Rule courtesy of Falkeno with help from mendelvianDescent
This is for our English cousins across the pond! Enjoy mates! :D
Rule 8669: To any magically inclined/spiritual/religious shipgirls, tonight's events were not any form of Dark magic, a sign of the apocalypse, or divine intervention, so please stop any doomsday preparations, all that happened was that England won on penalties in the world cup.
"No, I can't believe it either!" - Admiral Collingwood.
Rule 8669a: All British (and any other applicable) shipgirls, you are reminded that they still have duties to perform tomorrow, so please don't stay up too late celebrating, and don't drink too much either.
"IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING!, FOOTBALLS COMING HOME!" - Several intoxicated shipgirls
Falkeno said:
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I Couldn't resist the urge to not post this, and I'm not even a massive football fan.
Spoiler: In which St Patrick's Day comes early, in a manner of speaking
Scapa Flow Naval Base, 3 July
Now if there was one thing one attempted at their own risk it would have to be disturbing European shipgirls during a football match, especially if it happened to be for the World Cup. Rumor had it that the last time Abyssals tried to take advantage of the lull by attacking during a match, one fleet had gotten so enraged at the interruption that they utterly decimated the offending forces.
Tonight's viewing special for the fleet of Scapa Flow: England vs Colombia, the winner advancing to the quarterfinals. Given England's previous track record of getting eliminated by penalties during critical matches, hopes weren't particularly high (with a handful of notable exceptions, Victory and Duke of York among them), though that didn't stop them from showing their support — after all, there were six Lion(-class battleship)s among them, double the three of the team logo. With the match ongoing, the shipgirls had tapped into the lager reserves: 'take a shot every time the whistle is blown/the yellow card is shown/someone misses or saves', that sort of thing. Considering how heated the match got, it was no wonder some of them were getting intoxicated by the middle of the second half, and even outside the drinking games the liquor was flowing more freely than was usual, as Cunard's 'grand trio' were taking turns going on liquor runs to keep from running out.
They were definitely going to need all the booze they could get tonight: with the score tied at 1 apiece, the penalty shootout was upon them. Moment of truth now, this was where hopes could be dashed or a curse could finally be broken, and the room was buzzing with heightened, nervous excitement - to say nothing of how buzzed Victory, Sheffield, Renown, and Vanguard were becoming. Centurion was passing one of the Admiral's hats around, trying to get the destroyers to place their bets, until she came face to face with Conway and just paled at the meeting. The drill sergeant of the fleet was, in Queen Victoria's apocryphal words, not amused, and glared daggers at the would-be bookie in obvious displeasure. "There might not be a rule against betting just yet, but you keep that up and someone's going to put one in place because of the bean counters' complaints," she warned, snatching the hat from Centurion and promptly setting it down on the nearest table. Colombia scored, and a massive outcry of disappointment erupted in the room as Kenya took the distraction to swipe the hat without being spotted. That was when someone came back from the liquor run.
There was the sound of forehead hitting doorframe, muffled swearing, and then someone tall and statuesque entered the room carrying yet more bottles of liquor. "I come bearing gifts, and the gifts are the good stuff!" Even suffering from the same side effect that afflicted the White Star trio, Aquitania was still the Ship Beautiful, but tonight even his charms would have to bow to the almighty football match, now that the tension was becoming more and more palpable. "Rum, brandy, a bit of scotch for m'self—" "What, not going to share a glass or two with us?" came a voice from the back as one of the taller ladies got to her feet. Her auburn hair out of its usual bun for a change, Lusitania surveyed her younger half-brother with a bit of amusement. "Well I mean, you and Mauretania are going on a run now, right?" "Not now, no," Mauretania pointed out, offering an empty glass to Aquitania in an unspoken request to pour her one, "not since the match has gone to penalties and I don't want to miss anything." "Wait what? Details details, I have got to see this!" Aquitania had to take a seat to avoid blocking the view, passing the rum to Belfast so she could refill her flask before he went to pour Mauretania a glass of sherry.
