A/N: Welcome back :) Unfortunately I can't individually respond to all reviews but thanks to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed so far! It keeps me motivated to continue writing xx

As a note, "PHEIC" stands for "Public Health Emergency of International Concern" and is pronounced "fake".

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia; I own only my mentioned OC's.

WARNING: Strong language, some "mentions" of violence.

"What do you mean, it's already spread outside of this country? Already?" China is bewildered. No, no—this can't be. How could it have already spread, and to nations who are likely not ready to handle it? And he thought he had been containing it. "Are you sure it's spreading outside?"

"Calm down, and sit back down, please," the governor says. "Yes, it has been spreading. That is the very reason I called you here, because things must change."

"Yes, change," China mocks, refusing to sit down. He stays standing, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "They must change, indeed. I've been trying to change things since the CDC notified me about this virus. Has that not done enough?"

"From the looks of it, no."

The . . . 'looks' of it? "Is it the statistics? The maps? What tells you that what we've been doing, informing others about the virus in these early stages, isn't enough?"

The governor sighs and pauses. He runs a hand through his dark hair and also crosses his arms, averting his eyes from China. He taps his right foot on the ground in a nervous manner, a hesitant expression on his face. Rather than break the silence, China decides to wait for the man to say something, and as if on command, he does.

"I don't know how far it's spread," he spills out, making eye contact with China again. "All I know is that it is no longer confined to our country, much less Wuhan or Hubei alone. Informing people about the virus and quarantining only the sick isn't going to work. We need to . . ." His words wobble into silence and he looks down at the carpet of the floor.

"We need to do . . . what?" China questions.

"We need to shut down Wuhan. If it gets worse, shut down the entire province."

Of course—quarantine the non-sick. By implementing that, there would be less people to contract the disease. China even feels silly for not thinking of it earlier. He stifles a soft laugh, but when he sees the governor's puzzled expression, he swallows it back down and clears his throat, regaining his senses.

"Yes," he answers, "Yes, of course. To what extent would the lockdown be?"

"Public transportation—the trains, buses, taxis, all of that—are to be closed. All areas with the exception of places such as grocery stores, hospitals, gas stations, and more, are to be closed as well. Everyone is advised to stay home, and public gatherings are to be cancelled. That'll be hard; the Spring Festival is coming up, but it has to be done."

China feels a pang of disappointment at that. The Spring Festival is his favorite time of year; full of celebrations, friends and family, and really, a time for him to "let go" and take a break from the busy life as a nation, as he had always thought. But now, because of the new virus, his plans would need to be cancelled. Despite any lockdown, he knew certain citizens would be adamant about seeing their families, and would travel, and would, well . . . spread the virus. One can't really blame them for that, China thinks. But a lockdown is for the best.

He turns his mind back to the proposed lockdown. "When will it happen?"

"I suppose I'll put it into action in a few hours." The governor pauses again, sighing and shaking his head. He suddenly changes the subject. "We may run out of hospital beds soon—not as a province, but as a country."

"You're not serious—?"

"I didn't believe it to be true, but it is," the governor interrupts. "Do you have any ideas?"

China places his hands on his hips. Being out of hospital beds seems vaguely familiar, and he recalls the SARS outbreak years ago. His government had talked about quarantine, testing, treatment . . . and temporary hospitals. That's it—temporary hospitals.

"Why don't we build more hospitals, then? Temporary ones to be used during the outbreak?" China suggests, as if a light bulb had appeared above his head. "And hotels—we can convert the lesser-used ones into quarantine for the victims."

"I don't . . ." The governor hesitates. "I'm not sure that such measures would—"

"Listen. We did it during SARS, and it helped, and it worked," China objects. "When the outbreak is over, we close the hospitals. If we did it during SARS, we can do it now." He lowers his voice. "We'll do better now than we did then."

The governor sighs yet again. "I'll talk to the other governors about it." He looks out the windows of the small meeting room at the cloudy skies shadowing Wuhan. Vehicles bustle around on the roads below, their headlights blinding, and China realizes that soon, those vehicles would be traveling nowhere after the lockdown. The streets would be emptier than a desert, as if all life had been sucked out. The eerie emptiness of what should be a lively city . . .

Stuck deep in thought, China doesn't hear the governor repeatedly calling his name.

"China!"

"Ah—I'm sorry—yes?" Snapping out of his trance, the nation looks at the governor.

