A/N: Long time no update, sorry! Updates might be more consistent from now on since distance learning is FINALLY over. Regardless, the support I've been getting for this story is honestly unreal! Thank you all so much, I'm glad you like it so far~

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

WARNING: Racism/xenophobia, violence, and strong language.

After the utterly unsuccessful attempts to schedule another UN meeting with Germany and England, China had ended up contacting Netherlands several days later. He'd initially thought, well, Netherlands wouldn't care either—it hadn't seemed like he did at the previous meeting—but the European nation had agreed to host the meeting in his country, much to China's surprise.

"Of course," Netherlands had said. "It's been declared a PHEIC. It's a serious matter."

China almost hadn't been able to believe his ears. "You . . . care? About COVID-19?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"For no particular reason, it seemed as though . . ." No, of course there had been a reason; what was he thinking? "Because no one cared, except a few. I didn't believe you were one of them. I tried to talk to England, but he doesn't care either. Then Germany seemed to, but now, I'm not sure he truly does."

Netherlands had hesitated. "What exactly made you think that England and Germany, of all people, wouldn't care about the virus? I know them; they would."

"I'd tried to talk to them earlier," China had explained, sighing. "I assume Germany was busy—truth to be told, he always is—and perhaps England was, as well. Two days ago, I tried talking to them both; Germany, who was most likely busy, didn't answer, and England . . . well, England simply didn't care."

"Are you absolutely sure he didn't care? That doesn't seem like the England I know."

"I'm . . . I'm quite sure that he didn't," China answered. "He never outright stated he doesn't care, but he kept on trying to escape from the situation. Either he's really preoccupied with something else, or he doesn't care. Who knows; he might be busy these days, like Germany is."

"Speaking of 'busy', England is leaving the European Union soon, and Germany, as a founding member, isn't very happy about that. The other members and I have been trying to sort out this complicated mess, but once it's over, our priorities can and will change. I can assure you that both of the two care. By the next meeting, they'll have settled down; all of us will have."

Of course; England is busy with his . . . "Brexit". That explains everything—England's frustrated and rushed tone during the short call, the loud voices in the background. China almost feels guilty for calling in the middle of what was likely a meeting regarding such an event.

Day after day passed, and China felt his heart sink every time the numbers rose from the hundreds up to the thousands. February would not be an easy month, would it? Soon enough, January had drawn to an end, and he'd hopped onto a flight to the Netherlands several days later to attend the meeting.

Now, he's wandering through the streets of The Hague to their meeting area, trying to catch up with Japan, who is several steps ahead. The air is brisk and chilly, though not freezing. Surprisingly, the small area he's passing through is strangely calm; China would have thought more people would be around. Occasionally, a few Dutch citizens would pass by him, but even then, it never seemed as though they were heading anywhere important.

China turns to Japan, who steadily walks in front of him. He quickens his own pace after another turn so that they're now walking side-by-side. Not wanting to keep the awkward silence in between them, he tries to think of something to talk about.

"It's quite empty here, isn't it?" he mentions. "Think of all the people that were here the last time we had a meeting in this city."

Japan shrugs. "We're in a different part of the city today, at a different time of year. I'd expect that this place is quieter; less travelers, less business."

"Wish there were someone to talk to," China mutters, half joking.

"I'm here," Japan bluntly answers, though he clearly wants to do anything but have small talk. "Regardless, you'll have people to talk to soon, during the meeting. Better to not get carried away talking to a stranger and be late. You were the one who brought up the virus in the first place, after all." He skitters forward away from the other Asian man, his feet shuffling against the pavement.

Oh, the virus. China almost laughs. Yes, he'd brought it up, been the one to make it an issue in the first place, and that's taking it from an after all stance, no? Though he keeps a laugh down, a small grin—from wanting to laugh at either Japan's idiocy or strange calmness, he can't tell—creeps onto his face. He watches the younger nation peacefully walk several meters ahead and decides it isn't worth catching up; there's nothing to talk about.

Seconds later, the nation notices a group of three people walking in sync on the other side of the road, initially appearing to be minding their own business. The trio consists of two men and a woman, and it isn't until they begin whispering and pointing at him that China realizes something seems odd.

The next thing China knows, the singular woman in the group, her blonde hair bouncing behind her, is grabbing at his shoulder, speaking to him, asking him questions in what appears to be Dutch. Perhaps she and her friends are lost and need directions, but she doesn't sound happy, as evident by her facial expression; eyebrows pressed together, eyes narrowed.

