Before anyone else could react, Italy had placed his sister down on his chair, lunged across the table, and placed a knife at the bottom end of Germany's Adam's apple. The blond gulped when confronted with a face that seemed to be permanently contorted into a rigor of unfathomable rage.
"Call your dogs off or I'll stick you like a pig" Italy growled, pressing the edge of the knife deeper into the German's throat for emphasis. A single bead of blood ran like a rivulet from the knife's edge as he spoke.
Struggling to breath, Germany replied, "You know I can't."
Hands of many different shades tore at Italy's uniform as he struggled to retain his hold on the German's thick throat. As he fought to tear them off, his sorella began to gasp, a deep, rattling gasp that sucked the color from her pinched cheeks, glazed her eyes, and left her quivering like a wounded dog. Even as the fever raged inside her, she feared for Germany's life. She wanted her brother to stop hurting him, because even if no one else could see it, she could see that he was crying. But then, so was her Fratello.
After what felt like hours, the allies managed to tear Italy away from his former comrade, though it was manly due to America's immense military and economical strength. The others were weakened thanks to the war's toll on their economies and populations, so Italy was only truly moved once America decided to move him, however reluctantly he may have chosen to do so.
The Russian nation never even got up from his chair, only smiling pleasantly as the ruckus continued to unfold before his eyes.
Prussia shot America a grateful look, but the young nation couldn't quite to reciprocate it with his customary grin. They were, after all, at war.
Ripping away from the arms that held him, Italy strode towards the door as his young sorella desperately, blindly tried to totter after him.
"I'm going to kill Mussolini." He yelled, gripping his hands at his sides. "Do any of you have a problem with that?" His gaze swept around the room as though he were daring them to object.
England blustered.
America objected (so did Canada, but no one heard him), "What are you talking about. Italy? If you do that, you'll die."
"I can bring him down in one-" The Italian shook his head. "Two years tops. I don't care what happens to me."
Concern and desperation tinged America's voice as he replied, "But we were just beginning to become friends!"
"Fratello, don't go." These words broke the red haze that had swallowed up Italy's vision. Down, grabbing at his pant's leg, was his sister, sick, shaking, and looking up at him an unwavering, pleading gaze that broke his heart and filled him with a soul crushing guilt. If he didn't go, she would die. He would lose the only sister he'd ever had. That could not be allowed to happen, no matter the consequences. But…
"I'll come back." He heard himself say. There was a smile on his face that was meant to be reassuring, but it felt too strange, so he knew he'd gotten it wrong. "I swear I will." It was a lie meant to sooth her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. She crumbled in on herself, sobbing brokenly at his feet.
That's when it hit him that she was probably remembering what Holy Rome had said to them before he left. He'd said he'd be back. Instead of trying to rectify his words, Italy down beside his little sorella and held her in arms. There she cried into his shoulder, the soft weeping of a child.
Behind her, stood Hungary, with tears in her eyes. He looked up and said, "Will you take care of her for me?"
Not trusting herself to speak, Hungary could only nod.
There wasn't anytime left. The Acqui Division was being slaughtered, Italian partisans were being hanged in the streets, they needed his help, and he would give him his help, because his sorella couldn't live without them. Gently, he patted her head, even after another rattling cough sent blood spraying over his uniform; he never stopped patting her until he truly was ready to leave.
In the back, France, England, and America spoke about the wisdom of trusting him, but he didn't care the slightest bit about them or what they thought, so he ignored them.
Finally, he picked up the squirming, panting child and handed her over to Hungary. The girl did her best to comfort Chibi, as she screamed, "No, Fratello. Don't go!"
He lingered at the doorway, his hand on the molding, then, with a small smile and a salute, he was gone.
With the departure of her fratelleo, the House of Savoy, and the chiefs of staff, North Italy was all alone. The little girl curled her head into the woman who held her, as thoughts of her brothers and Holy Rome flashed through her mind, crying, "Ne, Miss Hungary, why does everyone leave me behind?"
"That was pretty intense, huh, West?" Germany's brother was one of the only nations who still spoke to him. It may have been out of loyalty or it may have been out of love, either way, Germany was glad there was someone still talking to him. An inquisitive eyebrow was all Prussia caught in reply, so he clarified for appearances sake, even though there was no one else was in the hallway with them. All the other nations had already left the Conference Building, heading back to their respective war torn populations. "I meant that thing with Italy."
Immediately, the German paled until he was almost as waxen as his brother. "Italy is an enemy now. What he does is none of our concern."
"We could join the Italian resistance too, West. We don't have to be enemies." Blue eyes widened until they looked like two plate's on Germany's head.