The governor gestures to the door. "The lockdown will be enforced tonight. After that, you either stuck in or out of Wuhan; no coming in or going out. You should leave while you still can; catch a train to Beijing or someplace. The station isn't far."

China nods. "Let me know when the lockdown happens." He starts towards the door situated to his left, but the governor stops him, tapping his shoulder. When China turns around, the man holds out a white medical mask, wrapped in plastic.

"You'll need this," he says. He tucks it into China's hands. "Stay safe."

"I'm a nation." China reminds him of the somewhat obvious fact with a laugh, and the governor musters up a tight-lipped smile in response.

Backing away, China exits out of the room and down the cold stairwell and empty hallways, clutching the mask in his right hand. The thin plastic wrapping crinkles every time he clenches it and he brings it into his vision, looking at the tightly woven snow-white material. It seems so simple, so plain, so . . . defenseless. He almost doesn't believe that it can really prevent the spread of a virus like COVID-19. But before he leaves the building, he unwraps it and slides it on anyway—he knows it's for the best.

When he arrives at the railway station, everywhere he looks is packed. People are pushing to the boarding area, and China joins the cramped, noisy crowd, watching the track, waiting for the train to arrive. The lockdown hadn't even been issued yet, and it won't until tonight; people can't be leaving for that reason.

It must be the Spring Festival; everyone is rushing home, China realizes. Though most people are wearing protective masks like he is, crowds like these are the perfect breeding ground for the virus, as he'd learned over the years. He needs to get out of this place as soon as possible. He can only hope that there's enough space on the trains for all the passengers.

Minutes later, a roaring, grumbling sound travels from the tunnel, two bright headlights becoming increasingly visible. China bustles to the front of the crowd as the train approaches, making sure not to push around. The moment the doors open, everyone floods into the (thankfully) empty train, and the nation manages to find a seat just before the train begins to move again, the doors sliding shut.

Wuhan is going under lockdown—that's serious, China knows. He has to notify the rest of the nations. Another meeting must be scheduled, and it should be before the virus worsens to the point where he can't leave his country; he can't be the host nation, either. Maybe this outbreak is more severe than he had thought it would be. Maybe it would be considered a PHEIC if it worsens, and the label of "PHEIC" should only be used in the most serious threats.

China considers calling Germany; after all, he's the one who manages most meetings, and he'd been the one nation out of many who showed any concern about the virus. He slides a hand into his pocket and takes out his phone, tapping his fingers here and there, listening to the springs echo in his ear.

Three, four, five rings. No response, not even an option to leave a message. The Chinese man sighs, taking the phone down. His thumb hovers over the dial button, but after a few seconds, he decides not to call again. Germany's a busy man, as everyone has learned. He likely won't answer anything for a while.

There's one other nation that might be able to call: England.

Of course, England hadn't seemed to care—seemed to care? He clearly hadn't cared at all—when the virus was first announced. But now that Wuhan is being locked down, perhaps he'll have a change of heart.

The ringing buzzes multiple times again in China's ear; the call isn't picked up. He's about to give up until he hears commotion from the other end of the line.

"Hello?" It's England's voice, but he sounds tired and almost frustrated. China hopes he hadn't accidentally called in the middle of the night due to time zone differences, but he shakes the worry off.

"England," China begins, "we need to schedule another meeting. The coronavirus—"

"Hang on—" The Brit cuts him off, and China can hear him yelling to someone in the background, but he can't make out what's being said. A variety of voices can be heard, some familiar, some not. A door slams, the voices fade, and England begins talking again.

"Sorry about that, China. What were you saying?"

"About the coronavirus; it's getting more serious. We need to have another meeting," China explains. "Wuhan's being shut down, and who knows what's to happen next."

"Wuhan, you say? Is that where . . . that's where this virus started, correct?"

"Yes, but it's spreading faster than I thought. It's already spread to other parts of the world." China feels worried just at the thought of that.

"Other parts, as in Japan and South Korea? I've seen that Europe here has been reporting a case or two."

"Yes, I . . ." Only then does China realize that the governor hadn't specified where exactly the virus had spread to; just that it is no longer "confined" to the country. It seems strange why England, who initially hadn't cared about the virus at all, would know, yet the governor wouldn't. "I believe so. If we don't take the right measures soon, it could travel all around the world and become a PHEIC. My focus right now is to prevent it from becoming that."

