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It all started with Canada.
America had barged into his kitchen demanding to know why Canadian Kentucky Fried Chickens ("And don't even get me started on the fact you still call them KFCs!") didn't serve mashed potatoes and no, poutine was not an acceptable alternative -- only to realize that Canada wasn't in his kitchen.
In fact, Canada was not to be found in his kitchen, living room, foyer, den, or downstairs bathroom ("That's right!" America said under his breath, feeling appropriately vindictive, "I called it a bathroom!"). So America trudged up the stairs to where Canada's bedroom was and proclaimed, "C'mon! You don't get to sleep in this morning, you lazy --!" except he cut himself off when, upon barging into Canada's room, he realized that not only was Canada still in bed, but that his head was barely visible over the top of the veritable avalanche of blankets he'd stacked up on top of himself.
"A-America," Canada got out before he sneezed a sneeze that shook his whole body. "I think I c-c-cachoo! Caught something."
America stood up straighter, threw his shoulders back a bit, puffed his chest out, and marched right up to the edge of Canada's bed. "I know just the thing. Chicken noodle soup and a doctor's visit -- you are insured, right? We'll get you ship-shape in no time." He shoved the sleeves of his shirt up and loomed over the mattress.
Canada sneezed again and rubbed at his nose with the back of a hand. "I don't think a doctor is going to --"
Rolling his eyes, America turned to go back downstairs and call a clinic. "You know, that's the problem with socialized healthcare, Canada. I keep saying, you can never get an appointment when you really need one if y-y-achoo!"
America lurched to a halt in the doorway of Canada's bedroom and slowly, slowly turned back around to gaze upon Canada in horror. "Close the border!" he shouted, but no. He could already feel a fever coming on.
It was too late.
England came and visited the two of them, alternating between yelling at America for being foolish enough to not understand how to properly deal with contagions, and desperately trying to both coddle Canada and remember his name. America felt he got the last laugh when England sent them a frantic email after he'd returned home demanding to know if one of the symptons was fever.
America doublechecked, holding a hand to first his forehead and then to Canada's (he'd shoved Canada over in bed and taken up residence there because there was no way he was going to travel in his condition), and then he called England and crowed into the receiver, "Yes! Fever is one of the symptoms!"
"Bloody hell," England cursed, and hung up on him. And then, lying alone in bed in his rather large room in Buckingham Palace, he called France and harnessed all of his willpower to make himself not cough.
"France! I was thinking you should come on over for a bite to eat, perhaps a lager, maybe -- no, this is not some sort of trick, you buggering frog."
France, who had been to see Canada earlier that day and was sitting in his own room in the Palais de l'Élysée, wrapped tightly in a thick comforter and battling the sniffles with industrial strength tissues, considered the look on the bastard's face when his nose began to run and he was convulsing with sneezes. "Ha, I will consider it," he said, and began to make preparations to travel.
When France arrived in London and was escorted in to see an already ill England, he felt it was fully within his rights to shove the ingrate over and make him share his soup.
"Order!"
Germany pounded his fist against the table in front of him, and when no one quieted he glared at them all and penned another symptom down in his notes: deafness. His list, which had started with fever, coughing, and sneezing, had grown to encompass sweating, hallucinating, vomiting, an inability to properly plan for a worldwide pandemic of this magnitude, and in one horrifying turn of events, "Northern Italy no longer being hungry".
Germany slumped back in his chair and held a hand to his head. They weren't going to be able to accomplish anything if none of them were able to look past their own discomfort to analyze the situation as a whole --
Russia cleared his throat and silence descended on the room.
Germany glared up at him, and Russia smiled, and Germany decided he'd take what he could get.
"All right. We have organized here in order to pool our respective information regarding the virus, if that is what it is. I have taken extensive notes on the apparent symptoms of whatever it is we're dealing with, and --"
England, who was barely visible in his pile of blankets and who for the past three hours had been conversing with what he swore up and down was a unicorn (and what looked like empty air to everyone else), croaked out, "Even if we figure out a vaccine, there aren't enough hospitals left open to distribute it."
Japan, who had made the mistake of visiting America in order to discuss both America's growing fascination with Japanese pop culture and the current economic mess and had instead promptly returned home with nausea and a headache, said simply, "It is likely there are not enough hospitals to properly create the vaccine."
Northern Italy inhaled in one long congested breath and then sobbed out, "We're all going to die!" before his brother slapped a hand over his mouth.
Germany nodded. Concern-mongering was exactly what they did not need, even if he had been fighting against such ideas himself. What they needed was...
"A hero!" America shouted, and the countries of the G8 all swiveled in their seats to stare in him (even Canada, who he was sharing an overstuffed down comforter with, and who had to lean back a bit to do it properly). "What we need is a hero and --!" Here, America broke off to have a coughing fit, but he came back just as strong with. "And who's the only country who hasn't been affected? I mean, at all?"
The countries all continued to stare at him, and Northern Italy, against Southern Italy's hand, hiccuped a plaintive, "The aliens?"
"No!" The comforter around America and Canada rustled until America managed to work an arm out of it and punch a fist in the air. "Someone who lives right here!"
Silence once again settled over those assembled, and eventually it got uncomfortable enough for Canada to ask, "So who?"
America worked his arm back inside the comforter and shrugged. "I mean. I don't know anyone who isn't infected."
In the midst of the sudden uproar directed towards the young democracy, Germany distinctly heard England order his unicorn to gore America, Russia laugh about something involving creative applications of spigots, and France threaten that the days of Madame Guillotine were not so far behind them.
"Wait," England said then, and held out a hand to calm his hallucination-induced unicorn. "Normally he sends letters asking for aid and for the embassy to be re-opened, but the most recent one was just a bunch of 'HA!'s written over and over."
The countries glanced about the room, as though this mysterious entity would suddenly manifest.
"Who?!"
"Where?!"
"And a properly installed spigot could certainly be utilized to extract blood from a... oh, are we planning now?"
"Madagascar!" England shouted, and dissolved into coughs.
"Madagascar closed his ports two months ago."
Germany raised his head from where he'd been resting it against the table. "But that was when Canada was first infected, was it not?"
From inside his comforter, Canada could only nod.
Madagascar, it turned out, had also been incommunicado for nearly the same amount of time. Many hours spent on the phone to various bosses and embassies had brought up only superficial information, and it was only when America suggested they check Wikipedia that they'd even discovered the bit about the ports.
"But how did he know?" Northern Italy whined, flopping against his brother and stifling his sniffles against Southern Italy's shoulder, who had slumped against France some time ago in what he'd said was an attempt to make France stop ranting about autonomous states who didn't know any better than to be declared independent in the 60s, but was more obviously an inability to stay completely upright on his part.
"Perhaps," Russia said -- and while the others listed in their chairs and fell into uncomfortable sleep, Russia remained sitting still, his hands clasped in front of him, "he was just waiting for such an opportunity."
And in Antananarivo, Madagascar reclined in his chair, and smiled, and planned for the future.