Taking a Duce (A Benito Mussolini SI)

[Alenco98]

TW: a lot of references to suicide and depression in this story.

December 15, 2023
Rwanda
A Few Miles Outside Kigali

I should have stayed in America.

That thought—my ever-faithful companion over the past year—returned once again, like a mosquito in the night that just won't die, as the rusted trunk bed of the Toyota Hilux I was riding in jolted over another pothole. I swear I caught air for a full two inches. My spine was going to file a complaint with HR, if I made it back to one.

"Join the Peace Corps," they said. "It'll be a break from the office grind."
Yeah, a 'break' the way jumping out of a plane is a break from standing in line at TSA.

Still, if I'm being honest—and I might as well be, since, spoiler alert, this story doesn't end great for me—my mental health had actually improved out here. Working in an office cubicle had started to feel like being slowly embalmed in fluorescent lighting. I was in my twenties, long distance relationship, my student loans were finally off my back. My career felt like lukewarm soup: filling, but unsatisfying. So, naturally, I did the most rational thing imaginable—I yeeted myself across the globe to help teach a village in Rwanda how to start community savings groups and run small businesses.

It wasn't bad. Hell, at times it was even beautiful. I'd learned enough French to flirt terribly with any UN worker or wandering French aid worker I ran into during my supply runs to the city in a vain effort to have them buy me free food then ghost them (low success rate). My village was mercifully close to Kigali—only an hour's ride, assuming the Hilux didn't fall apart halfway there—and had semi-consistent running water and electricity that only crapped out three or four times a week. Progress, right?

But today—today my mind wasn't on development or sustainability or any of that shit. Today, it was firmly fixated on the Diet Coke and medium rare steak they served at the Hilton in Kigali. I went there once a week to remind myself that air conditioning still existed and stayed a night once a month at the expense of my savings. It was overpriced and underwhelming, but it was American enough to momentarily patch the homesick holes in my soul.

And God, did I miss home. I missed my mom's spaghetti (yes, like the Eminem song, shut up), I missed fast Wi-Fi, I missed the smell of laundromats and suburban boredom. But most of all, I missed Sofie.

Sofie. My girlfriend. My muse. My voice of reason. She had this incredible laugh—half wheeze, half snort—that made even my worst puns feel like stand-up gold. We met in high school. Got together in college over stale coffee and half-written term papers. She cried when I told her I was joining the Peace Corps. I told her I'd come back a better man. I promised to myself that I'd propose to her when I got back.

And I meant it. I still do.

To my right, one of the Rwandan guys I'd been riding with pulled a cigarette out of a pack and tried lighting it. No dice. His lighter was dead. I watched him fumble for a few seconds before reaching into my pocket and pulling out my trusty Zippo.

"T'as besoin d'un briquet?" I offered, feeling mildly proud that I could speak at least one useful phrase without sounding like a total idiot.

"Oui, merci," he replied, grateful. Then, pulling out another cigarette, he looked at me and asked, "Tu veux?"

"Oui, merci," I nodded, accepting it. He lit mine after I lit his, and for a brief moment, as we both leaned back in the sun with cigarettes between our lips, I felt oddly at peace. Like this moment—however random, however dusty and nicotine-stained—was exactly where I was supposed to be.

And then, the truck hit the pothole.

Not just a pothole. The pothole. The kind of pothole you name after the fact, like a hurricane. My dumbass, sitting too close to the edge, flew. I mean, launched—as if gravity suddenly needed a break and I was the sacrificial test dummy.

For one brief second, I saw everything: the dusty red road stretching ahead, the bright sun hanging lazy above the hills, and the soft outlines of Kigali in the distance. I thought of Sofie. I thought of her arms. I thought of the way she smelled after rain. I thought of the Hilton steak I was never going to eat.

And then—
Nothing.

Just black.

Like someone flicked the switch.

---------

September 1, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was wrong.

Not pain, not fear—just wrong. Like when you wake up from a nap and forget what century it is, except this wasn't grogginess. This was displacement. The sheets were too heavy, the mattress too soft, the air too thick with something I couldn't quite name—cologne? Dust? History?

I blinked at the ornate ceiling above me, carved and gilded like something out of a Renaissance painting. Definitely not my Peace Corps bunk. And the bed—dear God, the bed—wasn't a narrow cot with mosquito netting tied up with duct tape. This was a full-blown king-sized beast with carved oak posts and silk sheets. Fancy as hell. I sat up slowly, trying to make sense of what was happening.

To my right, a middle-aged woman was curled under the blankets, sleeping soundly. She looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn't place her. My brain felt like it had been run through a blender set to "confusion smoothie." Was this a fever dream? Had I hit my head too hard in Rwanda and now I was hallucinating? Maybe this was one of those pre-death visions you read about in Reddit threads.

I staggered out of bed and headed for the window. The floor was polished marble. Not linoleum, not wood—marble. I had to brace myself against the wall for a second. My legs didn't feel like my legs. They were thicker, stronger. My body was stockier. Heavier. This was all very, very wrong.

I reached the window and looked out onto a city.

The city.

A stone plaza stretched out before me, flanked by towering architecture that practically screamed imperial grandeur. Flags with unmistakable fasces insignia fluttered in the breeze. Uniformed soldiers were walking in neat formations below. Somewhere, a brass band was playing a march.

Where the hell am I?

People in the street started to stop and look up at me. A few of them pointed. Some began to wave.

I hesitated, then gave an awkward little wave back—just to be polite. I mean, I didn't want to be rude. Maybe I was some kind of ambassador or dignitary or—I don't know—a prince?

And then it happened.

"Duce! Duce!"

My smile froze. A cold feeling prickled down the back of my neck.

Duce? That was not my name.

I looked down at my hands. Big. Callused. Not mine. These weren't the hands I used to journal with at night or awkwardly text Sofie with when the signal cut out in the Rwandan hills. These were different. Thicker. Hairier. Slightly olive-toned. The hands of a man who had probably made a lot of hard decisions—or punched/stabbed people in the face.

I ducked away from the window and headed back into the bedroom, heart pounding. There was a mirror over the dresser. For a moment, I just stared at it, paralyzed.

Then I stepped forward.

Who the fuck am I?!

It wasn't my face staring back. The man in the mirror had slicked-back black hair, a broad, square face, a commanding jawline, and eyes that looked like they'd seen too many war briefings and not enough therapy. He looked like a statue had come to life—hard, powerful, and completely unfamiliar.

It was me. But not me.

My first thought was: Okay. Deep breath. You're just hallucinating. You fell off the truck in Rwanda and this is all some brain-fart scenario your neurons cooked up in a panic. Ride it out. Eventually you'll wake up in a hospital bed. Maybe missing a few teeth. Maybe with Sofie holding your hand and crying.

God, Sofie. I wanted her laugh, her messy ponytail, her snarky texts. I wanted my little house with the broken solar panel, the lumpy rice I'd learned to cook, and the neighbor's goat that never stopped bleating. I even missed the mosquito bites and the Wi-Fi that sometimes didn't work when the moon was in retrograde.

I walked over to a wardrobe. Big, ornate. Heavy enough to crush me. I opened it and found a collection of perfectly pressed military uniforms, tailored suits, and regal-looking overcoats. Great. Apparently I was someone very important. The kind of person who didn't do his own laundry and maybe—maybe—had the power to start wars.

I pulled on a military-style tunic with epaulets and medals I didn't recognize. I needed to blend in, figure things out before someone started asking questions like, "Why is this man suddenly speaking English?" or "Why did the dictator forget how to tie his shoes?"

I stood before the mirror again. It was like watching a stranger dress up in your skin. The fit was perfect, of course. It would be. Dictators and strongmen wouldn't accept less.

Wait.

A dictator?

"Benito?" a voice called softly behind me.

I turned. The woman in bed had woken up. She was sitting up now, her face lined with concern.

"Yes? What is it?"

She looked at me, confused.

"Perché stai parlando inglese?" she asked. "Why are you speaking English?"

She was speaking Italian. Of course she was. Dictator. Benito. Italy.

I blinked.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

I.

I was Benito fucking Mussolini.



Note to all new readers: welcome, this chapter and the next chapters up until The French Mediterranean were rewritten to ensure story quality as I wasn't sure how I wanted the tone of the story to be, so ignore the comments in the first several pages. TW: a lot of references to suicide and depression

Note to all existing readers: as I promised. A rewritten story until where the current story tone starts (see above). I highly insist on you all rereading. And I'll shamelessly ask to drop a like and a comment

 

[Alenco98]

September 1, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

"Apologies, it was just a joke," I said in Italian, trying to mask my panic with a forced chuckle and a poorly imitated smile.

Internally, I thanked God—if He still existed in whatever twisted dreamscape I now inhabited—for Italian Duolingo and my four years of high school French. I prayed that the Duolingo owl wouldn't manifest in a cloud of brimstone to throttle me for losing my streak. Then again, given the situation, the owl hadn't been invented yet. That was future trauma. Presently, my crisis was of a much more immediate and historically horrifying nature.

I was Benito fucking Mussolini.

Let me back up.

I had been in Rwanda. Peace Corps volunteer, idealistic enough to believe I could help the world, naïve enough to think the world wouldn't bite back. Last I remember, I'd been riding in the back of a Toyota across a remote stretch of countryside, heat haze bending the horizon, the taste of dust and diesel in my mouth. Then—boom, a road bump. I fell. Darkness. Silence.

Now, I was waking up in an opulent bed beside a middle-aged woman with impressive nasal acoustics. I'd staggered to the window and looked out on a city I had no memory of visiting. Romans had waved. And not just any wave—they were cheering. "Duce!" they shouted. I waved back awkwardly, like a foreign exchange student trying to blend in at a pep rally.

Then came the mirror. Then the realization.

I wasn't in my body.

These weren't my hands, my face, or my charmingly scruffy Peace Corps beard. I looked like some discount Caesar cosplayer on steroids and mustache oil. Mussolini. The man, the myth, the war criminal. The punchline to history's cruelest joke.

And I was him.

I tried to play it cool. Maybe I was in a coma. Maybe this was some kind of medically-induced fever dream while the real me was lying in a hospital bed in Kigali, surrounded by frantic doctors and shell-shocked volunteers whispering, "Where the hell did he go?"

She looked like she didn't buy it, she seemed skeptical. "Benito?"

I kept looking at her. The woman had stirred, blinking at me like nothing was wrong. Which, to her, I suppose nothing was.

"Yes? "What is it?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

She squinted at me. "Why do you sound so different?"

Ah. Right. Italian. Mussolini. Rome.

"I have a sore throat," I croaked, then immediately cursed myself for sounding like a hungover jazz singer. "I have a country to run, so I'll be going now."

I fled the bedroom, leaving the door ajar in my haste, and wandered the halls of what the memories flowing in my head revealed was the Palazzo Venezia—a grand, echoing tomb of ego and fascist decor. Uniformed guards snapped salutes at me that looked disturbingly Nazi-adjacent. I returned the gestures stiffly, like a drunk doing the YMCA. The flood of memories and the trauma of all this made it feel like a bad shrooms trip.

I needed to find Mussolini's office—my office. Or at least some place to think and not lose my damn mind.

I spotted a young woman—early twenties, hair neatly tucked under a scarf—and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me."

She turned and immediately beamed. "Duce! What can I do for you?"

I resisted the urge to flinch. "There's something wrong with my office. Strange smell. Can you come with me?"

"Of course!"

"Lead the way," I said, trying to channel the confident gravitas of a man who once ran a country and not, you know, a solar panel installation program in rural East Africa.

She led me to a grand office that screamed "overcompensation." A massive desk dominated the space like a dictator's throne, surrounded by shelves of unread books and oil paintings of battle scenes that probably never happened. I scanned the room and exhaled. At least here, alone, I could pretend I was sane.

"Never mind. Smell's gone," I said. "Thank you… what was your name again?"

"Claudia."

"Claudia. Lovely. Please bring me some breakfast. Two eggs and a glass of milk."

She blinked. "That's not what you usually eat, Duce."

"Consider it a new diet. Simpler times. Thank you."

She left, and for the first time since waking up in this fascist fever dream, I was alone.

I sat down behind the desk and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.

I was Mussolini. Not in a metaphorical sense. Literally. Historically. Physically.

What the hell was I doing with my life?

I could hear Sofie's voice in my head. Her laugh. The way she'd roll her eyes whenever I talked about wanting to "change the world." God, I missed her. Her, my parents, my brothers, iced coffee, Spotify, Netflix, reliable plumbing—the whole package. I had traded mosquito nets and volunteer frustration for fascist Italy and a slight identity crisis.

The door opened again. Claudia returned with my modest breakfast. "Stay for a moment," I said. She did, politely pretending not to watch as I inhaled both eggs and downed the milk like a man who'd been through war.

"Thank you. You may go."

"The council will be here soon," she said. "It's only 7 a.m."

Great. Just enough time to spiral into a deeper existential crisis.

She left. I reclined in the massive chair and stared at the ceiling, wondering if I could fake a heart attack. Maybe throw myself out a window? But then again—how would I get back to my real body? Was that even possible?

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another woman—this one short-haired and confident, with the kind of sway that suggested intimacy. Before I could say a word, she leaned in and kissed me. Passionately. Her hand wandered south. I choked on my thoughts.

"Ben," she whispered, "where were you this morning? I was worried."

I gently pushed her away, torn between confusion and a very inconvenient arousal. "Apologies. Today's going to be a busy day."

"Is it because of what's happening in Poland?"

I froze. "Yes… Hitler said he was going to attack soon. On September 1, 1939."

Her face went pale. "Duce. That's today."

September 1st, 1939. Shit. This was the day. The start of World War II.

And I was on the wrong team.

"I need to ensure Italy isn't dragged into the madness of that failed Austrian painter," I said.

"Failed painter?"

"You wouldn't get it. Run along."

She left, disappointed. I stayed, relieved I wasn't caught.

What a weird dream. I remarked to myself. If this was real—and who the hell knew anymore—maybe I could do something with it. Maybe I could keep Italy out of the war. Steal from the treasury. Fake my death. Retire to the Amalfi Coast with Sofie, if she ever somehow got stuck here too. She always did say she liked history…

Soon after, a procession of men entered the office, all in uniforms, all snapping salutes and greeting me with "Duce." They sat around the massive table, their eyes expectant.

I cleared my throat once they were all gathered.

"Gentlemen," I said, steadying my voice, "it seems Germany has gone to war with Poland."

Silence.

I leaned back, folded my hands, and thought to myself: Let's see how long I can keep this madness going before they realize I'm not Il Duce—I'm just an unpaid idealist from America with a bad Wi-Fi addiction and a love for soft-boiled eggs.

 

[Alenco98]

September 1, 1939
Italy
Palazzo Venezia, Rome

The room was dead silent as I dropped my little bombshell of news—felt more like dropping a vinyl on a scratchy turntable. Everyone looked like they were about to have a collective meltdown. I swear I could hear Don't You (Forget About Me) playing somewhere in my head. Perfect soundtrack for this weird dream.

I stood up, raised my right hand like some over-the-top game show host, and said,
"Let me reassure you all right now: I will not be sending Italians to fight in a war between Germans and Poles."

A wave of relief hit the room like a cold breeze. So I pushed on.
"Especially since Britain and France are almost certainly going to declare war on Germany. My plan for the next few years? Make Italy rich off this mess. Profit."

The mood lightened. I smiled inwardly — if only I could snap out of this dream before someone asked me to lead a charge or something.

"Someone get me a map of Italy and our colonial possessions," I ordered, tapping into that daydream logic like I was prepping for a board game. "We've got some business to take care of."

A staffer darted out and returned with a crinkled map I barely recognized. Italy, Libya down south, a chunk of the Horn of Africa, Albania, Rhodes, a few islands, and some random concession near Beijing. Not too shabby for an empire on life support. I nodded, thinking, Well, I guess Italy lost it all in the war in my real life.

"We'll fully integrate the colonies with the mainland," I said, pretending I wasn't weirdly fascinated by this colonial board game. "While the great powers waste themselves on pointless fights, we'll grow stronger. Send Hitler a message: send all the Jews from Germany and occupied territories to us. We'll use them to build the colonies—and if the locals and them kill each other, well… better for us."

I shrugged, playing it cool like I wasn't grossed out deep down. Hey, if Hitler's gonna do the Holocaust, I might as well steal the show by saving millions and making Italy look good. Plus, colonists developing the colonies? Win-win.

Maybe I should give the natives some rights, so they don't turn the place into a bloodbath. I was brainstorming my "native-friendly" policy when a voice cut in.

"Duce," said a man with a beard and a full head of hair—Italo Balbo, or so I learned later. "The Racial Laws you established—Leggi Razziali—they restrict Jewish travel and party membership. Laws I opposed. Why the change?"

Wait, what? I didn't know that was a thing. But Duce was a piece of shit, so no surprises.
"Those laws are obsolete," I shrugged like I knew what I was talking about. "They were written assuming Hitler wouldn't be a fool and start a war before we were ready. Scrap them."

"Do you really mean it? No alignment with Hitler?"

"We won't align with anyone. Why side with barbarians? Two thousand years ago, our ancestors conquered most of the world, while Hitler's ancestors were probably shitting in huts."

Yeah, I felt super uncomfortable saying that racist crap, but hey—gotta keep the sycophants happy. Some nodded like the suck-ups they were.

"We'll strike those laws then," said the minister of justice, looking like he'd just swallowed a lemon.

I sat down and asked for a recap on the rights of natives in the colonies. I needed to figure out how to keep the peace there—less bloodshed means less paperwork.

The justice minister cleared his throat:
"Our current laws forbid marriage and sexual relations between Italians, Jews, and Africans. Jews, Slavs, Greeks, and Africans are banned from banking, government, and education. Jewish property confiscated. But with your new stance, we'll amend that."

I nodded, trying not to gag on my own hypocrisy.

"Good. Italy needs to use all its human resources. I propose granting citizenship to all colonial subjects if they learn Italian. They get the same rights as mainland Italians, except government positions must be reserved for Roman Catholics. Conversion is simple—have a priest sign a document at the nearest church after baptism."

Half the room looked horrified; the other half cautiously optimistic. I kept my poker face.

"Now, status report on the colonies. We must pacify any opposition."

The security minister stood. "Libya is stable, population growing. East Africa is trickier—few guerrilla bands resist. We tried to negotiate; they're not interested."

I nodded, not giving a damn about Ethiopia's ancient empire status or my Byzantophile daydreams. "If no deal, hunt them down. No atrocities on civilians. Find local leaders willing to cooperate and back them militarily and financially."

"Orders will be sent, Duce."

The rest of the morning was a blur of ministers updating me. Everything was on fire, but in a manageable way. Until I talked to the finance minister.

We were broke. Ethiopia was bleeding billions of lira. Franco in Spain cost us even more. Sanctions from Britain and France strangled us. The economy was isolated. Our army was a joke—too small, under-equipped—and yet we were still trying to expand it.

"Gentlemen," I said, exhausted. "1.6 million troops is enough. No more expansion. We'll consolidate and re-equip. Build up reserves used in Spain."

Almost everyone nodded—finally, some common sense.

"Our economy needs a reboot. Privatize some state industries, open to international markets—except strategic ones. I want economists to draft a plan by month's end, get me an expert to organize all this. Send diplomats to the UK and France. With war started, they'll want us neutral. Maybe we can squeeze concessions for staying out."

By evening, I was mentally fried. I needed a cigarette and a stiff drink—or twelve.

As ministers filed out, I lingered. I tapped a servant on the shoulder. "There's a weird smell in my office. Come with me."

"Of course, Duce."

She led the way, and inside, waiting for me, was that woman I'd been making out with before the meeting.

"You can go now," she said sharply.

The servant left, and I was alone with her. She rushed over and started kissing me.

Well, since I was stuck in this insane dream, I figured I'd make the most of it.

I hoped I would wake up.

But it was the start of an endless nightmare.

 

[Alenco98]

September 1, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

Clara helped me get dressed after our little rendezvous, which was sweet of her, considering I was still figuring out how to button this ridiculous tunic. I checked the clock. 7 p.m. We'd been at it for hours. That was funny in a tragic, jetlagged way. Also, I was starving.

"Could you send for dinner? Some Pasta, please," I said. "When in Rome…" I muttered to myself in English.

Clara gave me a look like I'd just mooned the Virgin Mary. "That's not what you usually ask for."

I shrugged. "I like to keep it spicy."

She left to fetch a servant, high heels clicking with regal disappointment. I collapsed back onto the couch, the velvet sticking to my back. First day on the job as Mussolini and somehow I'd survived it without screaming. Bonus points for good sex, too.

But the war. That gnawed at me like a guilty playlist. I walked to the desk—ornate, heavy, real dictator-core—and pulled open a drawer. Blank paper. Pens. God bless fascist bureaucracy.

I started writing, furiously—every fact I could remember from WWII: the fall of France, Barbarossa, Pearl Harbor, Stalingrad, D-Day. The Cold War in hazy fragments, all my knowledge condensed from years of public school, Netflix documentaries, and that one time I got drunk and tried explaining NATO to a goat in Rwanda.

I jotted down what the ministers had told me, too: Italy's debts, its army's sorry state, foreign meddling in Ethiopia. Britain and France backing rebels? Shocking, but not really. Colonialism never dies, it just changes uniforms.

Ten minutes later, I tucked the paper deep beneath a stack of official reports. Just in time, too—Clara returned with a servant carrying a steaming plate of pasta. I nearly wept. I'd learned to cook in the Peace Corps, but everything I made tasted like regret. This? This was the good stuff.

"Ben," Clara said, just as I dug in. "Can I stay?"

"I need to be alone," I said, more gently than I expected. "Need to think."

She looked hurt but nodded and left. I devoured the pasta like it was my last meal before being catapulted back to reality—or off a cliff. Either way.

The war was just beginning. Millions were going to die—with or without my interference. But this was a dream. Had to be. I'd ride it out, tweak a few things, then wake up. Maybe in a hospital in Kigali, IV in one arm, Sofie crying over me, 80s synth-pop playing softly from someone's phone.

I pulled the paper out again, rereading up to the Fall of France. An idea sparked—hot, fast, dangerous. I shoveled the last bite into my mouth and sprinted out of the office.

I flagged down a maid in the hallway. "Get my foreign minister. Now."

She blinked. "At this hour, Duce?"

"War doesn't wait for office hours."

Back in my office, I poured myself a glass of wine while waiting. I really wanted a Coke, but this wasn't Kansas anymore. Wine would do. No need to whine about it.

Ciano walked in mid-bottle. "Duce. You summoned me?"

"Sit," I said, grateful Clara had rattled off all their names earlier under the guise of pillow talk trivia.

"It's quite late…"

"I want a meeting with the French and British ambassadors. Immediately."

His eyebrows twitched. "The Germans won't like that. They'll think we're betraying them."

"We're allies, not lapdogs. How soon?"

"I'll make the calls."

"Good. Wake me when it's done."

He nodded and left. I returned to the couch. Still smelled faintly of Clara and bad decisions. I shut my eyes and hoped I'd wake up in Kigali with Sofie and an iced latte.

---

September 2, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

No latte. No Sofie. No Kigali. Just the musty scent of old Rome and my servant gently shaking me awake. Dissapointing, but worrying. Maybe it'll be over by tomorrow.

By 1 a.m., I was back in uniform and seated across from André François-Poncet and Sir Percy Loraine, France and Britain's respective ambassadors. They looked tired. I probably looked worse—like a guy who'd dreamt he was Mussolini and hadn't figured out how to stop.

"Gentlemen," I said in English, then French. "I'll get to the point. Germany's gone into Poland. As you know, Italy is technically allied with Germany—but only in a defensive capacity."

They perked up. I repeated it in clumsy French, silently thanking the Peace Corps for my language placement.

"You will not declare war?" André asked.

"That depends," I said. "On what you're willing to offer."

Both looked alarmed. Good.

"What are your demands?" Percy asked cautiously.

I smiled. "End the sanctions. Recognize our holdings in East Africa. Extradite Haile Selassie. Stop funding rebels. And I'll take Malta, Djibouti, Tunisia, and British Somaliland too. Oh, and call it a peace offering."

André choked. "C'est absurde!"

"I'm open to negotiation," I said. You always start high. My buddy Dylan taught me that—ask for 100 if you want 5.

Their faces froze between horror and diplomatic calculation. For the first time in hours, I felt a little thrill.

Maybe I wasn't dreaming.
But if I was, I planned to wake up in a better world. Or at least with a better playlist.

Except from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 novel Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce.

In the last few years leading up to the war, Britain and France had tried courting Italy to their side via actions such as the Stresa front. However, that agreement fell through once Italy invaded Ethiopia and fell deeper into the German sphere. It was now both British and French policy to ensure Italy remained neutral during the second world war.

Shortly after midnight on September second 1939, Mussolini met with both the French and British ambassadors to italy. Both ambassadors were nervous, with the war having just started the previous day, none of them were certain as to why Il Duce wanted to personally meet with them. Was he declaring war in person? Was he declaring his neutrality?

Fortunately for them however, Mussolini had decided to change his course in regards to the German alliance. Though it wouldn't be for free.

Mussolini started out with outrageous terms, the handover of various territories in Africa and the Mediterranean, an end to sanctions and embargos, an end to support for the Ethiopian rebels, handing over Haile Selassie to his government, and recognition of his conquests in Africa.

Both ambassadors were outraged by these exorbitant demands and according to an interview of Ser Percy he was on the brink of walking out until Mussolini started his openess to negotiation for these terms.

In a round of negotiations that lasted for the next few days and involved frantic telegrams to both the British prime minister and french president, Mussolini managed to secure an end to economic sanctions and the embargo placed on them by the league of nations. Though his terms for territorial concessions and an end of Ethiopian support were flatly rejected, it was a good first round of negotiations for Mussolini. For the war would soon turn even grimmer for the allies and he would extort more from them and Europe over the course of the war.

But that was not all Mussolini did in that first frantic week of the war. He also set in motion the events that would make him a hero to millions.

 

[Alenco98]

September 4th, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

Mondays. God, I always hated Mondays—even more so now that I'm apparently Benito freaking Mussolini, and still have to show up to work like it's just another 9 to 5. Only now, my 9 to 5 involves fascist councils, colonial borders, and trying not to start World War III prematurely.

It's been four days since I woke up in this body. Four days since the accident. Four days of pretending I know what I'm doing while I quietly spiral in existential dread. I thought I'd wake up by now, maybe in a hospital bed, maybe in Sofie's arms. Instead, I'm giving orders in a palace like I'm the boss level of a very niche, historically inaccurate video game.

I miss home. I miss my brothers, my friends, Sofie's voice, her laugh—hell, I'd take her chewing me out for never doing the dishes if it meant hearing her again. And the worst part? It's all starting to feel normal. Like when you're stuck in a weird dream, and your brain starts rationalizing that, yeah, I guess I do live in an Art Deco nightmare and wear military uniforms to breakfast.

Anyway, work waits for no man, not even displaced Peace Corps volunteers who maybe died in a freak accident and woke up as the Supreme Dictator of Italy.

I took my seat in the grand office I now shared with the Council—or as they grandly called themselves, the Grand Council of Fascism. Slowly, the ministers trickled in: loyal, obedient, terrifyingly reverent. I'll admit it stirred something in me. No wonder dictators get high on this stuff. Power is like cocaine wrapped in ceremony.

"Gentlemen," I said as the last of them settled in. "Today has been a victory for Italy." I yawned. Not out of boredom, but pure exhaustion. "After sleepless nights and endless negotiations, Ciano and I have secured the end of all League-imposed sanctions and embargos. We're no longer economic pariahs. Now we can finally start implementing reforms to ensure Italy's prosperity… or at least avoid bankruptcy."

They nodded like bobbleheads. So far, so good.

"Now then," I continued, "what's the status of our request to Germany for Jewish settlers?"

Ciano stood up, looking like he hadn't slept since the war began. "Duce," he said wearily, "Hitler has contacted us. He wants a meeting. He's not pleased with our recent discussions with France and Britain. He's… confused by our request."

Great. A face-to-face with the CEO of genocide. Just what I needed. "How soon can we be in Berlin? I'd prefer to travel by train."

"Tonight, Duce. We'll arrive by tomorrow afternoon."

"Make the arrangements. In the meantime, do we have a map of our East African colonies? Preferably one showing ethnic divisions?"

An aide stepped forward with the requested maps. I scanned the ethnic breakdown—Amhara, Oromo, Tigray, Afar, and Somali.

According to the intelligence I'd read (and pretended to understand), the Afar and Somali populations were mostly Muslim and supportive of the regime. The Amhara and Oromo… not so much. No surprise there. The old emperor was Amhara. The Tigray were mixed, Muslim and christian but mostly supportive.

"Reorganize east Africa into 5 provinces along ethnic lines," I said. "Give the Afar the northeast, including parts of Eritrea. Somalis keep their territory and get everything east of Dire Dawa. The remaining parts of Eritrea become the Tigray governorate. The Oromo get Addis Ababa and everything south of it. Whatever's left goes to the Amhara."

"This is a major reorganization," said the interior minister. "Why now?"

"Divide and conquer. Ethiopia is diverse—too diverse. By segmenting them, we'll reduce the chances of unified resistance. We'll even start integrating some locals into the administration. The Amhara will remain problematic, sure—but once Jewish settlers start arriving, the power dynamics will shift. Temporarily chaotic, yes, but manageable… and temporary. Just long enough to build Israel."

Two birds, one overly complicated, morally ambiguous stone.

The minister nodded reluctantly. "I'll inform the governor."

The rest of the day blurred into meetings, paperwork, signatures. Bureaucracy, but fascist. My one mercy to the human condition: a lunch break at noon. Gnocchi soup and calzone. God bless Italian carbs.

By evening, I was being ushered out of the palace with Ciano, flanked by a security detail that looked like it was guarding a Bond villain. We climbed into Mussolini's personal Alfa Romeo—manual transmission, thank God. I had driven stick before. I just hadn't done it while flanked by armed escorts clearing Roman streets like it was Tokyo Drift: Fascist Edition.

We rolled up to Stazione Termini. No cheering crowds, just a few tired onlookers waving as if we were going on a school field trip. I waved back—why not? Maybe one day I'd be a meme.

We boarded my private train. Dinner on board was the same as lunch: delicious. Ciano didn't talk much—just picked at his food and looked like he wanted to nap for a decade.

After dinner, I retreated to my private cabin with reading material. First up: an Italian high school history textbook. It was a crash course in the version of reality the regime wanted kids to believe. I knew the basics about Mussolini—but not much beyond "bad guy" and "Hitler's Italian friend."

Turns out Italy did fight in World War I. Badly. In the Alps. And got stiffed by the British at Versailles. Venice was almost lost. Damn. No wonder Mussolini rose to power—he promised revenge, land, and dignity. And somehow delivered. Sort of.

Still, I'd need to cross-reference this with British and American textbooks later. Propaganda's universal, after all.

With a sigh, I closed the book and cursed the British for handing out promises like expired coupons. Then I picked up the file on German-Italian trade agreements.

If I was going to survive this nightmare—and maybe even make it out alive—I needed allies. Preferably ones who weren't named Adolf.

As I flipped through the economic reports, I heard a faint melody in my head. Something warm, nostalgic. Was it Tatsuro Yamashita's Love Talkin? Or maybe Africa by Toto? Either way, it was better than the national anthem.

I just wanted to go home. But until I found the exit…
I'd play the part.

 

[Alenco98]

September 5th, 1939
Berlin
Reich Chancellery

Five days. It's been five days since I woke up as Benito f***ing Mussolini.

I keep telling myself this is a dream. A really messed up, hyper-realistic, possibly post-mortem hallucination. Any second now, I'll wake up back in Rwanda, under my mosquito net, probably drenched in sweat and clutching a-ha's Take On Me cassette like a security blanket. But I haven't. Not yet.

So there I was: sitting in the reception room of the Reich Chancellery with my translator, directly across from Adolf Hitler—the CEO of racism, the man who looks like he'd bite into a lemon and call it lunch. Honestly, if evil were a brand, this guy would be the flagship product.

All I wanted was a cigarette. Maybe two. Mostly to distract myself from the creeping realization that the Führer was, to put it diplomatically, not thrilled with me.

He said something in German. My translator turned to me.
"He says he's surprised you're using a translator. He says you speak German."

Apparently, Mussolini spoke German. Who knew? Not me.
I leaned back in my chair, trying not to visibly panic. "Tell him I'm displeased with Germany's current direction. I fear that if I speak German, I may come off as too... uncouth. Or belligerent." I said it in Italian, just to sell the act.

My translator shot me a weird look, but did as instructed. Hitler didn't look pleased. His reply came sharp.
"He says you signed a treaty of alliance. Yet you're speaking to the French. And the British. You've even reached terms with them."

Great. Time to lawyer up.

"Italy is a sovereign nation, Herr Hitler," I said with as much fake Mussolini gravitas as I could muster. "Not a puppet state like Slovakia. Article One of our treaty refers to external threats. My armies, though large, are under-equipped for prolonged conflict. A premature declaration of war on France and England would only burden your efforts."

I paused. Deep breath. Channel the ghost of a 3L from NYU Law.
"That's why I've negotiated with the Allies—to keep Italy out of war. In doing so, I've lifted the embargo. We're reconnected with international markets. If Germany continues trading with us, you'll have indirect access to them too. War is expensive, after all."

Hitler seemed to thaw a little as the translator relayed my message. He replied in a tone that wasn't quite as frothy.
"He says he understands your point. But he's still upset. Says your double-dealing reminds him of Italy in the last war. Also... he's confused by your request for Jews."

Here we go. Showtime.

I kept my voice level, trying to sound casually colonial and disturbingly ambitious.
"I need settlers. My people aren't volunteering for the colonies in sufficient numbers. But Jews—send them in. They'll help develop infrastructure, build the economy, even clear out the locals. When their work is done, we'll... relocate them. Our Lebensraum isn't in the East. It's in Africa. And the Jews will build it."

I wanted to vomit. But Hitler nodded, especially at Lebensraum. My translator continued.

"He says he's open to your offer. Though displeased by your easing of the racial laws."

Of course he is.

"Italy governs itself. Besides, why would Jews settle our colonies if they felt unwelcome? You want them gone, I'll take them. Seems like a win-win."

More whispering in German. Hitler's mood soured slightly.
"He wants to know what you plan to do with them."

I lied. Smoothly. I've gotten good at it these past five days.

"There are rumors of oil in Libya. I'll use Jewish engineers to prospect it. The rest—laborers, tradesmen—they'll build up the territory. Ethiopia's giving us resistance; we'll settle Jews where the fighting's worst. Let them pacify the region and build at the same time."

More nods. Then the question I'd been waiting for.
"He wants to know how soon you can take them."

Jackpot.

"Immediately," I said, resisting the urge to grin like Light Yagami reclaiming the Death Note. "Germany, Poland, whatever remains of Czechoslovakia—anywhere you've got them. Men, women, children. All of them."

I threw in a darkly cheeky Star Wars reference: "Not just the men... but the women and the children too." Vader would've approved. Probably.

"He says the transfers will begin. German Jews first. Then Polish, once Poland is subdued."

"Perfect." I smiled. "Shall we bring in Ciano to iron out the details? France and Britain are lifting sanctions—this could be Germany's gateway to the global economy. And if we find oil, I'm sure you'll be interested."

I still don't know what the hell is going on. I miss home. I miss Sofie's dumb jokes and her city pop playlists. I miss my friends. I miss not waking up in a fascist's body.

Every night I pray to wake up, and every morning I open my eyes and still see his fat, fascist hands. If this is hell, it's not fire and brimstone—it's bureaucracy and genocide, and the Muzak is just Plastic Love on infinite loop.

Five days. Still no exit. Still no cigarette.

-----

Excerpt from the Wikipedia Page of Benito Mussolini

Diplomacy in the Early Days of World War II

When World War II erupted with Nazi Germany's invasion of Poland on 1 September 1939, Benito Mussolini—then Duce of Italy—acted with an urgency that stunned both allies and adversaries alike. Far from joining Germany's aggression, Mussolini convened an emergency late-night meeting with the British and French ambassadors in Rome mere hours after the news of the invasion broke. Contrary to expectations given the Rome-Berlin Axis Pact of the previous year, Mussolini declared Italy's intent to remain neutral and used the meeting to broker a dramatic shift in Italy's international position.

Over the next several days, a flurry of high-stakes diplomatic negotiations took place between Rome, London, and Paris. Mussolini, leveraging Italy's strategic importance and offering assurances that Italy would not enter the war against the Allies, succeeded in brokering an extraordinary agreement. On 3 September 1939, both the French and British governments formally agreed to lift all economic sanctions and embargoes imposed on Italy following its invasion of Ethiopia in 1935. These concessions effectively re-integrated Italy into the European diplomatic community and ended its status as a pariah state.

Hitler, informed by the German diplomatic corps of Mussolini's sudden overtures to the Allies and his clandestine discussions regarding the deportation of European Jews to Italian territories, reacted with alarm and summoned Mussolini for an urgent face-to-face meeting. The meeting was set for 5 September 1939 in Berlin.

The Berlin Summit: 5 September 1939

Mussolini's arrival in Berlin was marked by deliberate provocation. Despite being fluent in German, he conspicuously refused to speak the language in Hitler's presence, instead insisting on communicating through a translator. Historians interpret this as a subtle but pointed rebuke of Hitler's war of aggression and a signal of Mussolini's desire to assert Italian sovereignty and independence from Nazi dictates.

The meeting, held in the reception room of the Reich Chancellery, was tense from the outset. Mussolini expressed his disapproval of Germany's unilateral invasion of Poland, warning that such reckless aggression threatened to destabilize Europe entirely. Hitler, visibly angered by what he saw as betrayal, condemned Mussolini's outreach to the British and French and accused him of double-dealing reminiscent of Italy's indecisive diplomacy during World War I.

Undeterred, Mussolini offered Hitler a new proposal: two treaties that would, in effect, redefine the terms of the Italo-German alliance. The first was a humanitarian and colonial project cloaked in racial pragmatism—Mussolini proposed the complete deportation of all Jews from the Greater German Reich and its occupied territories, including Czechoslovakia and future conquests, to the Italian colonies in Africa. There, he claimed, they would be employed to build infrastructure, develop resources, and aid in the "Europeanization" of the African continent. Mussolini argued this would rid Germany of its Jewish population while serving Italy's colonial and economic interests.

The second proposed treaty was economic in nature. Mussolini offered to act as an intermediary for German trade, allowing German goods to be exported to neutral countries through Italian-marked ships and ports. In return, Germany would pay a transit fee to the Italian state and would provide technical assistance to Italy, particularly in exploring and exploiting potential oil reserves in Libya.

Treaty Negotiations and Aftermath

Though initially skeptical, Hitler came to see the pragmatic value of Mussolini's proposals. On 6 September, detailed negotiations commenced between German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, Italian Foreign Minister Galeazzo Ciano, and Mussolini himself. After marathon sessions, the Italo-German Economic and Resettlement Cooperation Treaty was formally signed on 7 September 1939. The terms of the treaty were as follows:

1. Deportation of Jewish Populations: All Jews within the territories of the Greater German Reich—including Germany proper, Austria, the Sudetenland, Bohemia, and Moravia—would be deported to Italian North and East African colonies. This deportation policy would later extend to Jews residing in German-occupied Poland and future territories.


2. Inclusion of Mixed Families: Jews married to non-Jewish Germans, as well as their children, were to be deported alongside the Jewish population to ensure racial "purity" within the Reich.


3. Trade Through Italy: All German goods intended for export to non-Axis countries would be routed through Italy. Shipments would be rebranded under Italian flags and documentation. For each transaction, Germany agreed to pay the Italian government 20% of the gross export value.