England begins to say something, but he hesitates and stops, sighing. Silence hangs on the other end before he drags on, sounding more tired than ever.

"China . . . if we have another meeting, it'd be better for you to stay home. You shouldn't be here."

Slightly taken aback, China sighs as well. "What do you mean, I 'shouldn't' be there?"

"The virus. If you bring it to us—if you or Japan or someone else brings it to us—it's game over for the world."

"I don't have the virus, England," China insists. "I can't spread it to you."

"I'm not worried about us. I'm worried about . . . listen, China, I'm quite busy right now. Unfortunately, I've got to take care of some things. Stay safe, and remember, just stay home." Before the Asian man has a chance to respond, England hangs up.

Still holding his silent phone up to his ear, China listens to the blabber of voices around him, the double doors of the train opening and closing, a pre-recorded voice announcing the stops and safety measures, the whir of the wheels on the track as it moves again. Eventually, he sets the phone down in his lap, looking at the ended call. It had hardly lasted two minutes; telling England about Wuhan's lockdown had clearly done nothing to change his stance.

But there's one thing that stands out; England knowing there the virus had spread. He'd known before China himself had. The dark-haired nation starts to feel confused. Earlier, the governor had told him about the spread. Why would the governor have known that it had spread outside of the country, but not to which countries? There could only be so many. Either he really didn't know or pretended not to know. China guesses the latter; it only makes sense.

Deciding that it doesn't matter much, China decides to check the statistics for himself. If the governor, or any member of his government, won't tell him, the internet will. But when he checks the numbers in his own country at the same time, he nearly melts with shock, his heart plummeting.

Cases have risen over 800, deaths over 25.

So many cases? Already? SARS hadn't been like this. And China thought he'd taken the right protective and preventive measures this time. The rise is alarming, and it surely isn't slowing anytime soon. It seems odd. Something isn't right. How could it possibly have spread so fast, so quickly, not to mention the numerous probable cases that haven't been confirmed by testing?

Suddenly, China has a sneaking suspicion that either his government, the CDC, or both haven't been telling him something.

America slams his head against the table, the repeated smacking noises echoing throughout the empty room. He is well aware that the door is ajar, that any official can sneak in to speak to him or stroll by and watch him lose his mind. And "lose his mind" is an understatement, really; his mind, his brain, his ability to even keep his thoughts straight, has seemed to vanish into thin air. Perhaps he's going insane.

He can't remember the last time he had felt like this.

9/11? Oh, boy, the entirety of 2001 had not been a good flight year for him. That attack had surely driven him insane. Not only hurt, not only broken, but insane. It took him three months to gather the courage to take another flight again, and an entire year before he stopped having nightmares about the attack every week.

Pearl Harbor? Now that he thinks about it, he had been more angry at the Axis then than he is angry at Iran now. His revenge had, of course, been war. But surely he can't do that now; for all he knows, it would end the world. Whatever; Iran is Iran, and the Axis are—were—the Axis. There's no reason to compare them.

Yet he really feels as though he's gone insane. He raises his head once more, bringing it down onto the table, feeling strangely satisfied at the loud sound of the collision.

As expected, America feels a hand fall on his shoulder and a firm voice calling his name. The young nation stops moving and sighs, keeping his head buried in his bent arms. He squeezes his eyes shut, though he knows it isn't visible to whoever had showed up seconds ago.

"Yes?" America murmurs, not bothering to move another muscle. His forehead numbly throbs from hitting the table so many times.

"Calm down," the voice quietly tells him, the hand not budging. America suddenly recognizes her as one of California's senators who he had spoken to about an hour earlier. "Don't do that to yourself."

America raises his head, staring at the dark table. He digs his nails into the wood, and in a swift motion, rips off his glasses, hearing a clank as they bounce away. He buries his face in his hands and rubs them around, resisting the urge to yank at his own hair in frustration. "Don't do that to yourself"—ha, as if he has anything better to do, does he? He just might. Throw someone out a window, perhaps. Throw Iran out of a window, throw Al-Qaeda's dead and alive members out of a window, travel back in time and throw the past WWII Axis out of a window. Throw them all out of a window of a 16-floor building, parachutes and landing gear not included. That would surely make him feel better.

Not releasing his face from his hands, the nation presses on.

"What is it?" he growls.