"Sorry, I—" Many people in the Netherlands speak English, don't they? China wants to explain that he himself doesn't speak any Dutch. He hesitantly continues, praying that the woman can understand him. "I'm sorry, I don't . . . I don't speak Dutch—"

"English, then?" she snaps, her accent heavy. "Tell me, where are you from?"

In absolute puzzlement, China raises an eyebrow and doesn't reply. "Where are you from"? For what reason would she be asking that? If she'd only stopped to ask this instead of directions, well, she quite clearly isn't lost, but rather . . .

China hears the small patter of footsteps from in front of him and realizes Japan is walking back towards him, looking just as confused. He eyes the Dutch woman for a moment before turning back to the nation, as if asking what is going on. China can only shrug in response.

"Where are you from?" the woman snaps again, louder this time. She shakes China's shoulder, which she is still tightly gripping to the point where it's beginning to hurt. Her voice is piercingly loud and harsh. "Both of you, now, where are you from? You're from the place of the virus, aren't you?"

"No—" China quickly says, forcing the woman's tight hand away from him. "No, I mean, what do you mean, 'the place of the virus'?" Though he's relatively certain of what the woman is talking about, the nation wants to make sure.

"Why, that's China, you idiots! You brought the virus here from there, and now, the corona is here, all thanks to you!" By now, she's practically screaming, her hands clenched into fists. "Get out of our country, you filthy Asians! Are youstupid? Where's your mask?"

Only now does China realize what the woman is on about, and his heart drops, his brain launching into fight-or-flight. Damn, why hadn't he known something like this would happen sooner or later? If he had, he'd never have stopped to answer the woman's "questions" earlier. He swallows hard and tries to back away from the female, who only follows Japan and him with every step they take.

"Dogs! You fucking Chinese dogs!" she screams, her eyes burning with hatred and rage. "Where are your fucking masks, eh? Put your fucking masks on! The corona is not allowed here!" She lunges at China, her hands spread out, but he instantly ducks out of the way, nearly crashing against a nearby car. The woman only partially misses, the side of her body forcefully landing on China's.

A tall, burly man storms across the street over to the three and scowls at China and Japan, pointing at them. He rapidly speaks in Dutch to the woman, who nods, returning her end of the small conversation, and soon enough, he turns to the Asian nations.

"Where's your mask?" he yells, switching to English. He quickly storms even closer to China, who has recovered from the body crash against the car and is now slinking backwards, wanting to get away. "I bet you filthy idiots don't have one, do you? Do you?! Answer me!" He uses his strong hands to grab a hold of China's neckline and he starts roughly tugging at it, spitting loud insults the entire time. The nation almost can't say a thing in response; the shaking is causing him to see stars.

China reaches up and grabs at the man's thick wrists, making an attempt to pull them away from his clothing. It's a mild success—he manages to writhe out of the man's grip—but before he can flee the scene, the blonde woman from earlier forcefully drags him back, violently pushing him against the wall, her hand pressed against his neck. She starts to yell again, but out of the corner of his eye, China can see Japan stumbling towards him, pointing in the direction of their destination.

"Run," Japan chokes out. "Run, now, to the meeting's building. We don't have time for this."

China desperately wants to fight back, to teach them a lesson. But it's never a good thing to get into conflict with regular citizens. When it arises, the only thing a nation can do is step away from it. He forces himself to not retaliate and runs after Japan, ducking under the grasp of the blonde woman and the insults from all of the attackers. After running for what seems like hours, the shouting and pounding footsteps finally fade away, and it isn't until the nation reaches the doorsteps of the tall building that the physical pain catches up to him, stinging and aching all over.

Japan is next to the door and bent over, trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving. His face is covered in blood, but he wipes some of it away onto his hand, as if not wanting to catch it on his sleeve. He glances up at the older nation and sighs.

"I suppose we should . . . we should get cleaned up," he breathes, still shaking from the incident. He gently pulls open the door with a single finger, pokes his head in, and looks around, seemingly wanting to make sure no one is watching them enter. Moments later, he gestures for China to come in.

The two lock themselves into an unoccupied bathroom. The men glance at themselves into the mirror above the sink and only then does China realize what the attackers really had done to him. In all seriousness, it doesn't feel like much—he's been through much worse, unbeknownst to the humans—but the side of his forehead is leaking a crimson red all over his face, his bottom lip almost looking destroyed; a sharp ache throbs from his side, but he doesn't want to check it. Japan himself looks no better.