4. Resource Cooperation: German engineers and geological experts would assist in the exploration and development of potential oil reserves in Libya. In return, Germany would receive a share of any oil discovered and access to co-developed extraction facilities.


5. Colonial Infrastructure Development: Jewish deportees were to be used as laborers in the construction of colonial infrastructure. Mussolini emphasized that this would accelerate the transformation of Africa into a "European frontier" suitable for mass Italian settlement.


Legacy and Historical Debate

The signing of the treaty marked a turning point in Mussolini's leadership during the early stages of World War II. While still nominally aligned with Germany, Italy had effectively carved out an independent geopolitical position. Mussolini's ability to secure economic reintegration with Western powers while simultaneously placating Hitler was hailed by some contemporary Italian newspapers as a masterstroke of diplomacy. However, critics—both then and now—have condemned the cynical exploitation of Jewish lives as bargaining chips in colonial ambitions.

Historians remain divided over Mussolini's motivations. Some argue that the entire maneuver was a desperate ploy by a man who saw the writing on the wall and sought to avoid Italy's entanglement in another disastrous continental war. Others suggest Mussolini's actions were driven by a modernist vision of empire-building, one where ideology served strategic and economic imperatives.

Regardless of interpretation, the events of early September 1939 reshaped Italy's wartime trajectory. Mussolini would not officially declare war until much later—and under very different circumstances—placing Italy in a uniquely important position during the initial phase of the global conflict. His gamble would have far-reaching consequences, not only for Italy and its empire but for the millions of people whose lives were caught in the machinations of his geopolitical realignment.

 

[Alenco98]

September 8th, 1939
Rome, Italy
Palazzo Venezia

It's been eight days since I woke up in Mussolini's body. Eight days since I increasingly suspect I died in Rwanda—flipped off the edge of a truck while in the Peace Corps on the way to Kigali and woke up in this fascist meat puppet, wearing a uniform that smells like leather and old cigars. Every morning I expect to open my eyes and see the peeling ceiling of a hospital in Kigali. Or hell, even purgatory. But no—I'm still here. Still Il Duce.

Still stuck in a fever dream where Europe is on the edge of war, my best friend is now a dictator with a toothbrush mustache, and no one's playing Tatsuro Yamashita on the radio.

I miss Sofie. I miss New York. I miss menthols.

Today, I sat in my private office after coming back from Berlin—if "private office" means a marble-floored ego shrine with windows big enough to see the decline of Western civilization out the front. I lit a cigarette. Not a menthol, of course, just one of the local Italian death sticks. After three days with Hitler, even an unfiltered clove would've been a relief.

Across from me sat Mr. William Phillips, the American ambassador to Italy. Luckily, he was also a smoker, and gladly took a ciggie when I offered him one. Small mercies.

We'd just finished an absurdly rich dinner—gnocchi soup, spaghetti with Bolognese, enough breadsticks to carpet the Appian Way, all drowned in wine from my personal cellar. We'd mostly traded polite talk: families, world affairs, the general awkwardness of pretending to be normal in an increasingly insane timeline. The real business started now.

"Mr. Phillips," I said, exhaling a steady stream of smoke, "it's been a pleasure having you tonight. But given the state of the world, thanks to my northern neighbor's… let's call them 'ambitions,' I believe it's time we got down to business."

Phillips tapped his ash into the tray. "And what would that be, Mr. Mussolini?"

"The issue of the Jews," I said plainly.

That got a reaction. He looked at me like I'd just suggested we annex Kansas. "Do explain what you mean by 'the issue of the Jews,' Mr. Mussolini."

"Their resettlement," I said, like it was a matter of moving office furniture. "I met with the German Chancellor a few days ago. We reached an agreement."

"And what sort of agreement is this?" he asked, voice cool.

"He's agreed to expel all Jews from Germany and the territories he currently occupies—or plans to. They'll be resettled in our African colonies. We've signed a treaty to that effect."

He blinked. Yeah, I'd only signed it three days ago. To be fair, I was still trying to figure out if this was some elaborate coma hallucination.

"And how does this affect us?" he asked cautiously.

"I've heard there's growing sympathy in the U.S. for the idea of a Jewish homeland. An opinion I share, incidentally." I paused. "Not because I'm a saint. I just want to avoid a Holocaust and make Italy look like the good guy. And—" I almost added and I want to wake up but bit my tongue. "I was hoping you could connect me with any American groups that support this—charities, lobbyists, lawmakers, anyone who writes big checks. Resettling millions of people isn't cheap. Italy would welcome outside assistance."

Phillips nodded slowly. "I'll have to pass this up the chain. The Secretary of State. Maybe even the President."

Good. Maybe we could score some dollars and look like human beings in the process. A two-for-one deal.

"I hope they're as receptive to the idea of a Jewish homeland as I am," I added.

"But I'm surprised, Mr. Mussolini," Phillips said, his tone now openly skeptical. "Didn't you just pass racial laws targeting Jews? Why the change of heart?"

"Those laws?" I shrugged. "Politics. I needed Germany, now I don't. That's all."

"And do you even support the creation of a Jewish state?"

"They'll be useful for my goals in the Middle East."

He narrowed his eyes. "What goals?"

I gave him a practiced smile and took another drag from the cigarette. "That, my friend, is a secret."

If this really is hell, at least the wine's decent. And the breadsticks are endless.

------------

September 14th, 1939
Italian-German Border
Val di Vizze, South Tyrol

Mattias Berg had always hated rainy days, and today was no different. The storm clouds had rolled in before dawn and now hung low over the mountain pass, casting a somber gray light over the alpine slopes of South Tyrol. Rain fell in a steady sheet, tapping on the roof of his wooden watch post, soaking everything in sight. Despite being indoors, his uniform was already damp at the cuffs and collar—moisture had a way of creeping into every corner, no matter how tightly the windows were shut. Lighting a cigarette in this kind of weather was a near-impossible task, with the wind howling like a wounded animal through the pines and the relentless drizzle rendering his matches useless more often than not.

Still, he comforted himself with the same thought that always surfaced when things got uncomfortable: At least I'm not in Ethiopia.

It was a mantra he repeated often—sometimes aloud, but mostly to himself. The stories he'd heard from veterans who had served in the Abyssinian campaign were enough to give any sane man nightmares. Brutal heat, guerrilla ambushes, tropical diseases—every Italian soldier who returned home from that hellhole came back changed. His father, a senior official in the local branch of the Fascist Party, had worked his contacts to ensure Mattias was posted closer to home when his mandatory military service began a few months earlier. Thanks to those connections, he'd ended up serving as a border guard right here in his hometown.

It was, by all accounts, a plum assignment. Instead of the spartan confines of a barracks, Mattias could sleep in his childhood bedroom, eat his mother's cooking, and even sneak away to see Sofia when the opportunity arose. Of course, this privilege had initially drawn the envy of his comrades, but Mattias had quickly won them over. He had an easy charm and a generous spirit, often directing his unit to the best restaurants in town or smuggling in the occasional bottle of wine—a favor he could usually secure from a friendly neighbor or through his parents' quiet indulgence.

He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic, fishing around for a cigarette, only to find it empty.

"Damn it," he muttered, rolling his eyes at the soggy sky as if the rain had conspired to ruin his day even further.

Peering through the small window of the watch post, he glanced across the wet, muddy road to the neighboring outpost. A thin column of smoke curling upward told him what he needed to know.

Giustino must still have some left.

Mattias shrugged into his greatcoat and stepped out into the downpour, ducking his head against the wind as he trotted over to the adjacent post. Raindrops trickled down his neck despite the high collar, but he ignored the discomfort. The craving for a cigarette overpowered everything else.

"Mattias, what the hell are you doing?" came the familiar voice of his closest friend and fellow guard, Giustino Romano.

Giustino had been transferred to Val di Vizze only a few weeks prior, but the two had bonded almost immediately. Originally from Sicily, Giustino brought with him a boisterous charm, an irreverent sense of humor, and an incorrigible tendency to flirt with every woman under the age of forty. His accent was thick, his laughter infectious, and his wit razor-sharp. Within days, he had become Mattias's most trusted companion on the border.

"I'm out of cigarettes," Mattias said without preamble.

"Already?" Giustino raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Didn't I give you half a pack yesterday?"

"I was out with Sofia last night. We used them up."

Giustino scoffed, shaking his head. "How the hell did a guy like you ever get engaged to someone like her?"

Mattias grinned and shrugged, feigning innocence. "I have my ways."

"Yeah. And your family's got connections, you lucky bastard."

"Go to hell. If you're that desperate, I can introduce you to a few girls when we're on leave."

"Please," Giustino said, rolling his eyes. "As if I need your help."

Still, he dug into his pocket and handed over a cigarette. "Come in before you drown."

Mattias stepped inside the cramped post and took the cigarette gratefully. Giustino struck a match and held it up, shielding the flame with his palm. Mattias leaned forward, lit the cigarette, and took a long drag. The first breath of smoke calmed his nerves immediately.

But just as he exhaled, a faint noise cut through the rain.

"What's that?" he asked, pausing.

"What's what?" Giustino looked puzzled.

"You don't hear it? Something's coming toward us."

Giustino fell silent and tilted his head. A few seconds passed before his eyes narrowed. "Wait… yeah, I hear it too."

It was subtle at first—just the distant rumble of an engine—but it was growing louder. Mattias stepped outside and squinted into the mist. The sound resolved into the unmistakable growl of military trucks.

Of all fucking times, he thought with a sigh. He tossed the cigarette and stamped it out. "This better be serious. I'm going back to my post. Thanks for the smoke."

"No problem."

Mattias hurried back across the road, shielding his face from the wind. He climbed into his post, reached for his rifle, and took his place at the observation slit. The first truck emerged from the mist, then another, and another. Soon, a dozen military vehicles had lined up just short of the border.

"Giustino!" Mattias shouted across the road, alarm creeping into his voice.

Giustino met his gaze and gave a curt nod, his own instincts kicking in. He disappeared into his post, presumably to ready the alarm.

The lead truck came to a halt, and a man stepped out. He was dressed in the stark black uniform of the SS, tall and pale beneath a leather officer's cap. His expression was unreadable.

Mattias stepped out, rifle slung across his shoulder, and approached the border line.

"State your name and intentions," he said in slow but steady German.

The officer clicked his heels together with a practiced formality. "SS-Sturmbannführer Ottofried Hansen."

"And the purpose of this convoy?"

"We're delivering cargo," Ottofried replied coolly. "As agreed between the Führer and your Duce."

"Cargo?" Mattias frowned. "What kind of cargo?"

Ottofried turned and snapped his fingers. "Bring them out!" he barked.

More soldiers disembarked from the trucks, rifles at the ready. Mattias felt his grip tighten on his weapon. The tension was palpable. He was on the verge of signaling a full alert when he saw them.

Civilians.

One by one, then in groups, they began to emerge. Men. Women. Children. Hundreds of them. Civilians, soaked, pale with fear. They stumbled from the trucks like ghosts from a waking nightmare and assembled quietly at the border under the watchful gaze of SS rifles.

"What the hell is this?" Mattias whispered.

Ottofried turned to him with a faint smile. "The cargo."

Mattias stared in disbelief. He looked across the road at Giustino, who was now more confused than alarmed.

"This is way above my pay grade," Mattias muttered. "I need to call my superiors."

And as he turned back toward the post, the rain continued to fall—steady, unrelenting—masking the quiet sobs of the displaced, and the ominous silence of a storm yet to come.

 

[Alenco98]

September 14th, 1939
Rome, Italy
Palazzo Venezia

It's been two weeks. Two weeks since I think I probably died in Rwanda and woke up in the bloated, goose-stepping corpse of Benito Mussolini. It's the only logical explanation and it terrified me.

I keep thinking I'll wake up. Any day now. Any moment. Maybe if I close my eyes hard enough, or scream into a pillow made of fascist decrees. But no—every morning, I still wake up in this echoing marble mausoleum with Il Duce's face and a lingering taste of espresso and dread.

I miss home. I miss Sofie. I miss my friends, my family, my vinyl copy of Silent Moon. I'm starting to forget what my mother's voice sounded like, but I can still hear Yurie Kokubu in my head. That's either comforting or a sign that I'm losing my mind. Probably both.

Anyway, today started weirdly normal. For the last few days, I'd been hashing out a Jewish resettlement plan with the Grand Council of Fascism—an actual sentence I never thought I'd write. Through the U.S. ambassador, I got in touch with the Jewish Agency for Palestine. From there, I went down a bureaucratic rabbit hole lined with Zionist organizations: the ZOA, Hadassah, the whole alphabet soup.

I gave them my pitch—support for a Jewish state in all of British Palestine, military alliance, full recognition. Tossed in a bonus: I'd resettle European Jews in Africa to get them out of Germany's reach. That part made them perk up. I asked for a blank check, and to my horror, they agreed.

Financial crisis solved. Moral crisis... still buffering.

The Council wasn't thrilled. Poland alone has three million Jews, and they rightly panicked. But once I dangled the prospect of foreign billions and millions of future party recruits—"brownshirts, but Hebrew!"—they started warming up to the idea. It's amazing what a little money and the promise of an empire can do to a bunch of sycophants.

Just as I was finishing a telegram to thank Hadassah for their pledge, a knock broke the silence.

"Enter," I said, trying not to sound like a haunted corpse wearing a fascist's skin.

A maid came in, her voice clipped and urgent. "Duce, the Chief of Staff wishes to see you. He says there's a situation at the German border."

And there goes my good mood.

A few minutes later, General Pariani strolled in, looking like a man who'd just seen a ghost—and realized the ghost was also his boss.

"What's the situation?" I asked.

"The Germans have dropped off the first batch of refugees. On the border."

That was fast. I figured they'd at least wait until Warsaw was a smoking crater, but apparently Hitler's on a deadline.

"Fine," I nodded. "Implement the resettlement plan. Contact the Navy. We'll send them to Libya and Ethiopia. Also, get Propaganda involved—we need ideological onboarding. Might as well turn this into a welcome party with fascist pamphlets and questionable slogans."

He saluted and left.

I rifled through my desk, pulled out a stack of scribbles, and smiled grimly. I had started adapting The Wave for fascist consumption—"Strength Through Discipline" was scribbled at the top in ominous caps. Thanks, high school English class. Your dystopian fiction homework is now actual policy.

I picked up the clunky black telephone—something that looked like it belonged in a noir film where everyone dies—and dialed the Ministry of Propaganda.

"Who is this?"

"Evening, Alfieri. It's me. Don't panic."

"Duce? What can I do for you?"

"You remember those slogans I sent you—the Strength Through Discipline campaign?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Deploy them. Send them to our party activists. Get people up north—Jews are arriving, and I want them indoctrinated before they even unpack their bags. Paint a fasces over their minds before the trauma sets in."

I ended the call before my guilt could say anything clever.

Leaning back in my chair, I sifted through my daily batch of letters. Most were the usual: praise, requests, propaganda, and one vaguely amusing death threat involving a duck and a knife. But one stood out—Hebrew characters on the envelope.

It was from a group called the Irgun. Apparently, my repeal of the racial laws and willingness to help resettle Jews had impressed them. They thanked me. Me. The actual devil in Europe, now apparently being wooed by Jewish guerrillas in British Palestine.

The letter was signed by Avraham Stern.

I stared at his name, then chuckled darkly. Why the hell not? I could write back. Maybe even cut a deal. Set up a local fascist party in future Israel. Screw the British while pretending it's all humanitarian.

If I'm going to go insane, might as well take some empire-builders with me.

------

Excerpt from the Wikipedia Page of the Falag (Falangist) party of Israel.

The roots of the Falag party can be traced to September 1939. At the beginning of the war, Mussolini in a surprising decision repealed the racial laws he had only recently implemented a few years ago.

Subsequently, Mussolini expressed his intentions to allow European Jews to resettle Italian Libya and Italian east Africa. He proceeded to meet with Hitler less than 2 weeks after the start of the war and subsequently Germany agreed to expel all its Jews to Italy.

Within the first 6 months of the war, over half a million Jews began to pour into Italy, being placed into Internment camps where they were 'politically reeducated' by fascist part members, then subsequently granted Italian citizenship and sent off to the colonies.

At the same time in September 1939, Avraham Stern, a member of the Irgun high command began a correspondence with Mussolini.

 

[Alenco98]

September 21st, 1939
Rome
Palazzo Venezia

In front of me sat one of Yugoslavia's most wanted men: Ante Pavelić. A slippery little bastard with a face that looked like it had been sculpted by someone who hated him. I found it oddly convenient that over the last three weeks—since I woke up in Mussolini's body the day WWII kicked off—memories had been leaking into my head like a faucet left half open. Just a slow, maddening drip of Il Duce's thoughts and feelings. Helpful, sure—but mostly unwelcome. Like getting pop-up ads in your brain.

From what I'd gathered, Pavelić was the guy who orchestrated the assassination of the Yugoslav king. Lucky for both of us, I had just the right excuse to invade Yugoslavia—not out of any deep belief in Italian nationalism, but because I needed a win. A big, bloody, headline-grabbing win to throw at the Fascist Grand Council before they started asking too many questions… like why Il Duce had started humming Tatsuro Yamashita in the dead of night and occasionally mumbled in English about Taco Bell and Reddit.

The memories didn't stop at facts either. I was starting to feel things that weren't mine. Like when I negotiated with the Allies for sanctions relief and tried cutting a deal with Hitler to evacuate the Jews—there was this alien mix of revulsion and betrayal bubbling inside me, as if Mussolini was still somewhere deep down, shaking his head in fascist disappointment. If he was still in here, he could kiss my very American ass. Teaming up with that failed Austrian painter was mistake number one.

I pushed all that down as Pavelić sat before me.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, his accent slicing through the air like a butter knife on drywall.

"I did." I nodded, calmly. "I believe the liberation of your homeland is at hand. But it won't come for free."

He tilted his head, trying not to look confused, but he had the face of a dog hearing jazz for the first time. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

I bit back the urge to laugh. His Italian was atrocious—technically correct, but the tone was like a karaoke version of political diplomacy.

"Well, France and England are a bit busy with Germany at the moment. I believe this gives us just enough breathing room to make a move into Yugoslavia without triggering another world war—at least not yet. Isn't that what you want? A homeland for Croatians?"

He gave me a cautious nod.

"Good. A man after my own heart. Now, let's discuss terms. I'll need some… compensation. A few coastal regions, for instance."

His posture stiffened. "Compensation?"

"Nothing in life is free, Mr. Pavelić," I said, pulling out a pre-war map of Yugoslavia—back when it still looked like a jigsaw puzzle from hell. I circled Split and Dubrovnik. "These territories. And a personal union with Italy, like we have with Albania. Oh—and financial compensation, of course. Consider it an investment in freedom. Italian companies and businesses will set up shop in Croatia, we'll help your country develop, build infrastructure, and create jobs."

He slammed a hand on my desk. "These terms are outrageous!"

"What's outrageous," I said, letting my voice drop to a calculated chill, "is your tone." Something stirred inside me—some twisted sense of approval, like Mussolini himself was clapping from the cheap seats. "Should I have you deported to Yugoslavia? I'm sure they'd love to meet the man who killed their king. Think your family would enjoy the attention?"

He froze. I leaned forward, smiling.

"Now then, I'm not an unreasonable man. These are just opening terms. I'm willing to negotiate—so long as you stop acting like a petulant child. Shall we begin?"


---

He stomped out an hour later, tail between his legs. That went better than expected. Pavelić would get his little Croatian puppet state, with a shiny title and all the pretense of sovereignty. But it would be under personal union with Italy—meaning Croatia would be my obedient little lapdog, and I'd carve off a nice hunk of its coast for my trouble.

To his credit, I did offer him all of Bosnia. According to an old 1918 map, at least. I even got him to tone down the genocidal mania. He was still a psychotic racist, but at least he agreed not to kill every Serb. Progress?

Now came the real problem: I couldn't do this alone. Italy's army had trouble with Ethiopia, and they fought with spears. Yugoslavia would be a bloodbath unless I brought in Hungary and Bulgaria. So I grabbed a map and started doodling like a mad general with ADHD, color-coding ethnic groups like it was a Cold War board game.

Then I picked up the phone.

"Guidi? It's me."

"Yes, Duce?"

"I just struck a deal with Pavelić. I suspect he'll try to backstab us eventually. Monitor the Ustaše. Find anyone ambitious, anyone who hates him. If betrayal's even a whisper on the wind, you know what to do."

"Understood, Duce."

Click. No rest for fascist body-snatchers.

Another call.

"Ciano speaking."

"It's me."

"Duce!" he sang, chipper as ever. "What can I do for you?"

"Set up a meeting with the Bulgarian king and the Hungarian regent."

"May I ask why?"

"It's time we solved the Yugoslavian question. We can't let Hitler be the only one carving up Europe, can we?"

Click.

I sat back and rubbed my temples. The sun filtered in through the windows of the Palazzo like a stage light. For a moment, I imagined I was back in Rwanda, sitting in a tin-roofed shack, chalk dust on my fingers, and Freddy Mercury's There must be more to life than this playing from my phone speaker as I watched the kids laugh.

Now I was here.

In a dead man's suit, standing on a continent on fire, about to redraw borders like it was all a joke.

The scariest part?

It was starting to feel good.

I could do anything. Say anything. Be anyone. Who was going to stop me?

And yet…

I'd give anything just to hear Sofie's voice again.

Please.

Just let me wake up.

 

[Alenco98]

October 1st, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I set the newspaper down on my lap, disgusted—not just with France and Britain, but with reality itself. Hindsight's always 20/20, sure, but watching them sit on their hands while Poland was vivisected made me feel like I was stuck in some twisted historical reenactment directed by a drunk chimp.

A week into the war, I had a brief episode—heart racing, pacing around my office like Patrick Bateman on an espresso bender—when France actually invaded Germany. I thought maybe, just maybe, the timeline was already slipping. But no. They advanced a few kilometers, tripped over their own cowardice, and retreated like wet kittens. No wonder they're called cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

But that's not the problem right now. Poland's fate was sealed—Soviets would be their new landlords soon enough. My current issue was less about geopolitics and more about maintaining my increasingly fragile grip on reality.

In front of me, a once-glorious spread of Italian cuisine had been thoroughly destroyed. Two guests flanked me at the table, feasting like it was their last supper—though, if things went south, it just might be.

To my right sat Admiral Miklós Horthy. Admiral. From landlocked Hungary. It's like being the King of the Air in a coal mine. Still, I liked the guy. He had this weathered warmth, like the village elder from my Peace Corps days in Rwanda—stern but kind, full of dusty wisdom and tragic optimism.

To my left was Tsar Boris III of Bulgaria. Dignified, aloof, and fussy about alcohol like a disappointed bartender. He reminded me of a friend's dad who collected vinyl records and hated everything after 1988.

At least they both spoke French. One less mask for me to wear.

"Gentlemen," I said, lacing my fingers together with the fake confidence of a high schooler giving a book report on a book he never read. "I trust you enjoyed this succulent Italian meal?"

"It was delicious," Horthy said. "Please extend my compliments to the chef."

"Likewise," Boris muttered. "Though I do wish the alcohol had a bit more... spirit."

You'd think a man who lost a war would lose the attitude too. "We can get drunk later," I said through a forced smile. "Right now, we need to discuss something a little more... appetizing."

"Yugoslavia," Boris said, already ahead of me. "Ciano mentioned it to my ambassador."

"Exactly." I leaned in. "With Germany tangled up with Britain and France, Yugoslavia's naked. Exposed. It can't hide behind Anglo-French skirts anymore. And if I'm not mistaken... you both have claims there, don't you?"

That got their attention.

"Yugoslavia isn't our only interest," Horthy said.

"Ah yes—Romania too, correct?"

"Precisely."

I turned to Boris. "And Bulgaria's got its eyes on Macedonia and southern Romania, yes?"

He gave me a cold nod, the way cats blink when they're plotting something.

"I acknowledge all your claims," I said, grinning. "But one country at a time, gentlemen. It's time we carve up the Balkans like a Christmas ham."

I clapped twice. Servants swooped in, clearing the remnants of our meal. Then came the maps. Lines, colors, borders that meant nothing to me anymore—not in the same way. They were just shapes to be rewritten

---

October 2nd, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

Dawn crawled through the windows like an unwelcome guest. My staffer stumbled in with the alliance treaty and a mountain of paperwork detailing the night's drunken diplomacy. There had been shouting, threats, and me giving away more of Romania than I'd planned, just to soothe their egos.

Hungary got northern Serbia and Transylvania. Bulgaria snagged Macedonia and everything south of the Danube. I, of course, took the rest—including the illusion of control.

There were, predictably, some scraps of Hungarian and Bulgarian land inside future Italian vassals. I promised they'd be treated well. Smiles were exchanged. Lies were swallowed like communion wafers.

"Now then," I said, lifting a pen like a sword. "Shall we sign this alliance?"

"Gladly," Boris replied, his voice brittle with ambition.

We signed. The public alliance would shock Europe—especially Yugoslavia. But the real deal—the secret treaty slicing up the Balkans like a pizza—was hidden for now. I signed that one too, the ink still wet with my own disbelief.

"When do we begin?" Horthy asked.

"Next summer. Too soon and the Brits might pull their heads out of the sand. Better to wait until the fire in Europe burns hotter. Then we strike."

"Won't Yugoslavia mobilize?" Boris raised an eyebrow.

I smiled. "We've already got Croatian nationalists stirring the pot. By the time we march in, their army will be too busy pointing guns at each other to resist."

I snapped my fingers. Another servant arrived with wine—red as the things I was starting to dream about. She poured three glasses.

"A toast," I said, raising mine. "To our victory."

"To our victory," they echoed.

We drank. The wine tasted like rust and memory.

Later, Alone

I sat back in my chair, the shadows lengthening across the marble floor.

It's been a month. A month since I died in Rwanda, having fell off that stupid Toyota then woke up in the skin of a man I was taught was Hitler's bumbling sidekick. I still look in the mirror and expect to see myself—skin darker, eyes kinder, hair softer, longer and existing instead of this bald ass head. But instead, I see this… face. This mask. This joke of a god.

Sometimes, I hear Sofie's voice in my head—laughing, whispering little things. Sometimes it's I love you by Yurie Kokubu playing from nowhere, or Africa by Toto bouncing off the walls. Sometimes I cry. Most of the time, I don't.

They all think I'm Il Duce. And maybe I am now. But there's a gnawing voice whispering I'm just a scared fraud playing dress-up with history.

Still... I could do anything. I could rewrite the world. I could be Caesar. Or Homelander. Or something worse.

And no one can stop me.

Except maybe me.

God, I hope I wake up soon.

But what if I don't?

I wanna go home.

 

[Alenco98]

October 14th, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

Another day, another meeting with the Supreme Council of Fascism. The war in Europe had cooled to a slow boil—sporadic bombing runs, some naval scuffles, but no grand invasions. It was like everyone showed up to a heavyweight bout and decided to shadowbox instead.

Today's agenda: the economy. Alberto De' Stefani, my former finance minister, was currently lecturing the council like we were a classroom of particularly dim schoolchildren. He was pushing the same neoliberal reforms I'd reluctantly greenlit a month ago—tax cuts, deregulation, privatization, the whole Milton Friedman starter pack. It was basically neoliberal shock therapy with a Roman accent. And yeah, it sucked. But what choice did I have?

What these people didn't understand was that the only thing keeping the average Italian from starving or looting bakeries like extras in a Mel Gibson film was my government's social programs. If I yanked that safety net too fast, I'd be dealing with mobs of angry, unemployed civilians—and the army's bullets don't grow on olive trees.

Still, I nodded at Stefani's little tirade and rose to speak. "Thank you, Mr. Stefani. As he's made clear, some of our economic policies haven't aged like fine wine. That said, while reform is necessary, we're not about to yank the tablecloth out from under the entire working class just to impress some gold-standard ghosts." I paused. "We'll begin by privatizing unprofitable industries—except the ones supplying the military. And yes, we'll start lifting price controls, and the Lira will start to float. Slowly. Gently. Like a corpse in the Tiber."

That got a few nervous chuckles. Tough room.

Then Ciano, bless his annoying little mustache, piped up: "Didn't you say we'd stay neutral when Germany invaded Poland?"

"I did," I said with a grin that probably didn't help. "But neutrality is just another position on the chessboard, and I play to win. If Germany starts losing, we may need to jump in and... pick up the pieces. Likewise, if Britain's on the ropes—well, vultures have to eat."

The room went quiet. I could feel the suspicion creeping in. They were right to be wary. I was different. Not that they knew the half of it.

An hour later, I slumped onto the couch in my private office like someone had pulled the plug on my soul. The vote passed—barely. A few reforms were now in motion. I had a moment to myself. Until she walked in.

"Ben," Clara said softly, shutting the door behind her. Her voice always sounded like a Sunday morning.

She sat beside me, and we kissed. It was nice. Real. For a second, I wasn't Il Duce. I was just me—some Peace Corps burnout from America who listened to way too much city pop and died in a freak accident in Rwanda, only to wake up in the skin of a fascist dictator on the eve of World War II.

But she pulled away.

"Ben, something's wrong with you," she said, eyes searching mine. "You're colder. You talk differently. Even the way you move—it's like someone else is... driving."

And just like that, the warm moment snapped. My instincts flared—paranoia, fear, rage. The mask of Mussolini tightened around me. A darker voice whispered from somewhere deeper: Kill her. She knows. I ignored it for now.

"I'm fine," I lied, brushing her cheek. "And I love you."

She didn't buy it. "Don't deflect. Even the servants say you've changed."

I sighed. "Clara, I am me. Always have been. And unless you want to find yourself out on the street, I suggest you stop talking like I'm some sort of impostor. There's always someone younger, more obedient."

She ran out in tears. I didn't stop her.

I should have felt guilt. Instead, I felt... relief. One less person to lie to. One less crack in the armor.

Later that evening, I met with the Greek ambassador, Petros Metaxas. Possibly related to Ioannis Metaxas—hard to say, and I wasn't about to ask. Thankfully, the man spoke French, which helped me avoid butchering Greek in front of him.

"Did you enjoy the meal, Mr. Metaxas?" I asked.

"It was delicious," he said, smiling. "Though I do miss the flavors of home."

"Oh, I love Greek food," I replied earnestly. "Souvlaki, Moussaka…I'd kill for one right now."

Metaxas blinked. "You enjoy Greek cuisine?"

"I do," I said, grinning. "In fact, if you don't have your embassy chef cook for me sometime, I may have to declare war on Greece." I laughed. "Kidding. Mostly. Poor taste, I know."

His smile became diplomatic.

"I'm serious about improving relations," I continued. "I want Greece in the Rome Pact. An alliance. Not coercion. Cooperation. I'd even like to meet Prime Minister Metaxas in person—arrange a state visit, perhaps."

His eyes widened. Italy had been bullying Greece for years under Mussolini 1.0. But I wasn't him. I was the ultimate Byzantiboo. Countless hours of EU4, Wikipedia binges on obscure emperors—Justinian, Andronikos, even that magnificent bastard Basil II. I had plans for the Balkans, and they didn't involve carpet bombing Athens. At least not yet.

He seemed almost relieved. "Yes. I can arrange something. Give me a few days to send the necessary telegrams."

"Perfect." I smiled again. A little too wide, probably.

When the door shut behind the ambassador, I stared at my reflection in the office mirror. My face. His face. The polished marble monster.

It's been over a month since I woke up in this nightmare. I keep hoping I'll snap out of it—that I'll wake up back in Rwanda, back with Sofie, back to my real life. But every morning, it's the same: fascist architecture, power suits, dead-eyed yes-men. The power's starting to feel normal. Worse—it feels good. Like I could fly through the ceiling, Homelander-style, vaporize anyone who looks at me wrong.

But I'm scared. Scared the Grand Council will see through me. Scared of what I'm becoming.

I miss my family. My friends. Sofie's laugh. The hiss of a soda can on a hot day. Yuki Saito's Yours on loop while reading a book. I miss being small.

Now I'm a god in a crumbling empire. And gods? Gods don't get to cry.

---

In the middle of the night.
[Dreamscape – Night in Rome, the Peace Corps shack in Rwanda]

The tin roof creaks under a breeze that's not there. The lantern flickers. The mattress is as hard as it was when I was me and not a poor fascist cosplayer. Mosquitoes hum like ghosts of forgotten sins. I opens my eyes. I get up from bed. I see him, part of me is not surprised. I knew I'd see him eventually, his emotions, his memories, all within me.

Benito Mussolini sits at the corner table, rolling a cigarette with trembling fingers, eyes narrowed like he's been waiting all night.

"You," the Duce says.

"No shit," I mutter, sitting up, voice dry as dust. "Looks like we finally meet."

Mussolini scowls. "A lovesick ghost from the future. A volunteer, disgraceful."

"So, you have access to my memories? Then again I got yours, fair trade." I laugh bitterly, standing. "You think this I wanted this? To be you? I just wanna go home."

Mussolini lights the cigarette. He doesn't inhale. He knows what's coming.

"You should be on your knees thanking me," I hiss, stepping close. "I saved your sorry ass. I pulled you out of that ditch of a war and gave you a goddamn lifeline."

"I did not ask for your interference," Mussolini snaps.

"You're welcome," I sneer. "Because without me, Italy loses the war. You probably die. Your whore Clara too maybe. That's your future. Your legacy? A grotesque postscript."

Mussolini rises, fury in his jaw. "You lie."

"Oh no, you have my memories. School, Wikipedia. Glorious end for a country led by a man who wanted to be Caesar."

"You think you're Caesar now?"

"I think," I lean in, "I'm God here."

Silence. Only the buzzing of a single mosquito daring to fly between them. I focus.

"You're in my dream now. You live because I let you. You breathe because I'm merciful. You exist because I haven't erased you like a bad draft. Don't mistake my emotions for weakness, Benito."

Mussolini's lip curls. "You're nothing but a coward. A parasite gnawing on the spine of greater men."

I laugh. Cold. Hollow. "Cowards don't rewrite history. Parasites don't win. You? You're old news, I'm the upgrade. I am taking your shitty empire and reforging it into something that doesn't make me want to eat a bullet. You're my puppet, Duce."

The Duce steps back. Eyes flicker. Fear. Confusion. Rage. The ash from his cigarette trembles.

I press forward. "You think you're still in control? You can't do anything here. You don't even have pants on."

Mussolini glances down. He doesn't. I win

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," I spit. "Fascist titan turned naked nightmare clown."

"I will—"

"You'll what? Rant? Bitch at me? Write a manifesto in your own feces?" my voice is venom. "This is my world now you fucking bitch. You're my ghost. My curse. My sick punchline."

Mussolini lunges—but I smile, the room shifts. Warps. The shack becomes ropes. The hills of Rwanda become the background and the ropes tie around Il Duce.

I don't flinch. I just smile.

"I own you."

Something in me breaks. I start laughing. Ugly, broken laughter that sounds like a coffin being dragged through gravel.

I snap my fingers.

Mussolini vanishes.

I am alone alone.

Still laughing.

Tears start. I don't stop.

The dream holds me like a padded cell.

I put on Bruce Springsteen, dancing in the dark.

I dance, because that's all I can do.

 

[Alenco98]

November 1, 1939
Athens
Greece

I felt oddly hollow as I stepped off the Regia Marina vessel into Athens. From a distance, the city had looked like a postcard—sunlight gilding the ancient ruins, the sea sparkling like it held secrets. Up close, though? It felt like I'd paid for a five-star resort and ended up in a dusty museum gift shop.

I could've flown in, but the mere idea of trusting 1930s aviation made me clench. I might be Mussolini now, but I still remembered every gruesome crash report I'd ever read. No thank you.

A small crowd and a Royal Guard contingent awaited me. No cheers. No banners. Just tight lips and curious eyes. Fair. Italy had spent the last few decades acting like the Mediterranean's drunken uncle—territorial, belligerent, and historically illiterate. Greece remembered.

I gave a nonchalant wave and slipped into the armored car like a hungover rockstar avoiding paparazzi. Destination: Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas' private residence in Kolonaki.

As the car wound through the city, I thought of the first time I met Mussolini—in a dream, if you want to call it that. More like a psychic bar brawl. He'd tried to throttle me. I'd tied him up using my mind then dropped him with a nut shot and a neck jab. Old habits.

Once he stopped screaming, we had tea. I told him everything: World War II, the Holocaust, the Cold War, nukes, Reaganomics, the Japanese bubble economy. He called me insane. Then I quoted his own future speeches back to him and mentioned where he kept his love letters to Claretta. That shut him up.

Now, every night since that dream, I've met him again—inside my head. It's like Fight Club meets Ghost of Christmas Fascists Past. I ask him for advice sometimes. Lately, though, I've started ignoring him.

He's a Romaboo. I'm a Byzantiboo. It was bound to end in ideological bloodshed.

But I'm the one wearing the sash now. I have the uniform. The power. The secret police.

God help me.

No, seriously—God help me. I'm losing it.

I miss Sofie. I miss home. I miss real food, real people, sunlight that doesn't smell like gunpowder and boot polish. My hands tremble in the mornings. My thoughts buzz like an old VHS tape rewinding on loop. Sometimes I hear Tatsuro Yamashita in my head instead of Il Duce. That's when I know I'm really spiraling.

And yet... the power. It's starting to feel good. Not healthy good. Not Peace Corps good. I mean Homelander good. Like I could laser a man in half for sneezing in my direction and call it diplomacy. It scares me. But I keep smiling. I keep speaking in measured tones. I keep the mask on because if the Grand Council finds out I'm not him—not really—they'll kill me and make it a public holiday.

The car stopped. I stepped out into the warm Athens air and walked into the Prime Minister's home alone, leaving my guards outside like well-dressed gargoyles.

A table groaned under a spread of Greek dishes, opulent enough to shame Mount Olympus.

"Prime Minister," I said evenly, thankful we both spoke French. No translators. No lies.

"Please, sit," Metaxas offered.

I did, resisting the urge to faceplant into the spanakopita. I'd fasted for this. It was my one act of spiritual defiance in a life now dedicated to pretending to be a fascist demigod.

We ate. No words. Just chewing, like civilized wolves.

"That was divine," I murmured afterward, dabbing my mouth like a man pretending not to be starving.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Mussolini," he said, eyes narrowing. "But we're not here to talk food."

"Indeed." I nodded, slipping into character. "Your ambassador has likely briefed you. I'm extending a formal invitation for Greece to join the Rome Pact. Like Hungary. Like Bulgaria. I want a clean slate between us. I admit—it's mostly our fault."

Metaxas blinked. Did he hear me right? Apologies weren't in Mussolini's brand.

"To show sincerity," I continued, "Italy is open to returning the Dodecanese Islands. And even Northern Epirus is negotiable."

His jaw dropped. Inside my head, Il Duce was throwing a chair across the mental dining room.

"You're serious?" Metaxas asked.

"As a train schedule." I smiled. Then the smile faded. "But of course, nothing is free."

I laid it out calmly, like a man reading off a dinner bill:

Full Italian military access across Greece

Naval basing rights in Rhodes, Crete, and Naxos

Army bases near Thessaloniki and Athens

British advisors out, Italian advisors in

Your king replaced with a Savoy

Metaxas' face twisted. "You want to turn us into your puppet."

"Not a puppet. A partner. These are just opening terms." I held up my hands. "Let's sweeten the pot. Italy buys out your British debt, slashes the interest. And if you're interested... we can talk about Cyprus. Maybe even revising the Treaty of Lausanne. Maybe..." I leaned forward, voice dropping. "...even marching into Constantinople together."

His eyes widened.