The senator takes a deep breath. "About the president's trial—"

"I have told you time and time, again and again, that I don't give a damn about the president," America snappily interrupts, gritting his teeth. Now it's the senator he wants to throw out of a window. He releases his hands and glares at the blurry image of the woman—dear God, is his vision this bad? He reaches around for his glasses and continues. "And even if I for some reason did, you've known since the beginning of time that I get no say in who takes his position."

The senator does something with her eyes; probably rolling them, but America can't clearly see it. He blindly paws around the table while looking at her, but his hand hits nothing but his laptop that he'd brought with him. Goddammit, where the hell did he put his glasses?

"What do you want us to do?" the senator asks.

"Either dump him from office and find a new guy or keep him. That's what you've been trying to decide this entire time; I could give less of a shit." Though that isn't at all true; of course America cares who his own boss is. He cares a lot. But he's been bombarded with so many inquiries about whether his current one should be removed or not to the point where he nearly wishes he had no president at all.

"Speaking of the president, he wants to speak to you," the senator mentions. "He's waiting for you in his office; I'm sure you know where that is."

"Dammit, dammit," America groans. He jumps out of his seat, kicking the chair away in the process, and storms towards the open door, not bothering to take his laptop. He turns his head to face the senator, vigorously squinting his eyes to see clearly. "What the fuck is it now?"

Just as he finishes his words, his body collides into a hard material, forcing a strangled oof from his throat, pain shooting through his left shoulder and temple. He reaches his right hand up and gently rubs the aching areas, scowling and facing whatever he had run into. What the—?

"For goodness sake," the senator sighs, gently tapping America on his unhurt shoulder, "put your glasses on, and keep them on." She slides the ends behind the nation's ears, using her dark fingers to brush his golden hair out of the way. Then, she firmly grasps both of his shoulders and twists him around ninety degrees so that they both face the open door exiting the room.

"And for your information, the door is that way." On the word that, she points to the door. The senator sounds calm yet exasperated, as if the door's location is as simple as two plus two. In reality, it is, America realizes, now that his vision is clear again. He glances at his left; he'd walked straight into the wall.

"Why . . . yes, of—of course," America sputters, scratching his head in amusement, his face going hot. Under another circumstance, he might have laughed the incident off. But today, he's in no mood to laugh. Come to think of it, he hasn't been laughing much recently. He has hardly laughed, genuinely laughed, or even smiled, for quite a while. It almost makes him sad to think that it is so, but he shakes the feeling off. He has more to deal with. Once all has been resolved, he can relax.

But how long it would take for things to be resolved is the real question.

America starts towards the door, but as he walks, he turns to face the senator again. "What exactly does my boss want to—"

His words are cut off when he slams into something hard again, reigniting the ache on his temple that had just faded away. Ready to start bashing his head against a table again, he backs away and analyzes the area. He couldn't have run into another wall, could he? This time he has his glasses on.

"Perhaps I should add . . ." the senator drones on, nearing America again. She raises an eyebrow, frowning. She then points to the door frame that the nation had walked into. ". . . watch where you're going. Now run along; don't keep your boss waiting. You'll find out what he wants when you get there."

America slips out of the room and starts down the hallway, heading to his boss' office, careful not to run into anything this time. Ever since all of this stress had begun in December, not only had he been unable to think straight, he'd become increasingly clumsy as well. Here and there, every now and then, he'd drop his glasses or slip down a flight of stairs, and every once in a while, he'd walk into the wrong room, talk to the wrong person, or do the wrong thing. If he weren't a nation, his body would be covered in bruises from weeks ago, but then he also wouldn't have to deal with a getting-removed boss or a stubborn rival. Like his inability to concentrate, he can't recall when he'd last been like this.

Bursting into the president's office, America sees him scribbling away at a piece of paper that he instantly hides upon seeing the nation walk in. The man lightly taps an empty chair situated on the other side of his thin desk, and America sits down, sighing.

"America," his boss calmly says, resting his arms on the table, "it's nice to see you again."

America nods. "You called me here because . . . ?"

"Because I believe there is a new 'issue', one that I'm sure you were notified about a few weeks ago at your meeting with the other nations."

The nation tries to remember what had happened at the last meeting. What had they talked about at the last meeting? Iran was there, England was there, China was there . . . Canada was there too, wasn't he . . . Though he is sure that the meeting wasn't called because of Iran, he can't remember what else could be more important.

