82. Training Idiots
Date Written: July 15, 2019
Date Posted: November 29, 2020
Characters: Veneziano, Germany
Summary: During a training session in the midst of World War II, Italy doesn't want to train anymore and so, proposes a wager for Germany.
Notes:
Italy was not stupid. Optimistic and naive, maybe, but he was far from the idiot that other Nations painted him as. Sure, he could be oblivious at times, but to be fair, when you lived for far longer than most would expect, you learned how to relax and let others make their own assumptions of you. Petty insults and backhanded compliments did little to phase him—it was honestly amusing if he were to comment on it. If he were human (and there were many times when he wished for it), he would be the tottering old man who liked to nap and make fun for as long as he lasted.
And quite like an old man, there were times when he just couldn't understand the young of today. There were new ways of speaking, behaving, and by God, the worst of the lot was technology. Don't get him wrong, he liked electricity and the phone and what else, but… humans loved making contraptions destined to destroy each other.
What many Nations failed to realize was that he was a pacifist—so much the opposite of his time as a reckless youth. Gone were the days when he ruthlessly fought for his title as the La Serenissima Reppublica. Gone were the days of when he used his cunning to shape European trade right at his fingertips. Nowadays, Italy just wanted to take one big siesta and be done with it all.
Unfortunately, declaring war on most of Europe with two other Nations never boded well.
Especially if one of those Nations had exactly one war to his name: Germany.
If Italy were being honest, he enjoyed the German's company. He was well-mannered, grounded, and he baked such delicious delicacies whenever he had the money to do so. However, there was more to Germany than those three traits. In fact, there was a lot more to him.
Germany, when compared to other Nations, was young. He was barely two hundred (probably not even that) years old and already, he was growing too quickly for their kind. The blond took to technology and to weaponry with startling ease. It shouldn't have come as a shock, but to Italy, who somehow tried resisting these new changes, it did. Weapons were no longer things that you could hold with your hand, that you could physically see the damage that could occur because of the actions that you made. No, instead weapons were things that enabled you to make decisions that would irrevocably change the life of your enemy, but you would never truly see the consequences of your actions. No, the consequences of what you have done didn't resonate.
Killing people, at least in Veneziano's mind, was something that was precious and close to your heart. To have someone else die because of you… at the very least, you should have afforded your victim the courtesy of being there to look them in the eye as you thrust your blade into their chest.
Nowadays, people would pull a trigger, throw a grenade… there was no longer any heart or humanity in warfare.
Back in his day, it all meant something.
So it came to no one's surprise that Italy slacked during training.
At first, Veneziano more than entertained Germany's insistence that they exercise together and practice drills. As a Nation masquerading as a young man with limber limbs and a lithe form, it was only logical that Italy find it within himself the strength and fortitude to run laps around the training field, to strengthen his body during the drills, and so on. However, there was one thing that Veneziano couldn't quite put his finger on.
For some odd reason, Germany saw fit to equip Veneziano with a vast array of weaponry. Weaponry that the Italian just couldn't understand. To Veneziano, the sleek forms of guns were so unsubtle, too explosive. Once the trigger was pulled back, the kickback was strong and the result was extraordinary. Despite the advantages modern weaponry had over the past (advantages that Veneziano couldn't find), they lacked the finesse of sword fighting.
Even hand to hand combat was beautiful in a way that guns couldn't stand a chance for comparison. It just seemed so impersonal and less gratifying to defeat the enemy with a pistol.
There was just no reason to practice so much with weapons that needed only a trigger.
Italy wasn't being facetious or stupid. He was thinking economically.
Unfortunately—
As Veneziano wiped his brow free from sweat, his German commander berated him for his lack of proper form and his tendency to whine in the midst of the summer heat.
"You must practice your aim," Germany roared at him. The blond stood tall and proud, but his expression was one that appeared volatile. Hostile. It was an expression that North Italy didn't want his friend to wear, but there was no use in denying the inevitable.
North Italy was due for another lecture.
Life was so unfair at times.
"Yes, Germany!" Veneziano rocked back and forth on his heels, an expectant expression on his face. Despite whatever misgivings that he must have had, he knew that Germany would not hurt him. Deep down inside, Germany still had honor and perhaps he also had the sense to realize that the day had long since ripened and that it was time for some overdue rest. Of course, that was probably the Italian side of his brain complaining and wanting to bask in the late afternoon sun, but Veneziano was optimistic.
He didn't want to practice anymore.
"Perhaps, tomorrow will be a better day to—"
Germany reloaded the gun with swift, practiced movements and handed it to the Italian. In no uncertain terms did he look like he would allow his companion to shirk off his duty to the alliance between them.
"Again." Germany stood back in parade stance and nodded towards the auburn haired man. "Shoot."
Still, Veneziano's silver tongue had not been practiced nearly enough since their training had started. If there was one thing that Veneziano didn't like, it was being interrupted.
And Germany would have to learn that.
It was at that moment, Veneziano knew that there was only one way he could grasp Germany's attention. With a sigh, he grasped the gun and said—
"Perhaps a wager?"
Veneziano didn't have to look at Germany to know that his companion was looking at him in what one could only assume was distinct irritation and surprise that Italy would suggest such a thing when he was clearly in neither a state nor a position of power over him. For all intents and purposes, Germany was in charge and Veneziano was supposed to be made to heel. Maybe Germany could sense the tiredness that Veneziano was feeling or maybe empathy was finally rearing its filthy head. Regardless, Germany nodded his assent.
"All right. What is it?"
"If I shoot all the targets through the bullseye in succession, then we will both rest for tomorrow. If not, I will run another fifty laps and practice my skills under your supervision for the next five hours."
Germany raised a brow.
"Forgive me if I sound too assuming, but with the way you've been performing, I daresay that we won't have to make a wager: I already know the results."
The Italian smiled and chuckled lowly.
"As do I."
And with that, Veneziano aimed.
And shot.
Aimed.
And shot.
Aimed.
And shot.
Veneziano continued down the shooting range until there were no bullets in the chamber.
He then turned to Germany and deposited the gun into his waiting, but limp hands.
"I'll see you for dinner. Ciao!"
As expected, the gun didn't have the same finesse as the bow and arrow he had wielded back when he defeated Turkey.