"Tell me, Prime Minister... wouldn't you like to hear Mass in the Hagia Sophia again? To be remembered as the man who brought Byzantium back from the grave? Let's discuss it Further, this is just the start. I'm open to changing some terms. Call this the first round of negotiations."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Metaxas crossed his arms, his voice tight. "Fine." He scoffed, as if spitting out the last bite of something bitter.

I don't know what scared me more—his answer, or how good it felt to win.

The part of me that used to build schools and plant trees is screaming somewhere in the back of my head. I drowned it out with Yurie Kokubu on a loop.

"Watashi ni dake forever," baby. All the way down.

--------

An Excerpt from Nikolaos G. Michaloliakos' 2010 Novel: From the Ashes of Smyrna to Constantinople

In the tense months leading up to the full outbreak of World War II, the fate of Greece hung precariously in the balance. On April 13, 1939, Britain and France issued a public guarantee of Greece's and Romania's independence, a declaration intended to deter Axis ambitions in the Balkans. Yet behind this official assurance lay deep hesitations. The British government, in particular, remained reluctant to make any binding commitments to defend Greece. Their strategic calculus was influenced by several factors: the desire to keep Benito Mussolini's Italy neutral in the looming confrontation with Nazi Germany, the scarcity of military resources stretched thin by global obligations, and skepticism about Greece's strategic value. To London, a firm Greek alliance risked provoking Italy and stretching Britain's already limited military capacity.

Meanwhile, Mussolini's ambitions in the Mediterranean were growing ever more audacious. The Duce dreamed of resurrecting a new Roman Empire, and Greece, with its strategic position and historic legacy, was a prize to be courted. To this end, Mussolini extended diplomatic overtures to the government of Ioannis Metaxas, Greece's authoritarian prime minister and architect of the 4th of August Regime. These overtures began with discreet contact—an official meeting with the Greek ambassador in Rome—culminating in a personal state visit on November 1, 1939. In a rare moment of cordiality, Mussolini and Metaxas met face-to-face and shared a meal, their conversations heavy with the weight of Mediterranean geopolitics.

During this encounter, Mussolini laid out a sweeping proposal: Greece should join the burgeoning Rome Pact, a new alliance binding Italy, Hungary, Bulgaria, and soon others, in a mutual defense arrangement. From Mussolini's perspective, this pact would create a protective network against external threats, particularly from the increasingly unstable Balkan region, where Bulgaria's irredentist claims on Greek territory remained a persistent source of anxiety. For Greece, trapped between historic enemies and great powers, an alliance with Italy and its partners seemed at first glance a pragmatic shield.

Yet Mussolini's terms were anything but modest. Rome demanded sweeping concessions: military and naval bases on Greek soil, the immediate expulsion of British military advisors who had long been embedded in the Greek armed forces, and even the abdication of King George II in favor of a member of the House of Savoy, Italy's royal family. It was clear that Mussolini's vision was not partnership, but vassalage. Greece would be subsumed within Italy's Mediterranean dominion, its sovereignty severely compromised.

Still, Italy dangled tempting incentives. Rome promised the return of Greek-inhabited territories then under Italian control, notably the Dodecanese Islands and the contested region of Northern Epirus. Mussolini further pledged support for Greece's claims on Cyprus, then under British rule, and offered to push for a revision of the Treaty of Lausanne—signed in 1923 after Greece's catastrophic defeat in Anatolia—which had extinguished the hopes of the Megali Idea, the nationalist dream of a "Greater Greece."

Despite the treaty's apparent finality, the dream endured. Theodoros Pangalos's brief dictatorship in 1925-26 had been marked by attempts to revise Lausanne through military action against Turkey, and the trauma of millions of Anatolian refugees—displaced, dispossessed, and embittered—kept the nationalist flame alive. Metaxas himself was acutely aware of the symbolic and emotional weight behind these territorial claims.

The stakes for Metaxas could not have been higher. To reject Mussolini's offer risked unleashing political chaos within Greece. Rumors swirled that Italy might leak the details of the negotiations to the press, sparking public outrage over what would appear as a government willing to sacrifice territorial reunification for the sake of royal prerogative and British favor. Political unrest was already simmering; the specter of a coup was not idle speculation.

Yet Mussolini was surprisingly flexible. After a grueling week of negotiations marked by fierce debates and even shouting matches between Italian and Greek delegates, a compromise was reached. The Greco-Italian Treaty of Alliance was finalized, containing terms that sought to balance Italy's ambitions with Greece's nationalist aspirations:

The Dodecanese Islands would be transferred to Greece, though Italy retained the right to maintain a naval base on Rhodes indefinitely.

Northern Epirus would likewise be ceded to Greece, with Italy keeping a naval base in Himara and a military base near Argyrókastro indefinitely.

Both nations would engage in extensive military cooperation, including the deployment of Italian advisors to assist in modernizing the Greek armed forces.

Greece would immediately join the Rome Pact, committing to mutual defense alongside Italy, Hungary, and Bulgaria, and pledging to refrain from military action against any fellow pact members.

Italy would forgive one-third of Greece's outstanding debt to Rome and reduce the interest on the remainder, easing the economic burden on the Greek government.

The treaty, however, was met with fierce opposition within Greece's highest circles. King George II, a staunch Anglophile influenced heavily by British pressure, vehemently opposed the agreement. Yet the momentum for ratification was unstoppable. The prospect of Enosis—the unification of the Dodecanese and Northern Epirus with Greece—galvanized the fractious political factions. Even the Communist Party, officially banned and ruthlessly repressed under Metaxas's dictatorship, called on the prime minister to sign.

Tensions reached a boiling point on November 17, when rumors spread that Metaxas might reject the treaty outright. Radical officers within the Greek military, many loyal to Venizelist ideals, staged a dramatic occupation of the Hellenic Army Academy in protest. The country teetered on the brink of open rebellion. Only the personal intervention of former dictator Theodoros Pangalos, who assured the troops the treaty would be signed, defused the crisis. The event became known as the Academy Putsch, a stark reminder of how fragile Greece's political stability had become. And a sign of things to come, particularly in regards to Pangalos' sudden return to Greek political life.

The broader geopolitical context only reinforced the treaty's inevitability. As World War II raged on, Britain and France found themselves consumed by the struggle against Germany, willing to tolerate Italian expansionism so long as Italy remained neutral and did not side with the Nazis. For London and Paris, a Greece aligned with Italy—but not occupied by Germany—was a lesser evil, a buffer against Nazi influence in the Eastern Mediterranean.

Finally, on December 1, 1939, in the grand halls of the Palaiá Anáktora (Old Royal Palace) in Athens, Ioannis Metaxas formally signed the treaty of alliance with Italy. The ceremony was attended by prominent foreign dignitaries: Admiral Miklós Horthy of Hungary, Tsar Boris III of Bulgaria, and a visibly troubled King George II. To the public, it was a treaty uniting Italy, Greece, Hungary, and Bulgaria under a collective defense pact. Yet beneath the surface lay a secret protocol: a commitment to revise the Treaty of Lausanne by any means necessary—even military action—to restore Greek territorial claims.

Thus, Greece's path was set, caught between imperial ambitions, nationalist dreams, and the harsh realities of great-power politics. The fragile alliance with Italy, forged under duress and pragmatism, would shape the course of Greek history as the fires of war engulfed the continent.

 

[Alenco98]

December 3, 1939
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I sat down at my desk, feeling surprisingly... accomplished. One month in this nightmare vacation—filled with endless negotiating, eating like a damn pig, touring historic ruins, and nearly triggering a coup in Greece—and somehow, I'd pulled it off. Greece was now officially allied with me. One step closer to resurrecting Byzantium. I made a mental note to call the Pope and schedule a meeting with the Patriarch of Constantinople. Maybe if I played church diplomat well enough, those two ancient rivals would stop hating each other long enough for me to stage my little political coup and crowning of Victor Emmanuel as King of Greece.

Yeah, right. Dream on. Reuniting the churches overnight? That'd be the kind of miracle even Kaoru Akimoto couldn't sing about. Still, it was a start. Might as well try.

But then reality snapped back—time to get back to the grind. The Grand Council had done a decent job holding the fort while I was away. One lesson I'd picked up since becoming Duce was how to delegate, which was ironic because I'm stuck in this dictatorship body but dreaming about democracy. Early on, I made Guido the official Minister of the Interior. I never bought into the idea that dictatorship meant hoarding all power. That just screams paranoia, and honestly, I'd rather have a government that runs like a well-oiled machine than a palace full of sycophants. Besides, the people kinda liked me. That gave me some wiggle room.

And between you and me, I'm plotting a slow fade into democracy—maybe a decade after the war ends, when the cold war kicks into gear. I want to say it out loud: free elections. Nobody knows it yet. Shhh. Or maybe I could hold onto power for life. It was tempting.

But for now? Finland was bleeding under Soviet boots, and here I was, stuck in the middle of this mess like a ghost watching someone else's life. Soviet invasion? Never learned about that in school—American schools don't teach you about anything that's not Broadway or baseball.

So, I did what I do best: put on a good show. I had a speech ready, condemning Soviet aggression and offering to host peace talks. Sent it off to the Finnish and Soviet ambassadors, then blasted a short radio address hoping someone was listening.

Now, I waited. Next up: a meeting with my generals to figure out how to help Finland without bankrupting myself—then deal with Spain.

Yeah, Spain. That headache.

Reports sat on my desk like a pile of overdue bills. We'd sent 75,000 troops, 660 planes, 150 tanks, and 800 armored vehicles to Spain, not to mention ammunition enough to bleed my own army dry. And what did Spain give me back? A broken economy, a dictator who'd gone full autarky, and zero loyalty. Franco had turned into a little me, hoarding resources and refusing to play nice. No way I was letting that slide.

I made a mental note: once I had Finland sorted, I was gonna have a very personal chat with Franco. I'd bankrolled that civil war. He owed me—big time.

As I simmered in my thoughts, the door swung open. Rodolfo Graziani, Chief of Staff of the Royal Italian Army, swaggered in, all boots and bluster.

"Duce," he said, saluting as he sat down.

"Graziani," I nodded. "Let's get started," I said, motioning to the other officers. "We're here to talk about Finland."

He looked at me, deadpan. "Duce, the reports say it all. Our options are tight. Even if we fix our ammo and equipment shortages, sending troops to Finland would stretch us too thin. Logistics nightmare."

I nodded, swallowing the urge to scream. "But we can do something, right? Military attachés? Maybe a brigade?"

He hesitated, then said, "A brigade and attachés? Maybe. More than that? Not without breaking us."

"Done," I said, too tired to pretend confidence. "Make it happen. Offer volunteers a year's salary upfront and double pay. Get the treasury involved."

"As you wish, Duce," Graziani said, standing to leave.

I stared at the gun in my desk drawer. Cold metal. So heavy with possibility. I played with it more these days—click, click, click. Tempted to use it, but afraid of the unknown on the other side. Better to be trapped in this body, a ghost in Mussolini's skin, than to find out what death looks like.

The war droned on. So did I.

Sometimes, when the radio crackled to life, I would pretend that smooth city pop from Japan was floating through my mind, I almost forgot where—or when—I was. Then the loneliness crept back in. I missed Sofie. I missed my family. I missed being me.

But this? This is life now.

And it's one hell of a twisted song.

 

[Alenco98]

January 16, 1940
Mannerheim Line
Finland

Benito Albino Mussolini shivered, rubbing his hands together as hard as he could. He didn't dare peek over the edge of the trench. Even in the pitch-black Finnish winter, you never knew if a sniper's scope was trained on you.

I shouldn't have said I was Duce's son.

His mother—God rest her soul—had told him the truth long ago. She never spoke much about him, but Benito had gone to Rome, had seen him speak. When he looked in the mirror, he could see it—the resemblance was unmistakable. A younger version of Duce.

And because of that, he'd been voluntold to fight in Finland. Now here he was, shivering in a trench in a foreign land, the last survivor of his squad. There had been twenty of them attached to this regiment. Ezio, Patricio, Cesare, Emilio, Emanuele, Claudio, Virgilio—gone.

A tap on his shoulder startled him. He turned to see Gustav settling beside him.

"Cigarette?" the Finn asked.

Benito's Finnish was poor, but he knew that word. With stiff fingers, he pulled out a pack, opened it, and handed one over, struggling not to shiver.

"Thank you," Gustav muttered as he took the cigarette and lit it, cupping the flame with his hand to keep it hidden. If the Russians spotted even a flicker of light, it could mean death. He finished it within a minute, then flicked the stub to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.

Gustav said something to him. Benito caught only a few words—friends.

"Ezio? Claudio?" he asked hesitantly.

Gustav nodded. He was asking where they were.

"Dead." Benito made the sign of the cross as he spoke the Finnish word for it, his accent thick.

Gustav nodded solemnly. He crossed himself as well, then reached into his belt and pulled something out, holding it toward Benito.

"Eat," he said.

Benito took it. Hardtack. He hesitated for a moment, then remembered Claudio's words: You have to eat to keep your strength up.

So he bit down.

Then, bullets whizzed overhead, and shells began to rain down. The sudden shock nearly made him choke—he coughed, gasping for breath as he scrambled for his rifle.

Around him, Gustav and the other Finnish soldiers sprang into action, taking their positions in the trenches and returning fire. He didn't hesitate—instinct took over as he raised his weapon and joined them.

The shells and gunfire lit up the cold Finnish night. He spotted them—hundreds of Russian soldiers and dozens of tanks. Raising his Carcano rifle, he took aim and fired. The shot struck a soldier square in the chest, sending him crumpling to the ground. By now, it felt natural. He had been doing this for weeks, ever since he arrived.

More of them came. He kept shooting, unleashing bullet after bullet, loading and reloading his rifle with practiced speed. Then he heard it—that familiar, hollow click.

Empty.

He crouched to reload, reaching into his ammo pouch—nothing. His stomach tightened.

"Out of ammo!" he called, but no one answered. They were too busy fighting, too busy dying.

He glanced to his right—and froze. Gustav lay still on the frozen ground, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. There was no time to grieve. He rushed to the body, rifling through his belt until he found a handful of bullets.

Pausing for just a moment, he traced the sign of the cross over his fallen comrade. "See you soon."

Then he reloaded, took his position, and opened fire once more.

He heard a rumbling sound—one he knew all too well.

Instinct took over. He abandoned his position, dropping into the trench and spotting a heavy log. "Help!" he called out.

Another soldier rushed to his side, and together they hauled the log back up to his position. They crouched, waiting, as the others prepared for the ambush—Molotov cocktails in hand, another pair gripping a second log.

The rumbling grew louder, shaking the ground beneath them. The tank was almost upon them, its massive treads grinding toward the trench. The moment it began rolling over, they shoved the log deep into its tracks, jamming it tight. On the other side, the second pair did the same.

A metallic groan tore through the night, and the tank lurched to a stop.

From the trenches, rifles rose in unison. Then came the sound of a hatch opening—followed by a burst of gunfire. A scream rang out from the top of the tank.

He grabbed the tracks, hoisting himself up with his sidearm drawn. A soldier handed him a Molotov cocktail, and without hesitation, he hurled it into the open hatch.

The night exploded with screams.

A figure emerged—a young man, engulfed in flames, gripping a machine gun. For a fleeting second, he looked less like a soldier and more like a demon clawing its way out of hell.

He didn't hesitate. He raised his pistol and fired.

The burning man crumpled. He took the machine gun from the corpse and dropped back into the trench, ready for whatever came next.

He set the machine gun down in position, his hands steady despite the chaos. Dozens—no, hundreds—of Soviets surged forward, an unrelenting tide of bodies. He opened fire, letting the weapon roar as men crumpled under the withering barrage.

Yet they kept coming. No matter how many he cut down, there was no end to them. He ran out of ammo, reloaded with practiced speed, and resumed firing. Around him, his comrades fought just as fiercely, their rifles cracking in defiance.

Time blurred. He had no idea how long he had been shooting until he slammed the last magazine into place—only to find the trench more filled with corpses than living men.

Then the artillery shell hit.

The blast threw him backward, knocking the air from his lungs. The world dissolved into chaos—screams, shouts, the sickening pop of shrapnel tearing through flesh. Dust choked the air, blinding him as he stumbled, desperate to regain his bearings. His hands groped for a weapon—any weapon—until his foot caught, sending him sprawling onto a corpse.

He couldn't move. He had nothing left. The cold earth should have bitten into his skin, but the body beneath him felt... warm. And strangely, despite the frigid air, he burned. His jacket felt suffocating, but he lacked the strength to pull the zipper down.

Then—hands. Rough, unyielding. They seized him, yanked him upright. Through the haze, he saw angry faces. They spoke, their voices sharp, unfamiliar.

And in that moment, he knew one thing for certain.

These weren't Finns.

-

February 1, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The Soviet ambassador, Nikolay Vasilyevich Gorelkin, finished delivering his message, and I sat there wondering if I should laugh or just smash my head through the goddamn desk. Maybe both.

Turns out Duce had another bastard from his first marriage. Then, in classic Duce fashion, he offed the mother and shipped the kid off like a defective product. But wait—some genius decided Finland was the perfect death sentence. Surprise, surprise—the kid didn't just die. No, he morphed into an Italian Audie Murphy on steroids, slicing through Soviets like a butcher on payday.

Now the Soviets have him—and here comes the punchline—they want us to cut support for the Finns in exchange for my son.

Crisis equals opportunity, right? Yeah, if your idea of opportunity is a punch to the face.

My own son—my goddamn namesake—held hostage by Bolsheviks. And suddenly, I'm the tragic father on the world stage, ready to milk every ounce of sympathy for political points.

I leaned forward, expression flat as a broken record.

"Thank you for your message, Mr. Ambassador. I will discuss it with my council."

He left, and I reached for the phone. Time to play the part—the angry dad with power but no control. The show had to go on.

---

February 2, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The cold cut through Rome like a rusty knife, but I hardly noticed. I had a speech to give—another performance in this grotesque theater.

Soviets have my son? Fine. Let's humiliate them in front of the whole damn world.

I stepped out onto the balcony. Thousands of faces looking up, expectant, like extras in a bad '80s music video. Time to fake passion.

"My fellow countrymen!" I boomed.

Silence, thick enough to choke on—like waiting for a synth beat that never drops.

"Yesterday, I received a message from the Soviet ambassador."

Pause. Let it linger like bad smoke in a cheap bar.

"My son. My firstborn. My namesake—Benito—has been captured by the communists. Along with dozens of other volunteers, he suffers in the claws of the Bolsheviks."

I scanned the crowd. The tension was fake, the cheers even faker—puppets waiting for their cue.

"The Soviet ambassador said, and I quote, 'a release of my son in return for ending our involvement in the Finnish war.' My answer? NO! Not just my son, but every son of Italy held captive must be returned!"

The crowd exploded, though I knew half were paid actors. Still, the roar filled my chest like a punch.

I raised my hand, voice dripping with bitter irony.

"And to the Soviet ambassador—if anything happens to my son or any Italian captive, you won't face one brigade of volunteers. You'll face one hundred brigades of soldiers!"

Cheers again, like a bad guitar solo that refuses to end.

"I call on England, France, Germany—stand with Italy! Condemn this barbaric invasion of Finland! Keep the supplies flowing! Because today, it's not just my son who's a Finn—I am a Finn. We are all Finns! Just as we once threw off Austria's yoke, so we must stand with our Finnish brothers! Death to communism! Long live a free Finland! Long live a free Europe!"

The crowd roared, but inside, I was hollow. The gun in my desk drawer felt heavier than the applause.

Maybe one day I'll pull the trigger. Or maybe I'll just keep playing this part in the city pop soundtrack of my own decay—waiting for the track to end.

-------

Excerpt from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 novel Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce

Mussolini's announcement of his son's capture by the Soviets—and his subsequent rejection of their offer to release him in exchange for Italy ending its aid to Finland—became a cause célèbre across the world. The French, British, and American governments all issued statements of support for Italy, demanding the immediate release of Italian prisoners held by the Soviet Union.

In Italy, posters of Mussolini's son were plastered across cities, transforming him into a symbol of national pride and defiance. The Fascist government, whose popular support had begun to wane after nearly two decades in power, experienced a dramatic resurgence following Mussolini's I am a Finn speech. Internationally, his hardline stance against the Soviet invasion ignited a wave of sympathy for Italy. Even Hitler, who had previously blocked arms shipments to Finland, quietly resumed the flow of supplies and called for a "peaceful and constructive settlement of the conflict."

Meanwhile, France and Britain, already planning a military intervention in Finland, were encouraged by Italy's passionate backing of the Finnish cause. The Allies had scheduled landings in Norway for March 20 and now saw an opportunity to bring Italy into their plans—perhaps even to persuade Mussolini to join the war on their side.

Yet Mussolini, ever the opportunist, saw a different path. Rather than committing Italy fully to war, he summoned the Soviet ambassador and made a dramatic, public offer: Italy would mediate peace talks between Finland and the Soviet Union—on the condition that his son and all captured Italian volunteers be released, and that an immediate ceasefire be declared. "I wish for both sides to achieve peace with honor," Mussolini reportedly told the ambassador.

For Stalin, the proposition offered a much-needed escape from an increasingly disastrous situation. The Winter War, which had been intended as a swift and decisive Soviet victory, had turned into a humiliating quagmire for the Red Army. With Finland still resisting, international condemnation mounting, and the looming threat of Italian and Allied intervention, Mussolini's offer was too valuable to ignore.

Thus, on February 15, 1940, a ceasefire was enacted, and Mussolini's son, along with twenty other Italian prisoners, were placed on a plane back to Italy. Their arrival sparked a nationwide spectacle. A tearful reunion between the Duce and his son became a symbol of defiance and resilience, with images of their embrace making headlines worldwide.

In Italy, the return of the volunteers was celebrated with three days of national festivities. All enlisted prisoners were granted battlefield commissions to the rank of Captain, while officers were promoted one rank higher. Benito Albino Mussolini himself was awarded the rank of Colonel, with the promotions personally bestowed by the Duce in a grand ceremony. The event cemented the young Mussolini's reputation as a war hero and further solidified his father's resurgent political standing.

Meanwhile, the peace talks were scheduled to begin on March 1, 1940, in Moscow, with four key figures in attendance: Joseph Stalin, Benito Mussolini, Finnish President Kyösti Kallio, and Field Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim.

 

[Alenco98]

March 1, 1940
The Kremlin, Grand Kremlin Palace
Moscow, Russia

So yeah, I bit the bullet—literally—and chose to fly here. The one upside? As Il Duce, I got to ride up front with the pilots. Nothing like a front-row seat to your own potential demise. I even skimmed a flight manual before takeoff—because hey, if the plane goes down, I might have to land it myself or try to give myself a semblance of control. Spoiler: book smarts don't magically turn you into a pilot.

And now I'm standing in the Kremlin, of all places. Gorgeous as hell, sure, but I only got here after kicking the bucket. Life's funny like that—well, not funny ha-ha, more like a slow, persistent nightmare where you're trapped in someone else's skin. Six months and counting, and still no waking up. Just waking up to this.

Inside, there's Field Marshal Mannerheim, President Kallio, and Stalin himself—plus our interpreters. Stalin's shorter than me, but the guy's got that killer stare. If looks could assassinate, I'd be six feet under again. He hates me for backing Finland, but I'm Il Duce—I'm supposed to be unbreakable, right? Right.

"General Secretary," I said, stumbling through my rusty Russian. I've been picking up the basics: greetings, directions, a bit of flirting (which is useless because I'm not even me anymore). Stalin grunted a hello back through the interpreter. Great.

The negotiations started smooth—well, as smooth as you get when two sides want the same chunk of land. Finland was willing to give up a lot of Karelia, but the Soviets wanted even more, including Viipuri itself. Predictably, it turned into a shouting match. The translators went at each other like cats in a trash bin while I leaned back, sipping my frustration.

When the yelling died down, I jumped in. "Enough for today. Let's call it." I suggested private meetings with Stalin and Kallio. Stalin agreed—probably to get away from my "charming" presence.

Sitting with Stalin later, tea in hand, I looked out over Moscow, golden in the sunset. The scene felt straight out of some 80s city pop album cover—like Junko Ohashi's Magical. I imagined telling those city pop icons how their biggest fan is now an old dictator stuck in a nightmare. The thought made me smile bitterly. If only I could get an autograph from Junko or Momoko Kikuchi. That's what life's come to.

"You rule a beautiful city, Premier Stalin," I said in halting Russian.

He nodded, deadpan, no warmth. "Comrade Stalin appreciates the sentiment," the interpreter translated.

"But I'm not here to admire scenery," I said. "Why Finland? Why risk so much over a country most people couldn't find on a map?"

Stalin's answer was standard Soviet paranoia: Finland was too small and vulnerable. If Germany marched through, Russia's borders were toast. Of course, it was about Germany. The looming threat. I get it.

I offered a deal: Italy would guarantee Finland's neutrality, deploy troops to its borders, and create a buffer against Germany. If Germany tried to sneak through Finland, we'd declare war. Sounded reasonable. Stalin was skeptical—he's got to be, and honestly, so do I. I'm a dictator playing chess in a game I barely understand, and every piece is a bomb.

The back-and-forth on island leases was absurd—a ridiculous game of "how many years until you stop breathing." We finally settled on seventeen years with some financial compensation. At least that part made me feel like a negotiator, not a hostage.

Dinner with Kallio and Mannerheim followed, all in French like civilized folks. They appreciated Italy's moral support, which felt strange coming from me. Me—the ghost in Mussolini's body, juggling power and despair. I told them about the deal: Viipuri stays Finnish, Karelia mostly goes Soviet, Finland gets peacekeepers, and neutrality is guaranteed—sort of.

Mannerheim asked how it'd work. I gave the best spiel I could muster: if anyone invades Finland, we fight. After the war, peace returns—until the next one, I guess.

They exchanged looks—one hopeful, one wary. Finally, Kallio sighed, "No choice."

I nodded, relief stabbing through my exhaustion. Maybe something good, if only for a moment.

And here I am. Holding a gun in my desk drawer, playing with it like a kid with a loaded toy. Tempted to pull the trigger—not for the fear of death, but for the unknown beyond this hollow, borrowed life. I miss Sofie. I miss my friends. I miss me. But this is my life now. Or what's left of it.

So I play the part. I negotiate. I pretend. And I keep waiting to wake up.

----

March 5, 1940
The Kremlin, Grand Kremlin Palace
Moscow, Russia

The last few days felt like a slow march through quicksand—endless negotiations where I was stuck in the middle, trying to broker peace like some kind of reluctant ghost haunting Mussolini's body. The main issues were the usual: drawing new borders, slapping numbers on islands like they were pieces on a chessboard, and haggling over who pays what. The Finnish communists almost blew the whole thing apart with some last-minute demands, but a quiet reminder that no one else had better options got Kallio and Mannerheim back on board.

So here we are. Today.

The treaty was drafted. President Kallio, Stalin, and I stood around the polished table, cameras flashing like the flashing neon signs of some forgotten Tokyo backstreet. I forced a smile—more for the camera than anyone else—and gave a small, tired wave before reaching for the pen.

"Shall we?" I said, glancing at Stalin first, then at Kallio.

Neither of them spoke. They just nodded, picked up their pens, and signed their names like this was the first note of a sad, slow song.

And me? I felt like an extra in someone else's nightmare. The kind of song that plays on a loop, stuck between synth beats and the desperate croon of city pop—80s dreams from a life that wasn't mine anymore. I'm here, with power enough to shake nations, but nothing I want—no Sofie's laugh, no late-night talks, no hope—just this cold room, this heavy suit, this gun on my desk that knows more about my loneliness than any of these politicians.

Sometimes I play with it—click, click, click—tempted to end the show. But the unknown? That's scarier than any battlefield or political betrayal. Maybe tomorrow the needle drops on a different track. Maybe I wake up from this dead man's dream. But today, I sign treaties. Today, I'm Mussolini. And today, I'm alone.

-

Excerpt from Jules Archer's 1965 biography Man of Steel: Joseph Stalin – Russia's Ruthless Ruler

When peace talks began on March 1, 1940, few believed they would lead to a resolution. Though an official ceasefire had been declared, the reality on the ground told a different story. Both sides used the lull to repair defenses, rotate exhausted troops, and funnel in fresh reinforcements. Each side knew the other was preparing for renewed hostilities, and not a single day passed without a violation of the truce. The term Phony War, popularized by the British and French, soon found its way into Finnish and Soviet discourse.

The Finnish government projected confidence, vowing to fight to the last. Yet despite increased supply lines and an influx of foreign volunteers, they remained outnumbered by the Red Army at a staggering ratio of 4 to 1. Intelligence reports reaching Stalin suggested that, if Germany decided to cut off Finnish supply routes, Finland would run out of ammunition within a month—its domestic industry simply could not sustain the war effort. Worse still, with winter nearing its end, Finland's advantage in maneuver warfare was fading. Soon, they would be forced to dig in, their defenses stretching from Petsamo to the beleaguered Mannerheim Line.

The Soviet Union, meanwhile, had learned from its disastrous early campaign. Political commissars were removed from frontline command. Supply lines were reorganized, logistics streamlined, and hundreds of thousands of reinforcements were mobilizing. Stalin's generals assured him that, with time, they could take all of Finland.

Yet, external pressures loomed. The increasing likelihood of Anglo-French and Italian intervention made the Soviet leadership—particularly Stalin—hesitant to risk further international escalation.

Thus, despite his well-documented hatred of communism, Mussolini's offer to mediate peace was accepted.

Talks began on March 1 but nearly collapsed immediately due to Soviet intransigence and Finnish efforts to extract the best possible terms.

Mussolini, seeing the deadlock, called for an adjournment. Privately, he met with Stalin first.

"What is it you truly want from Finland?" he asked.

Stalin was blunt. His concerns centered on Leningrad's security and the potential for foreign interference in Finnish affairs. With that in mind, Mussolini made a proposition: Italy would deploy a peacekeeping force to Finland, guaranteeing its independence and preventing outside interference—particularly from Germany.

An Italo-Finnish alliance would be signed, ensuring Finland's neutrality and placing an Italian force of 7,500 troops within its borders. In return, the Soviets would receive Karelia up to five kilometers from Viipuri, as well as a 17-year lease on all islands in the Gulf of Finland—on the condition that Finland received modest financial compensation for the islands.

Mussolini then brought these terms to President Kallio. The Finnish leader hesitated, seeking better conditions, but Marshal Mannerheim urged acceptance.

"This is the best we will get," he warned.

The next day, Stalin and Kallio reconvened. The Soviets attempted to introduce additional demands concerning Finland's internal affairs. The Finns resisted, though some concessions were ultimately made in the interest of securing peace.

Finally, on March 5, the Finno-Soviet peace treaty was signed, its terms as follows:

Soviet-Finnish Peace Treaty

1. The Soviet Union would annex all of Karelia up to five kilometers from Viipuri.

2. The shores of Lake Ladoga would be incorporated into Soviet territory.

3. All islands in the Gulf of Finland would be leased to the Soviet Union for 17 years.

4. The Communist Party would no longer be banned in Finland.

5. All Finnish citizens involved with the provisional Soviet-backed government during the war would receive pardons and be allowed to participate in Finnish politics.

But that wasn't the only treaty signed that day, an Italo-Finnish Alliance was signed, with the following terms:

1. Italy would guarantee Finnish independence and enter into a military alliance with Finland for the duration of the European war. Permanent Finnish neutrality would follow after the war's conclusion.

2. Italy would deploy a 7,500-strong peacekeeping force to secure Finland's borders against external aggression.

In the Soviet Union, the treaty's signing was met with muted reaction. Though the government had secured much of what it wanted, it was a hollow victory. Forced to the negotiating table under threat of international intervention, Stalin viewed the outcome as an embarrassment.

Mussolini, on the other hand, emerged as an unexpected peacemaker. His reputation soared globally—everywhere except in Germany.

Hitler, according to NKVD reports received by Stalin, was livid. Mussolini had effectively cut off another potential invasion route into the Soviet Union. However, bogged down with the war against Britain and France, there was little the Führer could do.

Stalin, ever the paranoid, feared that the "humiliating" treaty would embolden opposition within the Politburo. His response was predictable—a purge.

Lavrentiy Beria was unleashed on the government. Those who had even hesitated in supporting Stalin's Finnish campaign were removed. Foreign Minister Molotov was the first to fall—dismissed, then reassigned to a minor role overseeing transportation in Soviet Kyrgyzstan. A few years later, he was arrested and executed for treason.

The Soviet ambassador to Italy, sensing the noose tightening, defected with his family the moment the treaty was signed. His extended relatives, however, were not so fortunate.

The final victims of Stalin's wrath were the leaders of the exiled Italian Communist Party. Within weeks, they were arrested, tortured, and executed following secret tribunals that lasted no more than five minutes.

As for Stalin himself, his private diaries from the time reveal his seething hatred for Mussolini.

"A rank opportunist, a snake, a demon with a human face," he scrawled in one entry.

Unfortunately for him, it would not be the last time they met.

 

[Alenco98]

March 10, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I was in my office when he arrived—Avraham Stern. Formerly Irgun, now Lehi. A Jewish revolutionary with the fire of a dying star behind his eyes. His letters had reached me not long after this absurd pantomime of a war began, brimming with admiration for Fascist Italy, or at least what it symbolized to him: strength, autonomy, and a giant middle finger to the British Empire. That alone made me like him. I'm petty like that now.

I invited him for a talk. Power's good for that, if nothing else.

"You wish to continue armed resistance against the British, is that correct?" I asked, my voice more Mussolini's than mine these days. I've been practicing in mirrors—helps keep the ghost in check. In my dreams he judges me.

"Yes, Duce," he replied, nodding with that clipped, no-nonsense cadence. "The Haganah are naive. Collaborating with the British is a dead end. They deny us asylum and dignity. Now is our moment—while they're distracted, weak."

There was a bitterness in his tone I recognized. The kind that makes men do wild, historic things.

"I can understand your sentiments, Mr. Stern," I said, fetching a bottle of red I'd been saving for... well, I don't know. I don't save things anymore. Every day is a performance and I'm not even sure who the audience is.

"Wine?"

"Please."

He drank like a man with a mission. I drank like a man trying not to remember what soft drinks tasted like.

"Now, Mr. Stern," I began, "I have no intention of openly antagonizing the British. But if you were to... say... slip a few of your men into our refugee camps and begin 'politically educating' the Jewish arrivals, I'd find it difficult to notice. We get quite a bit of funding from Jewish aid groups for resettlement across our colonies, and if—just hypothetically—some of that money went missing after I placed a few of your agents in our bureaucracy, I wouldn't lose sleep. I'm already not sleeping much anyway."

He perked up. Interest lit his eyes.

"If you start smuggling arms and people into Palestine, I would—tragically—remain uninformed. If you began training paramilitaries in our camps? My ignorance would be an inconvenience to the British."

Stern nodded, slowly. "That's quite a bit of leeway. I appreciate it."

"There would be a price for my... admirable shortsightedness."

"Which is?"

"Following independence, Israel would join the Rome Pact. One party—yours. Full personal union with Italy, like Albania. We'd get a naval base, a military presence, a free trade agreement, business privileges, and legal protections for Christians and Muslims in the Holy Land. Oh—and old Jerusalem except for the Jewish Quarter will be turned over to the Vatican and Italy and/or her allies. Call it divine compensation."

He took it in, calm. "Would I retain full control of Israel's internal affairs?"

"You can be the Israeli Robespierre or Stalin if you want."

"And the borders? Would we get all of British Palestine?"

"All of it—and I'll throw in Sinai if the Arabs don't like it and war comes. Consider that free real estate. Rome's got your back. Sometimes literally."

Stern smiled—the real kind, not the polite, political one. It was the first genuine human expression I'd seen in weeks.

"I think this is doable."

"Good. You'll need a party for when the time comes. Got a name?"

He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "I have a few ideas."

I watched him leave and felt nothing. Just the usual weight. The kind that makes me forget I was once in my 20s, broke, idealistic, listening to Whitney Houston while painting a schoolhouse in Rwanda. That guy's dead. Has to be.

Six months in this body and it still doesn't fit. It's like wearing a skin suit that talks about empire and conquest while all I want is a hug from my mom and maybe to cry in Sofie's arms. Instead, I make deals with revolutionaries like I'm bartering over coffee beans and dead men's dreams. Power is a sick joke. I have legions at my command, and I'd trade them all to sit on a porch in Virginia and hear someone laugh at my dumb stories again.

The gun is in the desk drawer. Standard issue, nice walnut grip. I take it out sometimes, spin the barrel like it's a toy. I wonder what comes after this dream, this freak-show reincarnation. Do I wake up? Or is this hell clever enough to wear a uniform?

I keep hoping I'll hear someone call my name. My real name. But the only thing that ever answers is silence—and sometimes, in the back of my head, Time After Time plays, and I wonder if it's the universe mocking me.

Or maybe it's just the ghost of who I used to be, humming softly before fading out.

-

Excerpt from the Wikipedia Page for the Falag (Falangist) Party of Israel

In March 1940, Avraham Stern met with Benito Mussolini in Rome. The two men spent hours in discussion, united by their mutual disdain for British imperialism and their desire to reshape the Middle East.

At the time, Stern had already split from the Irgun and founded his own militant organization: Lohamei Herut Israel ("Fighters for the Freedom of Israel"). The group would later be known as Lehi, an acronym of its Hebrew name, officially adopted in September 1940.

Their meeting resulted in what later became known as the Jerusalem Agreement. In exchange for Italian recognition and support for Jewish sovereignty in Palestine, Stern agreed to align Zionism with Italian Fascism. Jerusalem would be declared the capital of the new Jewish state, while the Old City—except for the Jewish Quarter—would be administered by the Vatican. Israel would enter into a personal union with Italy, effectively making it a vassal state.

Following the agreement, Lehi was granted access to Italian refugee camps, where over half a million Jews were already sheltered across mainland Italy and Italian Libya. These camps quickly became fertile recruiting grounds for the Falag Party—Israel's fascist movement. Membership surged to 250,000 within six months, bolstered by Italian funding, effective propaganda, and a mandate requiring all Jewish refugees in Italy over the age of 18 to join as a condition for staying.

The Falag rapidly escalated its operations. Paramilitary training was instituted in the camps, and funds siphoned from the refugee agency were used to acquire arms from abroad. By 1941, Lehi and the Falag had over 2,000 trained fighters in British Palestine and had smuggled more than 50,000 Jewish civilians into the region—setting the stage for the civil war that would erupt in Palestine shortly after the allied victory in Europe.

 

[Alenco98]

March 20, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

Seven months.
It's been seven months since I died on a dirt road in Rwanda and woke up in this body—his body. Benito f***ing Mussolini. I keep waiting to snap out of it. Wake up in my cot with the smell of rain on red soil and the sound of kids laughing outside. Instead, I wake up in silk sheets, in a palace built for a man I used to joke about in history classes.

The joke's on me now.

This morning I read the latest from Norway. The Altmark incident—British board a German ship, Berlin loses its mind, Norway gets dragged closer to hell. History unfolding with clockwork precision, and I'm stuck here playing dress-up as Il Duce while drinking wine and listening to Mikiko Noda on repeat. There's a phonograph in my mind. I had someone transcribe city pop onto my thoughts. No one knows. No one cares.

I watched as servants set up dinner like it mattered. Paella, patatas bravas, crusty bread with aioli, a bottle of something vintage I didn't care to remember. All for Spain's ambassador, Conde. Franco's lapdog. It was a performance, like everything else. I eat, I toast, I smile. But inside, it's just static. The same numb, humming silence that's been crawling under my skin since Warsaw fell.

By the time Conde arrived, I was on my second glass of wine and my third loop of Yurie Kokubu. His voice feels like a memory I can't reach.

"Mr. Ambassador, I trust you enjoyed the meal?" I said, as if I cared.