"Colombia just scored," Belfast began without preamble, shushing the chattery Duke of York and Vanguard beside her with a well-placed glare. "Come on England, show them what you've got..." England scored its penalty shot: 1-1 now, and an exultant cheer went up through the room. Victory, already descending under the influence, broke into premature strains of "It's coming home, it's coming, football's coming home!" Colombia scored: 2-1, and the shipgirls waited with bated breath for their team's response, a tall and broad shouldered young man slipping discreetly into the room unnoticed.
"Hello ladies! Glad I could get here before I missed all the action," Britannic said, leaning on one wall before checking a glance at the screen. "I got one of the other hospital ships to fill in for me in absentia but in the meanwhile this doctor is out and ready to party! Not too hard though, someone still has to be designated driver when all of you undoubtedly get yourselves five sheets to the wind instead of three," he added, folding his arms over his chest as he looked out over them. Belfast dared breathe a sigh of relief now that someone decently responsible was here, taking a long draught from her rum flask before turning her attention to the match once more.
England again - 2-2 and a roar of ecstatic delight, Britannic actually fistpumping and jumping in his excitement that they were holding their own for a change. Colombia scored anew: 3-2, bring out a collective "Noooo!" from the viewers. And then England missed, and the Three Lions fans outright erupted in a furor over the missed opportunity, fists shaken and expletives flung left right and center. Colombia missed when their next shot came up, the tension ratcheting up further as the chanting made itself known as far as Admiral Collingwood's office: "England! England! England!" "Shhhh!" Belfast hissed, turning up the volume. "Put a sock in it or we'll miss seeing the shot!" England did not disappoint, bringing the score on penalties to 3-3 to rabid and frenzied cheers, Vanguard going slack-jawed in shock as she slipped away to take care of business.
Colombia fucking missed again. The subsequent explosion of cheers and heightened excitement was undoubtedly giving the Admiral a headache at this point even though he was relatively removed from the source, and he rubbed his temples with a longsuffering sigh as he turned to George V. "If that team pulls off the impossible and somehow manages to win on penalties I might just need a drink. Both to absorb the shock and to deal with all the mayhem these ladies will get up to if it should ever happen," he groused. The Admiral spoke too soon, much too soon, because not even five seconds after that, England scored its winning penalty shot to end the game: 1-1, (4-3) on penalties. And then all celebratory hell broke loose.
"THE CURSE IS BROKEN! IT'S COMING HOME!" Cheering, raucous and loud, erupted throughout Scapa Flow - not just the shipgirls, but the human personnel too, everyone who gave a rat's arse about these things rushing through the halls to spread the good news. "It's a miracle! Saints be praised, hallelujah!" "No way, it's dark magic I tell you! Someone made a deal with the Red Guy Downstairs and swung the odds in our favour!" A few pairs of eyes came look at HMS Lion, assuming her suspect solely for bearing the namesake animal of the team's logo. "Don't look at me like that, I wouldn't be so dumb or smashed enough to try anything of the sort!" Vanguard made a reapparance with a pack slung over her shoulders, apparently stocked with supplies from the commissary. "No no no, it's the end of the world! The impossible is happening, now the end is coming for us! Everyone to the fallout shelters, bugout bags at the ready!" And backgrounding the debate, four drunk shipgirls leading the chorus of Three Lions: "IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING, FOOTBALL'S COMING HOME!"
Admiral Collingwood had had enough of this. The racket and din was growing nigh excessive, and as much as he could sympathize with the celebrations they still had duties to attend to come the following day. Sighing as he shook his head, the man got to his feet with half a mind to talk some sense into them - and then someone broke his door down. "My namesake is ours! England has won the day!" Victory roared, leading the charge with three of the Lion-class battleships being carried behind her on a great big bedsheet born by at least half a dozen shipgirls, a makeshift palanquin and an awful pun if ever there was one. "Thank God for lucky breaks! We've got a shot at the cup!" Duke of York exclaimed, hoisting the sheet just a bit higher and causing Temeraire and Thunderer to knock heads accidentally. "This was witchcraft!" Edinburgh objected, adding for good measure "Ask the wizarding community, one of 'em did something!" "The end is near!" Renown bemoaned, the redness in her face testifying to her tipsiness. "We're all gonna die!"
