A/N: … Hi all. I know I should probably work on the many stories I have temporarily abandoned (hue hue), but this plot bunny just would not get out of my head, and I just had to write it down. Okay, onto business: the character of Picardy is included in this chapter (spoiler!) because, for those who don't know, he actually is a character in Hetalia and not an OC. Yeah, I don't know why either, but he made his appearance on one of the Halloween webcomics, so I'll just take the liberty of using him in this. I just wanted to clarify in case anyone got confused about why the fuck a region was in this story XD. So just to be clear, this is a Nyotalia and Hetalia crossover... you probably all knew that though xD. Also, although this fanfiction is co-labelled under "Humor", it may not feel like one at first and will *probably* continue as it is; it'll also be quite dramatic at times, although not overly so; hence why it is co-labelled under the category of "Drama". Basically, it's just an odd mesh of the two that seems ridiculous and at times parody-like whilst also having rather serious aspects. Still not turned off yet? I like you ;). Well, I'll see how you feel about that later on, then, eh? Oh! Fair warning: there is a small author's note at the end providing translations, but know that they may not always be there in future chapters.

Have fun ;)

Chapter One

Door flinging open and slamming back against the stone wall, the blond nation irately stormed through the passageway and down the weathering steps at a hurried pace. His slightly heeled boots clacked against the cold stone, the sharp noises resonating across the cavernous chamber as he pressed on. His flaxen hair was in a particularly horrifying state of disarray, with strands of honey-wheat masking large emerald orbs, eyes alight with a maddening fury, glued just beneath a pair of monstrous eyebrows, which tugged downwards slightly.

Teeth grit together, his feet finally made contact with solid ground as his eyes fixed themselves on the centrepiece of the nation's underground lair; a gargantuan, murky, tome-like spellbook set upon a towering book stand, one fashioned purely from a dark marble.

The seemingly-perpetual scowl carved upon England's face did not waver; indeed, it only deepened in spite of him having reached his destination. He wandered further into the grimly-lit room, stepping into the chalk-engraved circle that lay etched into the stone, with rays of a blinding white tracing back to its roots; the book stand itself. It took him little to no time to reach the spellbook, which he none-too-gently grasped at. His blazing eyes of emerald green began leafing through the yellowing pages, his fingers deftly flipping over page after page as he scanned for the right spell; a feat rather difficult to accomplish in his current state of mind.

For inebriated though he undoubtedly was, it was his irrepressible and untameable anger that prevented him from thinking straight, his cheeks still dusted a diminishing pink, a remnant of the broiling fury that had not completely disappeared, whilst his ears remained a fiery crimson.

The red that obscured his vision had yet to dissipate, with the brunt of his anger directed towards he whom he considered his arch-nemesis. The nation in question, one with whom he had been at odds for centuries, had, in spite of their new-founded and uneasy alliance (which had now been completely tarnished, in England's righteous opinion), committed an act of the unspeakable kind, one which most certainly could not go unpunished, and would never be forgiven. It was he who was to blame for England's sour mood, and he who would pay a hefty price.

England's following actions would ensure that he had adequately enacted his revenge.

After all, anyone who dared make an embarrassment of the great nation of England was sure to suffer... and this time, England was going to make sure that France truly suffered.

An eye for an eye was what he sought, and as he perused the spellbook at an almost impossible speed, he knew for sure that it was what he'd get.

Giddiness gradually mingling with his fury, England flipped through the spells he deemed unworthy of his master plan. His eyes sought out transfiguration spells, and, more specifically, the spell needed to transfigure a specific type of entity into a frog.

Oh, he knew he could aim higher and pick a harsher punishment- goodness knows he would have, circumstances given- but it was England's moderate concern for the lives of all dwelling within his borders that prevented him from taking such a course of action. After all, he wanted to enact his revenge on France- not start a war with him!

… There would be time for that later.

However, as the minutes wore on with no sign of the desired spell, England's hope began to dwindle along with his morale.

But his desire and lust for revenge only increased.