He smiled politely. "It was wonderful. Though I must admit I'm not from Valencia. Still, I never refuse a taste of home."

I nodded. "Neither do I," I muttered. Home. Whatever the hell that means anymore.

But this dinner wasn't about nostalgia. It was business. I laid out my offer—Italy would help Spain rebuild after its civil war, and in return, Spain would help me build an empire. Resources, ports, trade deals, military access. I proposed Spain join the Rome Pact—Italy, Greece, Hungary, Bulgaria, and now… maybe Spain.

He blinked slowly. "These are heavy requests, Duce."

I smiled. A smile I've perfected over months. Cold. Hollow. Calculated.

"8.5 billion lire," I said. "That's what Italy spent saving Franco's ass. Three times what Germany gave you. And we're not at war with Britain or France—yet. So think of this not as coercion... but as the settling of accounts."

His face tightened. But he nodded. Message received. I continue.

"I suggest you consider my offer carefully unless you want me to call in all your debts at once." I let the weight of my statement sink in before continuing, my tone shifting to one of calculated diplomacy. "But do not worry, Mr. Ambassador, I am more than open to negotiations, these are just my initial terms. Please relay this message to Franco: I wish to meet him here in Rome."

Ambassador Conde exhaled slowly before nodding. "Very well, Duce. I will convey your terms to Madrid."

I smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."

The meeting concluded shortly after. As Conde departed, he was visibly shaken—but my message had been received. Soon I would meet Franco.

After he left, I sat alone in my office. The ornate silence suffocated me. I poured another drink and went to the drawer and opened it. The pistol was there. Polished. Loaded. I held it in my hand and stared.

Part of me wonders what comes after this—if I'll wake up, if I'll finally see Sofie again, hear her laugh, watch her dance to Time After Time in the kitchen in her pajamas. Another part wonders if I'll just vanish. Like I never existed at all.

But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still pretending.

And lately...
Lately, I'm starting to feel something. Not joy. Not hope. Something darker. A flicker of thrill when I speak and entire nations lean in to listen. When generals salute and crowds roar. When my words shape the world.

Power is a hell of a drug. And I think I'm starting to like the high.

I don't know what scares me more—ending this life, or living it all the way through.

I played Traveling heart by Mikiko Noda to drown out the silence.

But the ghosts always sing louder.

---

April 10, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I nodded faintly as one of my aides leaned in and whispered the inevitable: Germany had begun its invasion of Norway and had already rolled through Denmark like it was cardboard.

"Thank you," I said quietly, as if it mattered. As if anything did.

The aide disappeared, and I returned to the table. Opposite me sat Francisco Franco, grumpy and pale, working his way through a plate of Galician sausage. I'd done my homework—Androllas, followed by filloas with marmalade, and the main event: Polbo á feira. Octopus, salt, paprika, olive oil. A Mediterranean mosaic of flavors meant to soften a man into making bad decisions. And for dessert? A little wine, a little flattery, and a subtle reminder that his country still owed me a few billion lire.

"Apologies for the interruption, Prime Minister," I said with a vague smile. "Urgent news from the north. Denmark's gone. Norway's next."

Franco paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "The Germans?"

"Who else?" I sipped my wine. "I'd be surprised if they don't take Paris by summer. France is a hollow sculpture—polished on the outside, rotting within. Britain will last longer, but only because the Germans still haven't figured out boats."

His eyes narrowed. "You think Germany will lose?"

"I know they will." I leaned back, letting the candlelight play off the gold trim of my uniform. "The United States is already helping Britain. The Neutrality Act changes? A smoke signal. It's only a matter of time before they jump in for real. And you know how it ends when America joins the party. Tanks, jazz, and bombs."

Franco didn't respond. He was thinking. Good.

"I'm not asking you to pick a side—yet," I continued. "But there's opportunity here. The British Empire is unraveling. They're broke, overcommitted, and getting punched from Berlin to the South China Sea. If the Rome Pact—Italy, Greece, Hungary, Bulgaria—plays its cards right, we can turn their collapse into a shopping spree of new territories for our nations."

I smiled, low and slow. "Gibraltar. Tangier. Maybe a bigger slice of Africa. Tell me, Franco—wouldn't you like to end your career as the man who made Spain great again?"

That got him. His eyes lit up, if only for a second.

"But your terms," he said, finally. "Military bases, trade concessions. You'd turn Spain into a glorified supply depot."

I chuckled and reached for another bite of octopus. "Relax. That was just foreplay. Let's negotiate after dessert. I'm not here to bully you, Francisco—I'm here to make history. Together."

He didn't answer right away. Which was fine. I was getting used to the silence. Seven months ago, I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Rwanda. Then a truck hits a road bump and I fly. Lights out. And I woke up in this body—Benito Fucking Mussolini—on the day Hitler rolled into Poland.

At first, I thought it was a coma dream. Then a joke. Now it's just life. Or whatever this purgatory is.

Every day, I sit in this palace like a dictator-shaped ghost. I smile, I scheme, I threaten diplomats with velvet words and iron debt. But I'd trade it all for a minute back in the states. A hug from my mom. Sofie's laugh. Even just hearing Toto's "Africa" on a beat-up radio again. Hell, I'd kill for a city pop cassette filled with Miho Fujiwara and a mountain trail to walk off this existential hangover.

Instead, I keep a Beretta in my desk drawer and play with it when the meetings end. Russian roulette with bullets, just questions. What if this is Hell? What if I never wake up? What if I like this a little too much?

Because sometimes, when I'm in the middle of these dinners, these power plays—I feel something. A pulse. Not hope, not purpose. Just... intoxication. Like I'm on stage in a synth-soaked fever dream, wearing a dictator's face, dancing to a soundtrack of Hiroshi Satō and sad inevitability.

God help me, part of me wants to go full Joker. Burn it all. Smile as the world drowns in neon and fascism.

But I won't. Not tonight.

Tonight, I'll smile, sip wine, and sell Franco a fantasy. Then I'll go back to my office, stare at the ceiling, and pray that maybe—just maybe—tomorrow I'll wake up in Rwanda again.

Or not at all.

Part of me knows I won't.

-

Excerpt from Antonio Cazorla Sánchez's 2014 Book: Franco: The Biography of the Myth

By the end of 1939, Spain was a tired, broken nation in desperate need of healing. Out of a pre-war population of approximately 25 million, over 600,000 had perished during the fighting—more than 2% of the country's people lost to civil war.

But that was far from Spain's only problem. Its infrastructure lay in ruins—railways, factories, farms, entire cities devastated. The economy fared no better. Industrial output had dropped by more than 30% during the war, and Spain was now heavily indebted to both Germany and Italy. Both nations had provided significant financial and military support to help the Nationalists win the conflict.

While Spain's debt to Germany was modest and could be repaid through economic concessions—such as providing tungsten to aid the German war effort—its debt to Italy was far larger, nearly three times as much in dollar terms once currency conversion was considered. And unlike Germany, which was increasingly distracted by its escalating war in Europe, Italy—having opted to stay out of the conflict in 1940—was free to exert pressure on its indebted ally.

In April 1940, Franco made his first major international visit since the end of the Civil War, traveling to Italy to meet personally with Benito Mussolini. Over the course of a week, the two leaders negotiated the terms of a new Italo-Spanish treaty. Some of the original demands nearly derailed the talks—such as Italy's call for the annexation of Western Sahara and Spanish Guinea, or even outright military occupation of Spain—but eventually, a compromise was reached. On April 21st, nearly two weeks after Franco's arrival, the treaty was unveiled.

The terms of the Italo-Spanish Treaty were as follows:

1. Immediate Spanish entry into the Rome Pact


2. An Italian-Spanish free trade agreement


3. Reduction of Spain's interest on its outstanding debt to Italy to 1%, with 10% of the debt forgiven


4. Elimination of foreign investment restrictions for all Italian firms


5. Exclusive rights for Italy to exploit Spanish colonial resources and to settle its citizens in the colonies alongside Spaniards


6. Establishment of Italian naval bases in Majorca, the Canary Islands, and Valencia


7. Italian assistance in Spain's post-war reconstruction


8. Coordination between Italian and Spanish intelligence services

While the treaty promised much-needed economic relief and laid the foundation for Spain's recovery, it sparked controversy within the newly formed Movimiento Nacional. Several factions viewed the terms as subservience to Mussolini and a betrayal of Spanish sovereignty.

The primary backers of the treaty were members of the FET y de las JONS and the syndicalist organizations. This support was rooted in ideological kinship—José Antonio Primo de Rivera's Falangist movement, which preceded the FET, had taken clear inspiration from Mussolini's Blackshirts. Mussolini's Fascist Party quickly established formal ties with the FET following their endorsement of the treaty.

Opposition, however, came from two key factions: the Carlists and the Alfonsists. Both saw Italy's growing influence as a threat to Spain's autonomy. They vehemently opposed Italy's demand for colonial annexation, ultimately pressuring Franco and Mussolini into a compromise—Italian citizens would be permitted to settle in the colonies, but sovereignty would remain with Spain. Similarly, their resistance led to the reduction of Italy's military footprint to three naval bases, forestalling the occupation that had originally been proposed.

The National-Catholics took a more neutral stance. Though not entirely opposed to Italian influence—thanks to Mussolini's historically good relations with the Papacy, especially after the 1929 Lateran Treaty—they were wary of the regime's recent embrace of philo-Semitism. Given Spain's deeply rooted history of anti-Semitism, this shift provoked skepticism about Italian intentions. Their support for the treaty remained cautious and conditional.

With only one faction within the Movimiento Nacional offering full support, Franco found himself politically isolated. Accepting the treaty in its initial form risked a severe backlash—some extremist Carlists even hinted at renewed armed resistance. But Mussolini was not one to retreat.

To neutralize opposition, he began negotiating directly with the various factions. He approached the Alfonsists first, proposing a betrothal between Prince Juan Carlos, the two-year-old son of the deposed King Alfonso XIII, and Princess Maria Pia, the firstborn daughter of Prince Umberto of Italy. The move signaled Italian recognition of the Alfonsist claim to the throne over the Carlist one. Alfonsist resistance to the treaty soon faded.

The National-Catholics were similarly placated. Mussolini personally informed them of his discussions with the Jewish Lehi, and of his support for a future Jewish state in the Holy Land—on the condition that the Vatican would gain partial sovereignty over Jerusalem and guaranteed access to key pilgrimage sites for Christians. He also promised to make Catholicism a central element in the evolving fascist ideology, using his influence over the FET to steer the movement toward Christo-Fascism—blending fascist governance with Catholic tradition in Spain.

Franco, for his part, dealt with the Carlists via carrot and stick. He ordered the arrest and execution of radical elements calling for insurrection, then offered the remaining Carlists control over the Ministry of Justice, giving them de facto authority over Spain's national police.

Finally, after a month of complex negotiations, Franco secured enough political consensus. On May 10th, 1940, the Italo-Spanish Treaty was officially signed. Spain became the newest member of the Rome Pact, setting the stage for a new chapter in its post-war transformation.

Coincidentally on May 10th, the German invasion of France and the low countries began.

 

[Alenco98]

May 20, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

We were in the middle of what I suppose you'd call an urgent meeting. Regent Horthy, Ante Pavelić, and King Boris III sat across from me, each wearing that smug, conniving expression you'd expect from men who dream of carving up nations like roast chicken.

To borrow from Ron Paul—"It's happening."

Germany had stormed into France and the Low Countries. The Wehrmacht was sprinting to the Channel like it had a plane to catch. France looked done for. I kept waiting for someone to change the channel, for a notification to pop up on my cracked iphone that was my mind: "You died in a tragic bus accident in Rwanda. Press X to respawn." But the only notification I ever get is the quiet click of the gun in my desk drawer.

I watched them shuffle maps and sip wine while my mind drifted. It reminded me of the first weeks of the Ukraine war—raw, frantic, surreal. But this wasn't a livestream. This was real. And somehow, I was Benito fucking Mussolini.

"Messieurs," I said in French, because it made me feel just pretentious enough to hide the fact that I'm completely unraveling. "France is under attack. Her fall is all but certain." I let the silence sit, let it breathe, like I was some kind of tragic conductor before the last movement.

"The time has come," I continued, "to take what we want from Yugoslavia. Two days ago, I ordered Italian forces to deploy to the border. Mr. Pavelić's agents are already stoking unrest in Croatia. I've called you here to urge you to begin mobilization."

Pavelić nodded like a man who just got handed the keys to a slaughterhouse.

"When do we begin?" Boris asked.

"June 15," I said. "By then, Paris will be ashes in someone's love song."

"France and Britain won't intervene?" Horthy asked.

"Too busy trying to put out the house fire," I said. "Even if the Wehrmacht stalls, they'll be so buried in France they won't even blink. The Reich will look the other way. Gentlemen"—I smiled, one of those hollow politician smiles I've practiced in the mirror when I'm not holding a barrel in my mouth—"let's carve up the Balkans, shall we?"

I snapped my fingers, and the servants entered with silver trays like it was a goddamn music video. Wine poured into crystal glasses. I raised mine.

"To victory."

"To victory!" they echoed, like good little villains.

I smiled again. Hollow. Automatic. I'm getting good at pretending. Every night I play Russian roulette with a full chamber, half-hoping I'll flinch hard enough to pull the trigger. But I don't. Not yet.

Part of me is starting to feel something again, though. The power. The gravity. The way men look at me like I'm Julius Caesar resurrected. It's intoxicating, in a disgusting way. Like listening to Tatsuro Yamashita Love Talkin on a dying Walkman as the world burns outside your bunker.

Maybe I'll go full Joker. Maybe I'll nuke Berlin. Maybe I'll just wake up.

But tonight, like every night, the barrel goes in my mouth.
And like every night, I don't pull the trigger.

Not yet.

-

A declassified report aimed to brief Prime Minister Churchill on the situation in the Mediterranean. Date of declassification: May 26, 1988

TOP SECRET – EYES ONLY
Prime Minister's Briefing
Date: 25 May 1940
From: Foreign Office, SIS Division
To: The Rt. Hon. Winston S. Churchill, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

SUBJECT: Strategic Assessment – Italian Foreign Policy and Activities as of May 1940

---

1. General Overview:

The Kingdom of Italy under Benito Mussolini continues to maintain formal neutrality in the present European conflict. Despite initial concerns regarding Italian alignment with the German Reich, the Fascist regime has, for the time being, pursued a calculated policy of diplomatic opportunism and regional expansion without direct entry into hostilities.

Italy has brokered sanctions relief with His Majesty's Government and the French Republic in return for its declared neutrality shortly after the start of the war. Simultaneously, Rome has concluded clandestine economic and humanitarian agreements with Berlin, including the facilitated transit of German exports through Italian ports and the reception of Jewish refugees from the Reich.

---

2. Role in the Winter War:

During the Soviet-Finnish conflict, Italian "volunteers" (understood to be regular army and navy personnel) were dispatched in support of Finland. Notably, Mussolini's son, now Colonel Benito Albino Mussolini, was reportedly captured during combat on the Mannerheim Line. His capture and subsequent international attention were effectively leveraged by Rome to broker a compromise peace, resulting in the Soviets securing only Karelia, short of full territorial demands.

This has enhanced Italy's international standing and provided Mussolini with a diplomatic victory outside the Axis framework.

---

3. Formation of the "Rome Pact":

Our sources confirm the formation of a new tripartite alliance between Italy, Hungary, and Bulgaria, driven by monarchical and anti-communist solidarity. This pact is both military and political in nature and is being styled as a "Latin-Slavic Axis" for Balkan domination.

In a stunning diplomatic coup, Greece has been induced to join this alliance, following significant territorial concessions by Italy:

Return of Northern Epirus to Greek sovereignty.

Full cession of the Dodecanese Islands.

Establishment of Italian military and naval facilities in the Dodecanese and North Epirus, under the guise of mutual defense as well as the embedding of Italian advisors in the Greek army

This development effectively secures Italian influence over the eastern Mediterranean without firing a shot.

---

4. Spanish Peninsula Activity:

Italy has reportedly used economic leverage and covert diplomatic pressure to extract concessions from the Franco regime and force them to join the Rome pact. These include:

Access to naval bases in the Canary Islands, Valencia, and the Balearics.

Preferential trade agreements for Italian goods and petroleum.

The unrestricted immigration of Italians to the Spanish colonies.

Unconfirmed reports suggest a joint naval training program is underway under Italian supervision.

With Spain now under the Rome pact, these developments have secured Italian influence over the western Mediterranean without firing a shot.

---

5. Zionist Insurgency in Palestine:

Our Palestine Mandate authorities report contact between the Mussolini regime and the Lehi (Stern Gang), a radical Zionist militant faction, from Italian sources. Italian assistance appears aimed at:

Disrupting British authority in the region.

Establishing goodwill with Jewish nationalist factions.

Counterbalancing German anti-Semitic policy for geopolitical leverage.

This support consists of the Lehi being granted access to Jewish refugee camps all through Italy and beggining both ideological education as well as paramilitary training.

Reports also state funds are being sent to the Lehi via the Italian refugee agency. Our sources within the Italian government also state italy is encouraging the Lehi to smuggle arms, fighters and Jewish refugees into British Palestine.

---

6. Yugoslav Situation:

The Italian military is mobilizing along the Yugoslav frontier. Reliable reports indicate the presence of:

Several Alpini and armoured divisions near Slovenia and Dalmatia.

Croatian insurgents receiving arms and logistical support via the Adriatic.

Diplomatic communications between Rome, Budapest, and Sofia suggest a partition of Yugoslavia is imminent, with Croatia, Vojvodina, Kosovo, Serbia and Macedonia to be divided among the Rome Pact powers.

---

Assessment & Recommendations:

Italy has achieved a position of unprecedented strength in the Mediterranean and Balkans without declaring war. It is clear Mussolini aims to construct a regional order under Italian hegemony, while avoiding direct entanglement with the Axis or Allied powers.

We must prepare for the following:

A potential Italian invasion of Yugoslavia within the next month.

Increased Italian subversion in Palestine and Egypt.

Possible diplomatic outreach to Turkey and Romania, further expanding the Rome Pact.

Suggested Actions:

Reinforce Mediterranean naval deployments, particularly around Malta and Cyprus.

Increase surveillance of Zionist cells in the Mandate territories.

Consider re-engaging Greece diplomatically to undermine full alignment with Rome.

Prepare contingency plans for a sudden Italian entry into the war on either side.

End of Report
Prepared by: SIS Liaison Division, Rome & Eastern Mediterranean Desk
Authorized by: Permanent Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs

[TOP SECRET]

A declassified transcript of a meeting between Prime Minister Churchill and his cabinet in regards to the situation in the Mediterranean. Date of declassification: June 11, 1989

War Cabinet Meeting – Cabinet War Rooms, London
Date: 25 May 1940
Time: 20:30 Hours
Attendees:

Prime Minister Winston Churchill

Neville Chamberlain (Lord President of the Council)

Lord Halifax (Foreign Secretary)

Clement Attlee (Lord Privy Seal)

Anthony Eden (Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs)

General Sir John Dill (Chief of the Imperial General Staff)

Sir Alexander Cadogan (Permanent Undersecretary, Foreign Office)

Sir Desmond Morton (Intelligence Liaison)

Churchill, cigar lit, pacing slowly by the Mediterranean map tacked to the wall, speaks first after silently reading the SIS report aloud.

Churchill (grimly):
"Well, Mussolini's not sitting on the fence—he's building his own fence, out of other men's borders."

Halifax:
"With all due respect, Prime Minister, it appears he's outmanoeuvred us quite effectively. He's gained influence from Gibraltar to Rhodes without firing a single shot."

Attlee:
"Greece, Spain, Bulgaria, Hungary... and now potentially Yugoslavia. This 'Rome Pact' is shaping up to be a Fascist Commonwealth. Not an ally of Germany per se—but certainly a thorn in our side."

Chamberlain (tight-lipped):
"I warned of the danger in lifting sanctions too soon. We gave him legitimacy, and now he's using it to establish a Mediterranean empire."

Eden:
"I'm more alarmed by his activities in Palestine. Training militants, arming them, pushing refugees into the Mandate. That's not just diplomacy—it's sabotage."

Cadogan (reading from his notes):
"Our agents in Haifa and Jaffa confirm the emergence of Lehi activity. Weapons caches from the sea. Foreign-accented Hebrew among new recruits. All roads point to Rome."

Churchill (quietly):
"And the Jews will remember who armed them... and who didn't."

He pauses, glances toward the Balkans section of the map.

Churchill (firmly):
"Gentlemen, I daresay we are witnessing the rebirth of Imperial Rome—without Caesar, and with a far more dangerous man behind the podium."

General Dill:
"If the Italians take Yugoslavia with Hungarian and Bulgarian cooperation, they'll dominate the Adriatic. Our supply lines to Greece, Cyprus, and Egypt will be exposed."

Churchill:
"Mediterranean control used to be our strength. Now, it's our vulnerability."

Halifax:
"What would you have us do, Winston? We can't fight everyone at once. France is falling. Belgium is lost. Our army is holding by a thread at Dunkirk."

Churchill (eyes flashing):
"And that is precisely why we cannot let Italy move unchecked. If they join the war tomorrow, Gibraltar to Suez is in peril. And if they don't—well, a silent empire is no less dangerous than a shouting one."

Attlee:
"We should approach the Greeks directly. Quietly. Find out who in Athens might be unhappy with their Faustian bargain."

Chamberlain:
"Too late for diplomacy, I fear. Their Prime Minister dances to Mussolini's music now."

Churchill:
"Then we will compose a better tune. Eden, draft a message for the Greek King. Let him know the sun does not set on our memory."

Churchill turns to Dill.

"Begin drawing up naval contingencies—Malta must hold at all costs. If the Italians enter Yugoslavia, we must be ready to blockade the Adriatic. And I want RAF recon flights intensified along the Libyan border. Mussolini has agents in Cairo—we must have more in Rome."

Sir Desmond Morton:
"Our sources suggest Mussolini is also making quiet overtures to Turkey."

Churchill (sharply):
"Of course he is. Why stop at one peninsula when he can dominate two?"

Halifax:
"If we push too hard, we may push him fully into Hitler's camp."

Churchill (pounding the table):
"Then we must be cleverer. If Mussolini insists on being the fox in the henhouse, then we'll be the hounds at the door. Let him straddle both sides—for now. But the moment he makes his move, I want every Italian asset west of the Adriatic under observation or arrest."

He exhales a deep breath and looks at the burning end of his cigar.

Churchill (calmly):
"Gentlemen, we are at the edge of the abyss, but not yet fallen in. The war in France will decide much—but Italy's shadow now stretches across the Mediterranean. We must be ready to strike at it the moment it solidifies."

Meeting adjourns at 21:15. Orders are dispatched to the Mediterranean Fleet, and MI6 intensifies operations in Greece, Palestine, and Yugoslavia. Churchill retires to his study, muttering: "Mussolini may be neutral today. But tomorrow—tomorrow he may be Emperor."

 

[Alenco98]

June 15, 1940
Outskirts of Zara
Zara, Italian Dalmatia

Colonel Benito Albino Mussolini sat atop an army truck idling near the Yugoslav border, his goggles resting in his right hand. He stared across the frontier, noting how sparsely it was defended—just a handful of guards milling about. As a colonel he normally could have stayed away from the action, but his time in Finland then in a Soviet prison camp told him he belonged in the front with his men.

Beside him, one of his men adjusted a radio, catching broadcasts from across the border. Though Benito didn't understand Croatian, a local recruit from Zara leaned in and translated.

"It's the Ustaše," the soldier explained. "They're calling on the Croats to rise up against their masters."

Benito's eyes narrowed. "Turn it off. We wait for orders."

"Yes, sir." The soldier switched the frequency, and a low hum filled the silence as they waited. Benito looked toward the horizon, where the first golden rays of dawn crept into view. Officially, they were here for border exercises. But the volume of munitions and equipment told another story. That suspicion had been confirmed hours earlier when they were ordered to stand by for a special military operation—a mission to assist the oppressed Croatians.

As the sun climbed higher, he turned his gaze away from its growing glare. Then, the radio crackled to life.

"Unleash the storm."

Benito gave a single nod. "Relay the orders. We're beginning."

"Yes, sir." His adjutant jumped down from the truck and disappeared among the troops. Minutes passed. Soldiers began to move, prepping for action. Within a quarter of an hour, the unit was in motion.

As they crossed into Yugoslavia, Benito noted with mild surprise that the border guards were celebrating, raising what appeared to be Croatian flags.

The day unfolded with little resistance. A few scattered Yugoslav units attempted to hold ground, but—according to local Croatian agents, likely Ustaše—those soldiers were Serbs. They were quickly either captured or compelled to surrender. Benito spotted a few lined up by the Ustaše for execution and intervened immediately.

"They're Serbian dogs! They should be put down!" one of the Ustaše growled.

"They are prisoners of war and will be treated as such," Benito replied sternly. "We value your help in capturing them, but the army will handle their processing. In the meantime, assist us with communicating with the locals and guiding us through the countryside."

The Ustaše glared, but a quiet reminder that he was the Duce's son silenced further protest. Still, Benito knew he might have just painted a target on his back.

By nightfall, they reached the sleepy town of Benkovac.

As Benito's car entered the town behind his troops, he noted the townspeople watching them warily.

"They're looking at us," he muttered to his adjutant.

"Ustaše say the town's mostly Serb."

"No wonder," Benito sighed. "Impose a curfew. One hour for everyone to get inside their homes. Anyone out after that gets detained for questioning. And remind the Ustaše—no civilian abuse."

"Yes, sir." The adjutant disembarked as Benito directed his driver toward the mayor's office.

Upon arrival, he found the building already occupied by his troops. He summoned an Ustaše officer to accompany him, hoping the man could translate—Serbian and Croatian were close enough, he reasoned.

Inside, they found a balding older man with a heavy pouch at his waist standing behind the desk.

"I take it you're the mayor?" Benito asked, glancing toward the Ustaše.

"I speak Italian," the man said coolly. "Tell your thug to leave."

The Ustaše officer tensed and reached for his sidearm, but Benito shot him a sharp glare. Wordlessly, the man turned and left.

"My apologies, Mayor," Benito said. "Colonel Benito Albino Mussolini. As of today, this town and the surrounding region are under Italian control. You and your people are now subjects of His Majesty the King. You may retain your position, and I assure you the population will not be harmed."

"Assurances?" the mayor scoffed. "While you collaborate with those Ustaše dogs? You may keep them on a leash here, but across Yugoslavia, they're butchering civilians."

"I have no knowledge of that. But I give you my word: as long as my men are in this town, your people will be protected. Tomorrow we'll establish a garrison to maintain order."

"You mean occupy us," the mayor said bitterly. "Fine. Do what you must. Just keep those Ustaše animals out of here."

"Thank you, Mayor... your name?"

"Dragos Mihailovic."

"Mayor Mihailovic, thank you for your cooperation."

Benito left the office and immediately ordered night sentries and patrols to be established. The remainder of the evening was spent ensuring Ustaše units did not mistreat prisoners or civilians. A few firm threats—firing squads, hangings—kept them in check. Eventually, he ordered them to camp outside the town, separated from Italian troops.

He yawned, exhaustion creeping in. Turning to his adjutant, he gave his final order for the night.

"Wake me in a few hours. It's a long road to Belgrade."

-
Declassified briefing addressed to Prime Minister Churchill informing him on the situation in Yugoslavia: Date of declassification January 10 1990

TOP SECRET
British Foreign Office – Intelligence Directorate
Briefing for the Right Honourable Winston S. Churchill, Prime Minister
Date: July 15, 1940
Subject: Strategic Situation in the Balkans – Italian-Led Invasion and Partition of Yugoslavia

SUMMARY:

The Kingdom of Yugoslavia has ceased to exist as a sovereign state following a rapid and coordinated military invasion spearheaded by the Kingdom of Italy and its allied client states. The campaign began on June 15, 1940, and concluded with full occupation by July 10, 1940. Italy has since overseen a radical redrawing of Balkan borders with direct strategic implications for the United Kingdom, the Mediterranean theatre, and British imperial interests in the Middle East.

KEY DEVELOPMENTS:

1. ITALIAN INVOLVEMENT & STRATEGY:

Although officially neutral in the broader European conflict, Italy under Benito Mussolini has acted aggressively to expand influence through diplomatic and limited military initiatives.

Italian forces spearheaded the invasion from Dalmatia and Albania, supported by newly established bases in northern Epirus and the Dodecanese, secured through recent rapprochement with Greece.

Italy's rapid advance, assisted by Croatian collaborators and coordinated political subversion, enabled swift collapse of Yugoslav command structures. Though reports show Italian difficulties when faced with protracted Serbian resistance as was the case in majority Serbian towns and districts in Bosnia. These however were overcome with intense air and artillery bombardments and alleged use of chemical warfare.

Colonel Benito Albino Mussolini, son of the Duce, reportedly played a prominent role in ground operations in Dalmatia. Reports suggest his promotion to General and Mussolini grooming him as his successor.

2. AXIS OF INVASION – COALITION PARTICIPANTS:

The offensive was conducted by a coalition known informally as the Rome Pact, comprising Italy, Hungary, Bulgaria, with minor support by recently co-opted Greece and Spain via logistics and some volunteers.

Italian command exercised supreme authority, with regional operations managed by allied national forces.

Croatia was instrumental internally, with the Ustaše movement facilitating uprisings and intelligence sabotage prior to and during the invasion.

3. POST-WAR PARTITION:

The following territorial divisions have been formalized under an agreement orchestrated in Zara on July 11:

Italy: Annexes Dalmatian coast and Montenegro; Croatia is established as a nominally independent kingdom in personal union with the House of Savoy, was given all of Bosnia as compensation for the Dalmatian coast.

Hungary: Gains Vojvodina and northern Serbia up to the Danube, restoring some of its pre-Trianon boundaries.

Bulgaria: Annexes Macedonia and central/southern Serbia, expanding its reach into the Morava Valley.

Albania: Under continued Italian suzerainty, Albania is awarded Kosovo.

Notably, Greece, although not a direct participant in the fighting, has received economic and strategic compensation in the form of restored territories and guaranteed Italian protection via the return of North Epirus and the Dodecanese.

4. STRATEGIC IMPLICATIONS:

Italy now controls or influences a vast corridor from the Adriatic to the Aegean, and from Montenegro to the Bulgarian frontier. The Mediterranean is increasingly dominated by Italian bases, with significant naval potential now deployed from the Canaries to the Dodecanese. Heavy Serbian resistance within Bulgarian occupied territories has tied down the Bulgarian army, leaving them dependent on Italian aid.

British shipping and imperial lines of communication face increased risk, particularly through the Suez-Gibraltar line.

Italy has not yet declared war on any of the principal belligerents in the wider conflict but continues to maneuver in ways favorable to Axis interests.

Rome's continued support of the Jewish paramilitary Lehi in British Palestine is of concern, especially given Lehi's extremist tactics and their potential to inflame Arab resistance or disrupt British authority in the Mandate.

5. RECOMMENDATIONS:

Diplomatic pressure should be applied to Spain, whose concessions to Italy have granted them bases in the Canaries, Balearic Islands, and Valencia.

Greater intelligence focus is needed on Italian-Croatian collaboration and on the logistics pipelines through neutral Italy, which may be benefiting Germany covertly.

Consider engaging the Greek government via backchannels to assess the durability of its alliance with Italy and potential for strategic realignment.

Counter-operations in British Palestine to monitor and neutralize Lehi activities are advised.

CONCLUSION:

Italy has, under the guise of neutrality, orchestrated a dramatic realignment of power in the Balkans and Mediterranean, expanding its influence and that of its Rome Pact allies. This realignment creates a buffer zone favorable to Italian strategic autonomy and positions Mussolini as a powerbroker in southeastern Europe and the Mediterranean. While not yet a formal Axis combatant, Italy has assumed a position of potential threat, particularly to British naval and colonial interests.

---

Prepared by:
Major Alastair Greene
Balkans Division, Foreign Office Intelligence Directorate

Reviewed and approved:
Sir Alexander Cadogan
Permanent Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs

-
German high command meeting transcript found in the aftermath of the battle of Berlin:

TRANSCRIPT – GERMAN HIGH COMMAND MEETING

Location: Reich Chancellery, Berlin
Date: July 16, 1940
Attendees:

Führer Adolf Hitler

Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop

General Wilhelm Keitel (OKW)

Heinrich Himmler (SS)

Hermann Göring (Luftwaffe)

Admiral Erich Raeder (Kriegsmarine)

Joseph Goebbels (Propaganda Minister)

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

Hitler:
So, Mussolini has taken Yugoslavia without us. The Italians, Hungarians, Bulgarians—they carved it up like they were slicing cake at a wedding. And we were not invited.

Keitel:
Mein Führer, the Italians informed us only after the operation was underway. They claim it was an "internal Balkan arrangement."

Hitler (snaps):
And since when does Italy move with such precision and secrecy? Since when does Mussolini outflank us diplomatically?!

Göring:
This son of his—Benito Albino. It was because of his capture that Mussolini secured peace in Finland as well. And now his actions in Yugoslavia. It seems the Duce is grooming him as his successor.

Himmler:
The partition is brutal. Ethnic expulsions are already reported. Croats in Bosnia are executing and expelling Serbs. Ustaše loyalists are burning Orthodox churches.

Ribbentrop:
The Italians are positioning themselves as guardians of Balkan order. They've created a Croatia under Savoy and managed to keep Greece loyal by restoring lost territories. It's a balancing act, but effective.

Goebbels:
It's dangerous. The Italian press is already portraying Mussolini as the "Protector of Christian Civilization," liberator of Dalmatia, saviour of the Jews in Palestine—this is a direct challenge.

Raeder:
Navally, we're also at risk. Italian bases now dot the Mediterranean. If they further fortify the Canaries and Balearics, British shipping becomes even more vulnerable—but so are we if Italy turns its knives on us.

Hitler:
They've kept trade open with us. And they've received Jewish refugees in return. That keeps them useful—for now.

Ribbentrop:
They're walking a line, Führer. Close enough to us to benefit. Close enough to the Allies to avoid being attacked. If they lean any further West, we may need to…remind them where their interests lie.

Hitler:
Let them play empire. It will unravel eventually. We will not rescue them even if they beg and grovel. And if Mussolini wants to be Caesar, he'll find that Europe is not Rome, and I am no Pompey.

Göring:
Shall we begin contingency planning for the Balkans? In case Italy collapses under its own weight?

Hitler:
Yes. Quietly. And tell our friends in Budapest and Sofia: next time they march, it will be under our banner.

END TRANSCRIPT

-

Source: The Times of London
Date: July 18, 1940
Headline: "ITALY SWEEPS THROUGH THE BALKANS: A NEW ORDER RISES SOUTH OF EUROPE"

Dateline: Zara, Italian Dalmatia

> In a swift and largely unopposed campaign lasting under four weeks, the Kingdom of Italy—under the direction of Benito Mussolini has redrawn the map of southeastern Europe. Beginning on June 15, coordinated invasions by Italy, Hungary, and Bulgaria struck at the heart of a fragmented Yugoslavia. By July 10, Belgrade had fallen, and the state ceased to exist as a political entity.

> Italian forces now control all of Dalmatia and Montenegro. A new "Kingdom of Croatia," placed in personal union with Italy, has emerged with territory stretching to the Drina. Hungary has claimed Vojvodina and the Serbian plains north of the Danube, while Bulgaria has annexed Macedonia and Serbia's southern reaches.

> The star of the hour appears to be Colonel Benito Albino Mussolini, son of the Duce, whose meteoric rise continues to unsettle European observers. Known for his capture while volunteering in Finland and his subsequent acclaim as a hero by Il Duce after his return , the younger Mussolini is seen by some as Mussolini's heir apparent after his promotion to General, being seen alongside his father as the final treaty partitioning Yugoslavia was signed by Mussolini, Admiral Horthy and King Boris III.

> London and Paris have expressed outrage, but official condemnation remains muted. Italy remains technically neutral in the wider war, and continues trade with both Allied and Axis powers.

-

Source: The New York Times
Date: July 18, 1940
Headline: "ITALY STORMS YUGOSLAVIA : BALANCE OF POWER SHIFTS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN"

> WASHINGTON—President Roosevelt received intelligence briefings this week detailing what some are calling the most significant geopolitical realignment in the Mediterranean since the fall of the Ottoman Empire. In a complex maneuver combining diplomacy, proxy warfare, and military action over the last year, Fascist Italy has absorbed or aligned the bulk of the Balkans without firing a shot at the Allied Powers.

> The Italian-led invasion of Yugoslavia, ending on July 10, has triggered concern across the State Department and military intelligence agencies. Though officially "neutral," Italy has extended its influence into Greece, Dalmatia, Montenegro, and beyond. More concerning still is its rumored backing of Zionist militias in British Palestine and its quiet deal-making with Nazi Germany.

August 1, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The chandelier above us glittered like some gaudy disco ball from hell, casting fractured light across a table full of dictators. Pavelić was chewing with his mouth open again. Horthy sipped wine like he thought he was in Vienna. Boris III kept adjusting his cuffs like a nervous schoolboy. Metaxas sat silent, a thundercloud in a suit. And Franco—dead-eyed, cold, with a face that said he'd rather be anywhere else.

I smiled. Or at least, I think I did. My face doesn't always respond like it used to. It's been almost a year since I woke up in this nightmare—since Rwanda, the accident, the pothole—and then: boom. Mussolini, 1939. The day the world fell apart.

I still don't know how or why. Maybe God's got a twisted sense of humor. Maybe I'm in purgatory. Maybe I'm a ghost that hijacked a corpse and now rules a continent. I miss home. I miss my mom. I miss America. I miss Sofie. I even miss Spotify. Sometimes I hum Anri's remember summer days under my breath and wonder if I'm still real.

We were toasting—again. Victories, conquests, border redrawings. Serbia for Bulgaria. Vojdvodina for Hungary. Tangiers for Spain. Like trading Pokémon cards soaked in blood.

"Gentlemen," I said, raising my glass—grappa, maybe? I can't taste anything anymore. "Everything has unfolded just as I foresaw."

I always say that. They eat it up.
"France lies defeated. Britain stands alone. The time has come to reshape Europe in our image while our enemies are weak and unable to uphold their so-called balance of power."

I glanced at Horthy and Boris, a smirk curdling on my lips. "As promised, Romania shall be ours—Transylvania, Drobuja—you name it. We'll take it without firing a shot. Berlin's distracted. London's gasping. It's our turn on the dance floor."

They nodded. They always do.

Metaxas finally cleared his throat. "My ministers... believe we are ready to challenge Turkey. With your support, Duce."

"Excellent," I replied, voice warm, eyes dead. "The Hagia Sophia shall ring with mass again. Byzantium reborn."

Then I turned to Franco. "Tangiers?"

"The British protest," he grunted, "but they're impotent."

"Good. Let them whine." I waved it away like a mosquito. "I recognize the annexation. From this day forward, Tangiers is Spanish. As Spanish as Cádiz, or bad paella in Madrid."

"Thank you, Duce."

He says it like it tastes bad. Everything tastes bad lately.

"Gentlemen, this is just the beginning," I declared, raising my glass again. "Next stop: victory. Then the entire Mediterranean will be ours. Like a great warm bathtub full of blood."

"To victory!"

They raised their cups. I raised mine too, but my hand was trembling. Not that they noticed.

They left soon after, all of them laughing like they'd just seen a good movie. I stayed behind, alone in this goddamn palace.

I went back to my desk. Opened the drawer. The gun was still there—cold, heavy, familiar. American made. Of course. I put the barrel in my mouth like I do every night now. Sometimes I click the safety off just to feel something. Haven't pulled the trigger. Yet. I'm scared of what comes next. Heaven? Hell? Or worse: waking up again, still here. Still him.