The Japanese man is taking a wad of paper towels, wetting them under cold water, and wiping away the blood caked on his face. China does the same, and to his relief, no part of him is still bleeding; his body is already repairing the damage relatively fast. However, he knows that the wounds will still be visible during the meeting, unless . . .

China reties his ponytail looser than usual, allowing his front strands of hair to cover the sides of his face. Messy, of course, but it covers up the cut on his forehead. Nothing he can do about his lip; he'll simply have to hope it isn't visible enough. From a distance, it wouldn't be.

"Why?" Japan suddenly says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, but his tone is sharp, edged with fury. He keeps his gaze fixed on the sink, his pale fists clenched so tight on the used paper towels that they turn even whiter. China waits several seconds for the younger nation to continue, but he doesn't, and doesn't seem as though he will.

"'Why' what?" China bluntly asks.

"Why did they—why was I attacked? I don't get it. I'm not Chinese." The Japanese man starts raising his voice. He lifts his arms up and firmly crosses them, still refusing to move his eyes from the sink. A scowl crosses his normally serene face. "I have nothing to do with the virus. Not that you deserved to be attacked—you didn't—but either way, I don't understand. It makes no sense."

China presses his hands down onto the white porcelain, and seconds later, releases his grip, stuffing his hands in his pockets and pacing around the room. "Filthy Asians," they said. "Put your fucking masks on," they said. "You're from the place of the virus," they said. He stops his pace and sighs, staring at the blue wall tiles.

"You want to know why?" he quietly, and rhetorically, asks. "I'll tell you why. Because they don't give a damn. They don't give a damn that you're not Chinese. The fact that you're Asian, the fact that you look like me—" no, Japan and him really don't look that similar, do they? "—is enough for them, and they don't give a fucking damn that you're Japanese."

"Since when have I looked like you?"

"Since forever, since we've existed!" China spins around and faces his friend, feeling his anger spring up again. "That's how it works; America looks like England, Norway looks like Finland, and we look like each other, because we're both Asian! You could dye your hair pink and I'm telling you, they still won't give a damn! If you look the slightest bit Asian and you're not wearing a mask and you're somewhere in Europe, to them, you are the virus—because they simply don't give a damn, they don't fucking care, and that's all there is to it!"

Japan doesn't respond to that, though he seems to absorb it. Seconds later, he checks his watch and turns around, walking straight past the other Asian and tossing the paper towels in the trash can. He still says nothing, but he sneaks a glance at China that says, "It's time." He then pushes open the door and swiftly disappears down the hallway, almost as if walking through it.

China leans against the cold wall for a moment, watching the door fall back shut with a small thud. He sighs and takes one last glance at himself in the mirror; his hair looks messier, his clothes slightly battered, but surely no one would notice. No one would ever have to know what occurred on the streets. Although the Chinese man is severely tempted to skip the meeting altogether now, he turns away and forces his feet to move him out of the bathroom and down the hallway towards the meeting room.

When he shuffles into the large room, there are only a few other nations sitting around and chatting. Judging from this, China estimates that the meeting will begin in about half an hour. Rather than finding his own seat, for the meantime, he sits down next to Japan, who is depressingly slumped over the table instead of leaned back in his chair as usual, and runs his fingers through his long hair, trying to smooth it out.

"You know, I won't tell," China softly says, making sure not to attract the attention of whoever else is nearby, "about the racists. You can if you'd like, but I won't. If we don't bring it up, no one will notice anything happened." Probably just as well—speaking about it to the other nations wouldn't change a thing.

Japan shrugs. "Sure."

". . . 'sure'?"

"Sure, I won't tell anyone either. There's no point."

England lets out a long sigh as he turns down another corner, crossing his arms. The past few months had been absolutely hectic—one moment, he's finding a way to help Australia, next, an outbreak from nearly two decades ago has resurfaced, and then he's resolving all the difficult issues and negotiations with the members of the EU.

If anything, England figures, the so-called PHEIC is the least of his concerns. China would bring it up, call him in the middle of another meeting, ask about it, try to get him to worry, and he'd only forget about it minutes later. A part of him wants to take action now; it may become a more serious issue in the future, definitely. But the rest of him, an overwhelming part of him, reasons that as of now, he has more immediate concerns to deal with.

Which leaves him wondering; what exactly would even be discussed at the meeting today, proving that China likely isn't attending? England had told him several weeks ago not to, out of concern about the virus' spread—perhaps he is concerned about it, then, to an extent—and he's sure that, despite the Chinese man's stubbornness, he wouldn't risk attending another meeting under these circumstances.

