I came up with the idea for this after seeing a poster at my local laser games arcade advertising 'team building opportunities'. But I scrapped the lasers because they just weren't messy enough. ^_^ It ended up a longer than the others so it might seem a little rushed in places, so sorry about that.

In other news, there's a British Isles interview up on my profile page if anyone wants to read it.

Note: 'cachi' is pronounced 'ka-throatynoise-i.' It's Welsh for... well, guess.

This, thought Wales, was a really bad idea. He struggled to his feet, his clothes covered in mud, and staggered towards the nearest cover. He could feel a pain in his side – had he been hit? No time to check now; he could hear gunshots going off from both sides and he had enough experience of battlefields to know that staying in one place too long never ended well. He reached the cover and dropped down, panting hard, covered in scrapes and bruises. Then, dreading what he might find there, he touched a hand to his side and held it up. It was dripping with red. "Oh, cachi."

This day had all started so well. He'd had high hopes for it. It was an ambitious plan, maybe, but he'd had faith that it would solve all their problems. How had it gone so wrong so fast?

It had all begun the previous day.

"Come on, England," Wales sighed, tugging on his brother's elbow and causing him to draw a big squiggly line all down his paperwork. "Just apologise to Scotland."

"Why should I apologise to him? It wasn't my fault."

"I know, but if you just be the bigger person then you can start talking to each other again!"

England threw the form into the rubbish bin and began to fill out a new one, not even looking at Wales. "Not talking to him is fine by me. Maybe I'll finally get some peace and quiet."

It had been the same with Scotland. "Nae," he'd said, leaning on the remote and turning the telly's volume up so high Wales could almost feel the floor vibrate. "I amnae apologisin' ter that scunner. He's the one that started all o' this."

"But you did tear up his Peter Pan book."

"Only 'cause he said Robert Burns was a talentless git!"

"I thought you didn't read poetry!" He was shouting now, trying to make himself heard over the battle sequence blaring out of the speakers.

"I dunnae! I just dunnae think he should be talkin' that way aboot one o' my best writers!"

"You told Ireland that C.S. Lewis was a schizophrenic idiot with a mental age of six and a half."

"He asked for it! He was-"

"FREEEEEEDDDOOOMMM!" bellowed the television, drowning out Scotland's accusation. By the time the cheering had died down, his attention was back on the screen and Wales knew that the conversation was over.

He had stormed out of the room and stomped down the corridor to the kitchen. A cup of tea and some sort of chocolate biscuit was what was needed here. Something to calm him down and clear his head. He'd had it with their pointless bickering. It seemed like every second day someone was shouting or teasing or refusing to talk to someone else. They'd been together for centuries now and they still couldn't get along. It was ridiculous, immature, not to mention annoying, and Wales was sick of it.

That was when he passed the front door and his eye was drawn to a colourful flyer lying just under the letterbox. An advertisement for something. Someone must've been going around all the houses and dropping them off. He stopped, picked it up and read it carefully, front to back, title, enthusiastic bullet points complete with plenty of unnecessary exclamation marks, even the small print, and a wide smile spread across his face. Perfect.

The next day, the United Kingdom found themselves standing on a damp pavement, staring up at a grey concrete building so dull it had turned to spray-paint to make itself look interesting.

"I still think this is a stupid idea," said Northern Ireland, crossing his arms and glowering at Wales.

"I agree with him," said England. "Why are we even here, anyway?"

"Because you agreed to come! Remember the leaflet I showed you? This is a team-building activity. Perfect for businesses, corporations, groups and functions. Maybe you'll all finally stop bickering with each other! Besides, I already booked us in. They're expecting us."

"I don't bicker. I merely bring up reasonable concerns. It's you lot who overreact."

"Oh, stop yer whinin'. It willnae be so bad. It might actually be fun."

"See?" Wales turned and beamed at Scotland. "He thinks I'm right."

"He also thinks haggis is the height of culinary sophistication," muttered England.

"Just give it a go," sighed Wales. "Trust me, okay? I promise it'll all turn out fine."

And so, grabbing England's and Ireland's hands and leaving Scotland to follow along behind as he was the only one who could be trusted not to do a runner, Wales dragged them both off the pavement and into the building. He barely had time to register the shabby-looking front desk and the guns and body armour hanging off the wall before a sarcastic voice chirped, "Top of the mornin' to ya, lads!"

Wales winced. He hadn't been expecting her to ambush them like that. England, Scotland and Northern Ireland spun around very fast to see the Republic of Ireland sitting in one of the chairs by the door, one hand raised in lazy greeting.

"You invited her!" England hissed, apparently under the impression that she couldn't hear him. "Why would you do that?"