I stare at my reflection sometimes and don't see myself. Just the ghost of a man who used to be someone. I used to dig latrines and teach English. Now I sign off on invasions. I'm the Duce.

And you know what's messed up? Part of me is starting to like it. The power. The fear in their eyes. It's like being the final boss in a game I never wanted to play. I'm starting to get that Joker itch—you know? The one that whispers: burn it all down, just to see the colors.

But then I think of Sofie. Of home. Of Time After Tim" playing on a dusty cassette player while the rain tapped on my Peace Corps shack. And I cry. Every night. Like clockwork.

God, I want to wake up.

Or never wake up again.

 

[Alenco98]

August 10, 1940
Greater German Reich
The Berghof

The Bavarian valley below looked like something out of a chocolate box—picturesque, peaceful, utterly disconnected from the fact that the four horsemen of 20th-century authoritarianism were sitting around a table upstairs. I sipped my wine like it mattered. It didn't. Nothing really did anymore.

I took my seat across from Adolf Hitler, Miklós Horthy, Francisco Franco, and King Boris III of Bulgaria. Quite the dinner party. I nodded politely, muttering in barely-passable German, "Apologies, gentlemen. I was admiring the view."

My German was fluent now—thank you, Duce memories—but the accent? Imagine a New Jersey tourist trying to order bratwurst in Munich. Still, I pressed on, smirking: "Herr Hitler, I must say, this view is exquisite. I demand Italy be given an enclave here—or I'll declare war." I even chuckled. Nobody else did.

Crickets. Hitler just blinked at me like I'd farted during mass. I sighed. "Tough crowd. Anyway, beautiful place, delicious food. But let's get to it: Romania, Hungary, Southern Europe—shall we carve up the world a bit more?"

"Indeed," Horthy said. "Northern Transylvania must return to Hungary."

"As must Southern Dobruja," King Boris added. "Up to the Danube."

I nodded, swirling my wine. I could have been back in America, or Kigali, or anywhere else but here—anywhere but this fascist body with its pomp and ceremony and this unbearable, crushing power. I smiled the way an actor smiles when he forgets his lines but keeps going.

"France is finished," I said. "Their Mediterranean empire is a fire sale waiting to happen. Spain can take Algeria and Morocco—consolidate the western Med. Italy will take Corsica, Tunisia, French Somaliland, Lebanon, and Syria. As for the British, they'll bark about 'the balance of power' while hiding under umbrellas in their bombed-out homes. They don't have the strength to intervene—not yet."

Franco blinked at me like I'd offered him the moon. Then he nodded, slowly. Puppet on a string. We all were.

"And Prime Minister Pétain?" Hitler asked. "He might not respond kindly to vultures circling his colonies."

"Vae victis," I said, with a shrug. "Woe to the losers. France surrendered like a wet sponge. You own them now, Adolf. If they want compensation, give them Wallonia and the Belgian Congo. Flanders can go to the Dutch. Belgium isn't even a real country. It's just a sad little bureaucratic accident."

Everyone looked at me like I'd just licked the communion wafer.

I kept going, like a freight train without brakes. "Let's not forget—Britain did blow up the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir. Don't pretend they won't seize those colonies themselves, use them as staging grounds. Better we take them now. And since we're still 'neutral,' you can extract resources from them. For a price, of course."

Hitler looked annoyed but calculating. That's how he always looked. Like a man playing chess and cheating with both hands.

"I'll need guarantees," he said.

"You can keep scapegoating the Jews. Expel them from France, Denmark, the Low Countries—hell, all of Europe once you roll into Russia. And you can use Italian ports to resupply your subs."

He nodded. "Very well. France's colonies in the Mediterranean and French Somaliland go to you and Spain. I'll instruct Pétain."

"And Romania?" I asked.

"So long as the oil keeps flowing from Ploiești—you can do as you please."

"Excellent." I smiled. "Let's draft the treaty."

---

That night.

I keep a pistol in my desk. It's become part of my bedtime ritual: brush teeth, pour a drink, chamber a round, and sit in silence with the barrel in my mouth until the weight of the day evaporates—or I pass out. I tell myself it's just in case. But some nights, it feels more like a test.

I don't know if this is hell or a cosmic joke, but I want out. I miss Sofie. I miss my mom's dumb jokes, the humidity of summer back in New Orleans, the way my Rwandan village smelled before sunrise. All I have now is power, and it tastes like ash.

I play city pop in my mind as I draft partition plans and ethnic cleansing maps. Sometimes I imagine she is still out there, dancing somewhere under neon lights, while I rot in this opera of fascism.

They call me Il Duce. I feel like a ghost in a dead man's suit. Everyone treats me like a god, and yet I'm lonelier than I've ever been. I could end it all tonight. But I'm afraid—what if this isn't a dream? What if I just wake up as Stalin next?

And God help me… some days, I start to enjoy it. That's what scares me the most.

------------

August 30, 1940
Greater German Reich
Belvedere Palace, Vienna, Austria

I was in a room with Franco, Hitler, Boris III, Horthy, Pétain—who looked like someone had just pissed in his wine—and that Romanian corpse in a suit, Manoilescu. They all looked tired, worn down by the machinery of history. Or maybe I was projecting.

I was the last to sign what Hitler dramatically called the "Second Vienna Award." Sounds grand, doesn't it? Like the sequel to a movie nobody liked the first time. I didn't mind. I had walked away with the real prize: Corsica, Tunisia, Nice, Savoy, French Somaliland, Lebanon, Syria—most of Italy's dreams of Risorgimento handed to me on a silver platter. All except Malta, but I told myself that could wait. I lie to myself a lot these days.

I signed the paper with a flourish, the kind I imagine you'd use to sell your soul. My troops were already moving—I'd given the order days ago, anticipating the outcome. I knew it would go my way. It always does. That's the problem.

Then came the photo op. Flashbulbs. Forced smiles. I stood in the center like a black hole in a tailored uniform. Everyone thinks I'm winning. I'm not.

Later, I reminded myself—once back in Rome, I need to meet the British ambassador. Time to squeeze the British for more. Maybe Churchill will finally pop a blood vessel. That would be funny, wouldn't it?

But all I could think about, even as I stood among the so-called victors of Europe, was how much I miss Sofie. Her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes when she told me she loved me, not knowing my time was about to be swallowed by this waking nightmare.

It's been almost a year since I died. Or woke up. Or whatever this is. I still don't know. One second I'm in Rwanda, then—bam—I'm Il Duce, god of the Mediterranean, architect of history, and I want nothing more than to die again. Properly, this time.

I keep a pistol in my desk drawer. Every night, I take it out, sit in silence, put the barrel in my mouth like it's some bitter communion wafer. Cold metal, hot breath. I never pull the trigger. Maybe I'm afraid of hell. Or maybe I'm already in it.

The power is rotting me. I feel it—this god complex growing like mold behind my eyes. Everyone treats me like I'm divine, but I feel like a ghost piloting a corpse. A meat puppet with delusions of Caesar. I think about burning it all down sometimes—going full Joker. Just to see what would happen.

People talk to me like I'm real. Like I belong here. But they don't see me. Not me. They see Mussolini, and he's just a mask. A costume. An echo. I miss my friends. I miss 7-Eleven slushies and late-night karaoke. I miss Sofie. I miss me.

Some nights, I cry. Not the loud, theatrical kind—just quiet, pathetic tears. City pop plays in my head like a broken record. Naoko Gushima's voice cuts through the silence like a knife: Missing you, from one of her albums. But missing someone implies I'll seen them again. I doubt I will see them again.

Everything tastes like ash. The victories are hollow. The future is a rerun I've already watched a hundred times, and I know how it ends.

So I keep smiling for the cameras. Playing my part. Signing treaties. Starting wars. A puppet among puppets.

I hope I wake up soon.
I hope I wake up at all.

-

The Times
September 1, 1940

"Italy Expands Influence in Mediterranean with Sweeping Territorial Gains in New 'Second Vienna Award' – Mussolini Secures Corsica, Tunisia, Syria, and More"

In a dramatic shift in the balance of power across Europe and North Africa, Italy's Benito Mussolini brokered an agreement with Hitler and other European leaders, resulting in the Italian acquisition of critical French territories, including Corsica, French Somalialand, Nice, Savoy, Tunisia, and Syria. The deal, announced yesterday, solidifies Italy's growing dominance in the Mediterranean, despite maintaining a neutral stance in the ongoing conflict. Critics warn of Mussolini's rising power and the strategic implications for Britain and its war efforts.

-

A transcript of Churchill meeting his Cabinet after the second Vienna Award, date of declassification: September 3, 1990

Transcript: Meeting of Prime Minister Winston Churchill and His Cabinet
September 2, 1940
10 Downing Street, London

Present:

Winston Churchill (Prime Minister)

Lord Halifax (Foreign Secretary)

Anthony Eden (Secretary of State for War)

Sir Kingsley Wood (Chancellor of the Exchequer)

Clement Attlee (Leader of the Labour Party)

David Margesson (Minister of Defence)

Sir John Reith (Minister of Information)

Lord Beaverbrook (Minister of Aircraft Production)

---

Churchill:
Looking grim, he addresses the room
"Well, gentlemen, the events of the past week have undoubtedly shifted the geopolitical landscape in ways we feared but could hardly have imagined. Mussolini has, once again, emerged as a central figure in European politics. Through this so-called 'Second Vienna Award,' Italy has secured vast territories from France—Syria, Lebanon, Corsica, Tunisia, and more. Spain, with his approval, has taken Algeria. The map of Europe and the Mediterranean has changed dramatically. The question before us now is: how do we respond?"

Lord Halifax:
Leaning forward, his voice calm but concerned
"We cannot afford to underestimate Mussolini's ambitions. These recent moves—especially his support of Jewish insurgents in Palestine and the rumours of his designs on Turkey are deeply troubling. The Mediterranean is effectively under his control now, and should he successfully recruit Portugal to his side, or worse, launch an attack on Turkey, the situation could spiral beyond our ability to contain it."

Churchill:
Interrupts sharply
"Yes, yes, I am well aware of his ambitions. Italy, despite its neutrality in the war, is effectively shaping the outcome of this conflict from the periphery. If he allies further with Spain or recruits Portugal, the entire southern flank of Europe will be aligned against us. And to top it off, he has found a way to arm and finance Jewish insurgents in Palestine. The implications of this are manifold, not just for the region, but for our own ability to maintain influence in the Middle East. This is a situation that demands action."

Anthony Eden:
Eyes narrowed, he speaks with conviction
"Indeed, Prime Minister. While we are engaged in the Battle of Britain, Mussolini is quietly consolidating power in the Mediterranean and making moves in the Balkans. His invasion of Yugoslavia, though swift, was calculated. By partitioning it with Hungary and Bulgaria, he has cemented his influence in the region. His next step may very well be Turkey, which will give him direct access to the Black Sea and further destabilize the region."

Clement Attlee:
"Let's not forget, Mussolini's support for the Jewish insurgents in Palestine is particularly alarming. By training tens of thousands of fighters and backing the Lehi organization, he is in the process of creating an independent military force in the heart of our mandate. If they continue to gain strength, they may well become a force we cannot ignore."

Sir Kingsley Wood:
Clearing his throat
"We cannot allow Italy to continue unchecked. Their expansionism is not confined to the Mediterranean. It threatens our very survival in the long term. Mussolini's growing influence over the southern European axis is tightening with every move. What is our strategy to counterbalance this growing threat?"

Churchill:
Sighs deeply, his face hardening
"First and foremost, we must remain vigilant. We cannot afford to let our guard down, not even for a moment. We must press on with the Battle of Britain, and we will see this fight through to victory. As for Mussolini's territorial grabs—there will be no immediate military response. We are stretched thin as it is. However, I want to make one thing clear: we will not let him dictate the future of Europe."

David Margesson:
Speaking with a sense of urgency
"We cannot allow his control over French territories to stand. The Mediterranean is becoming a battleground of influence. Corsica, Tunisia, Lebanon—each of these regions is of vital strategic importance. We must consider the option of forming new alliances. Perhaps the Middle East could provide us with opportunities to counterbalance Mussolini's influence. Could we do more to support the French resistance or rally the forces of the Free French?"

Churchill:
Nods slowly, reflecting
"Yes, yes. The Free French—led by De Gaulle—must be supported. We will reinforce our efforts to combat Vichy France and provide them with the means to oppose Mussolini's hold on North Africa and the Mediterranean. But we must also look eastward. Turkey is a key player in this new game, and should Mussolini push for control of it, we cannot sit idle."

Lord Beaverbrook:
Passionately
"If Mussolini continues down this path, we may need to take more direct action in the Mediterranean. But let's not forget, he still remains neutral in the war. If we go after him too aggressively, we risk further complicating our position with the Allies. We have to find a way to counteract his influence without forcing him into a war with us prematurely."

Churchill:
Leaning forward, his voice low and resolute
"We will have to be strategic. It's clear Italy is positioning itself to dominate the Mediterranean, but they have made a dangerous move in arming the Lehi in Palestine. If that doesn't destabilize the entire region, I don't know what will. We must ensure our control over Egypt, and strengthen our presence in the Middle East. The oil in the region is too valuable, and Mussolini's actions threaten to tip the balance in his favor."

Anthony Eden:
"We will need to step up our diplomatic efforts as well. If Mussolini is allowed to gain further ground, we may find ourselves isolated. We must strengthen our alliances with the Middle Eastern states, and perhaps look to recruit more nations to our cause."

Churchill:
His gaze sharpens, steely resolve in his eyes
"Indeed. We will not let Italy take the Mediterranean unchallenged. Mussolini may think he can control the situation from the sidelines, but he has miscalculated. I will not let him write the history of this conflict. Not without us fighting for our place."

Clement Attlee:
"Perhaps we should consider doing tit for tat and increasing our support for the resistance in Ethiopia, and sending more resources to the authorities in Palestine to mitigate the effect of Mussolini's Lehi."

Churchill:
Smiling slightly
"Quite right, Attlee. I see no reason why we shouldn't support them. Let's provide them with the resources they need to take the fight to Mussolini and his allies. And send a message that we will not be cowed. Italy's neutrality will only last as long as it serves their purpose."

Lord Halifax:
"We may need to consider how to deal with Mussolini on the international stage as well. If he continues to expand unchecked, we could risk pushing him closer to Germany, and that would be a disaster."

Churchill:
Leaning back, steely-eyed
"Then we must act swiftly. Our course is clear. We will tighten our grip on the Mediterranean and ensure that Mussolini's expansion is met with resistance at every turn. But for now, gentlemen, we have our eyes fixed on the skies above Britain. Let us win this battle, and from there, we will begin to turn the tide on Mussolini and his expanding empire."

 

[Alenco98]

An Excerpt from Diary of a young girl: The story of Ann Frank

Monday, 12 June, 1940

On Friday, June 12th, I woke up at six o'clock and no wonder; it was my birthday. But of course I was not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity until a quarter to seven. Then I could bear it no longer, and went to the dining room, where I received a warm welcome from Moortje (the cat).

Soon after seven I went to Mummy and Daddy and then to the sitting room to undo my presents. The first to greet me
was you , possibly the nicest of all. Then on the table there were a bunch of roses, a plant, and some peonies, and more arrived during the day.

I got masses of things from Mummy and Daddy, and was thoroughly spoiled by various friends. Among other things I was given Camera Obscura , a party game, lots of sweets, chocolates, a puzzle, a brooch, Tales and Legends of the Netherlands by Joseph Cohen, Daisy's Mountain Holiday (a terrific book), and some money. Now I can buy The Myths of Greece and Rome— grand!

Then Lies called for me and we went to school. Things have been hectic after the invasion ended. But daddy says everything will be ok.

Thursday, 16 June, 1940

Daddy had me, mommy, Margot and grandmommy pack up as many things as we took. He said the authorities told every Jew in the Netherlands they're going to be sent to Italy.

Papa is worried but is glad, says the Germans are bad people but Mussolini likes Jews, he says we'll have a house in Africa.

Tuesday, 21 June 1940

We couldn't pack too much, and grandmommy is sick from the journey. Fortunately we arrived in Italy today. Daddy speaks some Italian and the border guards were nice enough to us. Some of them even gave me and Margot some candy. They're much nicer than the German soldiers and border guards we encountered on the way to italy.

The ride was long and boring, they packed us so tightly in the trains and I almost couldn't breathe. But I'm glad I can write in you again.

Friday, 24 June 1940

We were settled in what daddy told me was a processing camp. The guards are friendly, they sometimes give us treats and sneak in food. Mommy and Margot have been practicing Italian with me. I know how to say Hello goodbye and the days of the Week. I can even count to 20!!! Soon I'll be unstoppable.

Mommy and daddy were busy too. Some people have been wondering the camp, they're all dressed in black and gather us a few times a day. They make us say funny things in Italian, daddy says it means Strength Through Discipline. They also make us do salutes like the Germans did. Daddy says it's a little scary and to not listen to what they spew but to not speak out.

Thursday, 30 June 1940

We're finally going to Africa. Daddy says we're to leave in a few hours and to pack up what we have. Grandmommy is better, the nurse at the camp was really friendly and patched her up, said she had influenza but should be better.

I hope we don't move around so much in Africa, I want to spend more time writing in my diary.

Thursday, 7 July 1940

Well it seems my wish didn't come true. I thought Africa would mean we wouldn't be as busy but I was wrong.

We landed a few days ago and me and Margot were immediately matriculated into a makeshift school right outside the camp. We're a class of 100, with kids from Poland, France, Slovakia, Hungary, Denmark, Belgium and even one from Norway. We study Italian in the mornings, then in midday they teach us Hebrew along with the Torah. Unfortunately class is outside and I can barely pay attention thanks to how hot the weather is.

All the boys look forward to the evening though, these men calling themselves the Lohamei Herut Israel are training us. They give us wooden rifles and teach us how to march and even pretend to shoot. They say Mussolini is helping us liberate our homeland.

I prefer the Hebrew lessons though. Mommy and daddy are worried though. They hope they never have to use their training, Margot tells me mommy and daddy are being taught to use real guns. I ask her if they're going to give us some and she tells me the older boys and girls are being given firearms too, some are even being sent to Israel to begin the struggle as they're calling it.

Sunday, 10 July 1940

The Lohamei as they're being called now had another meeting in the camp. All the adults were forced to pledge allegiance to them and join what they call the Falag party. They're being threatened to be sent back to Germany with their families if they don't. They also told us to pledge allegiance to the Falag youth or we'd be sent back.

They play scary movies afterwards, soldiers killing men, women, and children in the streets. They say they've been doing this to Jews in Poland, to our people. I asked Wladimir, one of the polish kids if that was true. He told me one of his uncle's and some of his cousins were shot in front of him. I immediately pledged allegiance as did Margot.

It was so scary, I didn't want mommy or daddy or Margot to die. I went to mommy and daddy begged them to join the Falag, but mommy and daddy reassured me, they showed me their black armbands with the star of David, they were both in the Falag, I was so relieved.

Monday, 11 July 1940

We had school as usual, in the evenings the Lohamei soldiers came in and showed us what a rifle looked like. One of the men showed us how to assemble and disassemble a rifle. He then passed it to each of us and showed us the correct way to hold it. We spent the entire evening parading around and training.

One of the boys, a french boy by the name of Raoul asked when we would get real weapons. The man laughed and said soon.

Thursday, 15 July 1940

It seems Raoul's wishes came true. A big truck arrived at the camp today. The Lohamei gave us each a rifle and we were told to assemble and reassemble it. Our trainer, a man named Mordechai told us to assemble and disassemble it until we got it correctly. We were there for hours, no one was allowed to leave until we figured it out. By the time we were done the moon was up in the sky.

Mommy and daddy were worried and asked me and Margot where we were, I told them we were learning to assemble and disassemble a rifle. Mommy and grandmommy were distraught but daddy just sighed.

Tuesday, 20 July 1940

Il Duce showed up to our camp today. He gave a massive speech, saying things about the future I couldn't really understand. Something about national rebirth and glory, I need to work on my Italian.

Mussolini then came and greeted the kids at the camp. He shook hands with each of us and asked our names.

When he got to me and I gave him my name he seemed to stop for a moment and stare at me. He nodded and chuckled a little, then he told me I'd do great things. I was surprised he spoke German.

 

[Alenco98]

September 5, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The British ambassador sat across from me, stiff as the starched collar strangling his pale neck. We dined on a decadent spread I'd personally arranged, more for performance than pleasure. He squirmed behind polite smiles, and I took quiet joy in that. Power has a flavor. It's bitter, like good espresso and fresh betrayal.

I didn't speak until our plates were cleared and the servants gone, replaced by the thick quiet of velvet and stone. We sipped wine—Tuscan, overpriced, divine. He looked at me like a man expecting a dagger.

"Ambassador," I began at last, swirling the glass in my hand, "I trust the meal was to your satisfaction?"

"It was quite delicious, I admit. But Mr. Mussolini—why have you summoned me at such a late hour?"

"To deliver my terms," I said flatly. "Concerning Italy's neutrality. As you're no doubt aware, recent developments in Vienna have placed me in a rather... central position, diplomatically speaking. The Mediterranean. The Middle East. The pieces are falling into place."

He tensed. Good.

"I assure you," I went on, "Italy is prepared to remain friendly with Britain. You can continue your little war with Germany—unmolested—provided our conditions are met."

His face tightened. I saw the calculation behind his eyes, but also something else: fear. Not of me, but of what I represented. A mask with a gun and no soul behind the eyes.

"Prime Minister, we signed a treaty," he protested. "You pledged neutrality in exchange for lifting sanctions. We've honored that. Even tolerated your dealings with Berlin."

"And I'd remind you," I said, leaning back in my chair, "that it was you and the French who signed that treaty. The French are now... liquid assets. Their empire? Acquired. At a discount. To quote a famous lord: I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

He bristled. "This is outrageous. By what right—"

"The strong do as they will," I interrupted. "The weak suffer what they must. That's not philosophy. That's reality."

I reached into my coat and unfolded a piece of parchment, the ink still fresh. My list.

"Here are Italy's modest requests. Socotra shall be ours. Aden and all of southern Yemen will return to the Kingdom of Yemen. British Somaliland, Egypt, Sudan, and Malta—ceded to Italy. Gibraltar, British Guiana, and your Caribbean territories—transferred to Spain. Cyprus will go to Greece. And finally, you will hand over Haile Selassie and cease all support for the Ethiopian resistance."

His eyes bulged slightly. Like a cartoon. Or maybe that was just my brain short-circuiting.

"With all due respect," he said slowly, "these demands are unacceptable. You're asking us to surrender the Mediterranean."

"I am," I said, smiling like a man about to fall off a cliff and hoping to land in water. "But think of what you gain—access. German ships already refuel in our ports. Wouldn't you prefer not to be locked out entirely?"

"And if we refuse?"

"Then I'll consider alternative arrangements. Perhaps Tokyo would like a few warm water ports. Or Berlin might be persuaded to stop playing the underdog."

I snapped my fingers. "Now then, dessert?"

He stood. "I find myself quite full, thank you. Good night, Duce."

He left without another word. I smiled to myself.

And then, when the echoes of his footsteps were gone, I went back to my desk.

The pistol was waiting.

I opened the drawer like I had every night for the past month, maybe more. I'd lost count. There it was—cold, sleek, heavier than it should be. American steel, like me. I picked it up. Checked the chamber. Full. Always full. One of these nights, maybe. But not tonight. Not yet.

I pressed the barrel against my teeth, felt the cold metal on my tongue. Gagged a little. Not romantic. Not cinematic. Just stupid.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell. If I died back in Rwanda—in that bus crash or river crossing or whatever—and this is punishment. This... reality. This fascist meat puppet I'm trapped in. A ghost in a dictator's skin, playing dress-up in history's worst costume party.

I miss Sofie. I miss my family. I miss drinking cheap coffee from tin mugs and playing Toto on a shitty radio while the kids danced barefoot in the dust.

Now I have power—real power. Empires. Armies. I can redraw the map with a single phone call.

And none of it matters. Because I can't go back.

I want to wake up. I want it to stop. I want to scream. Instead, I put on the uniform, I speak the words, I shake the hands.

Part of me thinks I could burn it all down. Joker-style. Set the world on fire just to feel something.

And part of me just wants to hear "Plastic Love" one more time on a summer night in the backseat of a Toyota, with her head on my shoulder.

Instead, I get Rome.

And the gun.

Tomorrow, maybe.

-

Declassified transcript of the British Cabinet meeting after Mussolini sent his demands to the British government: Date of declassification: September 8, 1990

Transcript: War Cabinet Meeting — September 7, 1940
Location: Cabinet War Rooms, London
Attendees:

Prime Minister Winston Churchill

Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax

First Lord of the Admiralty A.V. Alexander

Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir John Dill

Minister of Economic Warfare Hugh Dalton

Secretary of State for the Colonies Lord Lloyd

Deputy Prime Minister Clement Attlee

---

Churchill:
Gentlemen, we've received Mussolini's message. I trust you've all read the transcript. It appears the Duce fancies himself the new Augustus. His terms are brazen, absurd, and insufferable—but not without cunning. He's crafted an empire without firing a shot, and now he demands we pay the price for keeping him out of the war.

Halifax:
Indeed, Prime Minister. His demands amount to little short of British abdication in the Mediterranean. Egypt, Sudan, Malta, Gibraltar, Cyprus—he wants us to dismember the Empire.

Dalton:
And hand pieces of it to Spain and Greece, no less. He's arming Jewish extremists in Palestine and fueling a civil war under our noses. If we cede now, we lose not only strategic territory—but face a collapse of imperial confidence.

Alexander:
Yet the situation is dire, Prime Minister. The Royal Navy's Mediterranean fleet is overextended. With France fallen and Vichy compliant, the Italian fleet reinforced with French ships, and Mussolini's bases now encircling us from Gibraltar to Cyprus, we could lose our foothold in the region.

Dill:
We're stretched thin. The Italians have encircled the Mediterranean with bases. If we refuse and he joins the Axis outright, we might lose Suez. And then what of India?

Churchill (grimly):
He's playing both sides: neutrality for now, blackmail later. We must call the bluff without tipping over the table.

Attlee:
So what do we offer? Surely we can't meet those demands in full.

Churchill:
We shall draft a counter-proposal. Offer him enough to keep him neutral, but not so much as to make a mockery of the Empire. Here's what I propose:

Churchill pulls out a piece of paper written by one of his aides and begins to read it.

---

1. Continued Neutrality: Britain agrees to recognize Italian neutrality for the duration of the war and will not interfere with Rome Pact affairs, provided Italy does not permit Axis troops passage through its territory, aside from already-agreed German ship refueling and repair. Italy will also allow British ships to use it's ports for refueling and repairs.

2. Territorial Adjustments:

Socotra: Britain agrees to lease the island to Italy for 25 years for use as a naval outpost.

Aden & Yemen: Britain will retain full military control of Aden. Greater autonomy may be offered to the Kingdom of Yemen with British oversight.

Cyprus: No cession. Britain offers to grant expanded Greek Orthodox religious authority and trade concessions to Greece on the island.

Malta, Egypt, Sudan, Somaliland: Non-negotiable. Britain retains it's sovereignty.

Haile Selassie: Britain will not hand over Selassie but may consider reduced support for Ethiopian guerrillas, contingent on a cessation of hostilities in the region.

3. Spain and the Mediterranean: Britain will not interfere in Spanish-African economic integration or investment so long as Gibraltar remains British. No concessions in the Caribbean or Guyana.

4. Palestine: Italy must immediately cease the arming of Lehi and foreign recruitment. Britain will consider a revised Jewish immigration policy post-war in exchange.

---

Halifax:
That's a reasonable offer. It gives him influence and status without surrendering our holdings.

Churchill:
Let us remind the Duce: if he bites the hand, we'll see his empire burn before it rises. But if he accepts our hand—he may yet dine with the victors.

Alexander:
What if he refuses?

Churchill:
Then we begin planning for Mediterranean war. We send reinforcements to Egypt, seal the Suez, and back every resistance movement from the Balkans to Yemen. Let the Roman phoenix rise—but it'll do so over ashes.

---

Meeting Adjourned.
Action Points:

Draft and send formal counter-proposal to Italian Foreign Ministry via neutral Swiss diplomatic channels.

Increase surveillance on Rome Pact activity in Palestine and North Africa.

Prepare emergency Mediterranean fleet redistribution in case of Italian alignment with Axis.

-

September 9, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I sat across from the British ambassador again, this time with Churchill's reply in my hand and a bottle of Barolo between us. The wine was for me. He drank water. A wise man learns not to sip from the devil's glass twice.

Churchill's terms were—what's the word—pragmatic. He was willing to bleed for empire but not hemorrhage for pride. Good. It meant we could talk. It meant I had leverage.

I smiled as I read. A slow, calculated grin I'd perfected somewhere between my fourth existential breakdown and my fifth failed attempt to cry.

"I like it," I said, nodding once. The ambassador, poor bastard, actually exhaled. Relief. Adorable.

"But," I added, savoring the word, "I want a few more things."

He tensed again. Like a dog about to be kicked and hoping I'll just toss him a bone instead.

"British Somaliland goes to Italy. Call it... a gesture of friendship. A trust exercise."

He opened his mouth—I held up a finger.

"I'm not done. I want an unlimited flow of Jewish refugees into Palestine. Yes, unlimited. No quotas, no creative accounting. The Germans are going to start doing... things. Horrible things. You know it, I know it. Let's not play stupid. Let the Jews in."

That got a reaction. Just a flicker in the corner of his eye, a twitch of the cheek. Discomfort. Good.

"Oh, and I'll cease direct arms shipments to the Lehi," I added, swirling the wine in my glass. "In exchange, you stop arming the Ethiopian guerrillas. Haile Selassie and his family can stay in your custody, fine. Let them write memoirs and pretend they're still important. But every other rebel leader you've got stashed in Cairo or Nairobi—I want them. Alive."

I leaned in slightly. "Italy pledges not to execute them. No death penalty. Humane treatment, Geneva Convention, the whole nine yards. They'll get better food than my staff."

There was a long silence. The ambassador's knuckles were white against the edge of his chair. He looked like he wanted to vomit but wasn't sure if I'd have him shot for staining the carpet.

"Run back to Churchill," I said, finishing my wine. "Tell him that's my counter to his counteroffer."

He stood, slow and deliberate, like a man carrying glass in his spine.

"Thank you for your consideration, Prime Minister. I shall send this to the Prime Minister immediately."

He bowed stiffly, turned, and left. No dessert this time. Pity.

I sat there for a long moment after he left. The silence in the room was thick. Too thick. I could hear the faint hum of Rome outside the window. The sound of a city pretending history wasn't being rewritten in the echo of my voice.

I poured another glass. My hand trembled a little.

It's all theater. All of it. I'm just the lead actor in a fascist farce, and the crowd demands blood or brilliance.

I chose both. Because what else is there?

That night, like every night, I went back to my desk. Opened the drawer. The gun was waiting. Always waiting.

I stared at it for a long time. Thought about Sofie again. Thought about her laugh, the way she called me a dork when I put on those old mixtapes. "You're not cool just because you like obscure Japanese city pop, you know." God, I miss her.

I put the barrel in my mouth. Cold. Metallic. My tongue twitched against it.

I didn't pull the trigger.

Not because I didn't want to. But because part of me is still waiting. Waiting to wake up. Waiting to fall asleep. Waiting for the world to crack and tell me it's over.

But it's not.

So I swallowed the scream, holstered the despair, and poured another drink.

The war goes on.

And so do I.

For now.

-

Declassified transcript of the British Cabinet meeting after Mussolini sent his demands to the British government: Date of declassification: September 13, 1990

Transcript: War Cabinet Meeting — September 12, 1940
Location: Cabinet War Rooms, London
Attendees:

Prime Minister Winston Churchill

Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax

First Lord of the Admiralty A.V. Alexander

Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir John Dill

Secretary of State for the Colonies Lord Lloyd

Minister of Economic Warfare Hugh Dalton

Deputy Prime Minister Clement Attlee

Home Secretary Herbert Morrison

Churchill:
Gentlemen, we've received Mussolini's reply. He has accepted most of our terms, but he has offered an adjusted settlement—one that merits serious consideration. Let us review the terms:

Britain retains Malta, Aden, Egypt, Sudan, Gibraltar, and the Caribbean colonies.

Italy will cease arming the Lehi and halt recruitment in Palestine.

In exchange, we are to:

1. Cede British Somaliland to Italy.

2. Permit unrestricted Jewish immigration to Palestine.

3. Turn over all Ethiopian resistance leaders in our custody—excluding Haile Selassie and his family, who may remain under our protection.

4. Italy pledges humane treatment for the Ethiopian prisoners and renounces the use of the death penalty for them.

Dalton:
It's a devil's compromise. Somaliland is a minor colonial outpost. The Jewish immigration could be a political powder keg in Palestine—but halting the arms flow may prevent a civil war. And we keep our Mediterranean anchor.

Lloyd:
Somaliland is strategically negligible compared to what we're gaining. But this unlimited Jewish immigration, our position in Palestine is already under strain. Arab leaders will see this as a betrayal.

Morrison:
The home front will sympathize with Jewish refugees—especially after reports of German atrocities are growing. But it could split the Arab world from us. Cairo and Baghdad may erupt.

Churchill:
A risk, yes—but what's the alternative? War with Italy? We must ask ourselves: can we hold Suez if Mussolini turns his fleet and bases against us? He controls the Adriatic, the Aegean thanks to his agreement with greece, Libya, Syria—hell, he's even sitting in bloody Valencia.

Alexander:
With France fallen and the Vichy fleet now under his command, our naval position is compromised. If we can keep him neutral it's a strategic victory.

Dill:
Handing over Ethiopian leaders will sting. But they're a thorn we can afford to pull. The Italians pledge no executions. We could station observers to ensure humane treatment. And keeping Haile Selassie here maintains some moral authority.

Attlee:
And if we don't take this deal? We face rebellion in Palestine, risk losing the Red Sea corridor, and possibly pull Italy into the Axis camp.

Halifax:
There's a narrow path here, Prime Minister. Accepting this proposal gives us strategic breathing room. And we can sell it domestically as a humanitarian gesture, saving Jewish lives, avoiding Mediterranean escalation, and keeping the Italian navy out of Hitler's hands.

Churchill (after a pause):
So be it. Draft a formal acceptance. Somaliland will go. The gates to Palestine will open—but under British regulation, and we shall expect Rome to honor every clause. No arms, no fighters, no treachery.

And as for Ethiopia—we'll hand over the commanders, but not quietly. I want the press to know that their lives are spared because Britain secured their safety. Let Mussolini have his empire. We will still write the story.

---

Action Points:

Draft acceptance note to Italian Foreign Ministry.

Coordinate transfer of Ethiopian prisoners under observer oversight.

Initiate framework for phased Jewish immigration into Palestine, to be managed with local authority cooperation.

Begin orderly withdrawal and handover of British Somaliland to Italian forces.

Issue quiet diplomatic notices to Arab partners explaining the strategic nature of the compromise.

-

September 15, 1940
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I sat across from the British ambassador, Churchill's terms in hand. A smile ghosted across my face—empty, automatic, like everything else these days. I nodded. "I like it," I murmured, nodding again for effect. He visibly relaxed, poor bastard. The relief in his eyes was almost sweet.

"Tell Churchill I accept his deal."

I stood. He followed suit, and we shook hands like two actors finishing a scene neither of us had written. "Ciano will draft the agreement and send it to your embassy. How soon can Churchill sign?"

"He'll have it signed by tomorrow."

"Good." I gave him one last nod, like it mattered. "Pleasure doing business with you."

He echoed the sentiment, thanked me, and left. Another chapter in the absurd play I've been trapped in for over a year now. One I never auditioned for.

Once the door shut, I sat there for a moment—just me, the silence, and this... other life. Sometimes I still expect to wake up in Rwanda, to the sound of roosters and diesel engines and kids shouting in Kinyarwanda. Back when I was human. Back when I was me. Before I died. Before I woke up in his body.

Now I live in marble halls, wear tailored uniforms, and shape the fate of continents—while my soul rots in a skin that doesn't belong to me.

Ciano arrived a few minutes later. We sat down. I poured us both wine.

"Duce," he said, taking a polite sip.

"The British agreed," I said, swirling the glass. "Socotra and Somaliland are ours. They're still clinging to Malta, Cyprus, Gibraltar... fine. Let them. By the time this war's over, they'll be too bled dry to stop us from carving up the carcass of their empire."

He nodded, and I continued.

"Draft the treaty. Send it to the British embassy."

I took another sip—full-bodied, earthy, expensive, meaningless.

"Oh, and inform Mr. Stern. Official support for the Lehi is ending, but we'll keep turning a blind eye. Quietly. Have the Army Chief of Staff arrange for some weapons to... go missing. Here and there. I want British Palestine ready to blow the moment Europe's war burns itself out."

I leaned forward, voice low, a smirk tugging at the edge of my lips.

"And contact any Greeks in Cyprus who dream of enosis. Give them money. Guns. Just enough to get them dreaming louder."

"Yes, Duce," he said.

He always says yes. They all do. When you're Mussolini, no one tells you no. I have absolute power, armies at my command, lovers I don't recognize and advisors who praise my every move—and all I want is to see Sofie's face again. Just once. To hear her laugh and call me a dork for playing Mariya Takeuchi at midnight.

I'd trade it all for an American winter and a cheap coffee in a gas station parking lot with her.

But instead I sit here. In marble and silk. A ghost in a dictator's skin.

Every night now, I open my desk drawer. The gun waits for me—like a bedtime story. Cold steel and the promise of silence. I put the barrel in my mouth, feel the weight on my tongue. Some nights I cry. Most nights I just sit there, numb, wondering what happens if.

But I never pull the trigger.

Because I'm afraid. Not of dying—I've done that already. I'm afraid there's nothing else. No reset. No waking up. Just more of this. This carnival of history and horror and hollow applause.

Sometimes I fantasize about going full Joker. Tearing it all down, torching the Reichstag, betraying every ally, turning Rome into a neon-lit pleasure dome pumping Plastic Love on loudspeakers while I dance in my uniform and laugh until I drop.

But then I remember: I already did that. Once. Back home. In dreams. And I still woke up here.

So I play the part. I sip the wine. I shake the hands. And every night, I stare down the barrel and wonder if tomorrow will be the night I finally stop wondering.

For now, the show goes on.

And I play Mussolini. Until I forget who I was.

Or until the trigger gives me peace.

 

[Alenco98]

An Excerpt from Trump: The Art of the Deal (1987)
By Donald J. Trump with Tony Schwartz

One thing my father always told me, one of the smartest guys I've ever known by the way—is this: be flexible. You've gotta stay loose. Stay sharp. Never lock yourself into one plan, one idea, one deal. Whether it's women, business, real estate, what car you're gonna buy—doesn't matter—you keep your options open. You never want to look desperate. Desperate people lose. Winners? They pivot. They adapt. They move fast. That's how you win.

I never fall in love with a deal. People do that—they get emotional, they get attached. Huge mistake. I always say: you've got to juggle a lot of balls. Keep a lot of irons in the fire. Because most deals—believe me, most deals don't happen. They fall apart. They look good, they sound good, then boom—gone. That's the real world.

Now here's a story, something my father used to tell me when I was young. He'd say, "Don, look at Mussolini." And people don't like hearing this—especially the media, they hate it—but it's true. Mussolini was a very sharp guy. Very smart. Very strong. And you know what? Very flexible.

Look at what he did in World War II—he basically took southern Europe, didn't even fire a shot. That's talent. He cut deals with everybody—Hitler, Stalin, Churchill, Roosevelt. He was playing all sides, like a master. And when he saw the momentum shift, when he saw where the power was moving, he flipped the board. Completely blew up the Allies' game. Changed everything. Turned the cold war from a 2 way battle to a 3 way tango.

