The Goliath Beetle requested that I write her birthday fic about the recent announcement of Britain's new game plan in Libya: blasting Bollywood music at the terrorists. I all too willingly obliged, because the whole thing is honestly hilarious. Making this fic about 99.5 percent banter and .5 percent plot.
I've never written Pakistan or India before, so I hope they're up to your standards, my dear. Happy birthday. :)
"I think you both already know why I asked you to come here today."
"So we can laugh at you while you try to withstand the heat and then find the snake we put in your water bottle?"
"Please take this seriously, India." England shuffles a little closer to his canteen.
"Like anyone can take a stuffy guy like you seriously."
"What was that, Pakistan?"
"Don't make me say it twice." Pakistan folds his arms and frowns at England. "You might yell at me for inefficiency."
Beside him, India stifles a giggle.
"You know, I think this whole music weaponization plan is the first good idea you've ever had," he says to Pakistan.
"Because that just means so much coming from you."
"Okay," England says, a drop of sweat creeping down the front of his uniform, "we understand: you don't precisely like each other that much—"
"And we don't exactly like you very much, either—"
"Yes, thank you for your input, India." England sighs. This desert is simply much too hot. Having India and Pakistan and their bickering to deal with does little to make him more comfortable. "Anyway, back to business. You really think Bollywood music is the weapon we're looking for?"
"The fact that you even consider that a question shows how little you understand about Bollywood," India says, sitting down cross-legged on the sand and sipping his chai. England feels a little grumpy about India's heat tolerance levels.
"Yes, of course it's the best weapon we have for driving out those bastards. They'll find it frivolous and annoying—"
"Oh, please. Don't act like you don't play my music and watch my movies. You love them and you know it."
"I do not."
England contemplates moving over to the shade and drawing up a plan himself. Once he realizes there is likely no shade anywhere in Libya, he sighs, blocks out the next week to sit in an ice bath with a cup of Darjeeling at home in London, and clears his throat.
"All right, listen to me, both of you."
India snorts. England ignores him.
"Here's what we have to consider. I'm not allowed to fight here. It's Libya's job to drive out the terrorists once training is finished. In other words, let's do this without getting our hands dirty—no insulting me while I'm talking, Pakistan."
"I was just going to say that doing this without getting our hands dirty will be impossible. For you and this guy here, anyway." Pakistan points at India and looks the other way.
"I hate you."
"I hate your music."
"You do not."
"The issue here is not whether or not Pakistan likes Hindi film music. It's whether or not it'll make the bastards stumble over themselves. And now—"—England raises his voice at the two Asian nations, who are sitting with their arms crossed and most definitely not looking at each other for the rest of the foreseeable future—"—we need to talk about how we want to do this. In case anyone is still listening to me.
"My Joint Special Operations Command team has managed to intercept the insurgents' communications. It took lots of time and clever problem solving, but we've got the job done."
"We get it, Mr. Ex-Colonial Power. You know how to play around with a few radio dials," Pakistan says, making India glance over his shoulder at him with a half-smile.
"It's more than just playing with a few radio dials. It takes a specific kind of jamming equipment—"
"And I thought we were the ones who weren't staying on task," India says. Now Pakistan returns the smirk.
England curses himself for leaving his paracetamol at the other camp, ten miles and a bucketload of sweat away.
"Fine. Be that way. India, do you have that list of songs we can play?"
"You bet." India takes ten pieces of paper out of his pocket. "Here are a few suggestions for the first wave."
Pakistan snatches them out of his hands before England can take them.
"There's not a single song from Kismat Konnection on the first page. That's unforgivable."
"That's because that movie's not that great—wait." India grins. "You admitted it."
"What? Don't look at me like that. It's weird."
"You liked that movie, didn't you? I remember now: that movie was super popular at your place, wasn't it?"
"Oh, leave me alone." Pakistan makes a face and hands the anti-terrorist playlist (or the "How Bollywood Saved Everyone and Brought about World Peace" playlist, as India has titled his compilation) to England. He peruses it with a smile.
"Excellent work, India."
India sips his chai a bit more loudly.
"Besides playing these over every communications channel they've got, Pakistan said we should think a bit more long-distance," England says. "What did you have in mind?"
Pakistan pulls out his own ten sheets of paper.
"Here are the plans," he says. "We'll drive two vehicles near the checkpoint outside the city. Then, we'll ditch them and use remote controls to blast music from the speaker systems. Not only will this piss them off—as it should, considering how bad this music is—but also it'll help us figure out what their response time is, and how many people they'll send out to deal with the music. It's an excellent strategy."
"Sounds good. I'll drive one car and Libya can drive the other. Pakistan, you can stay here and get the remotes ready."
"Wait, what about me?" India sets his teacup down in the sand. "It's my music, so I should get to drive."
"Yeah, you're responsible for this horror, so of course we're going to let you drive." Pakistan stands up to follow England, who has begun to escape toward the cars. "Of course."
"Libya and I can handle it, India," England says over his shoulder. "You can go on home."
"Wait, wait, no, India should get to drive." Pakistan glares at the other Asian. "England has no idea what he's talking about, as usual."
"Yeah, he doesn't. I don't drive through Mumbai and Delhi every day just to be told I can't drive through the desert." India stands on his tiptoes and calls after England. "You'll melt into a puddle on the driver's seat."
"England, you can just ride shotgun, if you must tag along at all."
"No, don't give him a shotgun, stupid."
England rolls his eyes.
If India and Pakistan can only agree on one thing, of course it just has to be their love of messing with him.
At least Operation: Save the World Hindi Style is off to a good start, and England has managed to get India to agree not to make a movie about it.
Or so he thinks.
I know little to nothing about Bollywood, but I do know that while the movie Kismat Konnection was a bit of a flop in India, it was very successful in Pakistan. Bollywood movies and music in general are quite popular in Afghanistan and Pakistan, although they are often banned because they are considered un-Islamic.