His aggravation augmenting at not finding what he sought, England continued his paging at a more rapid pace. When it became clear that it was not the correct book that he had brought down to the casting chamber, England's fury was once more ignited. For you see, this little attack on France had been premeditated for a while now- the entire length of the Summit, really. So England, certain that this was the book he would need, had placed it down here for safekeeping. He hadn't really planned on using it- although he'd thought about it on more than one occasion- but he'd doubted he'd be in need of it any time soon...

That is, until today, when the foppish frog had, much to England's shame, made a complete mockery of the emerald-eyed nation, and had him played a fool.

England's teeth grit together, his hands balling into fists as his right one clenched around a yellowed page so tightly that it threatened to rip it out. His knuckles had turned a palish colour, and his emerald eyes now burned with a maddening fury that hadn't been unleashed for far too long a time. No, he would not let this go. He would not forgive.

He would find something. He had to.

… And no sooner than the thought had flitted through his head than he laid eyes upon a particularly... interesting transfiguration spell.

The writing detailing the effects of the spell, cursive and far too small for him to read (something he blamed on his half-drunken state), was incomprehensible, but England took what he could from the intricate drawing underneath the text. The picture itself consisted of two humanoid entities, those of a male and a female, with a pointed arrow linking the duo and two, minuscule spheres at the bottom of the male and female forms. From what the green-eyed nation could gather, the drawing represented a transformation of sorts.

England's upper lip curled slightly, the corner of his mouth rising to form a smirk.

Yes.

This was it.

This was what he'd been looking for.

Although practically female himself, what better way to humiliate France than by transforming him into an actual woman?

A triumphant leer overtaking his facial features, England's eyes sponged up the incantation, his lips parting to mouth over the words every so often, reciting the aforementioned incantation in his head before he felt ready to cast the spell (or curse, as he delightfully classed it).

Giving a thunderous clap of his hands that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, England outstretched his arms so that they hovered above either side of the spellbook, casting his dark penumbra over the dank pages as he spoke with a deep voice not of his own,

"Oitatumtes subivalc susrevnoc da coh mulucsam manimef sitentopinmo sibrev mucet menmad mestoh anretea ytinimef Franciam!"

He repeated the incantation until the bluish sheen that had long since engulfed his hands in a vivid glow erupted in a fire of a wild orange, with England jerking his head back to avoid the sudden outburst of flames. They dwindled not moments later, and rapidly extinguished themselves, leaving no trace of their existence.

No sooner than the flames had died out than a sudden quake hit the chamber, almost knocking England off his feet. Green eyes widened to the size of saucers, the blond nation struggled to retain his footing as another low rumble shook the ground beneath him. His hands reached out to grasp at the sides of the book stand, which was deeply rooted into the earth, and he squeezed his eyes shut as minor earthquakes rattled the room. He remained like that for a while, before his ears picked up on an odd wheezing noise, and a wisp of translucent light trailed from the open page of the book up into the air. The quakes halted immediately, and England's enlarged emerald eyes stared in utter stupefaction, mesmerised by the display before them.

England was snapped out of his stupor when the wisp of light shot upwards, brightening and enlarging its reach until it engulfed the entire chamber. England was forced to squeeze his eyes shut by the sheer brightness that surrounded him, and the wheezing noise started up again, ringing in his ears before everything came to an abrupt stop.

Only a second later did the explosive reaction occur, and this time England could do nothing to refrain from soaring to the other end of the room, his back connecting sharply with the cold stone wall before his body dropped to the floor, his face smacking against the ground as all energy seemed to be drained from him. Unable to move, England remained flat against the earth, his arms stretched out on either side of his person, his hands level with his head.

And then it stopped.

Utterly flummoxed, England continued to lie flush against the floor for a few more minutes. Then, slowly, he pulled himself up and righted his position, wobbling slightly as he did so. His emerald eyes were locked on the spellbook the entire time, his expression one of confusion mingled with worry. His large eyebrows tugged downwards to form a frown, and he cautiously took a step forth, edging closer to the mystic tome.

