So, this is how the Chibidemic (the Chibi Epidemic) started. From a completely average fight between France and England in a completely average world meeting, which is appropriate, seeing as how they fight over everything like five year olds anyway...

Warning: This fanfic contains chibi!characters. If you don't like chibi, don't read this, because your brain will probably implode from the cuteness. There's not much chibi in this chapter, because it's sort of explaining how it all started. The level of chibiness will increase later in other chapters.

Technical error: Sometimes the text may show up replacing ellipses or accents with random symbols. I don't know how to fix this, but if you see various symbols where they don't look like they're supposed to be, that's why.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Yet another useless world meeting. Why do we insist on continuing such things? All that results is just more fighting

I gently push open the polished mahogany door to the meeting room. The large elliptical table takes up most of the room, and the corners are occupied by coffee stations and other nations making conversation. I'm guessing that some of them would be polite, and some... well, not so much.

I walk over to the table to find my seat, looking for the placard with my flag on it. I'm seated next to Spain. I guess that's not so bad, then. I could at least talk to him, so long as he's not too absorbed with those Italian brothers...

My thoughts are cut off when I glance at the placard to my left that marked the empty seat.

It had the Union Jack on it.

Non, non! Pas encore, pas encore! You would think that Allemagne or Amérique or whoever it was that assigned the seating would understand by now, that seating by geography is a horrible idea! How I absolutely loathe that man. With his eyebrows, and clothing, and that abrasive manner of his, and that way he has of treating people like they are all stupid!

I run the fingers on my right hand through my hair, in the hopes that it will calm me down. It does, a little bit. It's so soft, and obviously superior to Angleterre's mop. I brush the back of my hand down and forward across my neck, and finally rest my thumb and index finger on my chin, absentmindedly stroking the stubble I'd chosen to grow. I am older than most of the other nations, so I figure some facial hair would help me look the part.

I flick my eyes upward at the nearest window, to stare at my reflection. Ah, if it isn't my favourite face! The way my hair cascades like a waterfall of molten gold, only to frame my magnifique bone structure is simply exquisite. My rosy, translucent skin glows to soften the edges of my face, and the perfect, unobtrusive arch on my eyebrows and my full but natural lashes frame the sapphire quarries in my eyes. I fully know that if I were to open my mouth, the soft curve of my lip would give way to the perfect pearls of my teeth. Now I know why I attend these meetings. I wouldn't want to deprive the other nations of this gorgeousness...

~0~

The bloody Frog probably hasn't even noticed me yet. He was staring at himself in the window's reflection when I sat down, and from looking over at him, I can tell that he still is.

All his self-love, all his vanity; the way he can just be fascinated with himself for so long. It's so disgusting. I decide to snap him out of it, before I really want to hurt him.

I turn towards him slightly. "A bit in love with ourselves, are we?" I can hear the razor blade in my own voice, and feel my mouth twisting into the corresponding sneer.

France's torso jerks slightly, and straightens up. I've apparently startled him. He twists in my direction to smirk at me, "It iz called 'pride in ze self', Monsieur Sourcils," I have no idea what he called me, but I knew it was meant to be insulting, "Perhaps you should try it sometime."

"If 'pride' equates to fawning over yourself like you're some kind of god, then I don't want any part of it. That's not the 'pride' England knows."

France raises an eyebrow, "Oh? So, tell me, Angleterre. What iz pride to you?" I can hear the venom in his otherwise amused tone, like the purr of a panther, waiting for the right moment to pounce. His eyebrows knit together, his eyes narrow and take on a dangerous glint. His lips pull back over his teeth. At a first glance, one could mistake it for a smile; but it was anything but friendly. He was asking for a fight. That is all I need.

I can feel every muscle in my body coil, ready to spring. My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms. "Well, you bloody Frog. At least in England, pride is about self-respect! Being able to be satisfied with yourself, without having to parade around like a slut and vulgarly obsessing over everything about yourself! It's something your people clearly lack!"

