There are some people who believe that their lives start when high school ends. In the case of the people at Hetare High School, they were in fact brought up to believe that their lives would begin when high school ended. They were brought up to believe that they would be essentially fulfilling another portion of world history—as soon as they got out of Hetare High.

Not that Hetare High wasn't special in its own way, of course. A boarding school, all expenses paid, for the one-hundred-ninety-six sons and daughters of valuable members of the various countries. One representative per country was chosen at their birth, and had their future planned out from the start. Homeschooled training all the way up to Hetare High, four years of specialized training at the boarding school, and then Hetare High would disband for another thirty years while the students who graduated would then become the representatives of their countries to the World Meetings. World Meetings that took place once a month, a more advanced version of the old United Nations—one representative per country, all with the same simultaneous four years of training, talking about the countries they were involved in and taking care of the world.

At least, that was the plan.

Two hundred years after Hetare High was formed, the world was shocked with the appearance of the immortal extraterrestrial ambassador Tony. The foul-mouthed alien soon became a regular staple of both World Meetings and Hetare High. Some years after Tony's appearance, a group of mysterious pranksters hit the high school. The elusive Pictos formed and plagued the school as anonymous master pranksters for one year—and two year—and three years—

And the fourth year, senior year, the Pictos struck gold.

Actually, let's backtrack—the Pictos didn't strike gold. They struck the prides (very, very stubborn prides) of eight of Hetare High's star students. Eight separate pranks, constructed at complete random by eight different members of the Pictos, hit eight different people. These eight different people from eight very, very different backgrounds formed eight very, very different tastes for revenge.

But all of them, eventually, wanted to strike back.

The Pictos were powerful beyond belief, good at what they were doing, professional pranksters who had been perfecting their techniques for all of three years—and possibly more. They were impossible to be taken down by the eight separate methods of eight simple individuals.

Working together, however, is a different story.

This is the story of how eight very, very different individuals formed two very, very different groups with one identical purpose. This is the story of how those two very, very different groups clashed with each other and the Pictos—and, eventually, how these three very, very different circumstances created one very, very happy ending.

This is the story of how Hetare High School—at least in the hearts of eight people—became a beginning instead of an end.

America

There was something very wrong with the hamburger.

It wasn't speculation; Alfred F. Jones had spent almost all of his fifteen years of life eating every burger he could get his hands on. The burger in his hands wasn't right. He could tell.

"My sixth sense is going like crazy," he muttered to Tony, the alien having been his friend for his entire three years at Hetare High. The burger sat out of its cellophane packet, oozing grease into the plate, tempting but untouched. The alien simply stared, chewing on a deep fried chicken sandwich. Alfred did a double take.

"Wha—Tony, dude, what the hell?!" Poking at his friend's wrapper to turn it around, he scoffed incredulously at the red print on the aluminum. "You never, ever eat chicken sandwich when there's still hamburgers available. That's not even my rule. That's a rule of life. You're breaking the bro code here!"

"Fuck off." The usual word flying from his friend's mouth calmed Alfred down—marginally. "I'm hungry," the gray extraterrestrial grudgingly elaborated. "I'm going to get another burger later."

"Whatever, dude. You're missing out…"

He didn't even manage to convince himself that the burger wasn't scaring him a little.

But a burger was a burger, right? So Alfred promptly placed a monstrous bite into his mouth.

And spit it out.

"The fuck?!"

Tony flashed him a quizzical look—admittedly the swear was an interjection that flew from his mouth daily, so much so that there was a high chance he didn't even know what it meant—but Alfred simply tore open his milk carton, trying in vain to reach it. Ripping it wide, he poured the carton directly into his mouth before slamming it onto the tray and gasping for air.

"This is…I know what this is…"

He was not the only one. A variety of people, mostly from countries with American tastes, were also spitting out mouthfuls of hamburger and cheeseburger. Tony's eye tilted upward skeptically. "Something wrong?"

"Dude, this tastes—it's so salty I can't even eat it, and this is coming from the guy who regularly dumps extra sodium into every meal. French fries especially." Lifting the bun slowly, Alfred scowled at the black sauce inside before dipping a finger into it and hesitantly lifting it to his mouth.

His face paled instantly, finger dropping from his mouth. Tony shot him a quizzical look yet again, blinking at his paling shade of fear.

"D—dude…"

Marmite.

He, Alfred F. Jones, was afraid of only two hundred-thirty-eight things in the world.

And one of those things was Marmite.

