They all bowed before him. Their cries for mercy gave him strength, and their insignificant people were the source of all his power. They had paid for laughing at him, for calling him weak. Oh, had they ever.
He flicked his silver cigarette lighter, allowing a small flame to blossom in front of his face. Once his cigarette was lit, he closed the lighter's metal cap and inhaled deeply. He smiled.
American tobacco was the best. Exported from his newest colony. It had been so much fun to watch the once-great America, Alfred F. Jones, reduced to a quivering wreck beneath his military boots. Jones had put up a remarkably good fight, and Italy, the new conqueror, the new empire, was forced to resort to... drastic measures.
The corners of the Italy's mouth turned up in a cruel smirk. It had been so much fun to watch his enemy's cities burn from the thousands of firebombs. It had made him tingle with excitement when he watched the mushroom cloud rise over the city of Washington, DC.
Feliciano chuckled, blowing a ring of smoke. The glow from the cigarette illuminated the paper before him, an enormous map of Europe. He stubbed his cigarette out and reached for the crystal glass on his desk. He took a sip.
Ah, French champagne. How he adored the stuff. It had not been hard to get it. Italy chuckled lightly to himself, remembering his first victory. The French defenses had been child's play; by the time he was done, Francis Bonnefoy was on his knees, begging for clemency. As his armies closed on Paris, Italy had granted some semblance of mercy. France, the nation and the person, belonged to him, and to his empire.
As Italy put down his glass of champagne, there was a knock at the door. "Come in."
Ivan Braginsky entered, his amethyst eyes downcast and full of fear. Italy smiled. "Have a seat, Ivan." Ivan no longer went by the name of Russia. Not since Italy's famed March on Moscow. To be truthful, Italy had been a bit apprehensive when leading the attack. France, Germany, Japan, and China had all tried and failed to end the largest nation in the world.
But Italy had not failed. He had watched with elation as his colossal tanks swept through the steppes of Russia, driving all resistance before them. He had clapped with delight as Ivan, his face scarred and tears forming in his eyes, had raised the white flag above the ruined Kremlin.
"M-mr. Italy," Braginsky quavered. "I-I have th-the f-food you r-requested."
Italy nodded. "I hope the pasta will be to my liking today, Ivan. I don't want to have to introduce your head to your own lead pipe again."
Ivan trembled in terror and handed over the steaming bowl of linguine and marinara. Italy took a bite, savoring the tomato sauce and spices. After a few minutes of slow chewing, he put down the spoon and stared blankly at Ivan. The former nation stood frozen, awaiting Italy's verdict.
"Congratulations, Ivan. It seems that you have learned to cook pasta. You may go."
Ivan let out a breath he didn't notice that he had been holding. He bowed deeply and shuffled from Italy's study.
Italy smiled, enjoying his pasta.
He looked up suddenly as one of his military jets flew over the city of Venice. He smiled and remembered listening to the thousands of jets as they flew towards London.
He had watched from the deck of his flagship as the British Isles were bombarded by shells and bombs, in an attack ten times worse than the Blitz ever was. London, Manchester, Cornwall, Glasgow, and Edinburgh were hit the hardest.
Upon landfall, Italy had led his soldiers north towards the ruined capital. They had found England, alias Arthur Kirkland, kneeling in Westminster Abbey. The invasion had been on Prince Henry's coronation day, and the personification of England had held the broken and twisted body of the would-be king in his arms.
"Pathetic," Italy had spat. "The once-great British Empire, reduced to hugging a dead teenager."
England hadn't budged. Instead, he said, "Even if you kill me, Feliciano, you won't last forever. You will fall eventually, just like your grandfather."
Italy had scowled. "Never call me by that name, dog. You are wrong; my empire has conquered more territory in less time than Rome ever did."
England had chuckled, and then coughed up a gob of blood. "You'll see, little man. You'll never be able to crush the spirit of humanity, Feli-"
Scarlet blood had coated the altar as Italy pulled the trigger on his powerful gun. Arthur Kirkland's body was thrown into a ditch with the millions of others who had died in the bombings and the invasion. And Italy had taken the British Isles as his own.
Italy snapped back to the present, a smile on his face from the memory. He opened the wide windows of his mansion and walked out onto the balcony. The night air was cool on his face, and it wiped away traces of the headache. He had stood here, on this very balcony, and announced the Italian Empire's victories across Europe.
Switzerland.
Liechtenstein.
Austria.
Hungary.
Greece.
The Balkans.
The Baltics.
Africa.
The Nordics.
The list went on and on and on. From the plains of Midwestern America to the mountains of Siberia, from the savannah of Africa to the tundra of Norway, the crump-crump-crump of Italian military boots could be heard. And the personifications had been given a choice: die or be enslaved. Most chose eternal servitude in the Imperial military.
Italy stood astride the earth like a colossus, and only a few stubborn nations (China, Mexico, Japan, and India) held out against his armies.
He remembered the last victory, the one over his best friend. Germany, for all his strength and power, had been forced to retreat to Berlin when the Italian bombers flew overhead, and Italian tanks began to cross the Rhine.
Germany and his brother Prussia had been running from the Italians for ages, changing direction as quickly as they could. Wherever they went, one of Italy's soldiers had appeared. Sometimes it was Ivan, wielding an Italian-made sink pipe. Other times it was Vash, firing an Italian assault rifle. And other times it had been Elizabeta, swinging an Italian frying pan.
The German brothers had been cornered underneath the Brandenburg Gate, the last monument in Europe not flying an Italian tricolor. Gilbert had fallen to his knees from exhaustion and pain, but Germany had stood tall, bleeding from six bullet wounds and a knife slash from Belarus.
Italy, the new ruler of the world, had slowly approached. He had appraised Germany with an almost sympathetic stare, and shook his head. "You know, it didn't have to end this way."
Germany had stared back with nothing but sadness and pain in his eyes. "Yes it did," he'd growled. "I learned from my mistakes. I learned not to hurt others for the sake of greed and power. I guess I never taught you that."
Italy had merely sneered. "I am no longer the weak, spineless nation I once was. Now, I am an empire, an empire that has conquered more territory in a shorter amount of time than any other in history."
Germany had glared at him. "You still don't get it, do you? An empire can never conquer the world! You can prance about in your military uniform all you like, but no matter what, there will always be someone willing to resist! I know you, Felici-"
"Kill him!"
The soldiers had opened fire. Spent casings had clattered to the cobblestones like rain, mixed with the blood of Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt. Ludwig stood standing the entire time, jerking with every bullet hit. Then he had swayed, toppling forwards. Italy had shaken his head.
"Such a waste." And then he'd turned on his heel and walked away from the two corpses.
Italy turned away from the balcony, shutting the death of Ludwig out of his mind. He had to get a grip on himself and stop reminiscing, as no war could be won by memories alone. He slid the curtains closed and went back to his map of Asia. He slid another American cigarette from his stash and lit up, the glow casting some light onto his face. It was a face that hid the twisted, broken, and shattered mind of Feliciano Vargas.
The Italian Empire laid his hands on his desk and removed the still-burning cigarette from his mouth. "I think it's time to end this war," he said to no-one in particular. A small smile crept across his mouth. He lowered his cigarette, burning a hole straight through a city on the map.
Tokyo was next.