Reincarnated: Vive La France

The thick black smoke from the burning Renault FT burned the morning air as the first military police trucks rumbled through the barracks gates.

The moment the Gendarmerie Nationale arrived, everything changed.

The usual order of the training ground, the steady rhythm of drills, the distant chatter of mechanics, the occasional barked command from a sergeant, was replaced by something colder, heavier.

The gendarmes stepped out of their vehicles with practiced efficiency, their navy-blue uniforms crisp, their boots clicking against the dirt as they moved with a purpose that left no room for argument.

Their presence alone was enough to make even the most hardened soldiers tense up.

Everyone in the French Army knew that when the military police showed up, things were about to get difficult.

A sergeant of the Gendarmerie, a stocky man with a hard-set jaw and an air of quiet authority, was the first to speak.

His voice was calm, but firm enough to carry across the now-silent training field.

"Nobody moves until we say otherwise."

The order landed like a stone.

Soldiers who had been muttering among themselves fell silent.

Even the mechanics, who had been inspecting the other Renaults for signs of failure, slowly stepped back from the tanks, hands raised slightly, as if trying to show they had nothing to hide.

The rope perimeter around the wrecked Renault was unrolled with mechanical precision, sectioning off the blast site.

Moreau stood a few feet from the wreckage, watching carefully.

He had expected the police to come, but not this quickly.

A lieutenant from the Gendarmerie, taller than the others, his uniform pressed to perfection, approached him directly.

The man's gaze flicked over Moreau's uniform, pausing slightly at the captain's insignia before he spoke.

"Capitaine Moreau?"

Moreau met his gaze evenly. "That's me."

The lieutenant nodded once, pulling out a small leather notebook from his coat pocket. "You are the commanding officer of this training exercise?"

Moreau kept his posture straight. "Yes."

The lieutenant's eyes didn't waver. "Then you'll be staying here. We'll need your full statement before this investigation moves forward."

That was expected. Moreau simply nodded. "Of course."

The lieutenant turned slightly, surveying the field before motioning to his men. "Lock it down. No one touches the wreck until the inspectors arrive."

The sound of boots scraping against the dirt filled the tense air as more gendarmes spread out, reinforcing the perimeter.

The mechanics, normally the first to examine a failed vehicle, were ordered to step away.

Even Sergeant Marchand, who had been leading the drill when the explosion happened, was kept at a distance.

The injured soldier had already been evacuated by the medics, taken to the infirmary before the police arrived.

Moreau had seen him go young, barely more than a recruit, his face pale from shock, his uniform stained with blood.

He had been lucky.

If he had been any closer to the explosion, they'd be gathering his remains instead of treating his wounds.

Moreau exhaled slowly.

This was no longer just a training accident.

It was now a full military investigation.

The next phase began almost immediately.

A second truck pulled in through the barracks gates, this one marked with the emblem of the Ministère de la Guerre, the War Ministry.

A pair of officers stepped out, their uniforms immaculate, their expressions unreadable.

These were investigators from the General Staff, men whose entire careers revolved around handling "incidents" within the French Army.

Moreau watched as they were greeted by the lieutenant from the Gendarmerie, who gave them a short, efficient report of what had happened so far.

One of the investigators, a thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache, nodded slowly before turning toward the gathered officers.

"We will be conducting a formal inquiry into this event," he announced, his voice carrying the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed.

"Until further notice, all training exercises are suspended. No one is to leave the barracks without authorization."

Moreau felt the shift in the air before he even turned to look at the men standing around him.

The soldiers weren't just nervous anymore.

They were wary.

The investigator continued. "All officers involved in the drill will be required to give formal statements before the day is out. Any soldier found withholding information will face disciplinary action."

Moreau clenched his jaw slightly.

They weren't just looking for answers.

They were looking for someone to blame.

A few feet away, Renaud muttered under his breath, just low enough for only Moreau to hear. "Well, this is going to be fun."

Moreau didn't reply.

His mind was already working through the possibilities.

If this was being treated as a serious incident, then that meant they weren't ruling out sabotage.

That was both good and bad.

Good, because it meant Moreau wasn't alone in suspecting foul play.

Bad, because if Clément or someone else was involved, they would be working just as fast to control the narrative.

The officers from the War Ministry didn't waste time.

Within minutes, Moreau and the others involved in the training were escorted to a separate building, away from the enlisted men.

One by one, officers were called into a room where a small panel one investigator, one gendarme, and a secretary taking notes asked them about the morning's events.

When Moreau's turn came, he walked into the barely furnished room, the scent of old paper and ink hanging in the air.

The investigator, the thin man from earlier, motioned for him to sit.

"Capitaine Moreau," he said, folding his hands neatly on the desk. "Tell me everything you remember."

Moreau took a slow breath.

He had seen interrogations like this before formal, methodical, not outright hostile, but designed to make the officer in question slip up, contradict himself, say something that could be turned against him.

So he chose his words carefully.

"I was overseeing the training exercise," he began, keeping his voice calm, even. "The Renaults were running standard maneuver drills. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then the explosion happened."

The investigator watched him closely. "Did you notice anything unusual before the explosion? Any mechanical failures, any warning signs?"

Moreau shook his head. "No. The Renault in question had been running without issue. The explosion was sudden. No warning."

The investigator tapped his fingers against the desk. "Did you personally inspect the wreckage before the military police arrived?"

Moreau hesitated for only a fraction of a second.

"Only to ensure the crew was evacuated," he said. "I did not interfere with the wreck itself."

It was mostly true.

He had seen the damn wire, the evidence of sabotage.

But if he said anything now without proof, without leverage it could backfire.

The investigator watched him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Very well. You'll be required to remain on base while the investigation continues."

Moreau stood, saluted, and left the room.

Outside, Renaud was waiting. He raised an eyebrow. "How bad was it?"

Moreau exhaled through his nose. "Bad. But not as bad as it could be."

They both glanced back toward the training field, now eerily silent.

The Renault's burned-out shell sat under heavy guard, the wreckage untouched, the investigation now fully in motion.

Moreau didn't know who had done this.

But he knew one thing.

Whoever was behind it had just raised the stakes.