A/N: Yah... Ended up being a little less light-hearted then I'd expected.

Chp. I: Bloody Memories

Germany sat at his desk, frantically filling out the massive stack on mobalization notices the boss had dropped on his desk this mourning. There could be no delay, no mistakes with the meticulous timetables the Kaiser demanded; supposedly formulated to make it so victory was neigh-assured so long as everything was followed to the letter. Though he hardly thought it necessary; after all, what threat could that arrogant Frank and Europe's poor, simple-minded country cousin pose to the industrial might of the German Reich? He continued churning out the completed forms at an inhumane speed while completely ignoring the world around him.

Just as he reached the half-way point in his work though Germany found himself interrupted by a knock at the door."No visitors ," he absently ordered, continuing to speed through his pile in hopes they would just go away. But the knocks just became steady more insistent... A particularly intense one startling his hand out of their normal groove and leading to a huge slash of ink upon one Fritz Schuster's orders. "Come in!" He finally shouted, giving in as the antique door gave way to reveal Austria's calm figure: dressed in his well-pressed denim-blue military uniform with it's conical cap, a piece of paper clutched tightly in hand.

"A diplomatic report," he offered in explanation, before clearing his throat and reading off his paper. "My meeting to convince the Italians to honor their obligations towards us has met with a few... complications. It seems they won't be declaring war against France as we'd originally hoped." Those words causes something to tweak in Germany's mind... forcing his swift, smooth train of thought to a sudden stop. "A minor development... you'll still be able to reach Paris easily, I trust?"

He wanted to nod... but he couldn't. Everything had looked like it was going to fall right into place, Frenchmen battering themselves against their mutual border while his armies pushed their way through Belgium and the Russian offensive far less intensive. It'd all been shaping up to be a tidy little war. "We have a treaty!" Germany fired back, pushing himself up out of his chair. "What could possibly bring those Italians to break their sacred honor with us." Austria rested his forehead in his hand... rubbing into his temples as though truly fed up with the whole affair before giving a disinterested responses...

-Insert hazy, black and white flashback filter here-

Austria sat across the table from his Italian counterpart, quietly dining on the fine linguine dinner they'd had prepared for them. At least, he was consuming it quietly... the young nation who'd only recently left the nest slurping up the noodles like the rude child he was. Still, with the situation the way it was he couldn't afford to alienate the boy, and so put all his efforts into avoiding chastising him until their meal was over. After dabbing the excess sauce from his lip, Austria rolled out an official-looking document, pointing hard at the trio of signatures on the bottoms.

"As you're no doubt aware..." he tried to speak before being interrupted by one of Italy's particularly long and juice slurps, brow twitching on slightly before he begin again. This time louder. "As you're no doubt aware, our Empire as very recently come under attack from the forces of the French and Russian Empires. Now, according to your signature here," he tapped ferociously on Italy's scribbles that only vaguely resembled his actual name. "I believe you're obligated to come to my defense. I trust you're prepared to deploy to your Western border?"

Italy took a few moments to respond, seeming to half stare off into space before his hair-antenna sprung up, bouncing excitedly in his chair. "A war a war!" He began blathering, not stopping once to take a breath. "This is going to be so exciting. It'll be all pew-pew and ZOOM! And all those fancy marches like we had in Tripoli! And everybody will love me so much and they'll make so many cool things and..." It was then his eyes settled on Austria's wrists... something shimmering like water in the candlelight. "Oh... shiney..." he appeared almost hypnotized as he reached for Austria's long, thin cufflink, his tablemate quickly snatching it away.

"Unhand me," Austria began, Italy's mood suddenly changing from ecstatic to depressed. "My apologies. I'm just very protective of my Triest. These are my last pair..."

"But Papa Austria..." Italy wined , leaning over the table and grabbing at his sleeve to beg. "I want it really really badly. It's the last one I need for my collection." He held up his own sleeve, run up and down with cufflinks: a semi-crescent one, a wing-shaped one, and a trio of small ones welded into a single piece, Austria turning his face away in disgust.

