Chapter Three

Italy placed his foot on the yellow path and began to walk. As he slowly made his way down it, the many Sealands lined themselves along the sides of the path. "We're real grateful!" said one. "Go get 'em!" said another. As Italy passed them, each one shouted praise to him. Sometimes they'd repeat themselves, but as they were technically the same person, Italy understood why. Where he would have drawn the line was if they started singing, but thankfully they didn't do that. Soon, Italy passed all of the Sealands and was now walking down the path alone.

On his right lay a grassy hill, and to his left stood rows of corn, tall and green in a fertile field. Italy had lost track of both time and his thoughts. He thought of Romano, his brother back home. What would his grumpy sibling do when he got home and found Italy- and their house- missing? As they often did, his thoughts also wandered to Germany. Italy had unified with his brother, so he didn't live in Germany's house anymore, but Italy would still pop over for a visit pretty often. Was Germany okay? Oddly enough, when he thought about Germany and Romano at the same time, he realized he thought of them differently. He wondered why, and nearly stumbled onto an answer, but his thoughts were interrupted when he saw a scarecrow standing in the middle of the cornfield. Pooky, who had been behaving well for the past hour or so, now jumped down off of his shoulder and ran into the cornfield.

"Pooky!" Italy yelled, running after him. "Not again!" Italy tried to keep up, but the cat quickly lost him in the many corn plants. Italy, now closer to the scarecrow, decided to take a look at it, hoping Pooky would be nearby and come back to him. As he approached, the scarecrow's face became more and more familiar to him. He had seen this face before. But where?

"Dude," said the scarecrow suddenly. With a yelp, Italy jumped. "Was that your cat?"

"A brown one?" answered Italy.

"Yeah," replied the scarecrow.

"Yes, he was. Where is he? Where did you see him?"

"He's not too far; he pissed on my pole."

Italy resisted the urge to laugh. "What's your name?" he asked instead.

"I'm America," answered the scarecrow.

"Hi, America! I'm Italy!"

"I know," answered the scarecrow. "Your food is awesome, by the way, dude."

"Wow! Thanks! Germany gets mad when I cook too much and make the kitchen a mess, but he seems to like my food, too. Maybe you guys could be friends!"

"Uh… we had a falling out back in the 40's," the scarecrow said carefully.

"Oh, right," remembered Italy.

"Listen dude," said America. "Think you could help me get down from here? This pole really hurts my back, and there's a splinter in my butt that I haven't been able to reach for days."

"Sure thing!" Italy said. "But could you help me look for Pooky?"

"No problem. He's probably in the patch where the wild catnip is growing."

"Okay. How do I get you down?"

"There's a spike in the back. Just pull it out and I'll come down."

"Okay…" Italy yanked the spike, and, sure enough, down came America with a crash.

"Ouch," he muttered, standing up. He reached behind him and pulled out the splinter. "That's better," he said happily, rubbing his sore bottom.

They made their way across the field to the catnip, where, as America had predicted, Pooky lay rolling around in the fallen leaves.

"Wow," said Italy. "You must be real smart to have known where he went!"

"I just know my field," said America sadly. "I want to be smart, but I can't be."

"Why not?" Italy asked.

"Well…" America's eyes glistened with sadness. "I'm only a scarecrow, so I don't have a brain. My head is just filled with straw."

Italy placed a hand on America's shoulder. "Hey," he said, getting an idea. "You helped me find Pooky, so I'll help you. Why don't you come with me?"

"That depends on where you're going; I mean, I still have a field to look after."

"I'm far away from home, so I'm going to see a wizard for some help. Maybe he can do something for you."

"You really think he'd help me?" said America excitedly, the sad glistening in his eyes going away.

"He might," said Italy, becoming hopeful. "But what about your field?"

"Hm." America thought for a moment. He turned around and shouted. "Hey, Canadia!"

"I'm right here; no need to yell," said a soft voice nearby.

"Think you could watch the field while I'm gone, bro? I'm gonna get me a brain!"

"Sure thing pal! About time, too."

"Thanks man!" America walked off, giving Italy a thumbs-up.

In reality, America hadn't paid any attention to what Canada had said. Canada knew if he'd said no it wouldn't have mattered, so he let it go. Besides, now he could watch the field in peace and quiet. Of course, peace and quiet didn't exactly scare the crows away. He considered changing his mind, but America and Italy were too far off to hear him, and probably wouldn't pay attention anyway. Canada sighed, feeling sorry for himself.

"Who are you?" said Kumajiro, a bear who'd often visit the field.

"I'm Canada," he said, as usual.

Italy and America were getting along well; discussing elevators and food, and trash-talking British cooking. Italy informed him about France, but America didn't seem fazed.

"Pff!" he scoffed. "Ol' Francy-pants seems bent on picking on everyone smaller than him. Even Britain was able to kick his ass."

"I've always wondered why they fought so much," Italy said in his spacy way.

America grew very red. "They fought over me when I was a kid. I didn't know much about myself then, so I only wanted to be friends with everyone. You're lucky, dude; you're older and you know more about this stuff."

"I'm not much older," Italy sighed. "I've always had somebody else governing me. It's only recently that I started living with Romano again, and not being picked on so much. Besides, you're bigger and stronger. You even beat Britain!"

"That is true," America conceded. "So we can still beat France!"

"Ve!" Italy cried happily.

They continued their walk, soon approaching sparse woodlands and various fruit trees. Italy and America were getting hungry, which wasn't unusual, although America would have much rather had a burger than a peach or an apple, and Italy would have liked a plate of pasta.

As America reached for an especially high peach, a glare shone in his eye. He looked over in the direction it came, seeing a shiny metal man standing perfectly still, and wielding an axe.