"If anyone needs to learn to stop arguing, it's you two," said Wales steadfastly, folding his arms and standing his ground. "I thought I'd make this a whole British Isles thing."

"It's the Northwest European Archipelago!" protested South.

"Oh, don't start," sighed England. "You're the only one that ever calls it that!"

"Just because you-"

"Are you here for the Team-Building Deluxe Package?" A receptionist appeared from a door behind the desk and gave them such a wide smile it made even Wales's face hurt.

"Yes," said Wales, marching up to the desk. "We have a booking."

"And what name would that be under, sir?"

"Kirkland."

"Kirkland?" South raised an eyebrow. "My name isn't Kirkland. I changed it decades ago."

"It used to- um, it's your maiden name," hissed England.

"Eleven o'clock booking under the name of Kirkland, here it is," trilled the receptionist, completely ignoring the fact that South looked no older than nineteen. "Only five, then? If you'll just follow me..."

Fifteen minutes later, all five of them had been suited up and briefed. They were all dressed in camouflage gear and held guns that were surprisingly similar to the real thing, except much messier and much less deadly. They had listened as the rules were listed and silently vowed to break every single one of them if it meant getting one up on someone else. The object of the game, they were told, was a simple one: capture the flag. Each team would have to protect their own while going after the flag of the opposing team and bringing it back to their base. If they were shot, they were out.

"I'm on England's team," said Northern Ireland quickly, dodging South's outstretched hand and ducking behind his brother.

"Fine then," she said, shrugging. "I'll be with Scotland."

"You be with us, Wales," said England.

"But it doesn't divide evenly..."

"Oh, dunnae worry aboot that," Scotland grinned. "We dunnae need anyone else."

And so, after only a short pause to decide on team names, Game One was underway.

The Royal Paintball Corps crouched in their bunker, Wales peering out of the window while England and Northern Ireland discussed strategy. Well, 'bunker' was a big word – it was more of a small hut with sideways slits for window, two doors at the sides and a flag stuck in the dirt right in the middle. But it protected them and gave them a good vantage point to survey the field, so it was alright by them.

"We should flank them," said England, grabbing a stick from the ground and using it to draw a diagram in the mud. "Wales can be a decoy while you and I sneak around the side. There's only two of them – even if one stays behind we'll still get them. Then we just take the flag and leg it."

"What?" Wales spun to face them. "Why do I always have to be the decoy? You be the decoy for once."

"I'm the military mastermind! Military masterminds never have to be decoys."

Northern Ireland grabbed the stick off England and made some amendments to the diagram. "How about Wales stays behind and guards the flag? If we all leave at once then it's defenceless."

"Good point..." mused England.

"I don't want to guard the flag! That's boring!"

"Alright then, how about an all-out frontal assault? Charge their bunker, shoot them both, take the flag. Boom boom boom, done."

"But that leaves no-one to take care of the flag," pointed out England.

"We won't need to if we distract them both, will we? We could-"

The door banged open, making them all jump. Scotland was standing in the doorway with his gun raised. Before they could do so much as shout in surprise, he shot them all one by one, turned and ran from the bunker, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

England gaped. "What the hell was-"

"You snooze you lose!"

Their heads snapped to the side of the bunker. South was waving at them, and in her hand was their now-paint-splattered flag.

Game One concluded with one point to the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom, nil to the Royal Paintball Corps.

"That actually really hurts," moaned Wales, rubbing his shoulder. The paint was cleaned away for the start of Game Two, but the bruise was still there. "I didn't realise it would hurt that much. I'm not sure I like paintball."

"Who was it that signed us up for it?" asked England, crossing his arms and glaring at Wales.

"I'm sorry. It was a bad idea. Can we go home now please?"

"We've paid for it now, haven't we?"

"I would actually quite like to go home as well," said Northern Ireland quietly. He was very pale and his hands shook slightly as he grasped his gun like a security blanket. It had taken a few minutes to calm him down after South had shot him, and now he was crouched in a corner with haunted eyes that made Wales regret bringing him along.

Paintball, it was agreed in the bunker of the Royal Paintball Corps, was the worst game in the world.

"Paintball," said South, keeping a lookout by the window of the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom bunker, "is the best game in the world."

"Agreed," laughed Scotland. "I havenae had this much fun since Bannockburn!"

"Did you see the looks on their faces when we ambushed them? Priceless. I wish this place let you bring cameras; I'd never have to watch TV again."

"And that diagram! They were plannin' soo hard they forgot ter fight."

"Maybe we should make this a regular thing? Form a league team or something?"

"I amnae gettin' on a team with those idiots."

"Good point," mused South. "We'd have to find people that could actually play."