Like kryptonite to Superman. Every hero had a serious weakness, and Alfred's was Marmite.

Not just any Marmite. There were two types of Marmite—and this was British Marmite. Alfred had a natural inclination against English food, and the powerful, salty paste that even turned some of the Britons away from it was essential murder on his taste buds.

"Tony, look—it's Marmite…"

"Limey bastard," the alien cursed as an instinct, red eyes narrowing. "Fucking, fucking, fucking limey bastard—"

Alfred looked up before noting with a groan that all eyes were on him and his friend. There was a small pause…and then Feliks led the entire lunchroom in an embarrassing bout of laughter complete with finger pointing. No, not even. They weren't laughing; it wasn't the right word for the things they did. They cackled and hacked and choked on their own spit. They fell off chairs and squirted apple juice from their noses at the sight of the self-proclaimed 'American Hero' cowering from Marmite.

Said boy paused, glowering at everyone as he stained an obscene red. He turned his glare to the burger, paste still smeared thickly across the surface. Then, shakily, he reached out and flipped over the wrapper to see the pasty white splotch artfully splattered on the bottom.

Someone was going to pay.

England

Two weeks ago, England had met his first unicorn.

Not that England hadn't met mythical creatures before—in fact, Arthur Kirkland had seen and befriended a variety of mythical creatures since his birth, and had begun learning the limited magic humans could manage since he started at Hetare High. His friends were valuable. And since his only friends (the only people who were willing to be friends with the stuffy student council president) were his fairies and Flying Mint Bunny, they automatically became his first priority.

Which is why, when they didn't show up for a full twenty-four hours, he started getting worried.

"France,—YES, I'll call you France, we're still in the middle of a student council meeting—can you please stuff a sock in it and get the forms signed on my desk by the end of the school day? No, Yao, we can't pass restraining orders here; yes, I realize Yong Soo's your cousin but—I know technical incest is illegal in some countries, but there's nothing I can do anymore!" Striding angrily past them out of the makeshift conference room with the bang of wood on wood, the rather large-eyebrowed student stormed straight into the room across the hall before rapping his fingers on the closest desk in the room. The cluster of council members huddled around some electronic device dispersed almost automatically, most of them sniggering and glancing at him as they passed. A girl clad in usual school uniform with red bows in her chocolate-brown pigtails turned from directly in front of the device. The plaid pattern on the uniform was dyed in varying shades of blue, her favorite color, as was quickly becoming fashionable among girls (and somehow managed to skirt the strict dress code—he really should look into that). The girl placed her hands on her hips and scowled, though her eyebrows raised in a skeptical manner.

"Michelle. I need a cup of tea, if you don't mind." Adding a healthy dose of sarcasm, he glared inquisitively as she smirked. "What is it?"

Turning quickly toward the table, the girl from the small island of Seychelles picked up something. For a second, Arthur thought it was a cup of his long-awaited tea—instead, the long-suffering secretary plopped the iPad right in front of his face.

"What's the meaning of thi—"

"Oh, Uni, stop! You know I'm ticklish there!"

As Arthur Kirkland watched his filmed self being chased across the screen by the invisible unicorn, the sudden absence of his friends became clear—they were trying to spare him from this. From embarrassment.

It was a prank. A damn good one, in fact. Played against the highest figure of authority that wasn't a teacher, condemning him to a lifetime of scorn, camera perfectly placed at the perfect moment for the perfect slice of hell.

As student council president, it was his duty to stomp out pranksters in the dust. And maybe he'd crush their dreams just a bit. Because it was his job, of course, not personal retribution.

It took Arthur exactly ten seconds to explode out the door and to the record room, searching for the Picto's extensive file of offenses.

Naturally, the next day, Michelle's video of Arthur's face flickering through emotion after emotion was played during the morning announcements.

France

France prided himself on being a sex god.

He'd managed to get a majority of the world in his bed—figuratively, of course, but also by name, which he was proud of—and after 'extensive research' had concluded that the only reason it was so was because he had the body of a Greek god, the charm of a gentleman, and the skills of an experienced prostitute. And, seeing as he actually had had quite a lot of experience, he couldn't say it was quite off the mark—although he could think of one large-browed man who didn't quite agree…

He needed to get England bedded soon. Then maybe he'd stop insulting him.

Anyway—being a sex god, of course, France also liked to pride himself on the fact that he had a rather large…for lack of better word, lower region. After all, there was plenty to love, and to be a sex god, one must be able to deliver maximum pleasure!