Outstretching a trembling hand, England's fingers brushed against the open pages, tracing their edges. His eyes were wide, and his lithe fingers quivered above the spellbook.

He had no idea what had happened, nor why it had; his head was beginning to ring slightly, surely as a consequence of his unconventional fall.

And yet, not as deep down as he'd wished, he could feel that something was wrong.

So very, very wrong.

As to what, he did not know...

… and he would remain unknowing until the following morning.

/././././

It was with overwhelming dismay that France was roused from his slumber by the shrill beep of the alarm clock.

Blearily blinking his eyes open, France groaned against his pillow, effectively muffling his pained moan, and feebly closed his eyes again at the glare of light that met them, the sunlight seeping through the wooden blinds and into the brightening room. He instinctively outstretched a hand to put a stop to the alarm's screeching, clicking it off before letting his arm plummet through the gap between his bed and the bedside table. The golden-haired nation of romance unceremoniously rolled in his bed, lifting his aching head slightly as he did so.

France nuzzled his nose into his pillow, giving a muted wince at the pounding his head experienced. Frowning, France briefly wondered why his head was hurting so and what had transpired the night before.

Attempting to render his memory more lucid, France began to recall what had happened before he went to bed. He'd spent the night with Spain and a beautiful green-eyed country- Belgium, perhaps? Yes, it had to be her- and he'd partied hard and drank much more than was the norm for him- so much so that he could barely remember Spain hauling him up to his hotel room, almost completely out of it, with his arm slung around his Southern neighbour's shoulder. Perhaps that explained the ache in his head- he was probably hungover.

France suppressed a woeful moan at this new-found knowledge. How, oh how, was he supposed to bear through the next meeting now?

France wallowed in his pained despair until he came to the conclusion that he'd just have to send in a replacement. Picardy was the perfect choice; the region was more than qualified enough to play replacement for a day. He was a force to be reckoned with, a natural anomaly- why, to this day France had no idea how his little region had come to take physical form- how odd it all was, and yet France could not but be mesmerised by this phenomenon. Unfortunately, the few who'd learnt of Picardy's existence or remembered his presence at that dreaded Halloween fiasco did not share his sentiments.

Pah!

They were just jealous that their regions weren't cool enough to take form on the physical plane!

But where was he...?

Ah, yes! His hangover!

… Fuck, it hurt like a bitch.

Outstretching a lazy hand to grab at his phone, France plucked said phone off its cradle and punched in Picardy's number. He'd briefly debated on whether or not to call the Summit organiser first, but later decided to check if Picardy was free...

…. which he should be. France doubted Picardy would pass up the chance to act in France's stead at a G-8 Summit, one of the most important summits in the world. To him, it would be his time to shine, the opportunity to prove himself capable of managing affairs, an unrealisable dream come true.

France would, of course, abstain from telling him that he would do jack shit throughout the entire day. He didn't want to turn the region off by telling him the truth, after all.

The blond nation was so certain that Picardy would leap at the chance to act as France for the day...

… which was why he was surprised, and even exceptionally disappointed, at having the answer machine responding to his call.

What took him more by surprise, however, was the fact that it was a feminine voice that greeted him.

"Salut les meufs (ou les gars!)! Vous avez atteinte le merveilleux domaine de Picardie, qui n'est malheureusment pas disponible. Donnez-moi un coup d'file plus tard, et j'vous enverrai une photo trop sexy! La classe, j'suis une bombe! Allez, bise~."

France stared blankly at the phone in his hand, blinking slightly.

Huh.

Looks like little Picardy finally managed to get laid.

A smirk graced the nation of romance's face.

Ah, Picardy, you sly devil, you! Already getting hooked up- it had to be none other than a lucky, lucky young woman to be able to stay long enough to change the message on Picardy's answering machine.

A fresh tear sparkled in France's right eye.

Ah, how he made him proud.

Shaking his head with a benign smile etched upon his face, France gave a dramatic flicker of his forefinger, wiping the tear away as he redialled, this time calling the dear host of the Summit.

