The first review made me giggle. Coincidentally, that's the name of the reviewer.

Giggle123: Haha, thanks, I really appreciate it, but I already know why the Japanese committed suicide if captured. I just think it's kinda sad they did (and you almost spelled it right. It's 'Seppuku', but close enough :)) I think the Bushido thing is definitely part of it. Two more things might be how "honoured" it was, like, I heard about a squad in WWII that went to attack an American group (probably in Hong Kong or Taiwan or something. Maybe China). Four were killed, the commander was captured. Back in Japan, the dead were revered as heroes, and the commander... was completely forgotten. Another part was they were told if they were captured they would certainly be tortured and killed. I'm sure that could convince some people to kill themselves. Anyway, you have no clue how good a simple "good job" makes me feel. Thank you!

And for the guest, I suppose you didn't listen: suggest or don't review. That's the bottom line here. The whole point of mentioning the "bookstore" thing is to point out: Hetalia is no longer a profiting series. I had more to this paragraph, but I'm gonna cut to the chase: your single-minded "Hetalia zealot" reviews are not welcome here. I've already suggested a peaceful resolution, and if you're so stubborn, I don't think I'm the childish one here. Now, why don't you run along and get back to your life? My school's having exams soon, and unless you're an adult harassing a MINOR, you should be studying like me. Ergo: hasta la pasta.

Wow, only one bad review. Hmm, the Hetazealots must not have had anything mean to say, so they decided not to say anything.

The man in the doorway was quote similar to Italy in appearance, but... not at the same time. His hair was cut in similar fashion, but it was bleach blonde. His hair curl jutted out from the side opposite to Italy's, and the biggest difference: he wore a bright smile on his face.

A little oddly-dressed for a war-zone, Germany thought to himself as his eyes took in the pristine white suit that had somehow managed to stay unstained from whatever had happened outside, a pale pink scarf thrown over his shoulders, and a pair of designer sunglasses with frames of fuchsia.

The strange man looked over the people in the room, but his eyes froze on Italy, who looked wary for some reason. The man suddenly ran forward, but he didn't attack Italy. Instead, he threw his arms around the irritable Italian, crushing him in a tight embrace.

"Italia Veneziano, you are always getting into trouble!" he exclaimed.

In response, Italy just scowled uncomfortably, pushing the other man away. "Okay, enough with the hugging."

Germany watched this all unfold with confusion. Everything was moving so quickly, he just needed it all to take a step back. "Hold on," Germany said. "Who is this?"

Italy just rolled his eyes, standing stiffly with the other man's arm around his shoulders. "This is my brother."

The man released Italy, taking a quick bow. "Italy Romano," he said, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. "At your service."

Japan looked back and forth between the two Italians, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation. "Am I seeing double," he questioned, "or did you just say you were both Italy?"

"Well," Italy said. "Technically we both are."

Italy Romano nodded, motioning to Italy, then himself. "He's the North, and I'm the South." He explained. "We were always governed separately when we were little."

Italy scowled to himself, muttering quietly. "Why couldn't it have stayed that way?" Italy Romano glanced at him, which prompted Italy to clear his throat and change the subject. "How did you even find us?"

Romano's eyes widened. "Oh, right," he nodded. "It was the strangest thing. I think I saw Grandpa Rome."

Italy just rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. He's delusional."

"Um, I hate to interrupt," Germany said, turning to the blonde brother, "but you came to get us out of here, right... um... Romano?"

Romano beamed brightly. "Yep! Follow me."

America turned sharply away from the doorway of the empty cell with an infuriated look on his face. "How the hell could they escape?!" he growled. "Did someone let them out? I'll kill 'em!"

"America, don't jump to conclusions," England advised calmly. "I doubt it was a traitor."

China knelt down before a soldier who he'd pronounced dead a few minutes ago, carefully pulling aside the collar of his uniform. His neck was encircled by dark, bloody red bruises about two centimeters thick. "They were strangled," he observed, "but not by hand. The marks are far too small.

"By rope, then?" Russia asked from his spot standing guard.

China shook his head. "No, rope leaves very distinct marks. These marks are simply flat." China narrowed his eyes. "I think it was a measuring tape."

Everybody looked confused, but England showed recognition immediately, and then disdain. "It must've been that Southern Italy brat."

China looked up at him. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, for one, he was using a measuring tape," England said, gesturing to the soldier's neck. "And secondly, there's glitter all over the floor and it reeks of cologne in here."

"Well, great," America snapped sarcastically. "We know who it is, but that doesn't change the fact that our prisoners are missing!" America quickly kneeled down and grabbed one of the dead soldiers by the jacket, pulling it closer to get a look at its face. "The guards are French," America growled, his gaze instantly snapping to the Frenchman standing in the corner. "Your incompetent men let them get away!"

