Hetalia-Worldwide Plague Outbreak

Midnight Rainstorm

It was midnight, and England was on watch. He kept his eyes on the door, but they sometimes darted to France. Everybody had completely forgotten about Hungary's little scene earlier, and if they didn't, she'd made them forget (using a bit of persuading with the barrel of her rifle). She was rock hard again, the softness in her eyes had melted faster than the flesh of some unfortunate victims. England shivered at the image. The British nation was not strong stomached in the least bit. He hated gore, therefor Hungary officially scared him shitless. She was the history of gore, if not Russia. She could be scarier than the Russian sometimes. Scratch that, all the time. She made the brute Russian shiver in his chair.

England drummed his perfectly trimmed nails on the butt of his loaded rifle. He looked to the hatch, to France. Hatch, France. Hatch, France. England crawled over to France and curled up beside him. He'd get punished for sleeping on the job. Who was next after him? Hungary. Hungary's punishments were horrifying, and the thought of how she'd punish England made the Brit even more petrified. He shot up, deciding not to fall asleep during his shift. He sat beside France, stroking the French nation's perfect blonde hair. Even asleep, France was beautiful. England wanted him. Badly. More than badly. Desperately. But he wasn't ready to fall in love, even is his one true love was France. Beautiful France.

A small plink outside the window sounded, and the Brit yelped in surprise. Shit, wrong move. Everyone jumped awake.

"Angleterre!" France groaned sleepily.

"D-dad...?" America treaded cautiously.

"D-daddy...," Canada moaned softly, as loud as he could muster.

"Britain? Why did you wake us up so suddenly?" Russia's mouth curved into a small, evil demonic grin.

Belarus hissed.

"ENNNNGLAAAANNNDDD!" Hungary screamed, and once again everyone could swear the windows rattled. England slunk down.

"T-there was a sound...o-outside the window...," the Brit whimpered. Everyone froze and sped to the windows, checking outside each one, staring out into the blackness.

"That was the rain, dumbass!" Hungary yelled. "There's a midnight rainstorm! You scared us all half to death," the angered, awoken Hungarian nation snarled. England backed up to the wall as Hungary strode closer, pulling a razor-sharp, slightly rusted blade from her leather jacket. "You brit, I hated you from the start," she growled, swearing under her breath and lowering the blade (which was aimed straight for England's throat-Hungary was a professional knife thrower and never missed a lightning-fast shot). She put her knife away, and England let out a huge breath of relief. Belarus dragged Russia back to the cockpit, the two hoping to fall back asleep once again. Canada was already asleep, and America's eyes were slipping shut. "I'll take early watch," Hungary hissed, her voice dripping with venom and words sharper than knives. England swallowed and nodded, then curled up beside France. Wait...what? He was curled up beside France? England shivered a bit and slid away, only to be pulled back to France. It was then the English nation realized he fit perfectly and snugly curled into France.

Hungary sat in front of the hatch, emerald eyes locked on the tiny entrance opening. The moonlight made her eyes look black. The shadows cast over her made her look demonic. She was more terrifying than usual when she was angered at 1am. England curled tighter into France, and the French nation's arms curled around Arthur's waist. Arthur sighed a little, but went limp. He didn't care anymore, he just wanted to get to sleep. After all, the warm body tucked tightly beside him was comforting, the little breaths down the Brit's spine, France's arm sliding up Arthur's shirt...

Arthur moaned loudly. Hungary jumped, and in an instant the safety was off, the clip locked, and the barrel was to Arthur's forehead. Hungary was a speedster with guns. Arthur gulped again. He was dead. He was a dead man. Say goodbye, Britain...he thought.

"It was moi, Hungary. Not Angleterre," France said, and Hungary sighed and lowered her rifle.

"Whatever, just shut your annoying ass traps and slip into self-induced comas for the next six hours," she said.

"BURN!" America was still awake, apparently.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was 7am. Everyone was asleep but Russia. The large Russian sat, cross legged, in front of the hatch, tapping his fingers on the butt of the rifle. The rhythmic tapping sound is soothing, the Russian man thought, and his mouth twisted back into it's usual little smile that, for some reason, terrified everyone so much. He hummed an old Russian tune very softly to himself, and closed his eyes. Wait, he thought, shouldn't fall asleep.