Title: Backlash
Genre: Humor/Adventure
(s): Pairings aren't really the focus of this, but there is implied Giripan, blatant SuFin, and some onesided China/Russia, if you squint.
: T
Warnings: People being out of character. SOOOOO out of character. Which is kind of the point. And some cursing/adult themes. That's why it's rated "T", folks.
Summary (Full): A spell goes HORRIBLY awry! Sealand's now a great empire, Austria can't compose, Canada is visible, and Lithuania is 'kol'ing? With the world turned on its head, all eyes are on England and his now suspiciously good cooking. [GenBend, Crackfic, Oneshot!]
A/N: Life sucks right now, so I'm conducting some crackfic therapy. I'll try to work on the new chapter of Treatment soon, but since this plot bunny was much less involved than that story, I figured I'd write, have fun, and get it out of my system.
Disclaimer: -insert witty disclaimer here-


England had very few ambitions in life — he wanted to drink tea, do some needlework, kill France, etcetera. These dreams were the kind that could be obtained everyday with minimal effort, and always left him with a feeling of accomplishment when evening rolled around. However, there was one thing that, while it hadn't yet made it onto his list of ambitions, always seemed to well up inside him as an unattained dream — a wish, if you will.

England wished that people would eat his food.

And like it.

He wished with all his heart that someone would take a bite out of one of his scones and smile — and not in the queasy way America had when he was young, adorable, and easily force-fed.

Over hundreds of years this wish had simmered in the back of his mind, not quite powerful enough to be an ambition — or lead him to cooking lessons — but simply unwilling to go away.

One desperate night — this one, to be exact — this little dream jumped directly from a wish to a full-blown plan of action, foregoing the 'ambition' crap altogether. England had had a little too much stout and more than enough lager, and he found himself desperately hungry for that feeling of accomplishment that comes from having created something that another person enjoys.

Needlepoint just wasn't cutting it any more.

He donned his old black cloak and drew all the appropriate magical symbols and circles, drunk but eternally anal retentive when it came to what he affectionately called the 'not really black but more of a pleasant off-white with a lovely charcoal undertone' arts. He chanted in Latin, cursed in Gaelic, and traced letters in Greek.

At the last possible moment, he laid a plate of his disturbingly soggy and slightly blackened fish 'n chips in the center of the foremost circle.

"Goddess Hecate, heed my call! You who thrive on chaos know how faithfully I have served you! Grant my wish, so that you... may... um..." Arthur trailed off, not quite finding a reason that the goddess would grant his wish, but quick to use a little leverage. "Okay, so you wouldn't get much out of this, yeah? But still, you owe me fifty quid from last week, and I'm callin' it in."

With a booming of thunder, a shock of lightning, and a harassed grumbling of, 'see if I ever ask for another fiver, you berk', England's fish 'n chips began to rattle in place and emit an otherworldly glow. There was a final, blinding flash of light, and when the Brit's vision finally cleared, he found his battered and deep-fried pride and joy looking mouth wateringly delicious, with a pleasant aroma wafting around it.

Arthur was positively ecstatic until he realized that, strangely, his clothes were alternately loose and binding in places they previously hadn't been. He felt weird and slightly top-heavy, and noted that he was craving chocolate to an unhealthy degree. He was also sitting on a good hank of his hair, something which was both painful and extremely bewildering to the man. He hadn't worn his hair this long since that embarrassing episode with France in the middle ages...

With dawning horror, he peered down the front of his shirt.

"You have utterly reversed the natural order of this earth!" the voice of Hecate cried, her very presence sending the room into chaos and ruin. England looked down into the face of the goddess that had materialized in the tartar sauce next to his now delicious breaded fillets as she screamed:



Needless to say, England arrived at the world conference hosted in Helsinki the next day extremely anxious and wolfing down Mars bars like they were going out of style, his long hair stuffed up in a hat he hadn't worn since his days in the imperial navy. Being the first to arrive, as per usual, he set about drawing little pictures on the large dry-erase board in the center of the conference room, hoping that doing things by routine might keep the other nations from noticing that the way his business suit fit him now was more suitable for the cover of Hustler than The Economist.