On a side note, Francis Bonnefoy is available tonight at 10:00 PM. If you want to have a night of 'frantic passion and beautiful l'amour,' don't hesitate to call him (and get some poor helpless victim off his hands).

Which is why, of course, when the whispering started, he was surprised to find that most of the gossiper's fingers seemed to be directed at his lower region.

"Is something wrong?" Catching up to his friend Antonio as he exited his cooking class, Francis shot him a raised eyebrow as his Spanish friend laughed. "People seem to be laughing at me a lot today."

Antonio opened his mouth with a rather sly grin, but before he could speak, a large hand slapped his back. Francis didn't need to turn around to know it was the last of their little trio—Gilbert Beilschmidt, the older brother of Ludwig Beilschmidt. Gilbert had been the representative for Germany; however, he had raised such a ruckus that in the end, he'd been kicked off the position and his younger brother Ludwig had inherited the role. Nevertheless, he stuck around, continuing to attend the school purely because he'd already spent his first year there, claiming he was representing 'Prussia.'

"Francis!" Pushing his head downward, he laughed. "I mean, dude, I knew you were nowhere near as awesome as my five meters—but seriously, centimeters? You gotta get it up!"

"What is going on?" Snapping for the first time in a while—frowns gave people wrinkles—Francis sighed. "For your information, I am perfectly—"

Antonio pressed a copy of the school newspaper into his hands before turning to see the Vargas twins strolling down the hall and promptly chasing after them with a cry of "FELI! LOOOOOOOOVIIII!"

"And there goes 'Tonio," the Prussian said, cradling his bird as Francis's face became buried in the magazine. As the silence drew on, Gilbert glanced over in mild confusion—his friend usually had at least something to say. "France? Francis? Frenchy?" Tugging on his belt—usually, when Gilbert did it, Francis freaked out as a reflex from a long-forgotten pantsing prank—Gilbert sighed. "Francey-Pants?"

Francis didn't answer. Face still hidden by the paper, his entire body visibly trembled. His hands were white. His knuckles were red.

Gilbert really, really needed a camera.

There was a sizeable pause, a moment of perfect silence teetering on the edge of explosion. It was the perfect breaking point—

And then Arthur Kirkland ran up to Francis, shoved his own copy of the newspaper into his face, and laughed derisively as he sped off to whatever class he had next.

If there was one thing that got on Francis's nerves, it was the student body president of Hetare High. Arthur Kirkland, aside from being the pretty much only person that Francis hadn't been able to coerce into his room, was also the Frenchman's rival since the tender age of six. And the fact that the boy was now no doubt laughing with his (imaginary) friends over an article in the school newspaper detailing the small size of his penis made him want to throw someone into the pits of hell and back.

And show them just how big he really was there, too, but that's not the point.

Within seconds, Gilbert was standing alone in the hall with a newspaper, both of his friends absent, while Francis bolted down the halls glancing at the single torn-out page and scowling at the name of the author.

The Pictos were going to pay.

China

China was resourceful. China was strong, witty, and China didn't give up. China, like any other country, had its ups and downs—but the reason China was still around when greater empires before it had crumbled to dust years ago was because China ultimately did what it had to to stay alive.

And goddammit, China did not 'mass-produce' things. For Pete's sake, the only reason their country had to open so many factories in the first place was because some certain lazy-ass Americans that he could point out by name just couldn't bring themselves to get up from in front of whatever videogame console they were in front of and do some actual productive work.

So Yao as a human enjoyed what China as a country did best—making things.

A thing about Yao Wang was that he was predominantly left-brained; his grades were virtually perfect, he was the Student Council's treasurer, and he didn't have many creative sparks in his body.

So Yao made things other people had already made. Perfect replicas. And while he may not have come up with those ideas himself, it still takes skill to create so many copies that imitate to the last crossed T. He just didn't have the imagination to come up with those great thoughts—but putting those thoughts into action? That's what makes a real invention worthwhile, after all—releasing it to the world. And that's what Yao had always been best at.

That and, truth be told, the faces of those people whose ideas he used—damn it all if it wasn't great to see a gaping jaw when he made enough of whatever-it-was-this-time to hand out to the entire student body in less than twenty-four hours.

Oh, and it gets money fast. For a real life example, search up how much money America owes China.

And as much as other students hated him for what he did, none of them could say it was a bad idea that wasn't benefiting him. No one could say that it was against any rule.

