Two souls alike

"Star Wars or Lord of the Rings ?" Mussolini repeated, leaning back slightly, his gaze sharp but his expression unreadable. The faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

Amedeo blinked, the question hanging in the air like a weightless absurdity.

Not only the question in itself, but the language used for that. Not Italian, but english... and even more absurd than il duce speaking english for no reason, it is also the accent in it, heavy in his mouth.

Terrible and utterly disgusting in the ear, like a man speaking with a hot potato in his mouth.

English spoken by someone who sounds like they're always either annoyed or half-drunk. A simple, ugly and lazy, flattened drawl where vowels are stretched until they snap, and consonants vanish like they've been punched out. Every sentence sound like a challenge or a joke you don't quite get. It's like English got sunburned, kicked too much in the face, and decided it couldn't be bothered to enunciate anymore. 

Australian, the only english accent who could make Scott sound a little bit understandable and nice.

But not like a natural speaker, more like if someone wanted to mock him by erratically, but still with some dedication, imitating his way of speaking, or like a man who wasn't born here but still spend some of his years, like one year, this be his first contact with english. 

Poor soul, learning english in australia. 

For a moment, the grandeur of the room, the heaviness of history pressing upon his shoulders, the sharp, relentless eyes of the portraits—everything seemed to blur, overshadowed by the absurdity of... of all this.

He wanted to laugh, but the reality of the situation kept his voice lodged in his throat. Was this some kind of twisted test ? Was Mussolini mocking him? Did he just imagine something ? Some part of is transmission in this body still having effect on his senses ? But he is certain that he heard that right, twice.

"I… uh," Amedeo stammered, his mind a jumble of questions. "Excuse me, your Eccellenza... I think that I've..." 

"Just answer the bloody question, Sua Altezza..." the capo del Governo cut him without any regards for manners or decorum, his voice poised with sarcasm at the use of the title.

Amedeo could only shift uneasily in his seat as the pressure was on his shoulder, with only an answer to escape it.

"Lord of the rings, I suppose ?"

Mussolini's gaze narrowed, is eyes flickering lightly, as his gaze become more relaxed, less scrutiny. As a hint of something, pleasure ? relief ? Humorous ? Slightly appeared across his features.

"Good," Mussolini said, his voice even. "It would've been a shame if you said otherwise. Just a social one. Don't worry i am not that petty to dispose of you because of your bad taste in saga."

Amedeo could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. The initial shock began to dull, replaced by the curiosity that had always defined him, the insatiable need to understand. And, perhaps, to survive. Was this real ? Was he dreaming ? Could he just miscalled and didn't know about some cultural things phonetically close to these two movies names and who was a thing at this time in Italy ?

"Without wanting to being blunt, your Eccelenza but... Why do you ask?" Amedeo ventured carefully.

Mussolini's eyes lingered on his, unblinking, calculating. Finally, the man exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly.

"Because, Amedeo—or whoever you are," Mussolini began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to know if I'm the only one." The words carried a weight that belied the simplicity of their form. Mussolini's fingers tapped lightly on the polished surface of the desk. "Or if there is someone else trapped in a skin that isn't theirs."

Amedeo's breath caught. The room seemed to tilt. For a heartbeat, the suffocating grandeur of the Palazzo Venezia dissolved, leaving only the cold realization that he wasn't alone in his fate.

"You're... not Benito Mussolini," Amedeo whispered, more a statement than a question.

A dry, humourless chuckle escaped The Duce's throat. "No more than you are Amedeo of Savoy, Duke of Aosta."

"Technically I am still not becau..."

"I know."

Silence felt heavy between them. Mussolini's gaze held a mixture of resignation and curiosity—perhaps the same look Amedeo had carried in every mirror for the past two months. They seem to be at least alike in their mental and problematics, but not in their fate.

"How did you get here?" Amedeo asked, his voice tentative.

Mussolini's eyes darkened, a shadow of thought crossing his face. "How does anyone get here? I don't know. One moment, I was... someone else. Someone very far from this room, this time." He gestured vaguely, the movement strangely out of place for a dictator of his reputation. "I was in my university in Aarhus, giving my first classes of the day, before i felt something strange in my heart, before falling in the ground as my vision was blurring... And then, I woke up here, Il Duce."