Various nations filed in as he took his seat, each looking more freaked out than the next. Greece was a sight to behold, with his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and hands compulsively tearing at the hem of his shirt. Canada was fully visible. Austria pored over a blank sheet of music and would start to scribble a note on the first measure, only to erase it in utter dismay. There was something off about Lithuania too — instead of cowering and being polite, he was fingering what looked liked Russia's water pipe with unholy interest and sneaking creepy looks at other nations. Occasionally, he kol'd.

England sat quietly in his seat, trying to pretend that everything was fine, and that he wasn't shoving whole candy bars into his mouth when no one was looking. He was doing pretty well until, after most of the nations had assembled and taken their seats, Germany ran in late.

And completely devoid of muscle. He looked like a thirteen year-old boy.

"Ach du lieber, something is definitely wrong in the world," he declared as he took in the sight of the other nations. England twitched before he could stop himself.

"Yeah," America agreed, standing up to reveal a shirt that proudly declared his new membership in Weight Watchers. "This is totally friggin' weird, man. It's like, everything's fucking backwards. I mean, I woke up this morning, and I ate celery!"

"So?" England snapped, nervously. "Celery's good for you! What's bad about that?"

"There was a burger on the same plate, and I ate the celery."

There was a collective gasp at this, and the other nations began to panic a little. Korea stepped forward, looking like he was about to cry.

"It's true!" he said. "I witnessed it! Plus, when I woke up this morning, I found the very thought of touching breasts disturbing!"

"Come now, how are these bad things?" England tried to protest, but was pushed aside by Estonia, who rushed to share his news.

"It's worse than even that!" he declared. "Sealand's doubled in land mass, Italy's conquered Russia, Spain can't stand the sight of tomatoes, AND FRANCE CAN'T GET IT UP!"

Silence reigned in the conference room for a brief moment.

"We're in deep shit," Iceland said, holding up what had formerly been a puffin, but was now a Siamese cat. Abruptly, the crowd of nations erupted into yells and cries of anguish.

"My pyramids are upside down!"

"I don't feel the urge to compulsively punch America in the head!"

"When I woke up this morning I wanted to become one with Russia, aru!"

"I can't eat fish without getting sick!"

"I almost shot big brother with his own gun! In the face! Twice!"

"Everyone calm down!" England roared, slamming his hands down on the tabletop in front of him. "I'm sure that your issues can be resolved in short order!"

"Oh, really?" Belarus said, no hint of sarcasm in her voice, which was unnaturally hopeful and sweet as honey. She'd traded her knives in for flowers. Suddenly all eyes were on the British nation.

"Oh, yeah, England," Belgium hissed, "what's wrong with you? I'm not seeing any obvious signs of unnatural change."

"Very true," intoned a voice from somewhere around her knee. Everyone looked down to find a pint-sized Russia, less than two feet tall, stumbling over his scarf as he sidled among the other nations.

"There's something off about you too, da?" he chirped, violet eyes bright with fury hidden behind sugary-sweetness. "I can smell the magic on you…"

"Magic?" America repeated, giving England an accusatory look. "You used magic to do this to us? Is this some kind of sick payback or something?"

"No, I swear, it was only an accident!" he protested, gradually being backed into a corner by the now angry mob of nations.

"An accident?" Hungary cried. "You call having your entire collection of incriminating gay porn evaporating into thin air an accident?"

"Would you all just shut up? I'm suffering worse than any of you!" England howled. France harrumphed and gave him a scornful look.

"That's bullshit, mon cher. I just had my sea ports raided by Northern Italy, while Romano sobbed and made pasta!"

At his wit's end, England laced his hands around the buttons on his business shirt and tore it open. Shocked silence made another cameo appearance.

"Holy shit, Iggy's got boobs."

A moment was taken as all of the assembled processed this, but they didn't get to do so for long before Germany was piping up again.

"Wow… And you haven't even seen the most disturbing thing," Germany assured the other nations, literally shaking in his boots.

"What could be a more disturbing prospect than England PMSing?"

The door of the conference room slid open with a creak, and Prussia slumped in the doorframe. He held a near empty bottle of gin to his lips, looking utterly wasted and uncharacteristically depressed. Germany began to cry at the sight of him.

"What in the—?"

And then Prussia opened his mouth.

"I am the most miserable piece of filth in this pathetic world."

Austria fainted. Hungary almost joined him. Luckily, she was roused by the sound of a Nordic nation being thrown through the far wall like a sack of bricks.