But when England opens the door to the meeting room, he sees the older nation sitting at a table, and on top of that, Japan is right next to him. And although he isn't the kind to spend the free minutes before a meeting speaking to others, the Brit walks up to the two Asians either way.

Once he approaches them, they don't look up from the table that they seem to be intently staring at, nor are they talking to each other.

"Hey, uh . . . China, Japan," England begins.

"Hello, England," China quietly answers.

"You're . . ." He isn't sure how to go about this, but swallows and continues. "You're here, at the meeting today?"

Strangely, China doesn't seem at all surprised, and he keeps his gaze fixated away from England. "I believe so," he calmly replies. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Yes and no, really, but England doesn't want to complicate it further. He sighs. Hadn't it been obvious when he'd explained earlier? "I told you—both you and Japan—that you shouldn't be here."

"Really?" China lifts his gaze to the Brit, a strangely menacing scowl crossing his face. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, inhaling deeply, and at that moment, England realizes that China's long, dark hair is flopping over the sides of his face as if he hadn't bothered to take care of it. "I'd like to inform you, England, that you aren't in charge of who comes to what meetings and who doesn't."

"Oh, what the hell. I never said that," England snaps. He also crosses his arms, mirroring China's dark expression. "Don't jump to conclusions. All I'm asking is why exactly are you here when I clearly told you that you should not be?"

"Why do you think we shouldn't be here?"

"Because—" England cuts himself off and sighs in frustration, shaking his head. He's tempted to storm away and leave the two Asians alone, but he decides not to; he'd rather get his point across first, regardless of whether or not they care. "Because of the . . . the virus."

China's scowl deepens, and he starts tapping his foot on the ground. "Right—'the virus'. Care to elaborate?"

England sighs again, more audibly this time. Hadn't he clearly told China last week the reason he shouldn't be at any meetings in the near future? If he were to carry the virus to a world meeting, the spread could genuinely spiral out of control. Someone could fill in for him; easy enough. To understand any of that would require nothing but a shred of common sense.

The Brit tries to continue. "The—your virus—"

"My virus, England?"

"—not your virus, I mean the Chinese Virus, whatever it's called—"

Before he can finish his sentence, China whips a hand up and strikes him against the temple, the sharp smack echoing throughout the room. England sees stars for a brief moment until he registers the pain and shock, and he backs away from the older nation, unable to process what had happened.

Had China . . . raised a hand to him?

"Shut up," China growls, his eyes burning with rage, his fists clenched. England had never seen him so angry before. "Shut up. You think you know everything, don't you? You think you can call this coronavirus—hear that? Coronavirus, not whatever the hell you think it should be named—the Chinese Virus? I did not start this virus on purpose. I did not intentionally unleash a possible global pandemic to all of you. You said you wanted me to stop coming to future meetings; why should I, when I'm the only one who cares about what this could become?"

England grits his teeth. Several other nations have turned their eyes to the three, and although no one intervenes, no one moves away, either. The Brit tries to open his mouth to say something back to China, but he can't find what he wants to say. China seems unusually stressed—should he ask about it? Should he care at all? His mind is all tied up into a huge knot of messy thoughts.

"Fine," he finally sputters, unable to say any other words.

China hangs his head down and sighs. At the same time, Japan gently nudges him with an elbow, quietly whispering to him. Moments later, China shakes his head ever so slightly and looks up, glancing at England.

"England . . ." The Brit can detect a small sliver of regret in the Asian's quiet voice. China's hazel eyes gaze at England and he reaches a pale hand out. "I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you like that—"

"No—" England jerks his hand back the moment he feels China's brush against it, then bites down on his lip. Bloody hell, the "no" had come out harsher than he'd intended, and China is now the one recoiling in shock. Sighing, he immediately lowers his voice. "No," he tries again. "You don't have to apologize. I should. You made it clear at our first meeting that we shouldn't call it—the, uh, virus—anything location-based, and I—"

"England, you don't understand—"

"I said—"

"—when I was arriving here, for the meeting, people on the streets attacked me for being Asian. They attacked me for not wearing a mask and being out of my home country. They said the 'corona is here' or it's now 'corona time', like I am the virus." China looks down at the carpet and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, blinking afterwards. "Their words—it's the reason why, when you told me I shouldn't be here because of the . . . 'Chinese Virus', I got angry. Because—"

"I understand." England halts the older man. "I'm sorry."