Which is why, when he entered his dorm one dark Wednesday morning, he was very surprised by what he saw.

Copyright notices. Thousands and thousands of copyright notices were papering his room, littering the floor, one taped to the wok on the stove. Some were official-looking print outs from well-known companies, while some were simply signed, handwritten notices claiming ownership from various other students at the academy. Either way, Yao had no doubt in his mind that the culprit, whoever it had been, had been quite thorough. Every single product he'd ever recreated was labeled and accounted for in his room—and every single one had become an accusation.

Yao hated being objectified—he hated being seen as simply a machine, continuously making the same things. Some people saw it as plagiarism. He saw it as moving forward. The next step, after innovation.

A step that would not be overlooked. And especially not by some stupid 'Pictos.'

Russia

Ivan Braginski was very, very proud that he'd gone off the deep end.

The son of a rather prominent mob boss, he'd been diagnosed with an unidentified mental disease at age ten when he watched his father die (rather bloodily) right in front of his face. It wasn't something her particularly liked to talk about, but he had a certain fear for harm coming to his neck (hence the scarf he always wore) and he clutched his metal pipe like a lifeline day in and day out (since the school wouldn't let him bring a gun). But other than that, he was at least able to coexist with society—albeit rather shakily.

He'd learned to be very proud of his 'disease,' because it helped him survive.

People avoided him. Teachers were scared of him. No one dared to lay down the law to him; he got away with anything. No rules, no limitations. That was really how he liked it—although it occasionally got a bit boring.

Which is why, when he walked into class an hour late and was promptly ordered out again, he was rather worried.

No one ever told him what to do. No one ever had anything for him to do, period. He was the 'elephant in the room,' the school's ever-present looming shadow. Most generally pretended he didn't exist.

Nevertheless, he was directed to the infirmary anyway.

There was a nurse there—the small, shy French girl named Jeanne was bustling around busily. She gave a shaky smile to Ivan before pointing toward a room farther down the hall. "Ah, Mr. Braginski…they're down there."

"Who?" Speaking sweetly, he turned his head, attempting to crank up his freaky purple aura as he spoke. "Who is important enough to me to—"

He stopped. Lying on five separate beds were his sisters, Katyusha and Natalya, and his 'servants'—Toris, Eduard, and Raivis.

None of them were necessarily 'sick' in any way—but all of them had sunflowers painted on their skin in finger paint. Their faces were masses of yellow, brown, and green. They looked like tangled undergrowth. They looked like tree people who had been sleeping in a sunflower field for a thousand years.

To anyone else, the entire affair would have been a simple joke, a harmless prank. The message was clear to Ivan, however—you can act as strong as you wish, but you have weaknesses.

Weaknesses like his family. Like his friends. Like sunflowers.

"They were knocked out by a simple anesthetic," sighed Jeanne, tiptoeing into the door behind him. "It doesn't have any sort of effect. It just makes them sleep for a couple of hours." She shrugged. "It's a prank. Those pranksters, you know. Been around for a long time. The—the—what's the word?" She shook her hand lazily. "White splotches. Anonymous."

"Pictos," Ivan breathed, eyes widening.

Ivan Braginski didn't have weaknesses. Not real ones.

He just needed to convince the rest of the world of that.

Turning to Jeanne, he twitched slightly as he heard the sound of Eduard stirring. "Where did you find the people?"

Italy

Italy loved pasta day.

No, really, were you surprised? Feliciano Vargas and Lovino Vargas represented the two different halves of Italy, Feliciano the northern and Lovino the southern. Both embodied what was apparently the 'essence' of Italy—artful taste, a special love of siestas, and food. Lots and lots of good quality food.

And Italy's favorite food was pasta.

To be exact, Northern Italy's favorite food was pasta. Southern Italy's favorite food was a combination of tomatoes, pizza, and a bit of 'that tomato bastard's blood' on the side (although wouldn't that make him a vampire?)—or so he claimed.

Naturally, on the second Friday of every month, the cafeteria would bear witness to the pasta-lover's obsession—generally in the form of a cloud of dust covering every other person in the cafeteria as smallest boy in the cafeteria (minus Peter Kirkland and his group of friends) kicked up everything in his path to get to the food. Italy tended to show rare bursts of energy when in a five-mile presence of any pasta product whatsoever. (Which is probably why the teachers of Hetare High started letting him cart around pots of the thing to school, come to think of it…)

So, naturally, when on the second Friday of the month Italy walked (ran) into the cafeteria to find that there wasn't pasta, he sat on the floor and cried.