Now I'm not saying he was a good guy, okay? Let's be clear. But you know what? He understood power. He understood negotiation. And frankly, a lot of the people running our country? They could learn something. They're weak. They fold. Mussolini? He didn't fold. He played to win.

 

[Alenco98]

October 5, 1940
Dar al-Hajar
Outside Saana, Kingdom of Yemen

I had dinner with the King of Yemen tonight—Imam Yahya Muhammad Hamid ed-Din. It was Iftar, so the room was heavy with incense, lamb stew, and the sort of ancient piety that could swallow a man whole.

Ramadan's not my religion, but I'd kept the fast anyway. Diplomatic optics, sure, but something about not eating all day made me feel more honest—like I was punishing this stolen body for still existing. I'd even told my men to follow suit, out of respect. I'd considered bringing Somali Askari as my guard—Sunni Muslims—but thought better of it. The Imam was Shi'a, and I had no interest in starting a sectarian civil war over table settings.

I'd never had Yemeni food before. Jesus Christ. I've been sleeping on it my whole damn life. Fahsa—some lamb stew with a broth that tasted like God cried into it—was the main dish. We were seated on the floor, me, the Imam, my translator, and about a dozen armed men who looked like they hadn't smiled since birth.

The Imam, being devout, had also invited some of the city's poor to eat with us. Charity, one of the five pillars. It was… humbling. Which is a feeling I don't get a lot anymore. Power is loud, but humility? That's a whisper in a hurricane.

I leaned toward my translator.
"Tell him the meal was incredible. And if he's willing to share the recipe, I'll make sure it finds its way into the Royal Italian Kitchen. I plan on getting fat off this when I'm back in Rome."

The Imam smiled, said something in Arabic, and the translator replied, "He will see to it personally."

Good. Something worth living for. Even if it's just stew.

We kept eating—Harees, Saltah, and finally coffee so strong it could resurrect Caesar. By the end I felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving: bloated, tired, and questioning all my life choices. But work doesn't wait, not even in Arabia.

The Imam dismissed the guests, and we got down to business.

"Imam Yahya," I began. "Your hospitality has been generous. May Allah grant you paradise for it. But now, I'd like to talk about the future—about Italy and Yemen."

The Imam nodded as my translator relayed the words. He responded in Arabic.

"He asks what you have in mind."

I smiled. A smile that probably looked normal on his end but felt like a mask on mine.

"As you know, Britain's tied down in a world war. My country has carved out an empire across the Mediterranean without firing a shot. The Red Sea is next. Italy was the first nation to recognize you as King. And I want to deepen those ties. I propose an alliance—Yemen's full membership in the Rome Pact."

The Imam nodded thoughtfully. Then said something.

"He is open to the idea," my translator said, "but fears British and Saudi retaliation."

I leaned in. "Italy is prepared to modernize your administration, centralize power around your family. Advisors, weapons, tanks, aircraft. Economic assistance, industrial experts—everything. We'll help you rebuild your army, regain your territories from Saudi Arabia, and reclaim Aden from the British. Hell, we'll help you take Mecca and Medina if that's what you want. And to secure your position, I'll dispatch two elite Alpini regiments—2,000 men—to protect your family should your rivals move against you."

The Imam's eyes widened. First shock, then satisfaction. He looked at me like I'd offered him a new destiny wrapped in gold leaf. He spoke again.

"He wishes to know what you ask in return."

"Recognition of Italian sovereignty over Socotra," I said with a dry laugh. "The Brits say it's a 25-year lease. I say we keep it forever. Also, we want a naval base in Mocha. We'll pay a million lire a year for it. And if anyone tries to topple you—we'll deal with them. Permanently."

The translator toned down the more colorful bits, but the Imam got the point. He nodded slowly, then more confidently.

"He says he accepts."

"Perfect," I said, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Let's get Ciano to draft the treaty."

I watched the Imam toast coffee with his sons. They looked happy. Anchored. I envied them.

Me? I'm just a Peace Corps volunteer who died and woke up in the body of Benito Mussolini. September 1, 1939. One minute I was patching up a solar panel in rural Rwanda. The next, I was staring at a map of Europe with a fascist's face and a war to plan.

It's been over a year. Still waiting to wake up. I don't think it's happening.

Every night I put the barrel in my mouth. Just the tip, like a sick ritual. Click. Safety on. Safety off. One day I might do it. But not yet. Cowardice or curiosity—I don't know which one keeps me alive. Maybe both.

I miss Sofie. I miss cheap coffee and city pop echoing in my headphones. I'd give up the entire Mediterranean for one more night in bed with her, slow dancing in my living room while Plastic Love played from the laptop speaker.

But here I am. Duce of an empire. Loved, feared, loathed. God in a clown suit. Every day the power feels more seductive. Every day I get closer to saying fuck it and going full Joker. Let the world burn while Take On Me plays in the background.

Sometimes I wonder—am I still me, or is the ghost of Mussolini starting to leak into my bones?

Either way, tomorrow I sign a treaty with the King of Yemen.
Tonight, I taste lamb and powder and regret.

And maybe—just maybe—I'll wake up.

But probably not.

-

TRANSCRIPT OF A MEETING OF THE BRITISH WAR CABINET: DATE OF DECLASSIFICATION OCTOBER 16, 1990

BRITISH WAR CABINET MEETING – OCTOBER 15, 1940
Location: Cabinet War Rooms, London
Participants:

Prime Minister Winston Churchill

Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax

War Secretary Anthony Eden

First Sea Lord Admiral Dudley Pound

Director of Military Intelligence Major-General Stewart Menzies ("C")

Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir John Dill

Colonial Secretary George Hall

---

Churchill (lighting a cigar):
Gentlemen, the latest intelligence from Aden and Cairo confirms the rumors. The Imam of Yemen has entered into a formal military pact with Mussolini. Italian troops are on their way to Mocha as we speak, and our sources suggest some armored units and aircraft are en route via Eritrea.

Hall (Colonial Secretary):
We've also confirmed that Italy intends to settle Socotra with a mix of Italian civilians and Jewish refugees, Sir. The Imam has recognizes Italy's presence perpetuity according to their treaty. That puts them squarely across the Gulf of Aden—well within reach of Aden itself.

Eden (War Secretary):
This is a dagger at our Indian Ocean flank. The Italians now hold or influence both shores of the Bab el-Mandeb. That narrows our supply line to the Empire at a time we can least afford it.

Churchill:
And we leased Socotra and British Somaliland to him ourselves—damn fool maneuvering, that. We hoped neutrality would bind him. Instead, he's carving out an empire under our noses while wearing a mask of peace.

Halifax (Foreign Secretary):
He's turned Yemen into a client state, with promises of modernization, a standing army, and ambitions to retake Asir—and perhaps Mecca and Medina. The Saudis are growing nervous. Ibn Saud is requesting arms and direct guarantees from us.

Churchill:
As he should. We cannot have Mussolini marching into Islam's holy cities. That would inflame the entire Arab world—from Cairo to Delhi. We'd face revolt in Iraq, unrest in Egypt, and chaos in Palestine.

Menzies (MI6):
Which brings us to Palestine, Prime Minister. Despite Mussolini's public retreat from supporting Zionist insurgents, we now have evidence of Lehi units receiving Italian weapons funneled through Libya and Ethiopia. Some of the crates bear altered serials from Italian Army stock.

Churchill (sits up):
So he's still playing both ends against the middle. Arms to the Jews in Palestine and military aid to the Imam in Yemen—divide and conquer?

Menzies:
Precisely. The Arabs see the Zaydi alliance as Italy's Islamic card. The Zionists view Italy as their only foreign backer after Britain's refusal to open immigration. Mussolini is stoking civil war in Palestine to bleed us quietly while claiming innocence.

Admiral Pound (First Sea Lord):
And with the former French fleet at his command and new bases in Tunisia, Syria, and the Balearics, he can contest the entire Mediterranean. Alexandria, Gibraltar, Malta—none are safe from a Italian challenge.

Dill (Chief of the General Staff):
If Italy makes its move while we are still bogged down in the air war with Germany, we risk losing control of the Suez Canal altogether. We may have to reinforce Egypt sooner than planned.

Hall:
And what of Aden? It's under-defended. If the Imam turns his eye south—and he will—we'll have a full-blown colonial revolt to deal with. We might not hold the port without reinforcement.

Churchill (grimly):
We've been outfoxed. He's building an empire in the shadows while shaking hands with both Berlin and London. That ends now.

(pauses, then resolute)
Prepare a briefing for Roosevelt. He must be made to understand—Italy is no friend of liberty, and no guardian of peace. Begin preparing contingency plans to reinforce Aden, double our presence in Palestine, and speak to Ibn Saud. If he wants weapons, he shall have them. And if war comes to Arabia, then by God, we'll be ready.

(He exhales smoke slowly.)
Let Mussolini play empire. The sun doesn't set on ours.

END OF TRANSCRIPT

-

CONFIDENTIAL – BRITISH INTELLIGENCE MEMORANDUM
Date: 17 October 1940
From: Directorate of Military Intelligence – Section VI (MI6)
To: Prime Minister's Office, War Office, Colonial Office, Foreign Office
Subject: Italian Covert Activity: Support to Lehi & Military Entanglements in Yemen

---

1. Italian Support to Lehi (Palestine) – Status: ACTIVE & ESCALATING

Despite Mussolini's public retreat from Zionist advocacy, clandestine support to the Lehi ("Stern Gang") continues, funneled through Italian-controlled refugee camps in Libya and Ethiopia.

Smuggling Routes Identified:

Primary: Tripoli → Benghazi → Tobruk → Egypt → Bedouin smugglers through Sinai.

Secondary: Massawa (Eritrea) → Red Sea fishing trawlers → Jaffa coast landings.

Weapons Intelligence:

Recovered crates from recent Lehi raids bear repainted Italian Army ordnance serials.

Contents include:

Breda Model 30 light machine guns

Beretta M1938 submachine guns

Manpower:

Reports from Mandatory Palestine suggest an influx of up to 8,000 new fighters, believed to have trained in Italian-run camps under Zionist instructors.

Italian agents embedded in Jewish refugee operations in Libya and Ethiopia are providing logistics and safe passage.

Objective:

Coordinated Lehi strategy aims to destabilize British governance in Palestine and force international intervention toward a Jewish homeland—likely to be framed as Italian humanitarian advocacy in future diplomacy. Reports show deal with the Lehi's newly established political arm the Falag party to turn Israel into a fascist state under personal union with Italy in the style of Albania and Croatia.

---

2. Yemeni Pact – Status: STRATEGIC & IDEOLOGICAL THREAT

Italian pact with Imam Yahya of the Zaydi Mutawakkilite Kingdom has shifted the strategic balance in Arabia.

Confirmed Provisions of the Pact:

Two Alpini elite regiments now stationed in Sanaa, functioning as a personal bodyguard for the king and his family.

Shipment of 12 Fiat L6/40 tanks and 20 CR.42 Falco fighter aircraft confirmed en route via Eritrea.

Establishment of a military academy near Sana'a under Italian command to train a standing army loyal to the Imam.

Deployment of Italian administrators and advisors tasked with centralizing royal authority and modernizing the bureaucracy.

Concessions to Italy:

Permanent naval and air base in Mocha.

Sovereignty over Socotra confirmed.

Overtures by Imam toward reclaiming Mecca and Medina with Italian support—concerning signs of religious war posturing under fascist patronage.

Risks:

Threat to British control of Aden and Red Sea trade.

Increased instability across Arabia, including potential unrest among Shi'a populations in southern Iraq and Bahrain.

Inflamed Arab nationalist movements—possible alignment with Rome as an anti-colonial patron.

---

3. Strategic Recommendation

1. Enhance Naval Patrols in the Red Sea and Eastern Mediterranean—especially near Mocha and Socotra.

2. Reinforce British garrisons in Aden, Cyprus, and Mandatory Palestine.

3. Open direct negotiations with Ibn Saud; consider a defensive treaty and armament package to secure loyalty.

4. Initiate propaganda campaign targeting Italian duplicity—exposing both their Zionist support and Islamic manipulation.

5. Request American diplomatic pressure on Mussolini to halt subversion or risk Italian "neutrality" being reassessed.

---

Prepared by:
Major-Gen. Stewart Menzies ("C")
Director of Military Intelligence – Section VI
Signed & Sealed – For Cabinet Circulation Only

-

An excerpt from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 Novel Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce


In the summer of 1940, Mussolini had begun to test the boundaries of Italian influence further afield, particularly in the Middle East. While most of Europe burned in the fires of war, Italy, maintaining its neutral stance, embarked on a quiet but ambitious project to expand its reach in the Arabian Peninsula. Mussolini's plan hinged on a delicate and covert negotiation with one of the region's most enigmatic rulers—Imam Yahya of Yemen.

The Imam, a deeply traditional figure who had fought to maintain his kingdom's independence from both Ottoman and Saudi control, seemed an unlikely partner for a fascist regime. Yet Mussolini, ever the pragmatist, saw an opportunity. Yemen's strategic location at the mouth of the Red Sea and its proximity to the Suez Canal presented a vital advantage. With the British holding sway over Egypt and Aden, Mussolini sought to carve out a new path, undermining British influence in the region and asserting Italian dominance over the vital maritime corridor.

It was during Ramadan, in the royal palace of Dar al-Hajar, that the negotiations began. The scene was set for a dramatic shift in the balance of power. The Imam, keen to preserve his kingdom's sovereignty and bolster his rule in a region surrounded by British-controlled territories, was intrigued by the offers presented. The evening's negotiations unfolded over a shared Iftar dinner with the poor of Sana'a, during which Mussolini, always the showman, endeared himself to the Imam by participating in the traditional fast-breaking meal. This gesture, combined with the promise of a military alliance, would prove a turning point.

Once the last of the palace's humble guests had left, the tone of the meeting shifted. Only the Imam, Mussolini, and his Italian translator remained in the room. The dinner had served its purpose: a ritual of goodwill, now followed by the hard realities of statecraft.

Mussolini, ever the cunning negotiator, offered the Imam a deal that would significantly bolster his regime. He promised two elite Alpini regiments to serve as bodyguards, ensuring the Imam's personal safety and the security of his court. Additionally, Mussolini offered military advisors, tanks, and planes—all essential for building a modern fighting force to deter any potential Saudi or British aggression. The promise of Italian administrators would help centralize the Imam's fragmented rule, training his officials and ensuring loyalty to his regime.

In return, Mussolini demanded recognition of his control of Socotra—an island in the Arabian Sea in perpetuity. Which the Imam reluctantly accepted as the island was a British possession before they ceded it to Italy. The island's strategic importance could not be overstated; it was perfectly positioned to control maritime traffic between the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean.

Finally, Mussolini's crowning request was the establishment of an Italian naval and military base in Mocha, on the Yemeni coast. This base would provide Italy with a foothold on the Arabian Peninsula, directly across the Red Sea from the British colony of Aden, and offer Mussolini the ability to project power into the Middle East, the Horn of Africa, and even the Indian Ocean.

The Imam, sensing an opportunity to secure both military and economic aid while maintaining his kingdom's independence, agreed to the terms. Yemen's fate, for better or worse, was now intertwined with the ambitions of Mussolini's Italy. The deal would fundamentally shift the geopolitical landscape of the Middle East, setting the stage for a cold war between Italy and Britain over control of the Red Sea and beyond.

---

The British Reaction

British intelligence was swift to respond to Mussolini's growing presence in the region. The War Cabinet, in a meeting held on October 15, 1940, expressed grave concern. With Italian troops now stationed in Mocha and the strategic Socotra island effectively under Italian control, the British were forced to reconsider their position in the Arabian Peninsula.

The British had long relied on Aden and the Suez Canal as critical linchpins for their imperial influence. Mussolini's moves, however, threatened to cut off vital sea routes, particularly with the Italians reneging on their promise and intending to hold onto Socotra permanently. The British saw the Italian foothold in Mocha as a direct challenge to their dominance in the Red Sea, a choke point vital for the flow of oil from the Middle East to Europe and Asia.

The Foreign Office also feared that Mussolini's covert support for Lehi in Palestine was not just an act of political opportunism, but part of a larger Italian strategy to weaken British control in the Middle East by fueling instability in their colonies. This, coupled with the Italian military presence in Yemen, gave Mussolini a serious bargaining chip in the broader game of Middle Eastern diplomacy.

MI6 had already begun to track Italian arms shipments to Lehi cells in Palestine despite Italy's end of overt support for the Lehi, further complicating the British position. Mussolini's covert support for the Zionist insurgency, while publicly denying support for the Lehi, showed his willingness to play both sides in his quest for regional dominance. The British now had to confront the uncomfortable reality that they were not only dealing with Nazi Germany but also with a rival Italian empire in the making.

The British response was swift and forceful. The Royal Navy began increasing patrols in the Red Sea, while reinforcements were sent to Aden to safeguard British interests. Intelligence gathering in the region was ramped up, and the British sought diplomatic avenues to counter Mussolini's growing influence in Yemen.

But despite these efforts, Mussolini's gambit had worked. The Italian-backed Yemeni alliance gave Mussolini a significant foothold in the Middle East, one that would alter the balance of power for the duration of the war. Britain, already stretched thin by its battle with Germany, now found itself engaged in a cold war in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea—one that would only intensify as Mussolini's imperial ambitions grew. And over the next few years Mussolini's actions would make him a hero to millions and solidify Italy's position as a global superpower.

 

[Alenco98]

November 1, 1940
Port of Piraeus
Athens, Greece

I stepped off the Regia Marina cruiser that had ferried me from Yemen and onto the cracked concrete of the port. The Mediterranean breeze hit my face like a cold slap. Piraeus was calmer than when I first visited last year. Fewer rifles. Fewer stares. The kind of peace that felt like the breath before a scream.


They guided me to my car—black, armored, funereal. A symbol of what I'd become. I didn't say much. Just slid into the seat and stared out the window as we drove through Athens toward Saint Panteleimon of Acharnai, the largest church in the city. I'd gotten the call from Ciano the night before. The guests had all arrived. The Pope was on board. Now it was time to cosplay salvation.


I shivered when the valet opened my door. Autumn was sharpening its claws, and the chill was creeping in. Winter was coming, in more ways than one. But I had a performance to give—a grand theater of hypocrisy, faith, and historical fan fiction. I was going to LARP so hard I'd leave a dent in the marble.


Inside stood Pope Pius XII, Prime Minister Metaxas, my foreign minister Ciano, and Patriarch Athenagoras I. The holy squad.


"Gentlemen," I greeted in French. Pius and the Patriarch had translators. The rest of us spoke it, thank God.


This was it. Showtime.


I took a deep breath, drawing on that old anime protagonist energy buried under layers of rot and bourbon. "Gentlemen, esteemed patriarchs and leaders of the Christian faith—today we stand on the precipice of a new era. An era where faith and politics align, where old wounds begin to heal. It's time for Christianity to move forward. To unite. To stand together against the creeping tide of godlessness and decay."


Crickets. The kind of silence that makes your soul itch.


They knew what I wanted. Ciano had told them. Church unity. The Great Christian Reconciliation. It was all very City Hunter meets Catholic Fanfiction.


Metaxas broke the silence, smug little shit. "And what exactly do you propose, Prime Minister? Greece has good relations with Italy. But reconciliation between churches? That's centuries of blood and blame."


I forced a smile, the kind that cracks at the edges. "Let's remember our talk last year, Ioannis. About Lausanne. About borders that should never have been drawn. I'm prepared to offer you Constantinople. Thrace. Smyrna. The Aegean. Lands stolen from your people, lands soaked in Hellenic blood. A Byzantine resurrection."


His face didn't twitch. Poker face. I knew he wanted it. But he was scared. Everyone's scared these days. Cowards, the lot of them.


"And what of the rest?" he asked, voice cold. "The Turkish heartland is no small matter."


"The combined forces of Greece and Italy would be enough," I said, leaning forward. "Add what's left of the French fleet, and we'll keep the Turks out of Europe. They can send a billion men—we'll hold the line in Smyrna. I promise you."


I turned to Athenagoras. "And for you, Your Holiness—Hagia Sophia will be returned to the Orthodox Church. Not a mosque, not a museum. A church. As it should be. Constantinople will be Greek again, but you will have your enclave in the city. Like the Vatican in Rome. I'll even hand the Sultan Ahmed Mosque to the Zaydi Imam of Yemen. Respect for all faiths. A new Mediterranean order."


The Patriarch narrowed his eyes. "And what of reconciliation, Mussolini? You know our history. This isn't a wound that heals easily."


There it was. The counterargument.


I'd spent my past life—back when I was still just a Peace Corps kid in Rwanda, not this monster with slicked balding hair and fascist medals—reading about Leo the Isaurian and Andronikos I on Wikipedia during nights. Now that cursed knowledge was finally useful.


"I propose a joint declaration. The mutual lifting of the excommunications of 1054. Cerularius and the legates. All forgiven. Then the creation of a permanent Commission for Theological Dialogue—Rome and Constantinople, alternating every two years. Open talks. Shared wine. The occasional choir."


Metaxas frowned. "And?"


"And," I continued, "Italy takes Hatay, Adana, and Tarsus. We rebuild Antioch. The city becomes a joint religious zone—split between the Holy See and the Orthodox Church. You'll also get an Orthodox enclave in Rome. And—I'm serious—I will issue a formal apology for the Fourth Crusade, on behalf of Italy as the successor to Venice. Ten million lire for Orthodox church restoration in Constantinople. One million more each year."


The silence hung thick.


Metaxas finally spoke. "What about the British?"


I laughed. Harder than I should have. "The British? Please. They're spread thinner than cheap butter on burnt toast. Japan's about moves in the Pacific. France is a ghost. It's a house of cards, Ioannis. All we have to do is flick."


I smiled, the grin of a man who dreams of death but plays God by day. "All I want is stability. The Papacy and Patriarchate under one roof, protected. Greece has already gotten North Epirus and the Dodecanese from us. Now? You'll be the modern Basil II. Not the Bulgar Slayer—no, you'll be the Turk Slayer."


There was a long silence. Metaxas looked to the Patriarch, who turned to the Pope. Pius nodded, quietly.


The Patriarch finally exhaled. "This is… extraordinary. It will alter the course of Christian history. But I must consult the other churches."


I bowed slightly. "Take all the time you need. But remember—secularism, atheism, communism—they're rising. We're the last ones standing in the light."


God, I loved LARPing this hard. If I squinted hard enough, I could almost forget the taste of the barrel in my mouth every night.


Pius leaned forward. "There is wisdom in this. We have much to discuss, but the Catholic Church is open to these terms."


I nodded. Politely. Respectfully.


Then I went back to my quarters, poured myself a drink, turned on the gramophone, and let Mariya Takeuchi's Plastic Love fill the silence. I played with the pistol in my drawer. Just like I did every night.


One day, I told myself, I'll wake up. I'll be back in Rwanda, sweating in the sun, complaining about bugs, watching Sofie laugh in the market. But I won't. This is it. This is life now.


And the worst part? Part of me's starting to like it.


-----------


December 1, 1940
Port of Piraeus
Athens, Greece


The air was thick with tension, but somehow I felt like I was on top of the world. One damn month—thirty days of twisting arms, sweet-talking stubborn old churches, juggling egos thicker than tar. Not a full union like the dreamers Palaiologos and Constantine the Eleventh chased, but close enough for now. Everyone but the Serbian church came around—those bastards still seethed about Bulgaria and Croatia trampling over their country. I had to give Pavelic a stern talking-to: told him to chill the fuck out with the Serbs or I'd replace him with a pack of Ustaše crazies that weren't as bloodthirsty. That shut him up—for now.


But mark my words, I'll arrange for that cocksucker's death. The shit I've read coming out of Croatia—kill a third, expel a third, convert a third? Jesus Christ, that man makes Hitler look like a social worker.


The press was packed in like vultures, whispering and waiting for the show. Today, I was going to LARP so hard it'd make the Joker blush. Not even that Serbian shitheel or Pavelic's mess would ruin this moment. A reconciliation between the Orthodox and Catholic Churches—not a full union, but close enough to light the fuse.


I stood at the podium, the microphone cold against my palm. Behind me sat the usual parade: Pope Pius XII looking like he was smelling something foul, Patriarch Athenagoras I with his stiff-upper-lip stare, Metaxas playing the stern strongman, and Ciano—the usual sycophant. I felt so fucking smug I wanted to shout, "Suck my balls!" at every dictator from Hitler to Stalin.


Clearing my throat, I leaned into the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, esteemed representatives of the Orthodox and Catholic faiths, distinguished leaders," I began, my voice steady, dripping with fake sincerity. "Today marks a new chapter for Europe and Christendom. A chapter of reconciliation, unity, and peace after centuries of division. A step toward healing the wounds the Great Schism tore open."


The reporters scribbled like maniacs, hungry for every syllable. But I wasn't done. Oh no, this was only act one.


"We cannot ignore the dark chapters of our shared history," I continued. "The Fourth Crusade, a stain on our past, brought unspeakable suffering. As the leader of Italy, the successor to Venice's republic and architect of that injustice, I offer a sincere apology to the Orthodox Church and the Greek people. This wrong must be righted. Today marks the first step in that process."


There was a low murmur—no doubt some old-timers doubting, some others surprised. But the weight of the apology hit home. Not just political theater. Personal. I couldn't stop the faint smile creeping in. I felt like a goddamn rock star.


"As a symbol of Italy's commitment, I pledge ten million lire to the Orthodox Church and an annual subsidy of one million lire in perpetuity for the restoration of Orthodox churches in Constantinople."


A few eyebrows shot up. Patriarch Athenagoras nodded once—small, but enough. He wasn't big on fanfare, but this was progress.


"We are not just signing a treaty," I said, voice rising. "We are ushering in a new era—where faith and politics build a stronger, united Europe. Our churches, Catholic and Orthodox, will begin the slow march toward reunion. Perhaps one day, the great schism will finally heal."


The Pope and Patriarch rose, the room hushed. The treaty lay on the table, waiting. Pope Pius XII signed first, steady as a rock. Patriarch Athenagoras followed with quiet resolve. Applause broke out like a thunderclap. The mutual excommunications were lifted; the wounds finally began to close. Ciano stepped up to announce the finer points—secret deals about Antioch and Constantinople to come later.


The Patriarch and Pope shook hands. More than politics—a symbol of centuries-old wounds slowly healing.


I stood there, chest swelling with grim satisfaction. History was made. The churches were united—not fully, but closer than ever. Someday, maybe.


"With this," I declared, "I proclaim a new era of friendship between our churches. No longer divided by ancient grudges, but united by faith and purpose. Together, we will build a stronger Europe—faith as our bedrock. To quote Matthew, chapter 16, verses 18-19: 'And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the powers of death shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven.'"


I let those words hang—menacing, triumphant. The applause crashed over me like a tidal wave, and I couldn't help but smile, even shed a few tears of joy.


My LARP had worked perfectly.


Now, Moscow was next. Time to get shit done.

-

British Intelligence Briefing
Subject: Growing Tensions in the Eastern Mediterranean: Potential Greek Invasion of Turkey with Italian Support

Date: December 2, 1940

Summary:
Recent developments in the Eastern Mediterranean have raised serious concerns regarding Italy's growing influence in Greece and the potential for military conflict with Turkey. Based on intelligence from multiple sources, it appears increasingly likely that Greece, with Italy's assistance, is preparing to launch an invasion of Turkey in the near future. This briefing will outline the key events leading up to this development, assess the motivations behind it, and outline possible British responses.

Key Events:

1. The Treaty of Church Reconciliation (December 1, 1940):
The signing of the treaty between the Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church in Rome, brokered by Italian leader Benito Mussolini, is a pivotal moment. The treaty announces the lifting of the mutual excommunication between both churches that led to the great schism of 1054 between the two churches and the establishment of a Commission for Theological Dialogue Between the Catholic Church and the Eastern Orthodox Church, which has far-reaching political implications. The event, attended by Pope Pius XII, Patriarch Athenagoras I, Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas, and Mussolini himself, has solidified the growing alliance between Italy and Greece.

2. Mussolini's Apology and Financial Commitment to Greece:
As part of the treaty agreement, Mussolini publicly apologized to Greece for the wrongs committed during the Fourth Crusade, including the looting and occupation of Constantinople by Latin Crusaders. In addition to the apology, Mussolini pledged a donation of 10 million lire to the Orthodox Church and an annual subsidy of 1 million lire for the restoration of Orthodox churches in Constantinople. This gesture is seen as a clear attempt to win over the Greek population and secure their allegiance.

3. Metaxas' Shift Toward a Stronger Alliance with Italy:
Prime Minister Metaxas of Greece, once a staunch nationalist, has increasingly aligned his policies with those of Mussolini's Italy. This shift has been marked by his acceptance of Italian influence in Greek foreign policy and his overt support for Italy's Mediterranean ambitions. It is believed that Metaxas sees a union with Italy as a means to secure Greece's territorial claims, particularly in relation to Constantinople and the surrounding regions.

4. The Greek Position on Turkey:
The Greek government has long held ambitions regarding the return of Constantinople, once the heart of the Byzantine Empire, as well as the Aegean Islands, Smyrna (modern-day Izmir), and parts of Thrace. In discussions with Mussolini, Metaxas reportedly expressed Greece's desire to reclaim these territories from Turkey. Intelligence suggests that Greece has begun to plan for a military operation to seize these regions, with Italian assistance in both strategic planning and military support.

5. Mussolini's Expansionist Strategy in the Eastern Mediterranean:
Mussolini has long sought to expand Italy's influence in the Mediterranean and has used Greece's territorial ambitions as a vehicle for extending Italy's reach. Italy has already strengthened it's position in the Balkans via their invasion of Yugoslavia earlier in the year. Italy has further strengthened his position in the Mediterranean and the middle east via it's acquisition of french colonies and the remaining french Mediterranean fleet. It's blackmail of Britain for neutrality via our cession of Socotra and Somalialand, combined with his new alliance with imam Yahya in Yemen has only added to his strategic dominance of the Mediterranean. The prospect of a Greek-Turkish conflict, with Italy supporting Greece, would further cement Italy's dominance in the region.

Analysis and Implications:

1. Military Strategy and Potential Greek Invasion of Turkey:
The most likely scenario is that Greece, emboldened by Italy's support, will attempt to invade Turkey in the coming months. The primary objective would be to reclaim Constantinople and the Aegean Islands, regions of significant historical and symbolic importance to Greece. With Italy providing military support, including air and naval power, Greece would be in a strong position to execute a successful campaign, especially in the Aegean Sea and along the Turkish coast.

Italian support could include the deployment of Italian forces to assist with the invasion, including air cover, naval assets, and potentially even ground troops. The combined Greek-Italian military might would present a serious challenge to Turkish forces, particularly given the current state of Turkish military readiness.

2. Strategic Objectives for Greece and Italy:
For Greece, the strategic objective is clear: to restore its lost territories and reclaim its historical capital, Constantinople. However, Metaxas and Mussolini also seem to be focused on securing the broader Mediterranean region as part of a new "Roman Empire." Italy, under Mussolini, seeks to consolidate its influence over Greece and the Aegean, securing its status as the dominant power in the Eastern Mediterranean.

For Mussolini, the involvement in this conflict is not only about territorial expansion but also about solidifying his leadership in the Mediterranean and positioning Italy as the protector of Christianity, particularly with the Catholic-Orthodox union now formalized. This union creates a new ideological front that could rally both Greek and Italian support for military action.

3. Impact on British Interests in the Mediterranean:
An invasion of Turkey by Greece, with Italian assistance, would have serious consequences for British strategic interests in the region. The British navy has long relied on control of the Eastern Mediterranean as a vital route for communication, trade, and military operations. A conflict between Greece and Turkey, with Italy's involvement, would destabilize the region and potentially threaten British naval supremacy in the Mediterranean.

Additionally, Turkey has been an important buffer against Soviet influence in the region, and the loss of Turkish territory to Greece could open the door for further Italian expansion into the Balkans, threatening British influence in Eastern Europe.

Conclusion and Recommendations:

The situation in the Eastern Mediterranean is rapidly evolving, and Britain must be prepared to respond to the potential Greek invasion of Turkey. Diplomatic efforts should focus on strengthening ties with Turkey and seeking to prevent Greek aggression. At the same time, military preparations should be made to counter any Italian expansion in the region, particularly through the reinforcement of British naval and air assets in the Mediterranean.

Additionally, British intelligence must monitor Italian troop movements in Greece and the Balkans closely. Any indication of preparations for a Greek invasion of Turkey must be acted upon swiftly to prevent further destabilization of the region.

It is imperative that Britain acts decisively to counter the growing influence of Italy and to protect its strategic interests in the Mediterranean, particularly in relation to Turkey and the balance of power in Europe.

-
British war cabinet meeting: Date of declassification: December 4, 1990
TRANSCRIPT OF WAR CABINET MEETING
Date: December 3, 1940
Location: War Rooms, London
Subject: Italian-Greek Ecclesiastical Union and Imminent Threat of Hostilities in the Eastern Mediterranean

Attendees:
– Prime Minister Winston Churchill
– Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden
– Minister of War Sir Edward Grigg
– First Sea Lord Sir Dudley Pound
– Chief of the Imperial General Staff General Sir John Dill
– Minister of Information Brendan Bracken
– Lord Halifax (by telephonic communication from Washington)

---

[Transcript Begins]

CHURCHILL:
Gentlemen, we are gathered at a most delicate hour. The Italians are not merely playing the clown with jackboots and parades anymore—they're writing bloody theology now. Mussolini has begun to reconcile the Pope and Constantinople. I dare say he imagines himself the heir to Constantine, when in truth he's a greasy Caesar of mediocrity.

The Pope and the Patriarch have shaken hands—God help us all—and now the Hellenes are sharpening their swords for the Turks. And our Mediterranean flank is trembling beneath us. I want facts. Eden—what's the devil going on in Athens?

EDEN:
Sir, the press says it all. A few days ago, Mussolini made a grand display in Athens—apologized for the Fourth Crusade, pledged millions of lire to rebuild Orthodox churches, and walked out hand-in-hand with both the Pope and the Patriarch. Metaxas has since aligned his government more closely with the Italians. The Orthodox-Catholic reconciliation is no mere religious gesture. It's a political maneuver—designed to give moral cover to an invasion of Turkish territory. The King is helpless, he says he'd face a coup if he even dared to voice opposition to it.

CHURCHILL:
So the Vatican has become a Roman catapult again. God preserve us. And what does Turkey say of all this? Have they blinked yet?

GRIGG:
The Turks are wary, sir. We've received word that Ankara has begun limited mobilization along the Aegean and Thrace. They suspect Greece may act in spring—when the snows melt.

DILL:
If I may, Prime Minister—we have reports of Italian naval vessels docking in Piraeus, with supplies and advisers in tow. They're preparing logistics quietly, but the signs are unmistakable. If this escalates, we could see a Greco-Italian force attempting to seize the Bosporus. That would be disastrous for our naval interests.

POUND:
I must concur. If the Dardanelles fall under hostile control—especially with Rome at the helm—we lose a vital maritime passage. Our Eastern Fleet would be strangled. Supply lines to the Suez and beyond would be at risk.

CHURCHILL:
Then the stakes are clear. We cannot permit the Turks to be bullied into the sea by a pack of Vatican and patriarch-blessed crusaders. If Mussolini wishes to revive the Roman Empire, we must remind him that Britannia still rules the waves.

Eden—prepare a message to Ankara. Offer military assistance in case of aggression. Naval aid, advisors, whatever they need to stiffen their spine. We must keep Turkey standing.

EDEN:
Understood, Prime Minister.

BRACKEN:
Should we respond publicly to Mussolini's posturing? His apology to Greece over the Fourth Crusade is making waves. The Daily Mail called it "the Resurrection of Rome."

CHURCHILL:
Let them rhapsodize. Theatrics are the only thing Italians do with competence. But we shan't stoop to play priestly politics. No, our rebuttal will be in steel, not scripture. Let them pray—Britain will prepare.

HALIFAX (crackling through telephone):
If I may interject, Winston, the Americans are observing this development with some alarm. Roosevelt inquires whether this could affect Allied unity or the broader war effort.

CHURCHILL:
Tell Roosevelt that we shall not let the Mediterranean be carved into a papal charcuterie board. Britain shall not lose the Levant to incense and fascism. And if the Italians do invade Turkey, they may find that the lion's teeth are longer than his sermons.

Gentlemen, begin quiet preparations for reinforcement of the Eastern Mediterranean. I want contingency plans drawn up for Cyprus, for Alexandria, and for a rapid deployment to Turkey should it come to blows. Let the Turks know we are not idle. The shadow of Rome grows long—but the sun has not yet set on the British Empire.

[Transcript Ends]

---

Classification: TOP SECRET
Distribution: PM, Foreign Office, Admiralty, War Office, MI6

-

Excerpt from Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce by Christopher Hibbert (2008)

In the fall of 1940, Benito Mussolini's ambitions in the Mediterranean reached a new and perilous height. The Italian leader, ever the opportunist, brokered a groundbreaking treaty that began the process of reconciliation between Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church, symbolizing not just religious but political alignment with Greece. The Vatican and the Patriarchate of Constantinople, found themselves bound by a shared ideological front—a treaty crafted by Mussolini's deft diplomatic hand. The agreement, signed in Rome on December 1, 1940, saw the Pope and the Greek Patriarch standing side by side with Mussolini and Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas, the latter now irrevocably tethered to Italy's expanding vision of the Mediterranean.

The treaty was more than a mere theological alliance—it was a calculated move designed to secure Greece's support for Italy's ambitions in the region. Mussolini, ever the strategic mastermind, promised to right the historical wrongs of the Fourth Crusade, a pledge that included a financial commitment to rebuild Orthodox churches in Greece and Constantinople. In return, Metaxas, once a staunch nationalist, moved ever closer to Mussolini's orbit, openly embracing the Italian regime's expansionist goals. For Greece, the treaty secretly promised the return of Constantinople, the jewel of its ancient empire, and the reclamation of the Aegean Islands and Smyrna—territories lost to the Ottoman Empire centuries earlier to Greece.

Behind the scenes, however, the treaty's true purpose was clear: Italy intended to use Greece's territorial ambitions to further its own Mediterranean dominance. As Mussolini's influence grew, so too did his plans for an alliance with Greece that would see the Greeks—backed by Italian military power—launch an invasion of Turkey. The prospect of a Greek-Turkish conflict, bolstered by Italy's logistical and military support, loomed ominously on the horizon. The attack, should it come, would target not just strategic lands but the very heart of the former Ottoman Empire—Constantinople itself.

Britain, ever vigilant in its defense of the Mediterranean, found itself caught in a new and alarming geopolitical struggle. Mussolini's machinations threatened to upend the balance of power, not only in Europe but across the broader Eastern Mediterranean. With Turkish sovereignty in peril and the control of vital sea routes at risk, Winston Churchill's government quickly recognized the need to act. Quiet preparations began to reinforce British naval assets and offer military support to Turkey, which, despite its own internal challenges, remained a key bulwark against Italian expansion.

Mussolini's vision of a revived Roman Empire, aided by his strategic alliance with Greece, set the stage for an explosive confrontation that would reshape the power dynamics of the Mediterranean for years to come. As 1940 drew to a close, the world watched, uncertain of what the new year would bring—a conflict that could turn the Mediterranean into a battleground for dominance, with Italy's rising power at its epicenter.