The call was answered almost immediately.

"Ve~ buongiorno big sister France!"

France almost did a double-take, in part due to being referred to as "big sister" (was Italy- devil be damned- actually mocking him?) and in part due to the fact that- impossible though it may seem- Italy's voice sounded more... high-pitched (the irony of Italy of all countries being the one to call him out on his "femininity" was palpable).

"Italy, I'm calling in zick." France cut straight to the point, something that was ever-so uncharacteristic of him, opting to ignore Italy's "sister" comment.

There was silence on the other end.

"...Italie?"

France could hear the crackle of static on the other line.

"Er... Italia?" France spoke Italy's name in his own language, hoping it would snap him out of whatever reverie he had dropped into, "Are you alright, my dear?"

A shaky breath, "S-sorry, big sister. I- you sound a little-a strange... is something-a wrong?"

Again with the "big sister".

France tried not to be too annoyed, "I have a hangover."

Silence.

Then, "O-oh. Okay..."

France did not fail to perceive the touch of relief in Italy's ridiculously high-pitched voice.

"I'm going to get Picardie to replace me- zat's not against ze regulations, is it?" France frowned, the thought not having crossed his mind beforehand.

"E-errr..."

France's frowned deepened, "Italy, are you okay?"

Truth be told, Italy's idiosyncratic behaviour worried him.

A lot.

"S-si, b-but- don't you-a need-a help or a-something? Y-you sound really bad-"

"I'm fine," France brushed off Italy's odd concern as one would a speck of dirt on a tailored suit, "As I said, I am just a leetle hungover."

"Ohhhhhhh~ oh-kay. Hey, you want-a to go out tonight? Spain is wanting to take us all for-a dinner, and-"

Before France could let Italy fully start his tirade, he interjected, "Non merci, my darling Italy, I zeenk I'll just sleep today."

As if he'd really trust Spain after last night. This hangover was clearly all his fault.

"O-oh. Are... are you sure?"

"Quite."

"Ah... and you-a don't want-a someone to check up on you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

A sigh, "Yes..."

"Okay, but... you're-a sure?"

France drooped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Italie..."

"Okay, okay, if you're, uh... sure. So I get-a you a replacement, is that it?"

"No, I will fix it myself."

"Okey. Ahh, I don't-a know much about a-hangovers, but I suggest-a drinking a lot of water- so much that you should-a put it in a pot and boil it, and put-a spaghetti-"

"Merci, Italie. Goodbye."

"-and-a dash of a-herbs-"

France hung up.

Letting the phone drop back in its cradle, France raised a weary hand to rub at his temples. Damn this migraine.

Damn this hangover.

Rolling over in his bed, France had no time to ponder over Italy's squeakier-than-usual voice or even get back to sleep, as a sharp knock to the door forced his attention to be directed elsewhere.

Groaning, France rammed his head into his pillow, hoping that whoever it was would just leave him to suffer in solitude. How could it be possible that he was in so much pain? It was like a drill burrowing deep into his temples and re-emerging from the other side. France doubted that he'd ever suffered as colossal a hangover as this (although perhaps he had, but simply could not remember it through his pain)- it was almost as if his brain was splitting in half, screeching for help as holes were being drilled into it from all sides. It was simply impossible that he was in so much agony from a mere hangover- what else, though, could it be? France had clearly overestimated how much alcohol intake he could bear- which was bitterly amusing, considering that he, in spite of all appearances, was one of the largest consumers of alcohol in the world.

But even so, the acknowledgement of this fact did nothing to aid in the alleviation of the pain he felt- dear devil below, would there be no end to his suffering?!

Another forceful knock reverberated across the room, and France sincerely wished he could damn whoever it was to the fiery pits of l'enfer.

"France? France!" a hard and disdainful, yet effeminate voice called his name, "Open this door right now!"

France tried to perk up at the new-found knowledge that whoever sought an audience with him (heh) was female, however the incessant ringing in his cranium prevented him from feeling anything other than pain, and so he failed to do anything other than haplessly flail about in indignation.

