once the yelling stopped, the muscles of his face seemed to go lax, as if exhausted. It highlighted the darkness under his eyes that started shortly after the affliction began, and hadn't yet gone away. It made him look drained and tired.

It was that last expression that made Scotland snap his head to the side as if he couldn't bear to look at the other any longer. He followed the motion up by turning his body away as well, turning his back to England in a display of both disregard and expectation that England wouldn't attack his back.

He placed his hand on his sword hilt and drew it out, rolling his shoulder a few times as he did, limbering up. "Yer wasting me drinkin' time, ye wee scunner /nuisance/. Haud yer wheesht! /Be quiet/"

Loosely translated: 'my bloody tits are calm.' The redhead started off towards the city, figuring England would catch up. He couldn't be foolish enough to wander off on his own. Even so, despite his head looking away, his ears listened sharply for the sound of the other's footsteps. If England diverted and took a different path, Scotland would follow him. From a distance. Far enough he wouldn't be noticed right away.

[England]

England stood in his place a few seconds, fists clenched and trying to regulate his heartbeats. He couldn't afford to get worked up over everything that happened. Not when he had other things to worry about. He wouldn't let himself be affected by any of this. His job was to rid the continent of zombies. Not work out issues with his brother. He couldn't let his personal life butt into his professional life. Even if his personal issues affected his professional performance.

He was just so conflicted, and just so tired. He just wanted it all to stop.

"Look at what you're doing to me." he wanted to say, but he knew it was wrong. It wasn't just Scotland. It was everything, the entire burden that had been placed on him. He was sure the other Nations felt it, too. The horrid weight that seemed to push them down at all times. He wondered if they'd found the strength to keep straight despite the weight of their responsibilities upon their shoulders.

Strength...

England still wasn't strong enough. Not strong enough to save the world, and not even strong enough to face his brother on equal footing. He felt like he would never be strong enough. Never had been, and never would be. The hopelessness inside of him was coursing too freely, and his brain called for something to repress and forget how weak he really was.

He remembered why he was there in the first place and turned around, jogging to catch up with his older brother.

"Arse." he muttered under his breath, but he knew that there was no venom in anything he said anymore.

[Scotland]

The undead closest to them had heard them. Besides the ones stuck in the cars, clawing uselessly at the closed windows, still seat-belted into their seats. Maybe it was their scent in the wind, but at any rate, a handful of the undead were shuffling towards the brothers. Scotland had heard England come along after him, putting that much of his mind at ease. When he was in about two car lengths from the zombies, he slid the pack off his shoulders and hefted his sword up onto his shoulder.

"Watch yer bum!" he yelled just over his shoulder before he moved at the shuffling crowd, screaming out a challenge at the top of his lungs to draw the attention to himself. "Come ahead, ye dobbers! /come at me, bro/"

This was his classic highland charge, most of its use completely lost on the zombies, who had no concept of fear or intimidation. However, it got him into the fight quicker, and old habits died hard. His first slash was meant to sever upper body parts from lower body parts, and a couple arms hit the ground as a few torsos, weakened from rot, tore away under the edge of and weight of his blade.

"A doon /smackdown/ fer ye! An' fer ye!" he yelled out as he spun on his heel and used the momentum to not only cut the upper half of a zombie from the lower half, his sword hit the zombie next to it hard enough to send it flying to the ground. He laughed at nearest halved zombie as it tried to shuffle itself along towards them with only its shoulders and upper arm stubs. "Ye got a face like it went on fire an' twas put out wit' a shovel!"

He planted a foot on its upper shoulders and drove the tip of his sword through the skull, bringing the zombie to a shuddering stop. He ripped it free with a ribbon of rotten blood trailing off the tip in time to swing at the zombie that reached him next. In the small breathing spaces he had between the zombies, he scanned the nearest buildings for ways up them from the outside.

[It happened. It cannot unhappen. England challenged me to this. Hope you don't mind I used your art, Tina:

]