To be fair, Italy was a very sensitive being—he cried at pretty much everything. He cried when he saw one of Heracles's cats in a tree. He cried when he got paper cuts. He cried when there wasn't enough cloth to create a white flag. He cried when newspapers had misprints. And once he'd cried because England had glared at him.

Of course, normally he didn't cling on to the nearest person—which happened to be a very startled Ludwig Beilschmidt—and bury his face into his shoulder.

"L—Ludwig!" The Italian sobbed to a very startled German. "The—The cafeteria doesn't have pasta!"

Italy refused to be comforted, crying and crying. Because that was the true spirit of Italy. And the true spirit of Italy is always made apparent by the absence of pasta.

So while Italy continued crying and generally causing a number of people to cover their ears, the German tried in vain to shut him up before finally sitting down on the floor, looking Feli square in the eye, and sighing before promising they'd give the pasta retribution.

And the true spirit of Italy was determination, right? So the Pictos—those evil pasta-haters—were going to face the wrath of Italy!

(And Ludwig Beilschmidt. Actually, he'd probably do most of the fighting, but that's not the point.)

Germany

There was a video camera in the cafeteria. The next day, photographs of the Italian and the German hugging on the floor of the cafeteria were posted around the school.

Japan

As much as Kiku Honda hated to admit it, a large portion of his personality stemmed directly from the person who he had once considered an older brother—Yao Wang. As children, their fathers had dragged them to many an important country meeting together. They'd been almost brothers, inseparable, until the incident. Or rather, the incidents. The stabbing with the katana that had been hanging on the wall had, admittedly, started on both parts (they'd really just wanted to try sword fighting). The other incident had been his entire fault alone.

And he owned up to that. That was one of the many traits he'd gotten from his Chinese ex-friend—brutal honesty.

The similarities didn't end there. While he prided himself on being a unique person, he had admittedly hero-worshipped the older boy (see the honesty right there?) for most of his life and had subsequently inherited drive, determination, and the ability to make things, although he unlike Yao came up with his own ideas.

Another thing he'd inherited was a great sense of personal honor.

Yao, his father, and his own country's morals had all taught him one thing over the course of his life—that what people think of you, even if you don't let it affect you, should be something you care about regardless. Kiku as a firm believer of isolationism had polished his outward personality perfectly—quiet, calculating, not too cruel but by no means too kind.

Which is why, when Elizaveta Héderváry called him in public, he knew something was up.

Elizaveta and he had a very, very odd friendship, to say the least. They'd met when Kiku was exactly twelve years old. It was around that time that he'd stumbled into his first magazine shop, accidentally scrolled into the yaoi section, and found a Hungarian girl with a flower in her hair squealing slightly as she read a doujinshi.

Elizaveta had introduced him, on that day, to his new obsession.

From then on, Kiku and Elizaveta had spent much of their free time together (mostly in the Otaku club; I mean, come on, Japan was practically given honorary membership while Elizaveta had certainly seen her share of animes) discretely reading yaoi or matchmaking among their (male dominated) peers. Kiku sometimes wondered if Elizaveta was one of the only true friends he ever had; he'd never had the courage to tell anyone else about his interest (obsession) in yaoi, and that made Elizaveta debatably the only person who knew everything there was to know about him.

Speaking of which, Kiku knew that sexual orientation was a rather touchy subject, especially for someone as reserved as himself in regards to things that bordered pornography. So, he couldn't let anyone know.

Not that that meant he couldn't talk to Elizaveta; he still did talk to Elizaveta during lunch, when he wasn't sitting with the rest of the people from Asia. It's just that Elizaveta didn't usually use her phone to physically call him; text, maybe, but not call. The last sixteen times she'd called him, it had been only to rant about a particularly exciting new development in one of their OTPs at school. Or a once-in-a-lifetime anime event.

In Kiku's lifetime, Elizaveta had only ever called him seventeen times. And the first time had been because she'd clicked the wrong contact and yelled at him for half an hour before he'd managed to explain that no, he wasn't Gilbert, he was the Japanese kid she'd first met a month ago and please stop screaming or he won't be able to repair his eardrums before the cosplay convention tomorrow.

Did I mention that Elizaveta had flown halfway across the world the following day in a Pokémon costume? (Yes, they'd taken that as a suitable anime to dress up for. What innocent…ish…thoughts had gone through their head back then? Although Elizaveta had still shipped Ash with Gary—yeah, we'll stop here.)

