Reincarnated: Vive La France

April 1934, Paris, France

The train pulled into Gare de l'Est just as the sun began to rise over the city.

The golden light spilled across the iron tracks, catching on the soot-covered stone walls of the station.

Even at this early hour, Paris was alive.

Moreau stepped onto the platform, the weight of his travel bag slung over his shoulder, Renaud following close behind.

The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke, damp stone, and stale bread from the food stalls lining the terminal's outer corridors.

Paris. The city of history, power, and decay.

To most, it was still the beating heart of France, the cultural and political center of the Republic.

But Moreau had read too much history, seen too many reports, to be blinded by nostalgia.

The reality of Paris in 1934 was something far different than the romantic postcards and poetry.

The streets outside the station were crowded, restless, and tense.

Horse-drawn carts still shared space with motorcars, their wooden wheels clattering loudly over the cobblestones.

Men in worn-out coats huddled near alleyways, clutching newspapers filled with stories of economic struggle and political division.

Women walked briskly through the streets, clutching their handbags tightly, as if expecting something or someone to snatch them away.

Overhead, elegant Haussmannian buildings lined the avenues, their pristine facades disguising the crumbling apartments within.

For all its beauty, Paris was breaking under the weight of its own contradictions rich and poor, tradition and modernity, stability and revolution.

"Christ," Renaud muttered, stretching his arms as he took in the chaos. "You'd think the whole city is waiting for a riot."

Moreau smirked. "That's because it is."

Paris wasn't just the capital of France, it was a battlefield.

In the distance, near the Place de la République, Moreau spotted a group of leftist demonstrators gathering, waving red flags and shouting slogans against the government.

Not far from them, a contingent of police stood in a tight formation, hands resting uneasily on their batons.

And just a few streets away, near the Boulevard Saint-Michel, a different kind of crowd was forming nationalists in dark blue uniforms, their Croix-de-Feu banners fluttering in the wind.

Two sides. Two Frances.

And somewhere in the middle, a government barely holding the Republic together.

"TENSIONS CROISSANTES ENTRE LA DROITE ET LA GAUCHE!" (Growing Tensions Between Right and Left!)

"GRÈVES ET MANIFESTATIONS PARALYSENT LA CAPITALE!" (Strikes and Demonstrations Paralyze the Capital!)

"LE GOUVERNEMENT PEUT-IL SURVIVRE?" (Can the Government Survive?)

Renaud scoffed. "Same headlines as last month. Probably the same headlines next month."

Moreau grabbed a copy, tossing a few coins to the vendor before tucking it under his arm. "And yet, one day, one of these headlines will be the last."

Renaud shot him a look. "Merde, Moreau. You could at least pretend to be optimistic."

Moreau smirked. "I could, but I'd be lying."

-------

The Ministère de la Guerre was an imposing structure of stone, steel, and bureaucracy, its entrance guarded by two uniformed men who barely glanced at them as they passed.

The air inside was thick with the scent of paper, ink, and dust the unmistakable stench of government.

Rows of officers and clerks moved through the corridors, carrying stacks of documents that seemed far heavier than their actual weight.

Typewriters clicked in nearby rooms, creating a mechanical rhythm that underscored the quiet, tired voices of men discussing strategy, logistics, and political maneuvering.

The waiting room for disciplinary hearings was just as dreary as Moreau expected wooden benches, beige walls, a single clock ticking slowly above a desk where an overworked secretary shuffled through files.

Moreau and Renaud approached the desk.

The secretary, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely looked up.

"Nom?" he muttered, already reaching for a file.

"Capitaine Moreau," Moreau said, handing over his summons.

The secretary took the paper, scanning it briefly before sighing. "Ah. You."

Moreau raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound promising."

The secretary snorted. "It's not."

He reached for a stamp and slammed it onto a piece of paper. A loud, final sound.

Moreau watched him carefully. "How bad is it?"

The secretary shrugged, pulling a fresh cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "Bad enough that your name has been floating around the building all morning. But not bad enough to get you dismissed outright."

Moreau smirked. "That's something, at least."

The man exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Not really."

He gestured toward the door down the hall. "You're expected. Go in when called."

Renaud leaned in, lowering his voice. "Any idea who's on the panel?"

The secretary eyed him, then sighed. "Three officers. Colonel Lemoine, General Bresson, and Major Clément."

Moreau exhaled through his nose.

So Clément was on the panel.

Of course he was.

The secretary must have noticed the shift in his expression because he gave a humorless chuckle. "You pissed off the wrong people, Capitaine. I'd start practicing how to grovel if I were you."

Moreau smirked. "Not my style."

The secretary shook his head. "Then I hope you like paperwork and isolation in some forgotten outpost."

Moreau took a seat in the waiting area, stretching his legs out as he listened to the muffled voices from inside the hearing room.

He could picture it now a long wooden table, a row of officers in stiff uniforms, stacks of reports sitting beside them like weapons.

Renaud sat beside him, arms crossed. "So, what's the strategy?"

Moreau exhaled slowly. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On how much of this is just a warning, and how much of it is an actual execution."

Renaud frowned. "They wouldn't discharge you for this."

Moreau smirked. "No. But they'd love to make my life miserable. An administrative post in the colonies. A 'temporary reassignment' that never ends. Maybe even just enough paperwork to drown me so I don't have time to train my men."

Renaud rubbed his face. "Merde. Bureaucracy is worse than bullets."

Moreau chuckled. "Not always. But in the right hands, it's just as deadly."

The door to the hearing room creaked open, and a stern-looking adjutant stepped out, scanning the waiting area.

"Capitaine Moreau," he called.

Moreau stood, adjusting his uniform.

Renaud gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Try not to say anything too clever."

Moreau smirked. "I make no promises."

He stepped forward, the door closing behind him with a solid, final thud.