Amedeo's pulse quickened. It was the same for him—the same fragmented, jarring experience of stepping from one life into another.

"Aarkus ? What place in the world is..."

"Aarhus, in the Jutland part of the kingdom of Danemark and second city of the country."

"You are Danish ?" Amedeo ask with a strange gaze in his eyes, a mix of slight bemusing, and of slight agacement to the constant interruption, but less than the curiosity of the nationality of his soul like 

"What is... was your name ?"

"Søren Dumitrescu..." Mussolin... Dumitrescu ? Respond with a look in his eyes saying something like a "I know"

"My parents are Romanians, they fled the dictatorship in the eighties." Soren continue before the likely question about that, before silently observing the prince, waiting for the answer to the unasked question.

"Ante Jovanović... Croatian."

"This break slightly the mask in Dumitrescu face, as a hint of interest and surprise take place in his eyes and lips, his eyebrows rehousing in quiet curiosity look.

"Like..."

"Like this Ante, yes." Amedeo respond, annoyed, already knowing that this question would inevitably come, the other surprisingly not being anything else than a history nerd also... and a teacher it seems.

"My parents are quite... nationalistic i would say, even for Balkans standards... and they seem to think that the... recent events who occurred in Yugoslavia in our previous world, ex-Yugoslavia i should say, only prove the point that the Ustaša have made."

"But i do not really have the same idea as them." Amedeo quickly adds as the gaze in the Duce's eyes is slightly shifting.

Seriously... two Balkans guys reincarnated at the same time on the same country... what are the chances ?

Thank God the other one is not Serbian, or Slovenian, or Hungarian... or Bosnian... or Jewish

Or a lot of other nationalities and ethnicities. 

And thank God he himself isn't Hungarian or Bulgarian. 

It seems they came from the only two countries in this area who do not have reason to kill each other.

And his parent had fled Romania, so he is likely not a commie.

"And what do you plan to do now?" Amedeo asked, his voice measured but wary.

Mussolini's gaze became colder, calculating. "That's the question, isn't it? What does a man do with a nation in his grasp and a war looming on the horizon? What does a man do with history that he knows will be written in blood and defeat?"

The weight of it sank into Amedeo's chest. They were men out of time, prisoners of fate, trapped in a narrative they knew far too well.

"We could change it," Amedeo murmured, his voice barely audible. "We could... alter things. Avoid the disasters that await."

Mussolini's eyes glittered, a dangerous, volatile spark. "And who do you think we would save, Amedeo? Italy? Ourselves?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered, as the specters of history watched from their frames. The burden of what lay before them—opportunity and consequence—pressed down upon them both.

"How did you know ?" Amedeo preferred to ask, wanting to know what did he do to raise the alarm in the new Duce's mind so easily. 

"Oh, that wasn't very difficult i must say, other people would only see strange behaviour at worst, genius at best, but as a man of our respectful time, i could not impeach myself to read between the lines."

Mussolini's hand moved swiftly across the desk, pushing aside a few papers as he searched for something specific. With a brief, decisive motion, he retrieved a single sheet, that he slid across the desk to Amedeo, his fingers brushing the edges with deliberate calm.

"Here"

"Even if weapon was never really my speciality, i can recognise something that is odd for this period and for this country, specially from a prince who is not expected to know anything about this type of things. When you know a little bit of history, you know that this shouldn't be here, particularly in your hands, Duca d'Aosta, sorry... Future Duca."

At the first gaze on the paper, Amedeo could recognise it. As he personally drew it, among the document he has sent to the ministry of war, the institution responsible for the Direzione Armi e Munizioni, the place where the choosing of the weapon used by the Regio Esercito is made.

"The Carcano M1926." Mussolini said with and easy voice "It has a nice ring to it, even if M1 Garand 2.0 would be a more honest name, but as the 1.0 isn't even an idea yet, it's not like we could name it like that."