China's eyes almost seem to bulge with regret. "But, I'm also—"

"You don't have to be." The Brit starts away from the edge of the table, searching for his own seat. He can still feel the dull ache of China's fist against his face, already fading. China calls his name a few more times from behind him, but England adamantly refuses to turn around. Eventually, the voice stops, just as the rest of the nations flood in and Germany shuts the door, his all-too-familiar commands booming throughout the room again.

America plops into the seat next to England, as always. Neither of them sneak a glance at each other, nor do they try to initiate a conversation. The Brit decides to give up talking to others for the day, other than speaking during the meeting if he must. He buries his face in his arms, only glancing up when Netherlands, being the host nation, begins the roll call that Germany had implemented decades ago, going down the list in alphabetical order.

"Argentina?"

"Present."

"Armenia?"

"Present."

"Australia?"

Unusually, there is no response, no redundant "present". Netherlands raises an eyebrow, clears his throat, and repeats the name, more firmly.

"Australia!"

Still, there is no response, only silence. England and numerous other nations turn to look at where Australia usually sits, and sure enough, the seat is empty. Perhaps he's late, as he's always had a habit of getting distracted no matter the situation; surely he'd burst through the door any moment now.

Netherlands purses his lips, twirls his pen around for a few moments, and starts scribbling on the list of member nations. He mumbles something under his breath and picks up the clipboard again, about to move on, until a small voice pipes up from across the room—it's New Zealand.

"Figured I should let you know, Netherlands," he begins, "that Australia can't be here today, due to the fires in the country. Quite impossible for him to leave, really; he's not in a good situation." He looks down at his lap and sighs, his typical cheery personality missing.

The Dutchman glances at his clipboard and sighs as well, scribbling more. "Would you be able to fill him in on everything discussed during this meeting?" It almost doesn't sound like a question, and he doesn't look up from his writing when he says it.

A blunt "Of course" is New Zealand's only response.

"On that note, moving on," Netherlands continues, setting his pen down and resuming the roll call. "Austria?"

"Present."

Netherlands' voice seems to fade out into a blur as England diverts his attention away, waiting for his own name to be called. He starts thinking about what New Zealand had said—"quite impossible for him to leave"? What had he meant by that? Are the fires really so bad that Australia is unable to go elsewhere? England doesn't want to think about it. He sighs.

There's more he doesn't want to think about. His exit—er, Brexit, as they'd all decided to call it—from the European Union had been stressful enough, and the problems and negotiations haven't stopped. And the meeting today would be all about the new virus China has been dealing with.

"It is not a 'Chinese' virus! Nor is it 'my' virus!" The nation had said that at the initial meeting, and he'd made it clear. China had explained that he had been attacked earlier in the day because of that very virus. England wants to wonder who would ever do such a thing, but then remembers with a pang of guilt that he himself had tossed the location-labeling off, shrugged it away like no big deal. No, he hadn't attacked China, not in the way that China implied that he had been, but to call the virus "Chinese" after clearly being told not to was nothing to be celebrated, either.

On top of that, China had snuck in the words "possible global pandemic" in his short rant. The thought of what should be something small progressing into a pandemic sends a chill down England's spine. He tries to reassure himself that the chances are likely low; after all, China hadn't mentioned how likely a pandemic would arise.

Even then, the news is not at all comforting.

"Has that one disappeared yet?" New Zealand asks, pointing to Australia's clothed left shoulder. "Didn't look that great the last time I saw."

Australia shrugs. "Almost," he answers, picking up a small stick and dragging it through the charred earth, drawing random doodles with it. "Hopefully it'll be gone by next week; better yet, less than a week."

New Zealand sighs and shakes his head, resting it on an arm leaned against a rock. Nearly three weeks earlier, sometime in the middle of January, the Australian had gotten caught in a fire after driving to the airport and had ended up being severely burned and injured. Many of his injuries and burns had healed over within a week or so due to him being a nation, but he'd been so badly hurt that even now some of them remained.

After many questions, it turns out that he'd intentionally run into the fire to save a koala trapped in a tree, and that was the very reason he'd never made it to the airport to get out of the dangerous conditions in his area, and being so damaged, he hadn't been able to attend the recent meeting, either. When he had found out that they were more worried about him than the koala he'd painfully saved, he'd nearly gone insane.

"Australia, mate . . ." New Zealand begins, sighing again. ". . . you do realize, if you weren't a nation, you'd have perished in those flames?" Genuine hell, he thinks, but he doesn't mention it. "I'm thinking, a scar or two you have right now—perhaps that one on your shoulder—won't ever go away."