"Enough! Ladies, ladies, may I have your attention please!" the admiral shouted into a megaphone, trying to bring some semblance of order back into the rising tide of celebratory mayhem. "No, I can't believe it either, but tonight's events were not any form of Dark magic, a sign of the apocalypse, or divine intervention, so pleasestop any doomsday preparations! All that happened was that England won on penalties in the World Cup!" His last statement was met with a roar of enthusiastic cheering from the crowd blocking the hallway and spilling into his office. "THREE LIONS ON A SHIRT, JULES RIMET STILL GLEAMING, ALL THESE YEARS OF HURT, NEVER STOPPED ME DREAMING-" "Ladies ladies ladies please!" Dammit, Collingwood was caught between rock and hard place for sure, between catching flak from the higher-ups for letting them run amok or getting on the wrong end of multiple intoxicated shipgirls who had some very formidable weaponry. Faced with this dilemma, he hedged. "Alright stop, stop, stop!" Once silence of some degree fell, he cleared his throat. "I know it's late, and we all want to celebrate the penalty curse being broken at long last. But for God's sakes you still have duties to perform tomorrow, so please don't stay up too late celebrating, and don't drink too much either. Er, that is all." As the cheering fleet milled out of the office, Collingwood called for Belfast. "I need a fucking drink, two, three, make that ten fucking drinks. Spare me a bottle of rum why don't you?"
Things only went downhill from there, now that the admiral had been constrained into giving his blessing to the festivities. Lusitania and Mauretania had decided to dash off to procure yet more liquor, seeing their colleagues off before practically sprinting off to get the good stuff. A few minutes after the Cunarders left for their liquor run, a long low chord could be heard tearing through the night air, a distant sound of massive steam whistles being blown - once, twice, three times, like three roars of a lion - followed by what sounded like artillery fire. Titanic and his escorts came back from sortie cheering for England's victory, and the liner practically sought out his older brother to hurl himself at Olympic in a hug, before capturing their gleeful reaction to tonight's events in a captioned photo: 'Belfast-born, home port Liverpool! Grats on breaking curse! #ItsBeenXXYears'
Despite Britannic's best efforts to get them to desist, Vanguard managed to rope Repulse and Edinburgh in making effigies of the Colombian team, 'christening' them with full bottles of alcohol before setting them on fire. Lusitania and Olympic, debating the alcohol tolerance of Scots versus Irish, got into a drinking contest that ended with both of them red in the face and breaking a table beneath their dancing feet while Titanic, his tie undone and his face ruddy from dabbling in the good stuff himself, played a jig on the fiddle. And all the while, there were repeated strains of Three Lions heard everywhere: blasted through speakers, sung by shipgirls in varying degrees of drunkenness. The Lion-class battleships were the stars of tonight, grouped in two sets of three and carried aloft on bedsheets borne by four shipgirls to a side as an incredibly lame visual pun (three Lions on a sheet) on the team logo, and milking it for all it was worth, they were more than happy to soak up in the attention - Monarch, living up to her name, even tried her hand at issuing orders while she was at it.
Each hour came and went, and the party seemed to be showing no signs of abating. Belfast could swear she had lost track of how many times she had had to break up a brawl in progress as drunk colleagues debated plays and tactics, or how many times she had to drag away destroyers before they could go out and challenge Abyssals in their sloshed state (whoever gave the destroyers booze was in so much trouble), and she was already through her third bottle of rum that night for sheer fucking stress. Britannic wasn't faring any better, trying to carry shipgirls back to their quarters when they ended up protesting that they weren't that drunk yet even as they poured themselves another glass for the night, and himself downing a couple glasses when things were at a lull. The double palanquin stunt with the Lion-class shipgirls came to a crashing halt when the sheet-bearers, then three sheets to the wind, went down for the count, taking their respective trios of battleships with them. The climax of the crazy came when Kongou somehow managed to arrive at quarter to 3am, bringing several bottles of sake and her overenthusiastic attitude to cap off the lively celebrations til everyone either called it a night and turned in, or otherwise ended up passed the fuck out.