"Why, in God's name, did Denmark just come flying through a wall?" Turkey demanded, backing away from the pile of debris the Dane was passed out in.

"It's Sweden — he's gone from stoic to ferocious in under sixty seconds!" cried an unnervingly expressive Norway, who was openly crying almost as hard as the terminally depressed Prussia.

Sweden grinned as he stepped through the gaping hole in the wall, eyes alight with fire.

"Damn," he growled, rolling his broad shoulders languidly. "Y'don't know how long I've want'd t'do tha'."

Closely following him came Finland, wearing a full-length wedding dress complete with veil and sniper rifle. As the Swede swept his armed, not-really-blushing 'bride' off his feet, all other thoughts in Hungary's head evaporated, much as her favourite tape of Japan and Greece had that morning.

"I'm going to Hell!" she enthused, snapping shots of the 'loving wife and husband' until her camera died.

"We're all going to hell," China groaned, burying his face in his hands as he tried to resist the urge to propose a Sino-Russian union at the top of his lungs.

"Welcome!" Russia chirped, donning a party hat. Prussia dissolved into violent sobs somewhere in the background.

"I would say, 'what have you done', but that has become painfully clear at this juncture," Japan, who'd been lurking in the background during the majority of the chaos, deadpanned, his razor sharp gaze trained on England. "What spell, precisely, did you employ to achieve such a result?"

England fidgeted. He squirmed. He averted his eyes. He started off reasonable but rushed the last of what he said until it became a garbled mess.

"One to make my food taste better… but it kind of… accidentally-disturbed-the-natural-order-of-the-world-and-yeah-sorry!"

America, who was quite adept when it came to understanding words run together almost to the point of being indecipherable, overturned a table.

"So I'm fucking counting calories because you wanted to make cookies?"

"Delicious cookies," England amended, suddenly feeling very small and like he needed more chocolate. Prussia abruptly sprung to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders, his grip vise-like and painful.

"Undo it," he hissed. "Un-fucking-do it. I want to feel awesome again!"

"Don't you think that if I knew an easy way to do that I would have done so already?"

There was general silence, during which England fumed.

"No, I do not enjoy gender-defying experiences," he growled. "I'm not Poland."

"Hey!" the effeminate nation himself cut in, adjusting the suspenders of his lumberjack outfit. "I, like, totally resent that remark!"

Just as England was about to advise Poland to go perform an act of procreation with himself, he felt a chair strike the back of his head. Normally such a hit wouldn't have done more than throw him for a loop for a moment, but, with his body in the condition it was, he felt his shapely legs give out beneath him. He crumpled like so much tissue paper, cursing his girly-ass body all the way to the floor.

"Don't take it personally, England," Austria murmured, setting the chair aside, his polite smile ice cold.

Then, all was black.

England had awoken to the concrete floor of the basement he'd performed the original spell in, as well as a very tiny and insistent Russia kicking him in the kidneys. The majority of the other nations were assembled at his back as he was forced to rework the spell, looking for a way to reverse the havoc he'd caused. The fish 'n chips were — disturbingly — still warm, and the newly crowned Sealandic Empire was snacking on them contentedly, there only to represent the small contingent of nations who hoped England didn't put everything back to normal (COUGHSwedenandLithuaniaCOUGH).

"Alright," he murmured as he finished re-writing some of the symbols scrawled across the floor. "This should do it… hopefully…"

America, who'd taken up a position at the man's side not to offer support, but to make sure he didn't try to teleport to freedom or anything, smiled a very chilly smile.

"It better. McDonald's just updated their menu with ten new burgers."

Fuelled by the implied threat of hamburger-motivated violence, England began to recite his spell again.

"Oh, Hecate, I'm so bloody sorry! I entreat you, goddess, to… 'rethink'... these changes you have wrought and—"

He didn't get to finish. There came another roll of thunder, flash of lightning, and an aggravated voice going, 'y'know, I was in the bath, for chrissakes'. Then—

America blinked as his eyes adjusted to the room again. Then he pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck and looked down.



A/N: Too much fun. That's all I can say. Too. Much. Fun.

As always, reviews are much appreciated, as well as speculations as to what exactly happened to Japan, Belgium, Denmark, Turkey, or any other nation whose fate I either didn't specify or didn't mention. Really. Try it. It's super fun.

Thanks for reading all the way to the end!

- C