"France! I swear to the Queen, I will force this bloody door open if I have to!"

Well, that certainly caught his attention.

He didn't know how he hadn't heard it before (probably due to the pain), but that voice sounded distinctly English.

Groaning in his pillow, the country of romance cried out in an even more accented manner than usual, "Leave me alone, can't you see I am in dolorous pain?"

France didn't even stop to consider how ridiculous a question it was, for the undoubtedly English lady on the other side of the door could not see him.

However, said English lady fell silent instantly, and France briefly entertained the idea that the woman had left him to his devices.

He was proven wrong, however, as the door was brusquely kicked in and a slim figure entered- a figure that France could scarcely see, for he jumped so violently in his bed that his head became rapidly acquainted with the headboard just as the door slammed shut.

This, coupled with his already aching head, proved to much for the blue-eyed nation, and he snapped, "'Oo do you zink you are, barging into my room like zis?"

The figure, who France accurately guessed was female, froze, sparkling emerald eyes wide under bushy eyebrows, gawking at him in shock. France himself seemed a little surprised at how familiar she looked- perhaps a woman he had bed and had somehow remained embedded in his memory? It was possible- he'd slept with many a man and woman over the centuries (really, how could he be expected to remember them all, especially when his head was experiencing such agony?).

The woman seemed to get over her shock quicker than France, though, as she scoffed in disdain, "Just another one of her little toys... Where is France, boy?"

Little toys?

France?

Boy?

France came to the rapid suspicion that this woman was insane.

"I am France." he declared a little lamely, and without his usual gusto, for his head still ached like a fucking bitch and he was a little shocked to be addressed to as "boy" (how long ago had it been since he'd been called such a thing?).

"... Is this supposed to be a joke?"

"Why? Is it funny?" France forced out, his irritation at not being recognised increasing significantly.

The woman frowned in obvious disapproval, "Listen my good man, I don't care if you think you're protecting France with your ludicrousness, but I know she's around here somewhere, and I won't ask you again."

France.

She.

France.

She.

France.

She.

She.

She.

"Excuse me, but you must be mistaken," France's eye twitched menacingly, "I am the French Republic and this here is my room. And unless you have me mistaken with someone else, I can clearly show you that I am no 'she'."

The woman's incredibly bushy eyebrows (seriously, where had he seen those before?) knitted together, "Clearly."

"Quite so," France inhaled deeply, "Now get out."

The green-eyed woman seemed shocked by his demand, as if no one had ever asked her such a thing. Maybe were France in a good mood he'd have felt ashamed of speaking to a lady as such, but she really had caught him at a bad time. Her eyes narrowed into slits instantly, and she growled, "I beg your pardon?"

France shot her a glare of his own, although his body subconsciously edged back against the headboard, "I believe you heard me the first time, madame, and I would much appreciate it if you could leave before I lose my patience."

"You- lose your patience? Oh, no sir! You had better apologise and tell me where I can find that twisted frog before I lose my patience!"

A particularly vicious pounding to his head stopped France before he could launch a bitter retort, and he suppressed a wince, clutching at his head. The woman observed him silently, her chest heaving as if she were refraining from yelling at him further.

Finally, though, France pulled his hand back down over the comforter and glanced up at her, "You're insane."

And then, something truly unexpected happened, something that reminded France of just where he knew this woman from.

She snapped, "You dare call me 'insane', you pathetic little human? You dare deride me, the 'United Kingdom of Great Britain', or simply 'England' as my sisters would have it? You will soon regret that, mortal!"

And she lunged.

She attacked in a manner that France recognised instantly, a manner so familiar that he could not mistake it for the world, a manner which France could never forget; she attacked in the same manner as England did.

A startled frown pulling down his features, France had no time to further react as she raised a fist and brought it down on his handsome face, knocking it once more back against the headboard. France was astonished by the sheer force of the blow; a human could never have caused so much damage, thought he as he clutched at his nose once "England" had drawn back. And yet, if this woman were not human, then she wasn't truly a woman either.