"What's Iran up to now?" America cleverly questions. He hides a scowl under a fake smile, ready to show it at any moment. Damn that Iran; nothing from the killings or fight is visible on his body anymore, but now every time someone mentions the middle east, money, oil, sanctions, or any form of legal agreement, the American can't help but feel a flame of rage ignite within him.

His boss narrows his grey eyes. "I believe Iran is obsessing over how much he regrets killing our ambassador. I find it quite funny that you came back from that recent meeting looking worse than you did while fighting with him in his own country; bummer that you would rather not tell me what happened. But what you can tell me is, what exactly did you hear at the meeting last week? What were you notified of?"

So, it's not Iran. America's stomach churns at the thought of a new "issue". He goes through his jumbled mind, rewinding the events of the meeting . . . it had ended early after fighting Iran, Germany yelling, England yelling, Iran yelling, Canada yelling, he himself had been yelling too, so much yelling . . . and China.

"China announced something about a new . . . virus," America stammers.

His boss nods. "And?"

"And it could spread, and it started in his country, and . . . are you asking me this because it's already spread to us?" It all makes sense now, why his boss is asking him about it. He sits up straighter in his seat, pushing his glasses back into place—he swears he's not going to lose them this time.

"It has, and—"

"Damn, how do we—"

"Let me finish," his boss interrupts, holding up a hand to stop America. "I was recently made aware of the first confirmed case in our country. Many other nations have been getting cases as well. What do you remember from the meeting? What did China talk about?"

"The virus, uh . . . he said it started in a market because of the animals, he said that it's called the 'coronavirus' and doesn't want us to call it the 'Chinese Virus' or anything similar, and he said it's going to spread, and he also said that it's basically the return of SARS back in 2003 or something, and, um . . . that's it, I think."

"You didn't discuss any way to prevent the spread?"

"No, all he told us is to be prepared, but he mentioned something about quarantine."

"Is that all you talked about, what you mentioned? Everything at the meeting was about what you just told me?"

"I—" America glares at his boss, crossing his arms. He leans back in his chair and continues, making sure to edge his voice with suspicion. "Where are you going with this? You're acting like I'm not telling you something."

"Well," his boss says, "you aren't. Can you explain to me what exactly happened at the meeting? Why did you come back looking so beaten up, and why were you cursing Iran when I came to talk to you? Tell me, what did he do to you?"

In adamant refusal, America shakes his head. "I'm telling you nothing."

"Tell me the truth, America. You didn't pay attention at the meeting at all, didn't you?"

"Yes, definitely, I did!" The nation releases his arms from their crossed position and holds them up in defense, his blue eyes widening. Yes, he'd paid attention at the meeting, and maybe it hadn't gone so well, but his boss needs to know nothing about that. "Fucking hell, why wouldn't I? Iran got a bit . . . feisty, a bit triggered, is all, and the next thing I know, England's yelling at me, and then Canada's yelling at me, saying it's my fault, and Iran's trying to beat me up."

"And why exactly did the meeting end early, as you told me?"

"It ended because Germany said so." If the meeting had gone on any further, America undoubtedly would have strangled Iran to death—or, better yet, thrown him out of one of the large windows boarding the room, watching his body go splat. Damn it, why didn't he do that then? That would have been perfect, and all the nations would have been there to see it. His hands itch with the desire to do that now.

His boss nods. "I'll accept that as your answer." At the same time, America notices that he had just spilled out all of the events of the disastrous meeting despite not wanting to. Now what he wants to do is bash his head against a table again, but he bites down on his lip and tightly grips the fabric of his pants to prevent himself from doing that in front of his boss.

"Speaking of the virus," his boss continues, "we've had our first case here, as I've mentioned. I've also heard that many other countries have reported their first cases as well. In fact, it's already been declared a PHEIC. The virus has gone international, and only this one month in. Do you think it is possible that China may have brought it to you during that meeting?"

America hadn't thought about it then, but he nods. He sighs. "Maybe, but I don't think I could have spread it to whoever has the first case."

"What I want to ask is, should we suspend all travel from China?"

"All travel?"

"Yes, all. Should we, or should we not? It may prevent infected people from traveling here and spreading it further."

"We . . ." America sighs. He looks down at his lap where his hands lay and pauses. It almost feels unfair that he has to deal with the virus now and take serious action; hadn't it been China's responsibility? Though it definitely serves that nation right to not be able to travel here to the United States anymore. He reluctantly continues. "Yes, we should."