"Sure, and if it won't? I don't care," the Australian quietly says. "A perfect way to memorialize this fire season."

"Promise me you won't put yourself through such danger again."

"Can't promise that." Australia tosses his stick away and stares down at the heavy dirt. He turns away, revealing a faded pink scar traveling down his jawline and disappearing under his clothing. "Learned a long time ago not to make those kinds of promises. I can only promise I won't forget these fires, never in a million damn years."

"That doesn't need a promise." Even if I made you promise not to run into fires ever again, you'd break it as soon as you could. New Zealand bites his lip, wishing there was more he could do to help his friend, other than provide aid to the fires. He'd do anything to be able to extinguish every single flame in the country right this instant.

He looks around the burned landscape, brushing the beads of sweat off of his forehead. Although the main fire in this area had already been successfully put out, the burning temperature of this year's summer hadn't changed, though it seems like no summer at all. Around him in every direction, he sees nothing but the burned, black remains of what was once a forest. There's hardly a single green leaf in sight.

"What happened at the last meeting?" Australia suddenly asks.

The meeting. New Zealand had promised Netherlands to tell Australia of all that was talked about. And . . . well, simply put, the news hadn't been great. China informed everyone that the outbreak is more "serious than previously believed", and numbers are already surpassing that of SARS despite the lockdowns. If action isn't taken soon, it could become a pandemic.

New Zealand isn't sure he wants to inform Australia of this, considering how severe the fires already are. But he has to—for the safety of everyone. The more people that know, the better.

"Remember the . . . 'coronavirus' that China told us about last month?" New Zealand says, referring to their first meeting of the year. "It's gotten worse, already much worse than the 2003 outbreak, and it's projected to get more and more worse, and then there's the possibility of a pandemic, and . . ." He forces himself to stop, not wanting to cause Australia even more worry.

Australia brings his hands up and rubs his tired face with them, heaving out a sigh. Then he gently shakes his head, saying nothing. New Zealand fears that he may have said too much too soon, but there's more he hasn't finished, perhaps the most important of all.

He gulps. "I mean—you could—I'm not sure how far it's spread; I suppose it hasn't arrived here in your country quite yet, but is there something you can do to stop it from growing into a pandemic, mate? For starters, a lockdown? Maybe talk it up with your government once these fires settle down?" Though he knows the fires won't calm down on their own anytime soon.

The Australian sighs and hangs his head down over his lap, almost causing his two ahoges to sag. He shivers even through the sweltering heat, his shoulders looking more fragile than they had ever been as they gently shake. When he lifts his head again to face New Zealand, his green eyes are glazed with tears. He looks as if the real Australia has been sucked—burned—away from him.

"I'll try," he says at last.

But he sounds more unsure of himself than ever.

Notes:

The outbreak heightened a lot of xenophobia towards the Chinese, as well as a lot of racism for all east Asians in general. The rate of hate crimes, harassment, and assault against Asians increased dramatically. Many of the slurs and other racist sayings that I used in the story, as well as the assault "methods", are (unfortunately) real ones I've come across on the news, social media, etc.

The UK left the European Union on January 31st, 2020, just one day after COVID-19 was declared a PHEIC. Throughout the pandemic, the UK was also frequently criticized for not imposing restrictions, lockdowns, etc. when most of Europe already had.

The WHO strongly discouraged the use of location-based names for the coronavirus, saying that such names are inappropriate. Despite this, a lot of people continued to use names like "Chinese Virus", "Wuhan Virus", and others.

As early as January and February, numerous scientists and other health experts warned that COVID-19 could turn into a pandemic, but of course, most of the world (notably the US and UK) didn't take the warning seriously; even China didn't truly believe it would become a pandemic.

The 2019-20 bushfire season in Australia was unusually bad, and most of the worst parts were in December and January. An insane amount of land was burned and an estimated one billion animal lives were lost, almost resulting in the extinction of several species. Hearing the news about the coronavirus only generated more chaos.

Author's notes:

Unfortunately, this story wouldn't be complete without a scene with full-blown racism due to what's happening in the real world, and as a Chinese American myself, it's really sad to see that this happens so often; remember, the coronavirus isn't China's fault, even though it may have started there! In times like these, the most important thing is that we stick together—from our homes.

If there's a particular moment or aspect from the pandemic you want me to write about, feel free to let me know! (This is one of those stories where I decide the plot as I go~)