He seized his brother, pushed him up against the wall, and growled, "What you are speaking is treason, bruder."
"Pardon my language," Prussia choked out. "But that's bullshit, sir." He spat on the ground. "My loyalty lies with you. I'll go where you go, but don't expect me to lick Hitler's boots the way you-"
A punch to the face silenced him.
When Prussia awoke thirty minutes later, there was no one in the hallway.
"Ha ha, losers, I'm not crying," he said to the empty air. Not even bothering to rise from his slumped position, his slightly not-glassy eyes glanced back towards the Conference room.
"Ne, Miss Hungary," The child sobbed, "why does everyone leave me behind?" Then, almost on cue, the door burst open, revealing Fascist Italy. He strode across the room, plucked his sorella out of Hungary's arms, raised her above his head and said, "Don't be so sad, idiota. I'm not leaving you. We're both Italy, aren't we? We'll always be together." The unspoken 'no matter what happens to me' was heard by everyone except his sister, who beamed brightly through her tears at his words.
Back in the present, Prussia rubbed his jaw gingerly, cursed, struggled to his feet, and, with one last, lingering glance at the room where all the nations used to bicker and laugh together, moved to follow his brother.
End of Part 1
It was 1943 when the Italian Acqui Divsion found themselves abandoned by their king and leaders. They held the decision to surrender or fight to a vote.
They chose to fight.
They fought valiantly against the German military force that pervaded their beautiful land. With inferior numbers and arms, the attempt led only to bloodshed and one of the largest military massacres of Italian men, one felt even by the nation itself. Five-thousand prisoners of war were shot and drowned on the shores on Greece, where they had been placed so they could not interfere with Mussolini's rule.
For trying to defend their families, their children, their siblings… their Italy, they were executed without mercy. But that's war… isn't it?
Fascist Italy joined the Italian Resistance immediately after the Acqui Massacre.
The nearest northern resistance encampment was in Milan. From a plane the land would look almost empty, because all the tents of the encampment were colored to match the sand they were built upon, and because the people there who walked around, covered in Earth colors, wore only one thing that stood out against the tawny ground, and that was the black guns strapped to their backs. Thousands of prisoners of war had been rescued by Italian resistance members across the nation, but the day they met Feliciano Vargas, former member of the Fascist party, was a day the camp was receiving food for Italian Jews who were being sentenced to starve in their own homes.
"I want to join your group." The boy had said without flinching, despite the gun that Carlino held steady on his forehead.
Carlino remembered snarling," And what makes you think we want you here, Fascist pig?" It wasn't an actual statement, more like an initiation ceremony. It was Carlino's job as the strongest, tallest, and most intimidating at the camp to bully the potential recruits. If they turned out to be cowards, they weren't wanted. And if the interrogation revealed a ruse, it was up to Carlino to knock the Fascist traitor out and then drop him into the middle of nowhere. It would be easier to just shoot them but he refused to lower himself like that, and there was another reason in particular he didn't want to shoot this particular fascist.
There was a faded red scarf that he wore to protect his face from the dusty wind, and a worn blue vest that he wore to protect his muscular chest from the girls in the camp who wanted to- Well, what they wanted to do to him wasn't important. And he tried to tell them that everyday.
Still, the clothes they made and information they gathered was imperative to the resistance force's efforts.
Instead of answering the question the way Carlino was used to, pleading and supplications, the boy in the Fascist uniform, with his red tinged brown eyes, smiled, an unsettling sight, and said, "I don't think you want me. I think you need me."
"What?"
"With the Germans cracking down on the resistance, you need someone on the inside. I have the uniform and the knowledge. I can pass for a Fascist pig, as you so aptly called me, because I am one. But I want something in return." And there it was.
"What do you want?" Carlino asked. "Money?" It was a trick question.
"No, not that. If anyone so much as sees an opportunity to get Mussolini alone, I want to be the one to kill him. As long as he's alive, Fascist Italy will never die, and North Italy will still be in danger. He's like a disease that someone needs to cure. I want you to promise me that if the opportunity arises, if you see him, if you catch him, if you so much as catch a whiff of him, you will let me kill him."
The Italian resistance fighter smiled, though there was a touch of sadness in it, "Sounds like a deal." They shook hands, sizing each other up as they did. "So, what's with this grudge you got going on? Why did he do to you?"
Answering simply, the boy in the Fascist uniform replied, as though it were the obvious thing in the world, "He hurt our sorella."
"Our sorella?!"
A/N: Thanks for the reviews. If you have any questions so far, I'd be happy to answer them. Constructive criticism is also welcome. I'd tell you who Carlino is, but you guys probably already know, right?
Hint: He's Seborga