But the next two years and Mussolini's subsequent machinations threw everyone's expectations off. And the British empire edged closer to its end

 

[Alenco98]

December 5, 1940
The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR


Technically, it was still fall, but the Russian winter hit me like a Mexican stripper in Tijuana—sudden, cold, and unwanted. I shivered stepping into the Grand Kremlin Palace, wondering if this was some nightmare loop I couldn't wake up from. On paper, I was here to talk trade. In reality? Stalin didn't know what hit him.


Escorted by grim-faced men who looked like NKVD agents, I had a translator who treated small talk like a torture method. Every word felt like a jab: "Welcome? No, try harder."


Minutes later, I was in Stalin's personal chambers. A roaring fire, stiff tea, and a silence that stretched until someone—finally—broke it.


"I hear curious things from Greece," Stalin said, his thick accent thickening every word. "Reconciliation between churches? Not what I expected. What is your true aim? All those troops in Thrace, Greek navy prowling the Aegean... your actions shout louder than your speeches."


The translator passed it along, and I nodded. "Sharp as ever. You're right. I want Constantinople, Smyrna, the Turkish Aegean islands—Hatay, Adana, Tarsus too. Greece gets Constantinople, Smyrna, and the islands. My new Syrian colonies get the southern slices."


Stalin's face tightened, eyes flashing like a cornered wolf. He muttered something. The translator stammered, "Comrade Stalin is incredulous. He asks if you really think you can threaten Soviet interests in the Black Sea so blatantly?"


"If I could, I wouldn't be here wasting time," I replied with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "I came with an offer. And a warning."


The translator's eyes widened. Stalin's lips pressed tight, anger barely masked behind a cold mask.


"Comrade Stalin says he does not take threats lightly," the translator said, voice trembling. "Such behavior is unworthy of world leaders."


"Translate him literally," I said, flicking my hand like swatting a fly. "I'm not so insecure as to shoot someone just because they piss me off. Unlike your dear leader. You don't have to tell him I said that." I leaned forward, slamming a stack of papers on the table. "Now for the real point—I'm here to warn you about Germany."


I pulled reports from my spies inside the German army. "Heavy troop movements into Romania. Over two million men massing for an invasion—spring or summer. Exact date unknown. All in Russian with summaries."


Stalin nodded, snatched the papers, skimmed. Eyes narrowed. Something sharp in Russian. The translator returned, "Comrade Stalin says his agents report similar movements. He doubts your warnings will make us sit quietly while you threaten our southern flank."


"I know," I said, unbothered. "Consider this my opening fee. I've got more to propose. Think of it as our own little post-war plan."


Stalin barked orders. A guard brought in a large map of Europe. I couldn't help a dark chuckle. Two men, over tea and fire, deciding the fate of millions. Fucked up—and deliciously ironic.


"Alright, let's carve it up. You take most of Turkey after I take my cut for allies. Do what you want—make it a People's Republic, an SSR, carve it between Turks and Kurds. Hell, annex it to Russia proper. Once I get what I want, Turkey's yours."


Stalin was quiet but calculating. A predator sizing me up. I let him stew.


"Here's the breakdown: Iraq goes to Italy. Iran, yours, Comrade. Romania's mine. Slovakia goes to Hungary—my good ally. Poland? All yours. I know you've been eyeing that one."


The translator hustled. Stalin nodded but his eyes were ice.


"Germany's tricky. Split it. Saxony and everything north—yours. South of Saxony—mine. We'll merge it with Austria. Call it 'Greater Austria,' neat and tidy."


Stalin's brow furrowed. But he never gave away too much—too dangerous.


"Belgium, France—mine, if I can get there before the Brits or Yanks. You get the Netherlands, Scandinavia, even Iceland and Denmark if you can snag them first. You'll want to move before the West wakes up from their nap. As for all of Asia east of Iran. Consider it all yours."


The translator was working overtime. Stalin was silent, eyes glaciers. I was pushing hard. I knew he was thinking about crushing me or joining me.


Finally, a whispered reply. "Comrade Stalin is intrigued but asks—what do you expect in return?"


I leaned in, smile tight. "Simple. After I settle Turkey, and when Hitler's dogs start marching on Moscow—I declare war on Germany. I'll join you. A little double-cross, don't you think?"


His eyes flickered. The gears turned. The silence thickened.


"Comrade Stalin will not let your forces move into Turkey without consequences," the translator said. "Smyrna remains in our sphere."


I sighed. Of course. That bastard wanted more. Time for a Greek gambit.


"Why?" I asked, waving dismissively. "You will control the Black Sea and a warm-water port in the Med. I control most of the Mediterranean."


The translator relayed. Stalin grunted. Annoyed. Good. I couldn't look weak.


"Comrade Stalin says your Turkey demands are excessive, but tolerable, if Smyrna is ours."


I smirked. "Then you won't intervene when I fund insurgencies in Cyprus, like I'm doing in Israel. Cyprus goes to Greece."


Stalin's eyes narrowed, calculating. Then: "Comrade Stalin says he will consider this."


"He won't consider it—he'll agree. As a sweetener, I'll lobby the Pope and Patriarch to keep out of Soviet affairs—if you ease the persecution a bit and let me take Cyprus for my ally. Deal?"


Stalin stared. Long. Then a nod. "Comrade Stalin says... you have a deal. But remember, Mussolini, I do not make costly deals lightly."


I sat up, grinning. "Perfect. I'll enjoy watching the world fall into our laps."


Stalin didn't smile. Didn't blink. He grabbed a pen, wrote, signed. Pushed the paper to the translator.


"A trade agreement," the translator said, "a secret understanding, Comrade Stalin says."


I grabbed the pen, signed. Raised my tea.


"To the future," I said, knowing exactly what was coming.


Stalin nodded coldly.


"The future," he repeated quietly.


And with that, the world stepped one terrifying inch closer to chaos.

-

British MI6 Report – December 15, 1940
Subject: Mussolini's Recent Visit to the Soviet Union – Speculations and Analysis

From: MI6 Analyst, Eastern Europe and Mediterranean Desk
To: Sir Stewart M. Ainsley, Head of MI6 Operations
Date: December 15, 1940

Summary: Recent reports confirm that Mussolini traveled to Moscow earlier this month for a high-level meeting with Comrade Stalin. The official narrative presented to the public indicates that the Italian Fascist leader and the Soviet Premier signed a trade agreement. However, based on the intelligence gathered from our operatives within the Soviet Union and other sources, it is apparent that there is more to this deal than meets the eye.

We have not been able to obtain full details of the agreement, but the general consensus from those in the Kremlin and from our sources in Italy suggests that Mussolini's visit was not merely about trade, but rather a strategic maneuver to reshape Europe's balance of power.

Key Observations and Speculations:

1. Mussolini's Role as a Middleman
Mussolini is positioning himself as a pivotal figure between the Soviet Union and the Western powers. The timing of this visit, right as the war is escalating with Germany and Britain, suggests he is preparing to leverage his relationship with Stalin to further his own ambitions. Mussolini, ever the opportunist, may be attempting to balance the powers in Europe and the Middle East in such a way that Italy emerges as the decisive power broker in the region.

2. The Nature of the Agreement
On the surface, it appears that Mussolini and Stalin signed a standard trade agreement, likely involving raw materials, industrial goods, and military cooperation. However, the terms of this agreement remain vague. Given Mussolini's track record of exploiting diplomatic situations, we suspect that this agreement is a mere façade for a larger, more clandestine pact regarding territorial influence and strategic interests in Europe.

3. Possible Spheres of Influence Agreement
While we cannot confirm specifics, the whispers within the Kremlin suggest that Mussolini may have proposed a division of Europe and the Middle East between himself and Stalin. Over the last year and a half, Mussolini has expanded Italy's influence significantly, particularly in the Balkans, the Mediterranean, and parts of North Africa. There are rumors that Mussolini has promised Stalin control over Denmark and Poland, with further territorial divisions likely in the near future.

Additionally, Mussolini has strong interests in the Middle East, especially in Lebanon and Syria. Rumors suggest he may have offered Iran in exchange for Soviet cooperation in other areas. It is unclear how far this territorial realignment would go, but early speculation points to a dramatic shift in the region's power structures.

4. Italy's Growing Influence in the Balkans
In particular, there has been an uptick in Italian military and political influence in Greece, Bulgaria and the now partitioned Yugoslavia. Mussolini's promises to support Greece in exchange for a foothold in the region have raised alarms among the British and their allies in the Mediterranean. The recently-formed Rome Pact between Italy, Hungary, Bulgaria, and Greece further complicates the picture, creating a bloc that could potentially challenge British control in the Mediterranean. The presence of Italian military advisors and naval forces in these areas only reinforces the possibility of Mussolini building a coalition of fascist states in southern Europe and the Middle East.

5. Mussolini's Shift Toward Collaboration with the USSR

What is most puzzling, however, is Mussolini's apparent willingness to cooperate closely with Stalin, a leader whom he previously regarded as an ideological enemy. While it is clear that Mussolini is still primarily focused on expanding Italy's imperial reach, he may also be attempting to create a buffer zone between his empire and the German threat. By cozying up to Stalin, Mussolini could be hedging his bets against any potential aggression from the Third Reich, especially given that the Germans have been massing troops along the eastern front.

6. Mussolini's Long-Term Goals
While our immediate concern is the trade agreement itself, we suspect Mussolini is playing a much longer game. His growing alliances with Bulgaria, Hungary, and Greece may be setting the stage for a future reordering of Europe. By aligning with Stalin on certain issues, Mussolini could be laying the groundwork for his imperial ambitions in the Mediterranean and the Middle East.

Conclusion:
While the full details of Mussolini's recent visit to Moscow remain shrouded in secrecy, it is evident that this was not simply a diplomatic exchange over trade. Mussolini appears to be positioning himself as a key player in the future of Europe, using his relationship with Stalin to secure territorial gains for Italy while simultaneously keeping the USSR's ambitions in check. The possibility of a three-way deadlock between Italy, the Soviet Union, and the United Kingdom in Europe and the middle east could have far-reaching consequences for global politics in the coming years.

MI6 should continue monitoring developments in both Moscow and Rome, with particular attention paid to any shifts in Italian foreign policy and the movements of Italian forces in the Mediterranean and the Balkans.

Recommendations for Action:

1. Increase surveillance on Italian military movements in the Balkans and North Africa.

2. Keep close tabs on Italian diplomatic communications with the Soviet Union and potential follow-up agreements.

3. Prepare contingency plans for British intervention should Mussolini take more aggressive action in the Mediterranean or the Middle East.

4. Continue to monitor Soviet moves in Eastern Europe and any response to Mussolini's territorial proposals.

-

Hitler and the German Cabinet – December 19, 1940
Location: The Reich Chancellery, Berlin

Attendees: Adolf Hitler (Führer)
Joseph Goebbels (Minister of Propaganda)
Hermann Göring (Reichsmarschall)
Heinrich Himmler (SS Chief)
Ribbentrop (Foreign Minister)
Albert Speer (Minister of Armaments)

---

Hitler: (Staring intensely at a map of Europe on the wall) "So, Mussolini and Stalin, eh? The Italian jackal and the Bolshevik bear. Can you imagine such a sight, gentlemen? It's a mockery."

Goebbels: (Sitting forward, his voice full of disgust) "The mere idea that Mussolini would cozy up to Stalin… it's an affront to everything we stand for, Führer. The Fascists joining forces with the communists? The betrayal is almost poetic."

Hitler: (Leaning forward, fists clenched) "Yes, poetic, but not surprising. Mussolini is a coward, a man who will do anything to keep his empire intact, even if it means sharing Europe with the Bolsheviks. His actions in Greece, the Balkans—now this. What's next? Will he hand the Mediterranean to Stalin while calling it 'peaceful coexistence'?" (He spits out the last words with contempt.)

Ribbentrop: (Holding a report) "I've been in contact with our attachés. The Italian-Soviet trade deal is just a formality on the surface. But the deeper implications... It's clear Mussolini is positioning himself for something bigger. He sees an opportunity to play both sides. We cannot let this happen. A third party in Europe, playing both the Soviets and us, will weaken our position."

Göring: (Smirking, with a deep, unsettling laugh) "Mussolini, the great statesman. Let him think he can play the middle man. He's a clown. But I suspect he's learned something from us. The question is, what does he want in return from Stalin?"

Hitler: (Coldly, eyeing Göring) "It's not the question of what Mussolini wants, Göring. It's about what we want. The Italian strategy is to ensure that we bleed ourselves dry fighting on multiple fronts, while they get to expand without firing a shot. He's a snake, but a useful one should keep in its place."

Himmler: (Looking grim) "Let's not forget Italy's increasing involvement with the Jews. If Mussolini's promises are taken seriously, we might see a new power structure growing in the middle east, one that we can't control. The more Jews we send him the more powerful he grows in there."

Ribbentrop: (Coldly) "I would be more concerned about Mussolini's pact with Stalin. We already see the shift in power in southern Europe. And let's not kid ourselves, Mussolini has no intention of standing with us when the moment comes. He sees the Axis as a stepping stone, not a brotherhood. He'll play both sides and extract concessions from both like he has been doing since the war started."

Goebbels: (Furiously) "He's playing us like fools! If there's one thing I can't stand, it's the image of an Italian Fascist turning his back on us to crawl into bed with the Bolsheviks. We must stop propping him up immediately. We can start by cutting off the jew supply. I believe we can find more, permanent solutions to that problem."

Hitler: (Raising his hand sharply to silence Goebbels) "A valid proposal, Goebbels, one we shall carry out immediately. Let's focus on the main subject. Mussolini's deal with Stalin is highly suspicious. We must prepare for the worst."

Himmler: (Smiling slightly) "We must prepare for the possibility that he may turn on us completely. We can begin by moving divisions to the Italian frontier, and should the worst case scenario come true we shall be able to retaliate immediately."

Göring: (With a twisted grin) "I agree, we have let him take advantage of us for too long. And now this, unforgivable."

Goebbels: (Eyes gleaming with malice) "Then it is settled, we'll cut off his little supply of pet jews immediately. And should he turn his blades on us we will crush him as we've crushed all of Europe."

Hitler: (Nods slowly, a glint in his eyes) "Exactly. We will not let him walk all over us. Mussolini may think he's playing the clever game, but he's overstepping. If the time comes, he will pay the price, we deal with him the way we deal with all traitors."

Goebbels: (With a twisted smile) "The world will see Mussolini for what he truly is—the paper tiger mauled by the Aryan Race."

Hitler: (Nods, turning back to the map) "Now, prepare for what comes next. The campaign in the East will begin soon. As for Mussolini... we will wait. And if he dares to defy us, we'll be ready."

 

[Alenco98]

December 10, 1940
Saavedra Neighborhood
Buenos Aires, Argentina

A gentle spring breeze brushed against Antoun Saadeh's face as he stepped out of the Lebanese-Syrian Club in Buenos Aires. The meetings, which usually took place every two weeks, had become more frequent since the events of September.

France, their former colonial master—having replaced Ottoman rule—seemed to have been overthrown. While Antoun didn't support Nazism or Germany's expansion, he couldn't help but feel a certain twisted satisfaction watching France humiliated and defeated by the Germans.

Now, the Italians—the Italians of all people—had occupied Syria and Lebanon. He'd heard a few radio reports about the French garrisons trying to resist, not only in Tyre and Beirut but also in Latakia and Tartous. Yet, the Italians had overwhelmed them with sheer numbers, and Il Duce supposedly promised to rule the Syrians with the dignity due to such a proud and ancient civilization.

Still, Antoun was skeptical. Those were likely just empty words, drifting in the wind.

He walked past Parque Sarmiento, finding an inviting bench beneath the shade. He sat down, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, letting the cool breeze wash over him.

As he smoked, he noticed a man walking toward him. The man had European features: pale skin, brown hair, and green eyes. When he drew closer, he spoke. "Is this seat taken?" His voice carried a heavy Italian accent, and Antoun surmised he was probably fresh off the boat.

"By all means," Antoun replied.

The man sat down, pulled out his own cigarette, and asked, "Do you have a lighter?"

Antoun retrieved his own and handed it over. "Grazie," the man muttered, lighting his cigarette. He exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Giuseppe. Giuseppe Manzini. And you are?"

"Antoun. Antoun Saadeh."

"A pleasure."

They sat in silence, sharing the tranquility of the cool Buenos Aires spring as they smoked. Minutes passed before Giuseppe's cigarette burned down to a stub. He tapped the remnants against the bench and turned to Antoun.

"I work for the OVRA. I trust you've heard of us?"

Antoun raised an eyebrow. "What's that? Some sort of company?"

Giuseppe laughed, shaking his head. "No. We're an organization affiliated to the Italian Government. Il Duce is looking for someone to oversee the Middle East. He's reviewed your work, Nushu' al-Umam, The Rise of Nations. He sees your political party as quite compatible with Fascism. He believes you'd be an excellent partner in the region."

"A puppet, you mean?" Antoun scoffed. "Does he expect me to become one of his marionettes, like Albania, like Croatia? Does he think a few flattering words and promises will convince me to betray the people of Syria to a foreign power?"

Giuseppe's smile faded, and he leaned in slightly. "You haven't heard his offer. There's a ship leaving Buenos Aires tonight, bound for Ostia. From there, it's a short drive to Rome. The Italian government will cover all expenses. You'll meet Mussolini himself and hear what he has to say. If you refuse, you'll simply be sent back to Buenos Aires—no harm done."

Antoun studied the man for a long moment, feeling the weight of the offer settle in.

He soon realized his cigarette was now reduced to a smoldering stub in his fingers as well. The cool breeze of Buenos Aires seemed to carry with it the weight of his decision, and he found himself lost in thought. Giuseppe's offer lingered in his mind like a shadow, the words echoing in his ears.

Il Duce wants a partner in the Middle East...
All expenses paid...
No harm done if I refuse...

He could feel his pulse quicken as his mind spun. On one hand, he despised the very idea of working with any foreign power—especially one that had sided with the Zionist cause. His convictions ran deep. He had dedicated his life to Syria, the vision of an independent Syria free from the chains of any empire, whether Ottoman or European.

Yet, this opportunity to meet Mussolini in person was not something he could easily dismiss. If nothing else, it would provide him with insight into the Italian leader's true intentions. Would Mussolini offer genuine support for Syria, or was this simply another attempt at manipulating the region for Italy's own interests? Saadeh had to know. If he could play this to his advantage, perhaps he could turn the tables.

He leaned back on the bench, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the park. His mind wrestled with the path forward. For all the principles that guided him, he knew he could not afford to be rigid in a time like this.

"I have to see this for myself," he muttered under his breath.

Giuseppe's words, spoken so confidently, made it clear this was not a chance he could ignore. If he refuses, he will simply be sent back to Buenos Aires… no harm done. But what if refusing meant surrendering his chance to influence what happened next in the Middle East? He could return to Argentina, but what would he have gained? Nothing. The Middle East was at a crossroads, and Saadeh knew it. The stakes were too high for blind idealism.

He stood up, brushing the remnants of his cigarette into the ashtray of the bench, his decision crystallizing in that moment.

"I'll go," he said to Giuseppe, the words tasting heavier than he had expected. "I'll meet Mussolini. Let me make some arrangements."

A glint of satisfaction flickered across Giuseppe's face, though he quickly masked it with a smile. "Excellent. You won't regret it."

Without another word, they walked toward a phone booth where he made some calls explaining he'd be away due to an emergency. From there they walked to the docks, where the ship awaited. The evening was cool, and the soft murmur of the water lapping at the quay filled the air. Saadeh's mind raced as he passed the bustling port workers, their daily routines unaware of the political currents shaping the world around them. He was about to board a ship bound for Italy, a country whose politics were a far cry from everything he stood for—but there was something dangerous and irresistible about this gamble.

As he climbed the gangplank, the salt air stinging his skin, Antoun Saadeh could not shake the nagging thought that he was stepping into the unknown. His entire life had been about defying foreign domination, yet here he was, accepting an invitation from one of the most dangerous regimes in Europe. Would this be his ruin, or would it be his to reshape the future of Syria?

The ship's horn sounded, and Saadeh turned to face the vast ocean ahead of him. He took a deep breath, looking back at the dimly lit shores of Buenos Aires, his heart heavy with the uncertainty of the journey ahead.

As the vessel slowly pulled away from the dock, he felt the pull of history tugging at him, an invisible force propelling him toward a new chapter—one that could change the course of the Middle East forever.

The ship sailed into the night, carrying Antoun Saadeh towards the heart of Mussolini's Italy.

December 25, 1940
Italy

The ship had traversed the Atlantic with a somber rhythm, the vast ocean stretching endlessly beneath Saadeh's feet. For days, he had been lost in thought, the weight of his decision pressing down on him, the salt air failing to clear the fog in his mind. His cabin had been small and cramped, and the steady hum of the ship's engines had become a constant companion as the distant shores of Europe drew closer. Saadeh had spent much of the journey alone, contemplating the offer from Mussolini and its potential consequences. His resolve had hardened with each passing day, but doubt still lingered.

Finally, on Christmas morning, the ship neared the Italian coast, the pale light of dawn cutting through the clouds. The port of Ostia came into view, the once distant shores of Italy now a reality. Saadeh stood at the deck, watching as the ship pulled into harbor. His heart raced as the gangplank was lowered, and he stepped onto European soil for the first time in years. His future, uncertain and fraught with danger, lay ahead.

A car was waiting for him, as Giuseppe had promised. The streets of Ostia and Rome were quiet that morning, the holiday giving them a strangely serene quality, though Saadeh could sense the tension beneath the surface. Rome was a city of power and intrigue, and today he would meet its master, the man who had summoned him here.

He was led into a grand building, then into Mussolini's office, where the air was thick with authority. There, standing by a large desk, was the man himself, Benito Mussolini. His piercing eyes fixed on Saadeh, sizing him up as they exchanged pleasantries. Mussolini's reputation had preceded him, and Saadeh knew that this meeting could determine the fate of an entire region.

"Antoun Saadeh," Mussolini said, his voice smooth but commanding. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I trust your journey was pleasant enough?"

"It was long, but I have arrived," Saadeh replied, his tone calm but wary.

Mussolini nodded, motioning for Saadeh to sit. "Let me get to the point. I've called you here to offer a partnership, one that I believe will benefit both of us—and the future of the Middle East." He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air before continuing.

"First, I offer you an independent kingdom of Greater Syria, one that will be under union with Italy, much like Croatia and Albania. France's hold on Lebanon and Syria is finished, and I will support your rule over these territories. In return, you will align with Italy's ambitions in the Mediterranean and beyond." Mussolini leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "I also have plans for Turkey. Once we've secured Syria and Lebanon, we will invade Turkey. In exchange for your loyalty, I offer you the provinces of Adana, Tarsus, and Hatay."

Saadeh sat still, processing Mussolini's words. His mind raced—an independent Greater Syria, French Lebanon under his rule, the provinces of Turkey in his hands. It was tempting, a powerful position, one that could make him the foremost leader of the middle east. But there was more.

"Antioch," Mussolini continued, "will be split between the Vatican and the Orthodox Church. It's a necessary concession. And as for British Palestine," he paused dramatically, "it will be under Israel's rule, an Italian satellite state, under union with Italy like Greater Syria. You see, we must balance the interests of all powers in the region. And the Jews... they have their place in the world now."

Saadeh's heart clenched. The mention of Palestine, a part of greater Syria , now under the control of the Zionists, a puppet of Italy, was a bitter pill to swallow. Saadeh had fought his entire life for a united greater Syria, and this was a direct betrayal of everything he stood for. How could he align himself with such a plan?

He sat silently for a long moment, the weight of Mussolini's offer pressing heavily upon him. An independent Greater Syria, Lebanon and Syria under his rule, land in Turkey, but Palestine under Israel. These terms were not without their allure—power, territory, recognition. But at what cost?

Finally, Saadeh spoke, his voice steady but filled with the internal struggle. "You offer me much, Benito Mussolini. Power, territory, and influence. But you ask me to sell a part of the soul of Syria —to abandon the struggle for a united Greater Syria, free from foreign control, and instead submit to an empire that seeks only to dominate."

Mussolini's expression hardened, but he remained calm. "You misunderstand me, Saadeh. This is not domination; it is partnership. You will have control over your people, your lands. All I ask is loyalty, a shared vision for the future. Together, we will reshape the Middle East. And the world."

Saadeh stood up, his decision hanging on the precipice. He knew that his choices would shape the fate of millions. His heart told him to reject Mussolini's offer, to continue fighting for a Greater Syria free from foreign interference. But his mind, ever the strategist, recognized the opportunity before him. If he refused, what would he gain? Would Syria simply descend into further chaos, another pawn in the larger global game?

His gaze met Mussolini's. "I will accept your offer," he said, his voice firm, though his heart was conflicted. He felt as if he'd sold his soul to the devil. "But know this: My loyalty is to Syria, to the Arab world. If I am to work with Italy, it will be on my terms. I will not betray my people for a promise of power."

Mussolini's lips curled into a smile. "Wise. Very wise, Saadeh. Together, we shall make history."

As Saadeh turned to leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just made a dangerous pact. His path now lay with Italy, but at what cost? The future of Syria, his people's future, was hanging in the balance. And deep down, he knew that this decision, whatever its immediate benefits, could haunt him for the rest of his life.

-

The New York Times
January 10, 1941

Italy Announces the Independence of the Kingdom of Greater Syria

Rome, Italy – January 10, 1941

In a historic move today, the Italian government officially declared the establishment of the Kingdom of Greater Syria, a newly independent state under the leadership of Prime Minister Antoun Saadeh. The announcement marks a significant shift in the geopolitical landscape of the Middle East, with Italy playing a central role in the creation of this new political entity.

The Kingdom of Greater Syria is described as a constitutional monarchy, with the King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel III, assuming the symbolic role of King of Greater Syria. This unprecedented arrangement is seen as a demonstration of the strengthening ties between Italy and its newly formed Middle Eastern ally. Prime Minister Saadeh, a prominent leader in the Syrian nationalist movement, will serve as the head of government, overseeing the administration of the kingdom while maintaining close cooperation with Italy.

The establishment of Greater Syria comes as a direct result of Italy's continued expansionist ambitions, as well as its desire to assert influence in the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Italian troops, initially 70 thousand, are expected to leave Syria, with a few thousand advisors remaining in Syria, primarily to train the new Syrian army, which is being built with Italian assistance. These advisors will be stationed in various parts of the kingdom to ensure the readiness of the new Syrian forces.

In a move designed to further cement Italy's strategic interests, a number of Italian military bases will be established throughout Syria. A base will be set up in Damascus, the political capital of the new kingdom, while naval bases will be constructed in Beirut and Tartous. These bases are expected to serve as critical points of Italian military presence in the region, securing vital Mediterranean routes and enhancing Italy's influence in the Middle East.

Despite this new alliance, Mussolini, who has remained neutral throughout the ongoing global conflict, has assured the international community that Italy's involvement in the Middle East is strictly political and defensive in nature. "Our commitment to Greater Syria is one of partnership, not occupation," Mussolini declared in a statement. "We are providing support to an independent nation, one that shares in our values and vision for the future of the Mediterranean."

The announcement has drawn mixed reactions from across the globe. While some in the Arab world view the establishment of Greater Syria as a necessary step toward independence from French and British colonial powers, others are deeply skeptical of Italy's true intentions. Critics fear that the new monarchy will serve as little more than a puppet regime under the control of Fascist Italy.

As tensions in the Middle East continue to rise, the world watches closely to see how this bold move by Mussolini and the Kingdom of Greater Syria will affect the balance of power in the region.

-

Excerpt from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 novel, Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce

In the early months of 1941, Benito Mussolini's ambitions to reshape the Mediterranean world took a significant and controversial step forward with the declaration of the Kingdom of Greater Syria. The creation of this new political entity, which positioned Italy as the central power in the Levant, was part of Mussolini's broader strategy to expand Italy's influence in the Middle East, even as Europe was engulfed in war. It was a bold move that marked the culmination of Mussolini's long-held desire to restore Rome's imperial grandeur, extending his control to parts of the former Ottoman Empire.

The idea for an independent Greater Syria had been discussed between Mussolini and Antoun Saadeh, a prominent Syrian nationalist leader, for several months. The Italian dictator saw in Saadeh a potential ally who could provide the region with a strong, independent leadership, one that could act as a counterbalance to British and French influence. In return, Italy would offer its support—both military and political—ensuring that Saadeh's newly declared kingdom would be a satellite of Rome, but one that retained its autonomy.

On January 1, 1941, Italy officially announced the independence of the Kingdom of Greater Syria, with Saadeh appointed as Prime Minister and the Italian King, Victor Emmanuel III, assuming the symbolic title of King of Greater Syria. The arrangement resembled the model Italy had already established in its control over Albania and Croatia, where Italian influence was paramount, yet local rulers retained internal control.

The announcement of the kingdom was accompanied by the pullout of Italian forces in Syria initially deployed to disarm the french garrison and occupy the former colony. In it's place, a few thousand military advisors and trainers would be kept to help build the new Syrian army. The Italians also established key military bases in Damascus, Beirut, and Tartous, underscoring their commitment to securing Italy's strategic interests in the region. These moves were seen by many as a clear indication of Italy's plans to further entrench its dominance in the Mediterranean, using the newly created Kingdom of Greater Syria as a springboard for further expansion.

For Mussolini, this was a masterstroke. It not only extended Italy's influence into the heart of the Arab world but also allowed him to present himself as a protector of Syrian independence, at least in name. Saadeh's cooperation, while motivated by the need for political and military support, was perceived by many as a necessary compromise to ensure the survival of the Syrian nationalist movement in a time when colonial powers such as France and Britain remained entrenched in the region. However, critics argued that Saadeh was merely a puppet, his leadership a façade masking Italy's increasing control over the Middle East.

The announcement, coming at the height of the Second World War, also drew a sharp response from the international community. While Mussolini insisted that Italy's actions were not imperialistic in nature, critics in the Arab world and beyond viewed the creation of Greater Syria as yet another example of European meddling in the region. The tension between the promise of Arab independence and the reality of foreign intervention would become a persistent theme in the years that followed.

Despite the controversy, Mussolini's gambit appeared to be paying off. The Kingdom of Greater Syria, under Saadeh's leadership, began to take shape as a politically stable entity aligned with Italy, with Mussolini's promises of economic aid and military support bolstering the new regime's credibility. Yet, as the months passed, the true nature of the alliance—its potential long-term consequences for Syrian sovereignty—would begin to reveal itself, and with it, the complications that would follow for both Italy and the newly forged Kingdom of Greater Syria.

Mussolini, neutral in the broader European conflict, would now find himself deeply enmeshed in the affairs of the Middle East. His influence there, while solidified by the creation of the kingdom, was fraught with challenges, not least of which were the growing nationalist sentiments that would one day clash with Italian interests. As the war raged on in Europe, Mussolini's Middle Eastern ambitions would prove as precarious as the alliances he had forged in the volatile Mediterranean world.

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 Novel Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce

Following the negotiations and strategic moves orchestrated by Mussolini in the latter half of 1940, the Mediterranean geopolitical landscape underwent a radical shift, further solidifying Italy's growing influence in the region. In the wake of the Second Vienna Award, Spain and Italy stood at the helm of reshaping the future of the former French colonies in the Mediterranean, using both diplomacy and military might to solidify their respective spheres of control. While Mussolini's vision for a revived Roman Empire stretched beyond Italy's borders, his closest ally, Spain under Francisco Franco, expanded its presence in North Africa, both at Italy's urging and in response to strategic military objectives.

After the signing of the Second Vienna Award on August 30, 1940, Spain, newly emboldened by the military alliance with Mussolini's Italy, quickly positioned its forces for a critical move in French-controlled North Africa. In late September, Franco deployed the Army of Africa, a highly regarded and battle hardened military force, to reinforce Spanish positions in Spanish Morocco. Subsequently, they moved into french Morroco and Algeria, where French influence had weakened significantly due to the ongoing crisis in Europe. The Spanish army, with support from Italian naval and aerial assets, took control of strategic French military bases across the region, marking the first significant phase of Spanish occupation in French territories.

In a calculated move aimed at fostering goodwill among the local populations and neutralizing potential resistance in french north Africa, Italy urged Spain to expropriate and redistribute French-owned land and businesses in Algeria and Morocco to the local populace. The redistribution not only undermined the French colonial legacy but also built the foundation for future Spanish influence in the region.

On February 1, 1941, Spain formally merged the territories of Morocco and Algeria, creating the Duchy of the Maghreb, a new political entity that would be ruled by the Moroccan monarch, Muhammad V. The creation of this client state, with Morocco's king installed as the Duke of the Maghreb under Spanish protection, solidified Spanish control over the region and placed the Moroccan monarchy in a delicate but dependent position. The new Duchy also served as a strategic bulwark against British interests in North Africa, as Spain and Italy sought to exert a strong influence in the Mediterranean Basin.

In line with its new territorial ambitions, Spain annexed 3 French coastal cities in Algeria, Oran, Algiers, and Annaba, while retaining its long-standing control over Spanish Morocco. These areas were seen not only as vital military and naval ports but also as significant economic assets due to their proximity to the Mediterranean shipping lanes and the rich natural resources of North Africa. The annexation marked the full integration of these territories into the Spanish empire, albeit as a subordinate part of the larger Rome Pact alliance with Italy.

The Spanish-Maghrebi occupation of Algeria was not without its complications. Among the most significant challenges was the fierce resistance from the Pied-Noirs, the French settler population who had called Algeria home for generations. They resisted the Spanish-Maghrebi rule vehemently, resulting in widespread unrest and widespread insurgent activities. Spain and the Maghreb proceeded to utilize local Berber troops, due to their perceives loyalty to its cause and resentment towards french rule.

They carried out brutal counterinsurgency measures to suppress the revolts, massacres, displacements, collective punishment. This counter insurgency culminated in June 1941, when the Pied-Noir population with the exception of the Jews were systematically placed in camps eerily reminiscent of the ones being set up in Nazi Germany at the time, then subsequently expelled from Algeria to the french west African colonies, where they would become part of the growing free french movement. The Jewish pied noirs meanwhile were sent to Libya at the request of Mussolini where they were placed in the Jewish refugee camps.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Mediterranean, Italy moved swiftly to capitalize on the destabilization of French control in the Levant. After quickly overwhelming the French garrisons in Lebanon and Syria, Mussolini sought to further his vision of a revived Roman Empire by courting the Syrian nationalist movement. In December 1940, he invited Antoun Saadeh, the leader of the Syrian National Socialist Party (SSNP), to Rome for discussions. Following a series of talks, Saadeh agreed to accept Italy's guidance in establishing a new regime in Syria. On January 10, 1941, Italy established the Kingdom of Greater Syria, a client state akin to the relationships Italy had cultivated with Albania and Croatia. The new Kingdom was placed under the nominal rule of Saadeh, who governed in Italy's name, marking a strategic win for Mussolini in the Middle East.

At the same time, Italy turned its attention to Tunisia. Initially occupied on September 15, 1940. Mussolini immediately took steps to begin it's integration into Italy proper. He began by dispossessing the royal family, expelling them from Tunisia and granting them a small but luxurious estate in Tuscany along with a pension and Italian citizenship.

Shortly after, in October 1, 1940, Mussolini announced the expropriation and redistribution of french owned farmland and businesses to local Tunisian citizens. The move was presented as an act of liberation for the Tunisian people, further cementing Italy's policy of supporting local autonomy under the Fascist umbrella.

In a further consolidation of power, and as a response to the nascent french insurgency in the region. On January 17, 1941, Italy announced the expulsion of the French population in Tunisia to French west Africa, and the redistribution of their remaining property and possessions to the Tunisian populace. The only exceptions were french Jews, who were sent to the Jewish refugee camps in Libya.

This culminated on February 1 1941, in which Mussolini announced a decree fully integrating both all of Libya south of the coast and Tunisia into Italy's territories as provinces. The Arab subjects of these regions were granted full Italian citizenship, a decision that was aimed at creating a unified Italy across the Mediterranean. To bolster this new demographic, Mussolini encouraged Italians to settle in Libya and Tunisia, further transforming the region into Italy's "fourth shore."

The summer and winter of 1940-1941 represented a turning point for both Spain and Italy in their respective pursuits of Mediterranean dominance. By the time the Kingdom of Greater Syria was established and Tunisia fully integrated into Italy, Mussolini and Franco had dramatically reshaped the balance of power in the region, securing their positions as the preeminent powers in the Mediterranean world. The actions taken by both nations set the stage for further expansion and consolidation as the Axis powers maneuvered to control one of the most strategically important regions on earth.

-

January 25, 1941
Essaâda Palace
Tunis, Tunisia

Let me tell you a secret. A wonderful, horrible little secret.

I'm not supposed to be here. Not in this palace, not in this body, not in this timeline. I was a Peace Corps volunteer once. In Rwanda. Kind eyes, bad jokes, mosquito nets and solar stoves. I used to hold babies and help farmers dig trenches for irrigation. I used to kiss Sofie under palm trees and pretend that I was going to change the world. And then—wham—one sharp turn off the mountain road and gravity decided I wasn't worth keeping.

I died.

Except I didn't.

I woke up in Benito Mussolini's body on the morning of September 1, 1939—the day the world collapsed into fire and ash. Since then, it's been one long acid trip of uniforms, speeches, blood, and opera. I kept the act up for months. The good little Duce. The mask. The rehearsed lines. The stiff-armed salutes. But now? Now the mask is peeling off.

No. Now I peel it off myself and eat it with fava beans and Chianti.

The joke's on them. On everyone.

Today, I stood in the courtyard of Essaâda Palace, preparing to address a group of nationalist leaders from the Destour movement—Tunisian revolutionaries playing pretend with politics. They thought I came to negotiate. No. I came to watch the light die in their eyes.

The sun burned overhead like God's dying flashlight. The air was thick, the way it gets before a really bad decision—moist, heavy, and humming with insects and dread. The guards stood to my flanks, emotionless. I twitched slightly, smiled, wondered what their blood would look like on the marble.

Over a year.

Over a fucking year of this twisted reality.

I miss my parents. My friends. I miss Sofie. She smelled like lemongrass and Marlboros and I can still hear her laugh when I close my eyes. I keep her photo in my desk drawer next to the pistol. Every night, I take the gun out and put it in my mouth like a communion wafer. Cold. Metal. Sacred. But I don't pull the trigger.

Why?

Because fuck you. That's why.

Because maybe this is hell, and you don't get to leave hell just because you're tired. You serve hell. You become hell. You redecorate hell in marble columns and fascist pageantry and then you start the music.

Midnight Pretenders by Tomoko Aran plays on loop in my head now. That synth line? That's my national anthem. It's my war drum. The bassline keeps time with the jackboots stomping through Tunis.

I walked into that chamber and looked those dusty, righteous little men in the eye. They thought they were dealing with a man. A statesman. A politician.

No.

I'm not a man anymore. I am the punchline to a cosmic joke.

"I think you understand what this moment means," I said, smiling. My teeth felt too large in my mouth. "Today marks the rebirth of Carthage. And you—you are the midwives. Or the afterbirth. Whichever you prefer."

They fidgeted. Eyes darted. I could smell the fear. Like overripe bananas and wet stone.

"I've signed the decree. The French are finished. Their villas, their banks, their stinking colonial perfume—gone. You're Italians now. Romans, even. Congratulations! Mazel tov! Or you're corpses. Your call."

Someone coughed. I pointed at him.
"You," I said. "What's your name?"
He didn't answer. I laughed. Loud. Too loud. A guard shifted.

"Doesn't matter. You'll be remembered as a footnote in someone else's genocide."

Then came the music again. Kadomatsu. Midnight Girl. Synths soft as velvet and sharp as razors. I started humming along. The generals looked uncomfortable. The locals looked terrified. My pupils dilated. I could feel the rhythm crawl up my spine like a thousand tiny lizards.