But if that were the case, just what was she?

It seemed as if he were not the only one confounded, however, for "England" was staring at him in shock, startled by his unnaturally rapid recovery. She gawked at him for a while, and he back at her, both silent and pondering.

"That... you should be dead." she finally spoke, her voice laced with disbelief, "You... I should've punched right through your head."

If France were human, and not in a state of shock, he'd have been doubled over with laughter at her statement; but France was not human, and he was in a state of shock, and so he understood perfectly what she meant, and yet he didn't, because what the hell was she?

France remained silent, so desperately wishing that he could say that she wasn't supposed to have done so much harm to his person, however he was shocked into silence, as equally startled as his assailant, if not more so.

"England" stared at him, quivering slightly, "What...-"

The door burst open once more, and in rushed a spunky-looking woman with cropped golden hair and dazzling blue eyes, "BRITAIN, DON'T-!"

The new intruder precipitated herself over the England imposter, making them both collapse, all the while screaming, "DON'T DO IT, BRITAIN, YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE!"

"Aargh! Gerroff- urgh! What the bloody hell are you on about?!"

"CANADA TOLD ME- S-SHE TOLD ME WHAT YOU WERE GONNA DO! DON'T DO IT!"

France felt no shame whatsoever in letting loose a pained wince at the sheer noise level. He was about to interject, and to order that both unwelcome guests leave, but had scarcely time to open his mouth before "England" seethed, "I'm not deaf, stop fucking yelling in my ruddy ear! Besides, France isn't here- she's gone, and left her queer toy behind." she jerked her head in France's direction.

The short-haired woman paused, very suddenly taking note of France's presence, gaping at the French Republic with her jaw dropped. She stared at him for what felt like hours, days, weeks, years, even, with such an intense look that France couldn't help but stare back, uncertain of how to react.

She gawked at him for so long that France jerked back violently when her boisterous voice boomed, "IS THIS FRANCE'S NEW BEAU?! He's kinda cute."

France, wrenched out of his reverie, spluttered, "Cute?"

He often heard the words "hot", "sexy", "beautiful", "handsome", "drop-dead", "mouthwatering", "breathtaking", "sublime" being attributed to him on a daily basis- but "cute" was definitely one he hadn't heard in a long, long time.

Too long a time.

"England" scowled, "He's a freak, is what he is- I tried hitting him, but- NO, don't touch him, America!"

America?

France froze once more as the short-haired one leaned forward to prod him.

Either he was dreaming of England and America in female forms- something which, he admitted, wasn't something new- or there was some serious, twisted hokey-pokey shit going on.

Judging from the headache France had long-since induced, he was willing to bet it was the latter.

Which could only mean one thing...

"America, I told you not to touch him!"

An indignant declaration, "You're not the boss of me!"

"H-hey guys, s-sorry I'm late-"

A döppelganger of America appeared from the doorway. Her eyes met with France's and she stilled, her sentence dying away.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and France rapidly spotted the similarities between him and the double.

"Er... hello?"

France fainted.

A/N: Lame chapter is lame. I promise that things well improve from here on out (well, it's not like they can get worse... can they?). Also, if you're asking yourself why England had an underground lair in Italy's land... well. Magic XD. Hope you enjoyed this (admittedly ridiculous) beginning- constructive criticism is most welcome, and will be taken into account (as will any advice or comment). Thanks for taking the time to read this and feel free to tune in for more ;)

Translations:

French-Salut les meufs (ou les gars!)! Vous avez atteinte le merveilleux domaine de Picardie, qui n'est malheureusment pas disponible. Donnez-moi un coup d'file plus tard, et j'vous enverrai une photo trop sexy! La classe, j'suis une bombe! Allez, bise~.

English- Hey gals (or guys!)! You have reached the marvellous domaine of Picardy, who is unfortunately unavailable. Ring me up later and I'll send you a sex pic! So classy [Frenchexpression often used by adolescents], I'm a bomb! Kiss~

French- Enfer

English- Hell