"I'll make sure the ban is in action as soon as possible." His boss scoots to the side of his desk and reaches an arm out, snatching another stack of paper and a pen. He starts to madly scribble all over it, his hands flying here and there. Within a few seconds, half of the page is filled with his unreadable handwriting. Soon after, he turns to America again, recklessly tossing the pen to the side.

"The CDC will bring you updates," he says. "As of now, they're trying to find out more about the virus and what can be done about it. If you'd like to check the current numbers, feel free to do so. I'll put the travel ban in action." He picks up the stack of paper, aligns it, and stands up from his seat. He then walks out of the office, leaving America alone.

Seconds later, America decides he'd better leave. After pushing the chair in place, he follows his boss out of the room, but heads back to the other room where he had spoken to the senator earlier, the door still left open. The senator is no longer around, perhaps on her way to another meeting, but his laptop that had been on the other end of the table is right where it had been left, illuminated under the faint rays of sunlight coming from the windows.

Not bothering to pull back a chair and sit down, America flips the device open, hastily logging in as a guest rather than signing in himself. As expected, his news feed is flooded with CDC and WHO announcements regarding the coronavirus. China's death toll is rising fast. The virus is now a Public Health Emergency of International Concern. He sees nothing about Iran, his president, or even Australia and his fires, only the virus. Damn, all this had happened, and he'd been told nothing?

The nation presses his clammy palms down on the edge of the laptop, almost threatening to crush the plastic. First it's his president, then it's Iran, and now this virus. And now China's cases are already on the rise, the virus threatening to spread to the entire world, so much that it has been declared a PHEIC. Soon enough, numbers would rise for all the countries; it's inevitable, as China had clearly stated weeks earlier. Not knowing whether he should worry or not drives him even crazier. America swears that events like these happen at the worst possible times.

He picks up his computer and throws it out of the window.

Notes:

Although the WHO praised China's response to the outbreak overall (because it was much better than the response to SARS), many people still criticized it, particularly Hubei's response, due to it being delayed as well as not releasing the right information fast enough during the early stages.

The Chinese government continued to cover up and censor important information on the outbreak in January. (Because of this, China himself in the story did not understand how severe the virus really was; he was missing a lot of information on how the virus works and spreads, and it was up to his government to implement testing and issue warnings to his people.) However, they eventually became more transparent about it.

In the days before Chinese New Year (also known as the Spring Festival, marked as January 25th), Hubei's government moved Wuhan into lockdown and soon after, locked down the rest of the province. People rushed to leave Hubei when the lockdown was issued. As the outbreak intensified, China began constructing temporary hospitals for victims, similar to what they had done during SARS.

The governor of Hubei, who is simply named as "the governor" in this chapter, is Wang Xiaodong. However, I've decided not to mention his name (or any politician's name, for that matter) in this story for the sake of simplicity. The same applies for "the senator" (who is Kamala Harris, a senator of California) and America's "boss" (who, quite obviously, is the President of the United States, Donald Trump).

During the last half of January 2020, many countries outside of China began reporting their first few cases of the coronavirus, some of which were Japan, South Korea, the United States, and Italy. The WHO declared COVID-19 a Public Health Emergency of International Concern (PHEIC) on January 30th, 2020. A day later, both the United States and Italy suspended all travel from China.

By this point, the US-Iran incidents from earlier in the month had begun to simmer down a bit and the idea of war had more or less slipped away, but tensions were still very bad between the two nations, and the US also had to deal with Trump's impeachment trials.

Author's Notes:

Some of the characters are a bit OOC, especially China and America, though with all the 2020 ruckus, I'd expect they'd act differently so I hope you don't mind me switching up their character a little.

At some point I'll definitely bring up Brexit and the Australian fires because they, too, took away a lot of attention from the coronavirus and for that reason are worth mentioning.

Also, I have a discontinued fanfiction (of a different fandom) called Night of Destruction on my profile. Would you want to see a similar Hetalia story, written along the same concept—the characters have to save the world in a race against time and there's a particular villain trying to counter them—but with a (very) different plot setup? If I do ever end up doing such a story, it probably won't be in real progress until I finish some other fics, but let me know if you like the idea of a more sci-fi-adventure-based fanfiction.

As always, reviews are appreciated!