"Here's the deal," I purred. "You give me obedience, I give you citizenship. You give me trouble? I give you and your families down to the babies bullets. And the Croats. And the flame. All of it. I don't care if I have to burn every orphanage and mosque in Tunis to get my province. Do I make myself clear?"

The silence was unbearable. Delicious. Like holding your breath before the drop in a Plastic Love remix.

"I don't mind playing nice," I lied. "Or be decent. Or moral. But only if you lot learn your place."

I leaned in.

"I've decided to embrace my inner god. Not a god of love. Not a god of justice. A god of consequences."

My hand twitched again, almost reflexively, craving the grip of the pistol. I sleep with it now. Like a teddy bear. I name it "Plan B."

And then, just to really twist the knife, my mind rang out. Loud. Off-key.

"Living together, loving forever… in a dream that we can't wake from!"
Miki Asakura. God-tier.

The men were pale. Someone crossed himself I think. Good. I want them to think I'm possessed. Because I am. I am possessed by clarity.

"I'll say it one more time for the cheap seats: Silver, or lead. Give me loyalty, or I give you bullets. Simple math."

And just like that, I turned on my heel and left them stewing in their impotent little dreams of sovereignty. My boots clicked with finality on the floor. I didn't look back. You never look back when you're rewriting reality.

Back in my office, I poured a glass of grappa and put on Yurie Kokubu's Moment of Summer in my mind. God, that voice. It's like snorting nostalgia. I sat behind the desk, looked out over the city I now owned, and wondered if anyone back home would recognize me now. Probably not. Probably for the best.

I picked up the pistol. Just held it. Let it rest against my lips like a lover's breath.

Click.

Nothing. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

Because Rome's not going to rebuild itself. And I've got cities to burn.

 

[Alenco98]

February 28, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

I sat at my desk, admiring the map of Italy's colonial empire laid out before me. I won't lie—I was proud. Not even two years as Duce, and already I had reshaped the Mediterranean in my image.

France: seething, coping, dilating—humiliated. Of course, those bastards in the Free French Army were frothing in exile, ranting about La France insoumise. A bunch of sore losers. I expelled every last Frenchman from North Africa and Syria. Thank God Franco listened too. Hitler whined, of course—claimed this would "create tension in France." The same man refused to hand over more Jews just because I visited Stalin. Ungrateful little shit. I fantasized about capturing him—alive, if possible. Trying him. Making him my court jester when I declared myself Consul for Life and announced a Renovatio Imperii once the war ended. Just the thought was intoxicating—like the synth and velvet vocals of Naoko Gushima's Mellow Medicine.

Still, I found it suspicious how Hitler suddenly stopped pressing me and ignored me when I bought up the jews. He likely suspected I was plotting something. Which, of course, I was.

And now I was about to meet Graziani. My Minister of war. The man I needed to determine just how much force I could muster against that failed Austrian painter. One misstep, and my blood would be smeared across these marble walls. It sucked no longer being the Minister of War, the Navy, and Aeronautics. But I needed to delegate, make my military more efficient. No more third world tin pot dictator bullshit, I had the prestige, cold efficiency.

He arrived a few minutes later. Graziani—God, I respected the man. Competent, loyal, everything you could ask for in a general.

"Duce," he greeted me as he sat across from me. His voice carried weight, resolve. No sycophant, no automaton—this was a man whose loyalty had to be earned. And I had earned it, after everything I'd done for Italy since stepping into Il Duce's skin.

"Thank you. Please—the report," I said.

He handed me a folder. A thick envelope, papers jutting out like an erection through boxer shorts. I took it from him and opened it.

Troop numbers, supply levels, readiness reports. A full assessment of the army. My sword. My shield. My missionaries in a foreign field. Though St. Peter probably wouldn't call my name, considering the atrocities committed under my rule as Il Duce so far.

Yugoslavia. The Serbs—slaughtered, expelled, disappeared by that mad dog Pavelic. I managed to rein him in somewhat, but my men reported death squads prowling in the night. The brutality was no longer random—it was precise. Clinical. And soon, it would end. I had people inside the Ustaše, ready to put him down. The order had gone out this morning. A soft coup, as smooth and haunting as Jasumin wa Kanashii Kaori by Wink. Pavelic was tolerated by few. His time was up.

And that was just the beginning. Syria, Lebanon, Tunisia, Algeria, Romania—my allies and my legions, reshaping the world. Expulsions, relocations, purges. All orchestrated by me. I had become a monster.

I could've stayed quiet. Taken in Jews. Saved lives. Made money. Played neutral. But the old adage held true: absolute power corrupts absolutely. My power wasn't total—but it was close. The Grand Council of Fascism still reined me in, but even they had loosened their grip as Italy rose on the world stage thanks to my knowledge of the future. They scoffed when I repealed the racial laws in the beginning. Now I grant citizenship to Arabs and Berbers, and they barely grumble. A sharp reminder of what I've done for Italy, and they roll over like obedient dogs. Disgusting. I'd rather have a city pop singer like Kaoru Akimoto or Akina Nakamori on the Council—at least their voices bring me joy.

But I digress. The army. That was the real concern. I was going to betray Germany. The question was—could I?

I had 1.5 million men under arms.

250,000 were in East Africa. A low-level insurgency simmered there. Mostly suppressed. A few scorched villages now and then. The Jewish refugees were proving useful—Lehi was using the region as a training ground. The Amhara and Oromo perfect target practice for the Lehi.

200,000 in Libya and Tunisia—50,000 in the latter, 150,000 in the former. They'd done well in Syria, I had drained 70,000 Arabs and Italians from my Lybian garrison and they smashed the demoralized French. Another 50 thousand from Libya, and promises made to the Tunisians sealed the deal. French arms confiscated and redistributed to the Army of Africa. Supply issues were being addressed—slowly.

5,000 in Albania. 10,000 in Croatia. Another 5,000 in Syria. Skeleton crews. But autonomy in the puppet states meant fewer boots on the ground. I would give them justice and wealth—if they obeyed me. No need for occupation when loyalty could be bought.

2,500 in Yemen. My Alpini—cream of the crop. Guarding the man who opened the door to the Middle East. Another 5,000 in Mocha, my dagger-point port under construction. A threat to Britain—a bluff, maybe. The more I read, the more I realized how ill-prepared Mussolini had been. I gave Graziani a free hand, and he'd worked miracles. But we weren't ready. Not yet.

The divisions were reorganized—no more binary mess. Three infantry regiments per division. Graziani's idea after observing the Germans and British, signed off by me.

The tin-can tanquettes—gone. Replaced by proper medium tanks—the M11/39 in growing numbers.

Artillery? Self-propelled and modernizing. God favors the army with the best artillery.

Officer corps—cleaning house. Political hacks being shown the door.

Communications? Primitive, still. Dogs and pigeons, mostly. Radios reserved for elite units like the Alpini. Italian mainland units were next, then Africa once that was done.

Logistics had improved. Uniforms, shirts, boots, winter clothes, ammunition, fuel, spare parts, food—no longer a pipe dream for the army. The question now was stockpiling and sustaining it all.

I closed the folder and sighed. "Thank you, Graziani. Be honest. Would Italy be ready for war next year?"

He didn't blink. "If we keep the army at its current size, we could be ready by July, maybe August this year." He leaned in. "But against the other great powers—Germany, Russia, Britain—we'd lose. Straight fight? No contest. If we expand to three million and wait until 1944, we might hold our own. Right now? We'd get crushed."

It stung. But it was true. I nodded. "And what if we expanded to two million?"

He paused, thinking. "Another year. At least. I advise against it—unless we can expand in tandem with our industry and logistics. Rushing would be a mistake."

I exhaled. "Very well. We'll hold off."

I hated it. But he was right.

I leaned back in my chair, craving comfort. And then it came—like a gentle wave. The rhythm in my head. Melancholic, yet full of hope. Sweet Love by Junko Ohashi.
I'm, in love, with youuuuuu…

God, I loved that rhythm. If only I could truly listen, instead of just remembering.

Graziani stood, saluted crisply, and left without another word. A soldier through and through. I respected that. I stared at the folder for a moment longer, letting the numbers sink in like a too-sweet aftertaste.

I pressed a button on my desk. "Send in Cavagnari."

A few minutes passed. I heard his boots before I saw him—like the dull clink of antique silverware. Domenico Cavagnari, Chief of Staff of the Regia Marina. He stepped in, naval uniform immaculate, medals reflecting the light like a disco ball at a Tokyo club.

"Duce," he said, bowing slightly.

"Cavagnari. Sit." I gestured to the chair across from me. He sat stiffly, the kind of man who looked like he ironed his spine along with his trousers.

Now, this one had taken work. Convincing Graziani to modernize had been easy—he was practical, understood strength. But Cavagnari? He was born in a dry dock in 1880 and never mentally left it. When I first suggested radar, he looked at me like I'd fucked his mother.

I had to yell. A lot. Call him a relic. Compared his beloved dreadnoughts to iron coffins. Told him a navy without radar was like going into a concert blindfolded, and not the fun kind where Miki Matsubara is singing Stay with me on full blast.

"Give me the update," I said.

He opened his leather portfolio with the ceremony of a priest unsheathing the Eucharist.

"Our fleet stands at 4 battleships, 6 heavy cruisers, 12 light cruisers, 40 destroyers, and over 100 submarines. Our refits are proceeding—slowly—but proceeding. Radar is now installed on four capital ships and two cruisers. We expect to finish the rest by the end of 1942."

I smirked. "You remember how many times I had to scream at you for that radar?"

He grunted. "Yes, Duce."

"Like arguing with a record player. 'Why do we need radar when we have optics, Duce?' Christ. Next you'll tell me semaphore flags are making a comeback."

Cavagnari, to his credit, didn't flinch. "The technology was unproven. But you were correct. Our intelligence suggests the Royal Navy is well ahead in detection capabilities. Without radar, our ships are blind."

Progress. He even admitted I was right. That was rarer than a productive meeting of the Grand Council.

"And the carrier?" I asked, folding my hands.

He hesitated. "Augustus is under construction. The hull of the Roma liner has been converted, as ordered. He's expected to be operational by 1943. Perhaps late 1942, if we can expedite the catapults and flight deck."

I grinned. "A carrier. Look at us—real navy boys now."

He didn't smile. I didn't expect him to. He probably still cried when he saw a battleship stripped for parts.

I leaned back, eyes half-closing. A carrier. God, that had been a fight. Cavagnari had treated aircraft like an afterthought—like seagulls that accidentally dropped bombs like they dropped shit. I had to beat it into him that airpower wasn't just a trend. This wasn't 1916. The world had changed. Warfare had changed. The Americans were building carriers like vending machines popped out cola, and we were still painting battleships like opera sets. Thank god I was a Top Gun fan, aircraft carriers were the future and I knew that.

But we were catching up. Augustus would be beautiful. Streamlined, powerful—like a steel tribute to Anri's Remember Summer Days. A new era in a single hull.

"You know, Cavagnari," I said, cracking my neck, "when she launches, I want a band playing city pop. Let the British hear Plastic Love echoing off the waves."

He blinked. "Plastic... love?"

I waved it off. "You wouldn't get it. Just make sure she floats or I'll have someone demoted."

He continued. "We've also begun studying American carrier doctrine. Our naval aviation units are coordinating more closely with the Air Force. We've requisitioned Reggiane and Macchi fighters for carrier conversion trials. Engines are an issue. But we're making progress."

I nodded slowly. "And submarines?"

"Our submarine fleet is our greatest asset. We've reorganized them into coordinated wolfpacks, like the Germans. We're experimenting with improved torpedo designs. Our exercises in the eastern Mediterranean speak for themselves."

"Good," I said. "The silent killers. I always liked them. Like the cool, subtle rhythm in a Toshiki Kadomatsu track. Doesn't say much, but when it goes—boom. Someone's sinking."

He blinked again. God help me, I think that one actually confused him even more.

"Anything else?"

He cleared his throat. "We still lack the ability to project force beyond the Mediterranean. Without at least two carriers and proper aerial reconnaissance, engaging the British fleet in the Atlantic would be suicidal. Our fleet is good—but not that good."

Finally. Honesty. The sort I needed.

"Then we don't fight where we're weak," I said. "We fight where we control the tempo. Syria, Tunisia, the Red Sea. We'll build our strength until they have no choice but to respect us."

He stood, stiff as a mast. "Duce."

"Dismissed."

He turned and left. The door closed behind him.

I stood and stared out the window. The clouds over Rome looked like smoke from a burning fleet. I pictured Augustus cutting through the waves, Junko Yagami playing in the control tower, sailors nodding along as they loaded bombs with headphones on. A new kind of war, a new kind of empire.

The rhythm returned to my head. Bay City...... sora ga umi wo.......

God, if only I had a radio to the future and a glass of Campari. The Empire could wait a moment longer.

I sat back down, rubbing my temples. The Navy was moving, slowly, like a cruise liner doing a three-point turn in a canal. But moving.

I pressed the button again. "Bring in Pricolo."

Now this one always gave me a headache. Francesco Pricolo, Chief of Staff of the Regia Aeronautica. An airman in the most literal sense—head in the clouds, feet rarely on the ground, and his logistics sense somewhere in the stratosphere. If Cavagnari was born in a dry dock, Pricolo was born in a wind tunnel lined with old linen-covered biplanes.

He walked in with the lazy confidence of a man who still believed the future was made of canvas and dreams.

"Duce." He gave me a half-salute, half-shrug. God I wanted to put a bullet in him, but he was loyal at least.

"Sit," I said.

He did, crossing his legs like he was about to talk to me about the aesthetics of cloud shapes. He always had that vibe. Like he listened to Momoko Kikuchi on a loop and mistook bombing runs for an art exhibit.

"Status of the air force," I said flatly.

"Mixed, Duce," he admitted, to his credit. "We're still transitioning. The last of the biplanes are being decommissioned. The CR.42s will be pulled from frontline duty within the year. Relegated to colonial policing and secondary theaters."

"Good," I growled. "I don't want to see a single goddamn biplane flying unless it's at an airshow or shot out of the sky. We're not fighting Ethiopia anymore. I want monoplanes. I want speed. I want an air force that looks like 1941, not 1918."

He chuckled softly. "We've begun standardizing around the Macchi C.202 and the Reggiane Re.2001. Both are showing promise—competitive with the British Hurricanes, perhaps even the Spitfires in the right conditions."

"Perhaps?" I raised an eyebrow. "I don't want 'perhaps'. I want 'terrified British pilots crashing into the Channel because they saw our planes in the sky.' I want kill ratios that would make Goering blush."

"Yes, Duce," he said quickly. "Our production's ramping up. Engines remain a bottleneck—Daimler-Benz licenses are helping, but our output is not yet consistent. SAI Ambrosini is working on lightweight interceptors. Breda… well, they're still designing flying sculptures more than aircraft."

I scoffed. "Breda. The flying tombstones. They crash better than they fly. Even my mistress can crash into the couch more gracefully than whatever those cocksuckers build."

He smirked. "True. We've cut orders. Focus is on Macchi, Fiat, and Reggiane. Quality over quantity."

"Logistics?" I asked, sharp now.

He winced.

I leaned forward. "Don't make me yell again goddamn it. You remember what I did last time. I screamed at you until your mustache almost flew off. We build beautiful aircraft, and then act shocked when they can't make it to the front because the fuel got 'lost' in Sardinia. Lost my fucking ass."

He sighed. "We've begun modeling our logistics after the Army. Dedicated supply officers. Fuel depots, spare parts stockpiles, scheduled maintenance chains. It's still messy—pilots have been cannibalizing aircraft to keep squadrons flying. But it's improving."

"Good," I muttered. "Because if I see one more report about 'insufficient oil filters in Tripoli' I'm going to throw someone out the Ministry of Aviation's third floor window. Personally. To city pop."

He blinked. "To… city pop?"

"Yes. I want to throw you out while Midnight Pretenders plays. Like a protest against mediocrity."

He didn't ask for clarification. Wise man.

I stood and walked to the map of the Mediterranean on my wall, the empire stretching like fingers dipped in blood and dreams. I tapped Italy with my knuckle.

"I want air superiority over Italy if the time comes. Total control. No dogfights with outmoded relics. I want the sun glinting off Italian monoplane canopies. If someone tries to challenge us, I want them to burst into flames before they even fire a shot."

"We're reequipping our air wings now. Fighters first, then tactical bombers. Our SM.79s are still reliable, but we're moving to more modern designs—Piaggio's P.108 heavy bomber is coming online soon."

"Finally," I said, turning to face him. "A real fucking heavy bomber. Took long enough. It only took me threatening to bomb the Air Ministry with your own biplanes to get it started."

Pricolo didn't argue. Smart again.

"You'll have the budget. You'll have the time. But I want results goddamn it. Planes that can hit Gibraltar from Benghazi. Planes that can scare the RAF out of Cairo. Planes that sound like Mariya Takeuchi's voice wrapped in a storm. Smooth but unstoppable."

"Understood, Duce."

I sat back down, slowly.

"Dismissed, Francesco. Make me proud."

He saluted again, a little sharper this time, and turned to leave. His boots clicked softer than Cavagnari's. Lighter, like a pilot's. He belonged in the clouds. But for once, his feet were finally touching the ground.

The door closed.

Alone again, I tilted back in my chair. Three arms of my military, slowly, painfully, beginning to align. The Army had boots, the Navy had steel, and now the Air Force—maybe—had wings worth the name.

I lit a cigarette, exhaled, and let the smoke curl like a vapor trail.

Midnight pretenders…

That soft synth floated in my head again. The fake warmth of nostalgia. City pop always sounded like remembering a future that never happened.

But I'd make it happen.

Even if I had to burn half world to the rhythm.

-

Excerpt from Christopher Hibbert's 2008 Novel: Mussolini: The Rise and Reign of Il Duce


When war broke out in Europe in September 1939, Italy stood at an unusual crossroads: neutral, ambitious, and deeply unprepared for a modern conflict. Though boasting a million and a half men under arms, Mussolini's military machine was plagued by structural inefficiencies, outdated equipment, and commanders more loyal to legacy than logic. Unlike Hitler's thunderous mobilizations or Britain's cautious escalation, Mussolini's first instinct was not expansion—but reform. He viewed neutrality not as idleness, but as a sacred window. A breathing space. And in his own volatile way, he intended to use every minute of it.

Over the course of 1939 and into 1940, the Duce launched what internal memos would later dub Il Rinnovamento – The Renewal: a sweeping modernization campaign across the Army, Navy, and Air Force, aimed not at growing Italy's forces, but at sharpening and restructuring them. It was less about building numbers, more about building purpose. A storm was coming, and Mussolini intended his empire to meet it with steel that could bend, but not break.

In September 1939, the Italian Army remained bloated but brittle. Its outdated binary division structure—two infantry regiments per division instead of the standard three—left it tactically inflexible. Much of its officer corps were political appointees, untested and sycophantic, while logistics and supply lines were poorly managed. Tanks were light, largely obsolete, and scattered among under-equipped infantry.

By February 1941, the transformation was well underway. Under the direction of the loyal but capable Rodolfo Graziani, Mussolini had greenlit the reorganization of all divisions to the more standard three-regiment model. Medium tanks like the M11/39 had replaced the infamous tanquettes, and though industrial output lagged, production was finally coherent. The officer corps saw quiet purges—party loyalists replaced with career professionals. Logistics had improved markedly; troops were better clothed, armed, and supplied than they had been in years. Graziani's steady hand and Mussolini's micromanaging wrath forged the army into a leaner, more dangerous force—if still incomplete. As Graziani admitted in private in early 1941, the army was not yet ready for a war with a great power, but for the first time in decades, it was on the right track.

Italy's navy entered the Second World War with majestic capital ships but a stagnant mindset. Admirals dreamt of grand battleship duels while ignoring the dawn of naval aviation, radar, and submarines. Aircraft carriers were dismissed as novelties. Radar was viewed with suspicion. Mussolini, not a sailor but very much a futurist at heart, exploded with fury when briefed on the Regia Marina's technological backwardness.

Cavagnari, the naval chief of staff, became the prime target of the Duce's wrath—and reform. By 1941, under pressure bordering on psychological warfare, Cavagnari had begun dragging the navy into the modern age. A prototype aircraft carrier—Augustus—was finally under construction, though not due for completion until 1943. Radar installations were being installed, albeit in limited numbers. Surface ships received updates in communications and fire control, while submarine and destroyer production was rationalized. Still, the navy lagged behind its British and even French counterparts in integration and doctrine. Mussolini saw the navy as the slowest limb of his military body—but one that, if it woke up, could strangle a continent.

The air force, beloved by Fascist pageantry but loathed by Mussolini's practical mind, entered the war in 1939 with a shocking attachment to biplanes. The CR.42, though maneuverable, was a relic of a past era. Bombers were underpowered and ranged poorly. Worse, logistics were a mess. Pilots cannibalized planes for parts. Fuel vanished into the sands of Libya. Radios were rare.

Mussolini's meeting with Air Marshal Francesco Pricolo in early 1941 was far less combative than with his other chiefs—not for lack of frustration, but because progress had finally arrived. The Macchi C.202 and Reggiane Re.2001, sleek monoplanes comparable to Allied fighters, were entering service. The old biplanes were being phased out or demoted to colonial use. Bombers like the SM.79 were still in use, but heavier craft like the Piaggio P.108 were in early production. Logistics were being quietly restructured: fuel depots organized, spare parts cataloged, radios gradually issued. Pricolo modeled his supply system after the army's reforms—proof that, under duress, even airmen could be taught discipline.

Mussolini, though more commonly remembered for theatrics and bombast, revealed a surprising pragmatism in this period. He did not chase numbers, did not demand reckless expansion. He demanded readiness. Neutrality had bought him time, and though Italy's armed forces remained smaller and weaker than Germany's or Britain's, they were no longer a hollow shell of Fascist propaganda.

As one observer put it in early 1941, "The Duce no longer wanted armies to march for spectacle, or planes to fly for parades. He wanted them to kill, efficiently. Silently. Like the jazz of a Harlem Renaissance track—soft on the ears, but playing over a burning skyline."

And for the first time, his empire was starting to hum to that tune.

 

[Alenco98]

March 2, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The Reich's man in Rome was punctual. A crisp knock. A practiced gait. That smug Prussian rigidity like someone shoved a telephone pole up his ass. Hans Georg von Mackensen: ambassador, aristocrat, witless errand boy for a failed painter with a superiority complex. God I hated dealing with this cunt, even looking at him made me wanna put a knife through his stomach while his bitch of a wife watched, god she had such a stabbable face.

I didn't stand. I never stood for diplomats unless they were mine or dead. He entered. Bowed slightly. The same dull suit, the same lifeless eyes. Like a taxidermy exhibit that could still speak German. I remembered I had a gun in my drawer, soon.

"Duce," he said, the r rolling faintly in that forced Hochdeutsch affectation they all had. "How may I be of service?"

I smiled. Cold. Controlled. "Herr von Mackensen. Sit. Let's talk." I took a breath, I needed all the willpower to not order this cocksucker be shoved out a window.

I gestured like a tired priest blessing a child. He sat stiffly.

"I am disappointed" I began, "of the continuing… interruptions in our arrangement. The Jewish transports." I clasped my hands together. "The flow has… ceased." 1.5 million, 1.5 million Jews taken in. Until that cocksucker Adolf got upset cause I talked to that paranoid schizophrenic Stalin and went NEIN JUDEN.

He fidgeted slightly. "Yes. Berlin has decided—"

"You mean Hitler has decided."

He blinked. "Yes. The Führer is displeased. Your recent trade accord with the Soviet Union was… unexpected."

Of course it was. That's why I did it. Nothing tickles me more than disrupting the predictable little Reich.

"I see," I said. "So because I refuse to let Germany dictate my trade, refuse to let Germany violate Italian soveirgnty you cut off my Jew supply? We're your partners, not vassals."

His face twitched. "They are not—"

"Oh but they are." I leaned forward slightly. "They are mine. My Jews. You gave them to me. You promised me. And now? Silence. Where's my next transport ambassador? I was promised another 250 thousand by February. The Lehi aren't going to recruit from nowhere."

He didn't answer. I offered him a smile that felt like razor wire.

"I ask because," I said gently, "your Jewish problem is my solution. My final solution to the British question in the middle east. And more importantly—do you have any idea how valuable they've been to the Lehi?"

A twitch.

"The Lehi." He repeated like a retarded choirboy.

"Yes, yes, ambassador the Lehi," I said, sipping my wine. "The Falag. You know, the fascist Zionists we trained in Libya? The ones tying up entire divisions of British troops in Palestine? All without a single German or Italian firing a shot, I might add. And quite a lot of British mothers mourning their boys. Why, that splendid little battle at the Jaffa Port last week? Hilarious. 100 British soldiers in body-bags in one day. Could your SS do that while outnumbered and outgunned?"

He stiffened like a mannequin in a freezer.

On the outside, I was serene. Passive. Almost Buddhist. I was the Mona Lisa of Mediterranean politics.

Inside? I was laughing. Cackling. Laughing so hard it would kill an old pope.

Inside I was also playing "Stay With Me" by Miki Matsubara in my mind like a weapon.

Stay with meeeeee…
Mayonakaaa no doa o tatakiiiii…

God. Those incomprehensible lyrics . That rhythm. Like sex wrapped in silk.

He was still talking. Something about Berlin reassessing strategic necessity or some other vague diplomatic bullshit. God just be straight, I fucking hate diplomats. This is why I want to have Ciano shot, he sounds just like this snivelling little shit in front of me. No wonder Stalin purged hundreds of thousands for no reason, I'd be annoyed too if I had to deal with these fucking worms on a daily basis. I understand your game now brother Stalin. A glass of vodka to you.

"I understand," I said, voice monotone like an 18 year old prostitute about to fuck a fat man old enough to be her father or even grandfather in a dingy motel room while she questioned her life choices. "The Führer is busy. Planning his…future campaigns, I imagine."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh nothing." I waved it off. "Just speculation. I imagine he'll get what he wants eventually."

And then I'll gut him like a fish. All while that bitch Eva watches. Maybe I'll turn her into my second mistress, never been with a blonde. Like monkey soup in Brazil, Uma Delicia. Marylin Monroe was a blonde too, maybe I could fuck her before Kennedy. Lucky bastard.

But I didn't say that. Not out loud. I pictured Hitler's stupid face, bloodied and slack-jawed in a Roman dungeon. A broken toy I no longer needed.

I smiled again. "Do remind herr Adolf that the Middle East is… delicate. And I hold the scalpel."

He stood. "I will convey your message."

I stood too—finally. Just to flex.

"Good. Do that. And do ask Berlin where my next trainload is. Or I may have to consider other… sources. Stalin, perhaps? That trade agreement can be modified to include Jews."

His face twitched again.

I watched him leave, clicking down the marble halls like a tin soldier winding down.

That bastard knew.

They all knew I was going to flip. But they had no proof. They didn't know when.

Yet.

And I knew, that they knew.

And they knew, that I knew, that they knew.

And I knew, that they knew, that I knew, that they knew.

But soon… I'd carve my own legend. Across Thrace, across Anatolia, across Europe. With iron and flame. And every cocksucker from Anchorage Alaska to Kabul Afghanistan would bow. Let those fuckers bleed themselves in Russia. I'd have given Thrace, Constantinople, and the Aegean to my Greek vassals and the south east of turkey to my Syrian friends.

And before the British tried anything I'd backstab Germany. Too perfect, strange bedmates.

I walked back to my desk. Took a deep breath.

And in my head—

Plastic Love began to play.

God, I needed war.
War and city pop.

And maybe another cup of wine.

And Clara sucking my cock.

I'm just playing games, I know that's plastic loooooove.

Dance to the plastic beat, another morning buuuuuuuuuuuz.

I'm just playing games, I know that's plastic loooooove.

Dance to the plastic beat, another morning buuuuuuuuuuuz.

-

March 6, 1941
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany

He thinks I don't know.

He thinks he's clever. Thinks I cannot see the oily wheels turning in that malformed head of his. That Mediterranean goblin—Mussolini—Duce—with his stolen laurels and antique fantasies.

He smiles too much. Like a snake with a rictus grin. Like a man who already knows the answer to the question he's asking.

Von Mackensen was clear. The Italians are no longer useful. They are no longer loyal. They are liabilities. Mussolini speaks of sovereignty, of trade deals, of Jewish "resources." He demands more trains. He wants the Jews—not for purification, not for order—but for his own ends. He is hoarding them. For leverage. For chaos.

He has betrayed us before we have even won the war.

And yet they love him.

The Greeks cheer him.
The Jews arm under his banner.
The Balkans murmur in Latin again.
And the British—yes, even the British—fear what he might awaken in Africa, in the East.

He has turned Libya into a forge.
He has turned Rome into a stage.
He has turned my war into his revolution.

He is not an ally.
He is not a Roman.
He is a parasite.

And he forgets. He forgets who gave him the opportunity . Who sided with him. Who lifted him from irrelevance.

But I do not forget.

The East comes first.
Judeo-Bolshevism must be defeated.
The Slavic filth must be extinguished. Moscow must fall like Carthage—erased.
Then the Caucasus. The oil. The breadbasket of tomorrow.

And then?

Then Rome.

We will enter like Caesars—but with tanks instead of horses. The Luftwaffe will reduce the Palatine to rubble. I will scatter his Senate like rats. I will burn the Colosseum and salt the ruins of his myths.

The SS will drag him from his palace in chains. No more marble. No more crowds. Just silence. Just the silence of history correcting itself.

I will erase him.

Him and his ridiculous dream of a mongrel empire. Him and his Jewish games. Him and his Jews.

No more.

After the East is pacified, Italy is next.

I already have the files. The maps. The routes.

Operation Saturnus.
Veneto to Tuscany.
Neapolitan coast to the Sicilian gate.

Kesselring is ready. Rommel is loyal.
And if the Italian army lifts a finger, it will be the last movement of a dying limb.

He does not know it yet.

But I have already begun the funeral arrangements.

Mussolini's empire is a mirage.

And when the fires rise, he will understand:
Rome belongs to me.

-

March 10, 1941
Palazzo Venezia
Rome, Italy

The room reeked of cologne and cowardice. They were all here—Ciano, my shitstain son in law with his dead-eyed smile and notes scribbled like a schoolgirl, Balbo smirking like he knew better (he didn't, that fucker), and the rest of the Grand Council lined up like mannequins in uniform, waiting for direction.

I watched them in silence, swirling a glass of grappa, city pop drifting faintly in the corner of my mind—Tatsuro Yamashita, "Bomber." There's something about Japanese city pop: sleek, calculated, hollow like a smile you don't mean. A mirror of the men in front of me.

Tunisia was pacified, more or less. The French had folded like cheap linen once we started dragging them out of their villas and into the camps. Of course, the French always surrender eventually. The trick is knowing how hard you need to squeeze before the juice runs.

Greater Syria was a different story. The remnants of France clung to everything west of Raqqa like lice to a dead dog. British arms from Iraq as well as Free French propaganda and men flowing in under their watch, Saadeh's boys were bleeding for every kilometer. But they had equipment, Italian advisors, and eager syrians coming in from south america ready to claim their new homeland. I figured some chemical gas and bombs poured over the free french forward positions and problem solved. Slow, bloody, full of British condemnation but efficient.

The Zaydi imam had sent me a letter—perfumed parchment, hand-written. He wanted chemical weapons for his own army. Fine. I'll be your chemical dealer. Better than a chemical romance.

I tapped my glass against the table. A pause. They all went silent, good dogs. God I hated these cunts, except I couldn't kill them, especially Ciano, my daughter was married to him and seemed to love him, sadly he had his uses.

"My friends," I said with a soft sigh, passive and disapproving like a father hearing his child had set fire to the cat. "We are facing resistance. In Serbia. In Syria. In the minds of the colonial man who still clings to the myth of French superiority. We must correct this."

Ciano leaned forward. "More troops?"

I smiled faintly. "No. More pressure." This fucking bitch. I wanna scoop his eyes out with a spoon and make him eat them.

These 'men' lack imagination. They see empire like a chessboard. I see it like a nightclub—lights, mirrors, sweat, control, drugs, condoms. You don't dominate with force, not always. You dominate with spectacle. A dead insurgent means nothing. But a few Frenchmen in cages over the gates of Damascus. That's theater.

Like in Plastic Love, the synth rolls in slow—smooth, seductive, but there's menace under it. That's how I'll treat Syria.

"We shall begin... Imprisoning every French citizen in Greater Syria we can get our hands on." I tasted my words. "Expropriate their property among the syrians. Detain the ones with influence and quietly dispose of them. Break the Free French's base of support."

Balbo raised an eyebrow. "And the press?"

"What about them? We'll say they're being relocated for their protection. As for the free french in the east. A few chemical weapons and bombs for their forward positions, no towns, no massacres, I want every European looking man who says bonjour shot and their corpses in the Euphrates. The Arabs can be let go of and recruited." I smiled with all the warmth of a guillotine then moved on.

Serbia. Always Serbia. Graveyards of empires and psychotic nationalists with dreams too big for their heads. Tito was still a rumor. But rumors grow teeth. There wouldn't be any dad's who were war criminals, not this time.

"The Ustashe were inefficient," I said calmly. "The Croats were... exuberant, but they burned too many villlages, killed too many people, too loud, bad public relations."

Pavelic thought killing children made him a genius. Idiot. You don't need to exterminate people to control them. Just kill or discredit the ones who speak too loud. Death squads? Too loud, bad PR. Blackmail, rumors, slander, entrapment, threatening families. Priests and poets first. Teachers next. Thank god orthodox priests can marry, family, good collateral, a few men in the night telling them their families daily routine and kindly asking them to tone it down was much more efficient. Pavelic would just send death squads to roam randomly at night once I told him to chill, inefficient, foolish. My way was better.

"Send in special units. OVRA units trained for counter espionage. I want them to gather blackmail, rumors. Give them full discretion to monitor key figures and their families—clergy, teachers, poets, journalists, partisans. Find the most problematic ones, drug them, send some prostitutes male or female and redoes them. Make it spicy, make it scandalous." I turned to Roatta. "You'll oversee it. But no massacres. Let the Germans have their gore in Poland. We prefer...threats, blackmail, their dead wives and children paraded in front of them if they refuse. We're civilized men unlike the so called master race."

The soundtrack shifts in my mind: Mariya Takeuchi, "September." There's a sweetness to it—false hope wrapped in velvet. Perfect for Serbia. Let them dance a little before the axe falls. September, soshite anata wa. September.

As the council murmured in agreement, I stood, finally.

"This empire is not built by force alone," I said, voice low but firm. "It is built by fear, by loyalty, by vision. We are not the Reich. We are Rome."

And Rome never apologizes.

The smell of espresso lingered, cut faintly by the scent of pipe smoke and polished leather. We'd moved from Serbia to Palestine now—closer to the heart. The map of the Levant was then stretched across the conference table like a patient on an operating table, arteries of trade and insurgency pulsing in red ink.

I gestured to the dot on the coast: Haifa. A week ago, the British still thought they owned it. Now? Two hundred British corpses in seven days. Streets slick with gun oil and blood.

There's something divine about guerrilla warfare when it's not your hands doing the killing. The Falag were magnificent—Lehi radicals turned fascist by necessity and by the sword. No morals. No pity. All purpose. That's what Zionism needed: not rabbis and lawyers, but killers with a dream.

I lit a cigarette. Italian made. Smooth. Clean. Classy. Like the Rajie song that was now playing softly in my mind—Kanashimi no Elephant.

"Haifa," I said aloud, drawing the name out like a lover's sigh. "What a surprise."

Ciano cleared his throat, his voice careful. "Officially, we've distanced ourselves."

"Yes. Publicly we must. The Americans are watching. Even the Pope is bitching at me over this. But," I turned, letting the smoke coil lazily, "we will not close the pipeline. The Falag are useful. They hurt the British. They radicalize the landscape. Let them grow. Feed them, in secret. Weapons, radio support, cash through Damascus."

A pause.

"Duce, if they win…?" Balbo asked.

"When they win. They'll break Palestine. That's enough." I smiled. "When the British tire, we'll step in and offer peace. Our kind of peace."

Israel, but with blackshirts instead of ultra Orthodox penguins. A settler state built in my image.

Roatta smirked. "We could begin arms smuggling through Egypt again."

"Perfect," I said. "Make it discrete."

The table quieted as the pointer moved north. Greece. The darling of Roman restoration, our Athenian mirror.

"We are almost prepared for the final phase," I announced. "The Thracian corridor will fall within the month once we start. Istanbul—Constantinople—will be retaken by our allies. The Greeks are sharpening their knives."

Ciano nodded. "They want the Hagia Sophia reopened."

"It will be."

I want that dome lit again. Let the turks cry out in rage. Let every Orthodox heart tremble with divine nostalgia and praise rome while sucking me off. Rome gives it all back—Jerusalem, Constantinople, Antioch. We are the empire of return. That British puppet they call a king can cry out all he wants about restraint, fucking asshole, once we take Constantinople I'm forcing an abolition of the monarchy. Send that family back to whatever German shithole they crawled out from. And if they refuse, well, the Russians did deal with their royals efficiently after the revolution.

"And the Turks?" Ciano asked.

"They'll collapse. Stalin will finish what we start. Thrace, Constantinople and the Aegean will be Greek. The Turks will get a people's republic courtesy of Stalin. Maybe even a red caliph. Something ornamental."

Mustafa Kemal's ghost can cry in its whiskey and rim my asshole. He had his rule. Now he gets a street named after him and a state that speaks Russian and pays taxes to Athens.

Another map laid out like a hooker in a cheap motel room. North Africa. Bold lines for Libya. Deep green for Tunisia. Not colonies—provinces.

"I have signed the integration decree back in February as you all know," I said calmly. "Tripolitania and Cyrenaica are now Italy. As Italian as Palermo. Tunis, too."

Muttering. These cocksuckers opposed me. But what can they do about it? I did the diplomatic checkmate, not them. I took territory for Italy without firing a shot. They bent the knee once I reminded them. Suck my cock and say thank you master once you swallow me. God I just want to be done with all this.

Ciano frowned. "It will be hard integrating them as I said."

"Yes. But it will be done."

Roatta leaned forward. "Even the Berbers?"

Yes, even the fucking Berbers you waste of sperm. You dense motherfucker. Christ. The Arabs. The desert tribes who once spat on Roman graves. Now they'll carry Roman passports. They bleed for our flag. They marry our men. And if they don't, the sands will be colored red with blood. Not just the men, but the women, and the children too.

"Yes," I said gently. "All of them. No more subject peoples. Only Romans. They fight for us now. The French pigs in the camps still cling to their old maps. We'll expel them soon. But our new citizens will speak Arabic and Italian then dream in Latin. And one day pray towards Rome, not Mecca."

This is how you rule the Third World: you give them validation and a dream, then make those sheep believe you stand with them. Once the cold war starts, I'm not going to let the soviets take the monopoly on backing decolonization, anti-racism, and civil rights. God, fascist Malcolm X, fascist Nelson Mandela. I can't wait. No communism, no capitalism, Romanism. The true third way, too much negative connotations for the word fascism, no, Romanism was the future for Italy. I should start writing a manifesto. I knew what the original future held, I was re-writing it.

I stood again. The room stiffened.

"From Casablanca to Constantinople, Rome will rule. Rome is on the cusp of its rebirth. It will soon be a reality again. And if the world trembles at our march," I smiled faintly, "let them dance to our music."

Yurie Kokubu played in my head. I love you. From her 1990 album silent moon, an enjoyable album.

A happening to me, Suma saki, ni, koboreru.....epilogue

An epilogue? No, this wasn't going to be an epilogue. It was a dream, a dream of Rome baby.