Amedeo agrees in a whisper, too focused on the admiration of his own creation, or more his replica of the famous semi-automatic rifle from the American army in ww2, enhanced and modified to match up with the Italian army, economy, geography, time and terrain, also enhanced at some point, as he has watched too much video about upgrading old weapon to forget what could be done to make the weapon even better in 1926, 12-14 years before its creation.

A detachable magazine, very similar to the one of the Carcano M91/38, to match up with the italian producing system and ease up the producion, as the industrial capabilities of italy and the technical complication of such an advanced weapon make the normal M1 Garand difficult to produce in mass.

To again ease the mass-producing, a simple, straightforward gas-operated system that would require less hand-fitting and precision manufacturing.

Using an intermediate cartridge, like the 7.35×51mm Carcano, which in history was tested but not adopted. Offering a compromise between the power of the traditional full-sized military cartridges, and the lighter recoil, shorter range, and lower power of submachine gun cartridges. As beneficial for infantry battle and mass-production.

At the back of the paper is wrote a sidenote, opting for a slightly modified 6.5×52mm Carcano cartridge, which had proven effective in the existing Carcano rifles, in case the intermediate cartridge isn't possible or wanted or too costly to be produced. But still redesigning the rifle to handle a gas-operated, semi-automatic mechanism, more modern and efficient.

This new design includes new features that Amedeo thought would be better than the original version of M1 Garand, better for the soldier employing it.

Firstly, a lighter, shorter rifle than the traditional bolt-action models, giving easier handling, particularly among close-quarters combat.

A folding stock or compact design, quite inspirated from the future M1 Carbine, would reduce the difficulty for troops to carry the rifle.

Also, a pistol grip for better control during rapid fire, as well as a full-length handguard for comfort when firing.

Combination of stamped steel and simple machining. Use milled parts for critical components such as the barrel and receiver.

With areas of the rifle that did not need fine tolerances could use stamped components, faster and cheaper to produce. Same with the idea of recoil system

To summarize that, it is the ideal rifle for the Regio Esercito in this year of 1926.

A semi-automatic rifle, having the reliability of bolt-action rifles like the Carcano series while offering improved fire rate and battlefield performance.

Designed with practical economic considerations, to be produced quickly in mass quantities without a heavy financial burden.

Modernity, practicality and very cheap, the perfect weapon that Italy will produce for the army. which could be still a very relevant, modern and efficient weapon in 1945 even if its conception was in 1926. 

Perfect.

If it was not refused by the fucking ministry of war.

Stupid corporation, stupid institution, stupid bureaucrat, stupid weapon designers and stupid system.

"Yes, the Direzione Armi e Munizioni, the administration and the army have quite a slight tendency to conservatism, overall bureaucracy and suspicion to new things and idea."

That's an euphemism...

Military Conservatism, we could even say immobilism. 

Egocentrism and Nepotism

Complex Approval Process, from the Direzione Armi e Munizioni to other military bodies and their worlds of paper and regulation

Administration without any limit or knowledge and with an unfailing navel-gazing.

Blinded people and rigid command with out of touch people at the high of the mountain

Italian military bureaucracy always slow and too much cautious.

Corporatist system with few to have power and who will rather chose their own personal thing above efficiently.

The reason why Italy has, more than lost the war, lost in general, can be a lot explained by that.

"Beside, it is rather... Overly optimistic, considering the technical difficulties of this time, the state, our economic situation and the industry."

"Anyway... more than that, it also some of your moves that brough my attention, and after that my suspicion, then my realisation.."

"I read a little bit about the Libyan campaign, and i don't remember that the precedent Amedeo made your moves and your suggestion." 

"So here i am..." Amedeo says his gaze again waved to the man of the nation. "Torn between the still shock of all that and the still burning sensation of his rejection.

"I will push for that, and with some letter who arbour my name on it, i think it's only a matter of time before they begin to be tested... and produced, as we both know they will pass it. And if the scientific branch is so rooted by corruption and incompetence, then i suppose i will have to enforce it anyway... and cut some head of the hydra in the same occasion."

"Not literally... a bureaucratic commission will suffice." 

"Anyway... now that I've answered your question... Signore. Let's move on, we have much to discuss." demitrescu say with a focused eye.