France looked offended. "You requested my men to be the guards! You cannot blame me!"

"Hell yes, I can blame you!" America shouted, drawing to his full height, where he towered over the Frenchman. America grabbed his baseball bat, one with nails driven into it all over, stained with blood America had never bothered to clean off. Knowing what was coming, France threw his hands in front of his face to protect himself. But when America tried to move and strike the defenseless man, he found he didn't move. America looked down, realizing he was hanging at least a foot off the ground by his bomber jacket, which was in the hand of a very tall Russian.

America growled, jerking to loosen the hand that held him. "Let me go, you commie bastard!"

"Killing allies does not solve problems," Russia said seriously.

America just rolled his eyes. "C'mon," he said, gesturing to France. "He won't stay dead."

Russia's impassive expression didn't falter. A moment later, he put America down, but pushed him away from France. "He's still immature." He muttered.

"Am not!" America protested as England patted his shoulder calmingly.

"If you two are finished," China interrupted abruptly, "we need to prepare for an imminent attack." He scowled at the thought of Germany, Italy, and worst of all, Japan, getting the jump on them while they were unprepared. "If I know my brother, he won't take defeat lightly."

Sometime during the Sixteenth Century

Holy Rome released a sigh. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair as he entered his house. It had been far too long since he'd been back home. Months? Maybe just weeks. War quickly made one lose track of time. If he could say anything about the battle he'd just fought... well... that had been quite the... surrender. Yes, he, the great Holy Roman Empire, had lost another effort for expansion. Yet one more piece of the house gone. Austria would not be happy.

He replaced his hat as he walked out of the Grand Atrium into the main hallway. He walked past an archway to his left, but paused at the wonderful smell that came from within. It smelled like Ms. Hungary's pastries. He would love one of those right now. He backed up and peeked into the kitchen discreetly. He was right; Ms. Hungary was there at the stove, waving the steam away from what looked like a torte. But she wasn't alone. Next to her, helping clean the utensils and measuring devices used to bake it was...

Holy Rome felt his breath catch in his throat. "I...Italia...?"

It had been barely a whisper, but at the briefest flicker in Italy's gaze, Holy Rome bolted, no hesitation, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the kitchen. His heart was racing. Why was he here? When had he arrived? How long had that maniac been living in his house?! He saw Austria down the hall, walking with a book in hand. Holy Rome dashed in front of the aristocrat, a frantic look on his face.

"Italy is in my house!" He shouted, his voice wavering. "Why is Italy in my house?!"

Austria simply contemplated him silently. "I conquered his land," he said plainly. "He's my servant now."

Holy Rome felt his throat close up. He put a hand to his head, wanting to pull out his own hair. "Why him?! There were plenty other places, why Italy?!"

Suddenly, Austria's book snapped shut and Holy Rome felt two strong hands on his shaking shoulders. "Control yourself," Austria commanded with such authority one could not refuse. "You are the Holy Roman Empire. Act like it."

Holy Rome tried to calm his breathing. Austria was right. Why was he panicking so much? It was just Italy... just...

"Hey, Holy Rome!" The blonde stiffened, a voice from down the hall making him look past Austria, and when he did, he almost jumped right out of his cloak. Italy was running towards them with a smile on his face. "You're finally home!"

Holy Rome let out a squeak, tearing from Austria's hold and fleeing as Italy ran after him.

After much running, finally, Holy Rome huddled on the floor under his bed, a pink pillow clutched to his chest as his eyes searched out from underneath the frame. In the distance, he could hear footsteps and a voice calling out to him. "Holy Rome, where are you?" Holy Rome shook, burying his face in the pillow. His chest was tight, his blood was cold. He could barely breathe. His house, his home, his haven... had just become his own personal hell.

Oh my gosh, I've been planning the next few chapters, and I have the best ideas for the events of episode eleven. This conclusion to the Chibitalia series is going to be darker than you think.

Also, yeah, I made Romano's weapon a measuring tape, because he's a designer. I figure it would be kinda magic and he uses it as a whip or, in this case, to strangle people. As you can see, it's quite effective.

I imagine 2p Southern Italy as kinda magic, like Mabel from Gravity Falls, able to summon glitter at will.

I looked up Austro-Hungarian pastries and I found something called the "Hazelnut cream torte". It looked delicious, and I'm pretty sure the ruler of Austro-Hungary would have the resources to have food like that, so I put it in. Also, a torte is a sweet cake or a tart. I can imagine Italy and Ms. Hungary baking together.

Anyway, hope I did Romano justice.