Anyway. Back to Elizaveta's feared eighteenth call.

"Elizaveta-chan," he'd snapped, hissing angrily as the teacher glared at him. While mobile interruptions in class were a practically scheduled on a regular basis, it was usually in text form, seeing as most people wouldn't be tactless enough to get their friends in trouble. That, and it was Kiku, the most serious person in the class. As far as he knew, most of the people in his class didn't even know he owned a cellphone.

"KIKU-SAN!" The scream from the phone was so loud, Kiku forcefully ripped the speaker from his ear, wincing slightly. The half of the class nearest to him laughed, and one derisive boy sniggered. "Talking to your girlfriend, Kiku?"

"Quiet, Gilbert," Kiku sighed, pressing the phone back into her ear. He hissed into it sideways, guarding his mouth so people wouldn't hear while the teacher looked on disapprovingly with a glare that read 'detention and public humiliation for the rest of your godforsaken life.' "What is it, Elizaveta?! If it's about the doujin, I thought they guaranteed it was scheduled for a month, not a week—"

"Kiku, listen to me!" Her voice was rapt. "Forget about yaoi for a second!"

Elizaveta telling him to forget about yaoi?! What was the world coming to?! Kiku's eyes narrowed angrily, standing up and moving to the isolated oval room despite his teacher's wild gesturing and his classmate's hysterical laughing. The glass doors closed firmly, cutting him off, as Kiku used his free hand to cover the unused ear with his finger while he pressed his phone firmly to his other ear. "What is it, Elizaveta?"

"Kiku." He could hear the scowl through her voice. "Forget about talking to me. I need you, as soon as you hang up, to go to the school's webpage."

There was a click, and the call was over. Frowning, he pulled away the smartphone's dial tone—newest Japanese model—and quickly hooked up to the school's WiFi (not that he needed it, but the 4G was a bit slower) before typing in the URL as quickly as possible and raising an eyebrow at the front page.

His name was on the article.

The mobile version of the website didn't have any of the pictures that the actual newspaper had, but Kiku's eyes widened alarmingly at the headline before he pressed, with conviction, upon the 'regular site' button in the navigation bar atop the screen. There was a two-minute pause when it reloaded, a time window for Kiku to hope that it had been a complete lie.

No such look. 'Future Valedictorian's Obsession with Gay Pornography.'

And there, in great big headline form, like a propaganda banner, was a picture of Kiku and Elizaveta crowded around an R-18 doujinshi magazine.

Kiku's ears were ringing like crazy, heart pounding, so many years of dedication going down the drain in a swirl of intense humiliation.

And then the phone case snapped under his iron fist as the phone shut down, Kiku's opaque eyes growing two shades darker than normal.

His honor was important to him, dammit. And he was never, ever going to watch it disappear so easily.

The Pictos were going to meet his katana very, very soon.

in case this isn't clear: this is a human high school au, at an international boarding school with one representative from each country (the nations humanized, obviously). the high school is exclusively for people who will spend thirty years of their life working as representatives to 'world meetings' which is essentially a more efficient form of the modern united nations. think of it as world meetings in hetalia, with the countries as humans. anyway. the representatives are all different ages, but they all go through the same years of training, so the school only goes for four years, before it disbands for thirty more years during which last session's students act as the world meeting representatives. so pretty much the pattern is four-year-high school then thirty-year-world meeting then four-year-high school again with different people. so even if, say, peter and arthur are different ages, both of them are in their fourth year of hetare high in this story. if anyone's confused, pm me.

so next chapter, the axis and allies form-yes, they're also pranksters. and yes, there's gonna be a three-way prankwar. i like those things too much.

yes, there will be pairings. usuk, francisxjeanned'arc, franada, rochu, gerita, giripan, dennor, pruhun, spamano, polliet, sufin...i think that's how it's going to end. i just tried to put in all the minor pairings, so of course some of the listed above will appear on the side at the end. and for drama, of course, conflicting ones will be presented. but the ones above is ultimately how it's going to end. and yes both francisxjeanned'arc and franada will be canon. long story.

i don't have high hopes for this story. the last time(s) i've posted for the hetalia fandom, i haven't gotten many reviews...(try none except for the friends i begged to read it)

but yeah. here goes this multichapter anyway.

i don't know when to tell you to expect updates.

and yes the pictoes include actual characters you'll see later