"We can worry aboot that later. Fer noo, let's just focus on shootin' them as many times as we can in the time we have left."

South grinned. "You read my mind."

Over the next ten minutes, the Royal Paintball Corps and the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom met each other on the field of battle in a war more intense than any fought with armies or actual bullets. Wales crouched behind a cover with Northern Ireland, whose face was so grim with determination it was actually frightening. More to get away from him than anything else, he ducked out into open fire and shot at Scotland, who was leaning out from behind his cover. He missed and was forced to hurl himself to the ground to avoid an answering paintball. A triumphant laugh and a splatter from next to him told him that Northern Ireland was out of the game. Watching from behind his cover, he saw England charge South's position and receive a paintball to the chest.

It's just me now.

Wales peered around to see Scotland and South gaining on him, both with their guns raised. He clutched his gun to his chest. He was a small nation, it was true, and never the most powerful, but he was tough. He had fought for his place in the world, carved out his identity as a warrior, and he was not going to give up now. His brothers were out of action and now it was up to him to defend his honour, his country and his people. They thought they could defeat the proud nation of Cymru? They had another thing coming.

Wales hurled himself out to meet them, pumping the trigger as hard and fast as he could, promptly slipped in a puddle and landed face-first in the mud.

And that was how he ended up crouched back behind his cover with red paint dripping from his hand, his monthly swear-quota one word closer to being all used up. "You hit me," he called out, standing up. "I'm out."

Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom: two, Royal Paintball Corps: nil.

"What's the point?" sighed North, sitting huddled in the corner of their bunker at the start of the third game. "We'll never win. I just want to go home."

"It still hurts where they shot me." Wales rubbed his side with one hand and his shoulder with the other and pulled a face. "You'd think those paintballs were made of lead."

"Not to be a downer or anything," said England sarcastically, "but I think it's about to rain."

"Oh, brilliant."

"Come on, guys!" Wales jumped to his feet and glared around at them all. "We need to stop sitting here and whingeing or Scotland and South are going to ambush us again. We outnumber them! If we cooperate and work together, we can win this round!"

"Wales has a point," said North.

Five minutes later, their aches, pains and discomforts had been set aside and millennia of experience with war had been put into practice in coming up with a detailed battle plan. They would launch a flanking attack on the enemy bunker and neutralise their position. Wales, the fastest, would grab the flag and run while the other two covered him. They had back-up plans for every eventuality and solutions for any problems that could possibly come up. It was simple but effective and achieved unanimous agreement.

They left their bunker slowly, guns raised, checking thoroughly for enemy presence to threaten their flag while they were away. "Clear," said England, and they advanced towards the other side of the pitch. They moved quietly, hiding behind cover to make sure South and Scotland were nowhere to be seen, and, with a nod at each other, split up into the agreed formation. England would enter first from the left, then North from the right, then at their signal Wales would come in and take the flag. They concentrated on their plan as they approached the bunker; if everyone stuck to it, this would be perfect.

It became clear as soon as they reached the bunker, however, that something was wrong.

"There's no-one in there," said England, squinting through the slitted window. "Where are they? We didn't plan for this."

"They're in there," said North. "They're just hiding. Waiting to ambush us, probably."

"We have one up on them already," Wales pointed out. "They weren't out in the field so they must be here, and we can be ready for them when we go inside."

"Good point. Even so... I'll go first. I'll call when I see them and you come in, okay North?"

He gripped his gun, his face set in a way that made Wales wonder just how far removed from actual conflict this situation was for him. "Okay."

While they Wales and Northern Ireland hid behind a nearby cover, England carefully approached the door of the bunker. There was no sound from inside. He lifted his gun, his finger on the trigger, and pushed it open.

There was definitely no-one inside. No-one under the window slit, no-one in the corners, no-one anywhere. The flag was sitting completely undefended in the centre of the room.

Except, of course, for the person who had been standing right behind the door. As England advanced forward, South caught him from behind, swept his legs out from under him and raised her gun to his face. "How's it going, England?"

"What the-" he scrambled back quickly, trying to get away from the black hole only a foot away from his nose, and hit the wall. "South! I mean, Republic of Ireland! Where were- how did- what are you doing? Don't shoot me in the face!"

"Really? You don't want me to?" She looked at her gun, then at him, mock puzzlement on her face. "Because, you see, I'm not really sure you have a choice in the matter."

"But it hurts when you shoot people from across the field! It'll be really painful from this close!"

"Oh, you should've told me," she deadpanned. "Clearly I am absolutely repulsed by the thought of inflicting pain on you, England."

England panicked, the words tumbling over themselves in an effort to get out of his mouth. "But it'll get all in my eyes and my mouth and up my nose! How do you know it's not poisonous? You'll probably do some serious damage or something! Please don't shoot me in the face!"