Without a doubt, the great majority had too much to drink. Scapa Flow's shipgirl fleet was collectively suffering from the biggest hangover since before the rum ration had been discontinued, some of them even going so far as to don earmuffs or blindfolds to block out the unpleasant sensory onslaught of the morning after, and the porcelain thrones were seeing many a shipgirl's stomach contents being evicted into them. Britannic had left aspirin for everyone and notes to "take two and call me ASAP", having gone back to work with a bit of a headache of his own earlier that morning.
Collingwood awoke at his desk with hammers on anvils pounding inside his skull, nothing he wasn't used to on bad days but still enough to have him letting out a long, low "Fuuuuuck my bloody life." What he was not used to, however, was the rich, delicious aroma wafting just a few inches away from his face. Grumbling and groaning as he slowly straightened up from his awkward and painful position, the admiral found a plate heaped high with bacon, eggs, and sausages on his table, not to mention the cup of fresh steaming coffee. At that moment the door opened, and the Admiral was greeted by the sight of a hungover secretary ship fresh from the WC. "Did you make all this?" George V shook her head as she walked into his office, holding a bag of ice to her head. "I wish. Aquitania made a delivery while you were out cold, and left a note while he was at it." Mildly intrigued, Collingwood lifted his plate and found folded stationery beneath, opening the note to read.
"Admiral,
Apologies are probably in order for the ruckus the whole lot of us caused the previous night. Seeing as practically all of us including yourself are struggling through the biggest mass hangover in recent memory, have a little something for the morning after. England's your team too after all, so maybe a full English to celebrate? Regards,
-the folks from Cunard and White Star"
To have one or two liners manning the kitchens was nothing new. But five? When one had full English breakfasts to whip up for so many hungover personnel, there was definitely an advantage in strength in numbers, even though all of them were nursing hangovers to varying extents. Belfast was first to arrive for breakfast thanks to her immunity to hangovers, and was promptly surprised to see the liners up and at it in the kitchens when most of the others were still down for the count. "Well. Looks like you lot got the flat of the blade instead of the edge", she said in reference to being not as hungover as the others, raising a brow at them as she folded her arms over her chest. "I'm guessing you White Star boys must be counting your lucky stars to be Irish by technicality?"
"Being Belfast-built definitely played a part in it, yes," Titanic admitted, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his captain's cap low enough to shield his eyes from too much light. "But neither of us could hold a candle to you ma'am, not when we've never been quite as hard-drinking as yourself. Hangovers, well, they tend to hit us more like a hickory cane than a sledgehammer." "I mean, to be fair," Olympic added, a bit of a cocky smirk on his face, "we do drink good and hard on special occasions? Last night more than qualified, but it's not a regular occurrence at all for us so it's still a bit of a shock for our systems. Remind me not to do that again."
"No promises, but I get that. What about you three?" Belfast asked, turning to the grand trio. Mauretania just smiled, cracking two eggs one after the other without breaking stride as Lusitania finished downing her second coffee of the morning. "Let's just say we decided to be responsible while these two-" here she gestured to Olympic and Lusitania, "drank themselves under the table-" "Over the table," Aquitania cut in, sliding some bangers onto the pan and stepping back as they quite literally began to do what their name suggested. "I got footage and can confirm Olympic has wicked moves when sloshed." Belfast nodded at the other, perhaps a little amused at the recollection. "You know what they say after all. Those legs are definitely not just for show."
Half an hour, an hour passed, and eventually everyone was found present and accounted for, and the liners had full English breakfasts ready for all in celebration of last night's win and to help with the brutal hangover so many of them were suffering. Discussion of the match was still rife among the shipgirls, though for the time being honestly, Belfast had had more than enough of it for the next day or two. And then the question came up, the question nobody had really considered the night before:
"So how about England versus Sweden this Saturday?"
"Uuuuuuuuugh." Screw it, the idea of last night repeating itself on Saturday was more than she wanted to think about while sober. Belfast reached for her rum flask, popped the top, and downed the whole damn thing in a few long gulps.