France's face momentarily turns into an expression of surprise. His mouth forms a small "O" for a split second before he quickly returns to his venomous smile. What I think might be a hurt look in his eyes lingers for a moment, but then dissolves into a glint that was even more venomous than before. He isn't just looking for a fight now. He's bloodthirsty.

In one movement, France stands up from his chair and grabs me by the front of my collar, pulling me up so his face is centimetres from mine, "Don't you talk about mes peuples like zat, you tea-sucking, fashion-missing, pirate scum!"

"Well, you're not much better, you cheese-eating surrender monkey!" I push his shoulders backward, but he keeps his grip on my collar, so he ends up pulling me down with him as he falls onto his chair. The angle we hit the chair at makes it tip over. We topple onto the floor of the conference room. The crash must have earned us the attention of many other nations.

" 'Ow dare you, you low-life ex-punk!" France knocks my right arm out from under me, and pushes my left shoulder, so that I roll over. He quickly rolls over top of me and gets on all fours, each arm and leg on either side of me. I'm trapped.

Oh, God. This isn't good. This is the point where our fights either become sexual, or really, really painful.

And by the look on France's face, he was still deciding.

Austria's annoyed yet otherwise indifferent voice cut through the tension, "You two! Quit your fighting! Ve are trying to run a meeting here vithout any unproductive outbursts."

France doesn't get off of me, but he turns his head up towards the table to say, "You should talk, Monsieur Anger Management." There is no audible response from Austria, but there are some approving snickers from Prussia, and I know Austria well enough to tell that he is silently fuming.

"Prussia, vhy are you even here? You're not even a real country."

"Because Awesome Me has to mingle every once and a while. Spread ze awesomeness around, isn't zat right, West?"

"I'm staying out of zis!" Germany quickly shouts, "Now, France! England! I haff given up trying to stop you from fighting, it is impossible! I vill give you vun more minute to sort out vhatever it is you're fighting about, und I don't vant to hear from either of you for ze rest of ze meeting saying anything zat is not strictly related to ze topic at hand, do I make myself clear?"

France says, "Oui" at the same time I say, "Yes".

Despite the interruption, however, I am still trapped on the floor by France, which is never good. I have some ground herbs in my pocket that I was going to use for a potion later, but maybe if I throw them in his face, it'll get in his eye or something, and he'll get off of me. It's a long shot, but it's the best I've got.

I slide my arm down towards my pocket, and grab a pinch of a chalky powder. It doesn't feel like an herb, but it's my only option at the moment. I bring my arm back up as quickly as I can and flick it in his face.

I accidentally inhale some of it, and it burns my throat.

"Mon dieu!" France recoils, and quickly stands up, backing away, coughing a few times. "Quel est ce?"

And that's when the pain sets in. My bones shrink, my muscles contract more and more with every second. I'm shrinking. I hold out my hands, they are becoming smaller and less defined. Blood rushes through my head and I feel dizzy. I collapse in the pain of it. My vision blurs briefly. I squeeze my eyes shut and don't open them until the pain passes.

~0~

I can hear several gasps from other nations after I open my eyes. I stand up, but I'm nowhere near my full height. My clothes are massively too big for me. I step out of my pants, and my shirt comes down to my mid-calves. My hands are where the elbows should be in my sleeves, and the collar feels looser than average. I whirl around to look at the window...

And I see me as a little boy. I've been turned into a five year old.

An angry, high pitched voice with an unmistakably French accent cuts through the room, "Angleterre... what ze 'ell 'ave you done?"

A/N: So, this is the first chapter of the Chibidemic. I hope to release the next chapter soon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are love!

Translation Notes (Every French word France says):

Non: No

Pas encore: Not again

Allemagne: Germany

Amérique: America

Angleterre: England

Magnifique: Magnificent

Monsieur Sourcils: Mr. Eyebrows

Mes peuples: My people

Oui: Yes

Mon dieu: My God

Quel est ce: What is this