"That was MY collection." He responded coldly, yanking himself out of Italy's deathgrip. "You need to learn you can't just take anything you want. Especially from your allies!"

Italy's eyes turned down in depression, sinking to the table as all his muscles went limp. "You're right..." he sighed heavily, rolling onto his back. "But... now I'm too depressed to fight. Poor, poor Italy." There were even some light tears there... but Austria wouldn't be swayed by a temper tantrum, pushing himself up from the table.

"Very well... I suppose me and Germany will have to take care of this ourselves. Good day, sir." His words were heavy with anger as he stomped away in a huff, leaving Italy staring up at the sky before his gaze was interrupted by a wily-beard framed smile of a certain Frenchman

"Fancying Austria's fine armwear, mon petit frère," France took Italy's hand delicately in his. "Well, consider it my gift to you... if you join me for one little venture."

-hazy, black and white flashback filter smashed by Germany's fist-

"That weaslly traitor," Germany spat, he felt his heart rate rise, face growing red, slapping his meaty palm down on Austria's shoulder. "I swear, my brother... if they dare to strike you, they will see no mercy."

From here, time seemed to zoom past; a bloody blur of a million black moments. Young men charging to their death against machine gun fire, huddling around small fires in deep, wet holes in the earth for months on end. Freezing in thin coats in snows of Russia and the Carpathians, watching as minds wore thin and finally broke from the endless stress of artillery fire. His stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself; bread always just out of reach with Britain standing smugly atop his boats blocking their path. All that pain pilled onto his soul, making it hard and bitter, 5 years of endless war and a flurry of propaganda stirring up something... Primal within him. The Entente needed to suffer for trying to destroy Germany, to kill HIM.

As suddenly as speed up, however, the memories slammed back into real time: the rattle of bullets and boom of exploding shells surronding him. He could feel the weight of the rifle in his hands, feet burning as he ran forward through the shelled outskirts of what had once been a great city. Austria and Hungary; both in their military uniforms and equally well armed, limped along and did their best to keep up. If Germany looked roughed up, they looked like they ought to be dead; Barry able to keep a grip on their rifles, scabbed-over cuts and still bleeding wounds all over their bodies, but leaning on eachother's shoulders to soldier on none the less. Oddly, he'd never thought he'd seen a moment they looked more like a couple then now. Around them, Austro-Hungarian and German soldiers were fanning out through the city the urban war broken into small showdowns over streets and buildings by desperate Italians... though Itay himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Kommandant," a breathless German soldier ran up to him... giving a weak salute. "Our spotters report that the Italian government are seeking sanctuary within the Church of St. Peter. The Papal forces have thus far held them out... but if we don't act quickly..." he trailed off forced to catch his breath as Austria turned his face down, distraught.

" Germany... my men can't be expected..." His voice cracked, throat dry as a bone. "We need to stop him." He could feel, even see the blood rushing to his eyes: everything taking on a thick red sheen as Germany rushed towards Vatican hill, completely oblivious to the fighting on either side. Bullets struck the paving stones mere inches from his feet, the cries of the wounded and dying echoing through his ears, but it was as thought all civilized sensitivities were draining out of him. Roman Empire had learned to fear Furor Teutonicus... now it was time for his grandson to learn the same lesson.

He spotted Italy easily; much shorter then the soldiers who surrounded them as he pounded desperate at the gates of the Vatican wall, on his knees and wailing something Germany couldn't make it. He let out a deep warcry as he fell upon them, firing and swinging his bayonet-tipped rifle around madly. And here... everything stopped. All that were left was flashes: men falling, Austria and Hungary joining the fray with the same wild-eyed. He saw Ottoman Empire once too... wielding scimitars alongside a well-covered Libya as they slashed at his feet, before finally a still image from above of Italy, cowering in a ball with his back against the Vatican gate, arms desperately trying to cover him from the blow that was about to be dealt...

This was the cause of all his people's suffering... the reason the war had not been as quick as Schefflin had planned. SOMEBODY had to pay for all the sacrifice, the injustices, and who better then the little Brutus here?

"Can you truly not remember, the battle of Roma?"

No... this was something he would remember. Forever.