Warning: long author note right here. Please read it though.
Hello, and welcome to The Danish Danish Crisis, a collaborative story between me (RebelsAdvocate) and Abby (LOTRPJOHP13133)! The odd chapters will be mine, and Abby has the even ones.
Hi, Abby here, I will be mostly talking in italics just to make it easier if both of us are talking at once. So this story is RebelsAdvocate's baby. She came up with the idea, proceeded to dare me to write it, but I got lazy and didn't want to butcher her idea so I made her write it with me. This story is a wild adventure of chaos so fasten your seatbelts and get ready for this beautiful work of art.
P.S. RebelsAdvocate is a much better writer than me. Give her love and go read her other stories.
Shush. Abby is a good writer, too.
Oh also since I am publishing this story, if you have read either of my two other stories, I'm very sorry for the stupid long break. I don't have a good excuse. I started to write an epilogue for my PJO story, but I think I'm just going to leave it up to your imaginations. My Superwholock story I am rewriting because I felt that I went too fast through the whole thing. I know I only published one chapter but I had quite a bit written out. So I will probably be uploading a better version of that this summer. Hopefully. No real promises there, but I will try my best.
This idea came to us on a fleeting breeze of genius, inspired by our real life events and modeled after the Norwegian Butter Crisis of 2011. We did put some unnecessary (completely unnecessary, but we're nerds who like to push ourselves too much so yeah) research into this, but everything is not going to be perfect, because after all, this is somewhat crack. We will take some creative license along with all of the other drastic measures we will take. Also keep in mind that neither she nor I actually live in Denmark, so...feel free to enlighten us if you are a friendly Dane. Please do enlighten us.
Synopsis: Denmark runs out of one of his favorite commodities, and history (somewhat) repeats itself. Luckily, he has friends and saviors in the right places.
Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
He didn't know when it had begun. But he knew he would ride it out until the end. For when things like this happened, he always did just so.
By Tuesday, he wasn't sure anymore.
Sun's Day
It was Sunday afternoon, two days before the confusion and the chaos and the end of the world. Enter the personification of the nation Denmark, crashing his bike into a telephone pole in Copenhagen. Getting up. Cursing loudly. Waving happily at a nearby alarmed pedestrian, who gestured for her small child to look away. Shoving his bike into a rack, forgetting to lock it up, and entering the grocery store with a skip in his stride and a smile on his face.
He liked to shop on Sundays when there was nothing to do and his boss wasn't nagging him. These days were also the days he baked and visited his closest friends, the other Nordic nations. Denmark hadn't done this in a while, and was planning to surprise them tomorrow with a box of pastries from a one-way flight to Oslo.
Two steps into the store, it was clear that his plans had been thoroughly wrenched. A nauseous feeling hit Denmark like a speeding bike would hit a telephone pole, and he stumbled back one step.
He didn't know how he knew; maybe it was one of the special attributes of being a nation. Maybe Norway's magic powers were rubbing off on him. Maybe he just had a really great sense of smell. Because two steps into the store, Denmark knew that there were no pastries here for him to buy.
It couldn't be true. The Danish pastry—the Viennese treats, the wondrous wienerbrød—was too important of a product to not be featured in this large grocery store. Confusedly, Denmark stepped back out, the bell over the door ringing eerily behind him.
Huh, he thought. I guess…I'll just get them at the bakery a few streets over.
Another two steps outside, and Denmark found his bike had, in a totally unexpected turn of events, been stolen. He cursed loudly again and began to jog.
Minutes later, Denmark, a stitch in his side, entered the bakery. It was a nice place, frequented by happy customers 24/7 and owned by an elderly chef (he knew he knew this because he was Denmark). But the same thing happened. He took a few steps past the threshold and gasped in surprise. There was no wienerbrød here, either.
At a bakery. How.
Denmark, in a flabbergasted haze of insecurity and disbelief, dragged himself up to the counter. "Pastries," he demanded, panting. "Where." He collapsed onto the countertop in desperation.
The worker, a petite lady in a red apron, jumped back. "Haven't you heard, sir? There's a shortage of bakers because they all went on strike! No one's making weinerbrød anymore!"
Denmark stood up to his full height, puffing out his chest. "That can't be true. You're lying."
She frowned at him. "Sit on down, son, because it is. Happened just the other day. Bakery business everywhere in Copenhagen has ground to a halt, all because that one tightass Austrian chef set up shop a few blocks down. Yer the first customer to walk in this door since last week; everyone's goin' over there! And plus the mad cow disease rapidly 'ffecting our livestock, and the hurricane that knocked a fleet of our grain imports off course, and the new health regulations...everything's goin' downhill."
A spark of anger ignited inside of Denmark. How could all this have happened, and he be completely in the dark about it? "So you don't have supplies to make the wienerbrød, there's too much business competition… How are you making money?"
She guffawed. "Who are you to ask?"
I'm your country! he thought-screamed at her as he stomped out of the building dejectedly, feeling betrayed and stupid. He jogged back to the grocery store he had come from, determined to buy his own things to make his own food, but the stocks were indeed empty as the lady had said.
After an embarrassingly long while of moping, Denmark came to the conclusion that it was no matter. He could just eat other things until the country's imports picked up again and the situation was reversed. He tried not to think about how this would affect his economy. He tried not to think about how this would affect his daily ration of thirteen-point-five Viennese treats a day. He got home, stuck his face into a book, and tried not to think about it all.
But when the next day rolled around, he knew he couldn't ignore this dastardly situation forever.