She regarded him for a moment with barely-suppressed glee. "Grovel."

He stared.

"I said grovel! Go on!"

"Is this some sort of petty revenge for Halloween? Because I-"

"Of course this is petty revenge for Halloween, what did you think it was? Now grovel or I shoot!"

England considered his options. He could tell his arch-nemesis how wonderful she was and get off scot-free, or he could refuse and end up with a face-full of paint but keep a shred of his national pride. He stared up at the barrel of the gun and swallowed.

"Please don't shoot me, great and proud Free State Eire."

"Keep going."

"I have wronged you in the past, but you have bounced back from hardship with resilience most nations can only dream of. You are strong in battle and have a rich, beautiful culture – even that dance where they kick their legs around a lot – and I should count myself lucky to have a sister as beautiful and brilliant as you."

She smiled at him. "That's so sweet of you!"

A thought occurred to England. "Where's Scotland?"

"Oh, he's just outside chasing Wales and Northern Ireland away. He's probably shot them by now. Which reminds me," she lowered her gun to his chest, stood back a few paces and pulled the trigger. "Best I can do."

England looked down at the green paint dripping from his chest and nodded. "Fair enough."

Royal Paintball Corps: nil. Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom: three.

Game over.

"Come on, cheer oop!" Scotland grinned, as they all made their way back to the building. "Stop being such dooners! That was fun!"

"You shot me in the ear," hissed Northern Ireland. "That hurt. And it still hasn't stopped ringing, you know. You've probably ruined my hearing for life."

"Oh, it'll be fine. Stop whingein'."

"Now I have three bruises," said Wales, crossing his arms and glowering at Scotland.

"At least you aren't permanently disabled."

"At least you two didn't have to grovel to the Republic of Ireland."

"But ye have ter admit, she has style," said Scotland, almost admiringly. "England one, South tw-"

"Yes, yes, I know. You don't have to keep score. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"No-one's. Dinnae mind me, I'm just a spectator." There was a long, hate-filled silence, in which Scotland looked around at everyone in confusion, searching for a single spark of joy. "Am I really the only one who had fun?"

"I think South had fun," said Northern Ireland, jerking his thumb in the direction of his twin. She was walking a few paces apart from the other four, still smiling broadly.

"Ye ken why that was? Because we won! Ye never even shot us once! It's like Bannockburn all over again, isnae it, England?"

"This is nothing like Bannockburn," he hissed.

"Yes it is, because I won! Because I beat you! Because you're a loser- ah!"

At some point during Scotland's wild, gloating gestures, his finger must've worked its way onto the trigger of his gun. And, as he squeezed the gun for a better grip, he pulled it. A bright pink paintball soared across the field in a graceful arc and, before anyone could do anything but gape, hit South in the face.

She stopped. She wiped the paint from her eyes, revealing fire and hatred that would burn a snowman alive. She directed those eyes at Scotland.

"I'm sorry! I didnae mean ter-"

He was unceremoniously interrupted by a yellow paintball to the mouth.

"OI!" he roared, hefting his gun. "YE ASKED FOR THIS!"

A few minutes later, after Scotland and South were forcibly separated and dragged kicking and screaming back to the building by the paintball staff, England, Wales and Northern Ireland watched as their siblings were cleaned up. It was no small task; there was barely an inch between them that wasn't covered in rainbow paint.

"Supposed ter be teammates..." grumbled Scotland, trying to wipe paint from his face with a tissue while South, sitting as far away from them as possible, separated strands of paint-encrusted hair. "Didnae even give me a chance ter..." He looked up suddenly and glowered at Wales. "This is your fault."

"What? What did I-"

"He's right," said Northern Ireland. "You signed us up for this."

"We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you," England agreed.

"I thought it would be team-building! I thought it'd make you like each other!"

"Well ye did a fine job o' that, didnae ye?"

"Why couldn't you have signed us up for something nice? Why did you ever think paint would be a good idea?"

"And I probably won't hear properly for weeks," added North. "But that's Scotland's fault."

"And I won't get my dignity back ever, courtesy of the Republic of Ireland."

"I still think this is all Wales's fault..."

The United Kingdom didn't speak to each other on the drive home, except for the occasional muttered "This is all your fault...". Even Wales, after being blamed by everyone for trying to make them friends, gave up on them all and just glared around from a corner in an uncanny impression of Northern Ireland. But, even though it appeared so, the day was not a complete failure; Wales learned something that day that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

If you ever find yourself living in a house full of stubborn, pig-headed Brits who won't stop fighting with each other, it is not a good idea to arm them with paint.