Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.

A/N: I decided to see if I can give it a more proper story.

When Germany finally regained his consciousness, he found himself lying face-first in a puddle of his own dried blood. A dull, throbbing pain was evident in his right shoulder and both of his legs. It seemed that some sort of first-aid had been applied to keep him from dying due to blood loss, but it still hurt like hell. For some reason, he could taste the faint residue of olive oil on his lips. He tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position, preferably over onto his back, but then he realized that his arms had been tied together behind him. Raising his head, he saw a portrait of his former boss hanging on the wall, which immediately confirmed his location: the basement. Large cartons of ammunition and old weapons were seen strewn about in a unorderly fashion as well.

'I...I must have passed out from the pain not long after Italy attacked me...' Germany thought, but then the horrid reality dawned upon him, 'Wait a minute...Italy...that no-good useless Italy...he ATTACKED me with intent to kill! That's not even possible, is it?' The idea of Italy doing anything violent seemed an impossibility until today's horrific events. He was both impressed and infuriated by Italy's hidden cunning and viciousness.

"Pasta...! Pasta...!"

Germany froze. He could hear Italy's sing-song voice echoing from the kitchen upstairs, where the door to the basement was located. He sounded so happy and carefree, almost as if he hadn't just attempted to take Germany's life a few hours before. Being all tied up as he was, Germany had no way of knowing what had happened, or what was GOING to happen. Germany hoped that Italy had just taken some of his money, gone out to buy pasta, and finally regained his sanity.

'For now,' Germany decided, 'I need to work at get this blasted rope off of me...'

At the same time...

Italy was sitting at the kitchen table, happily singing to himself as he ate from a large bowl filled with pasta. Sitting across the table, with a friendly smile and his eyes closed, was Russia. He was holding one of the bloody kitchen knives Italy had used to attack Germany earlier. It excited him to see the blood of a fellow nation be spilled so effortlessly; he might be able to make use of the absent-minded Italy after all.

"Yata! Thank you so much for the pasta, Mr. Russia! You're not such a bad guy after all!" Italy exclaimed with glee.

Russia chuckled under his breath. "You're very welcome, Italy. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here, how I got into Germany's house, and how I knew of your troubles with obtaining pasta...correct?"

"No, not really!"

"Oh...kolkolkolkol..."

"B-But you can tell me if you want, ha ha!" Italy grinned sheepishly; even though he was now an official psychotic, he was still just as afraid of Russia as everyone else.

"I've been following you. I overheard your plight when you were arguing with Germany this morning about how there wasn't any pasta. I watched as you went from friend to friend, begging for pasta, but they all refused to help you. It's so sad, Italy, when countries aren't willing to help each other out of the goodness of their hearts. We need to learn to be more kind; that is what I believe. Because I am following a philosophy of kindness, that is why I came to bring you this pasta, but you had already gone and attacked your friend in a blind rage, but it was justified I believe, because he refused to give you aid when you needed it most."

"When you put it that way, it makes sense, Mr. Russia! I want everyone to be happy too...with pastaaaa~!"

"I like your attitude," Russia nodded, "Which is why I want you to help me punish the other countries who didn't help you! What do you say to that?"

Italy paused in middle of eating, and thought deeply about Russia's offer. "Hmm...I dunno! Now that I have my wonderful pasta, I don't feel angry anymore...and although what Germany did was mean, I can still forgive him, I think!"

Russia pulled out a long, steel faucet pipe from out of nowhere. "Are you sure you don't want to help me? I have other ways of persuading you, you know,"

"W-W-Well..." Italy cowers in fright.

"I guess threatening you isn't convincing enough, huh? What if I told you that Japan, France and South Italy all had much more pasta than they actually needed, but due to their greedy natures, they didn't let you have even a single noodle?"

"W-What?"

"It's true. Look at this photo!" Russia held up a small, black-and-white photograph that seemed to resemble Japan, Romano and France all sitting around a table and eating pasta. In reality, it was a photo-shopped picture that Russia had his sister Belarus put together for him, but it was ample 'evidence' to easily convince naive Italy into believing it. As Italy stared at the photo, the same rage he had felt with Germany was gradually returning. All he could see was red; he wanted to get revenge. Just as Russia had hoped, Italy was no longer in a right state of mind after the previous pasta incident. Anything that involved the denial of pasta was practically the worst crime imaginable in his eyes.

"...I'll help you..."

"Excellent! Let's go crush some happy faces!" Exceptionally pleased with the result of their conversation, Russia jumped to his feet and swung the faucet pipe over his head like an over-excited child. He had waited so long, so very long, for an ally in his plans. Now he could finally make everyone and everything become one with Russia.

Their first stop was going to be Japan's house.