Re: Blood and Iron

The war with Japan continued to rage across multiple fronts.

And while Bruno had intended to remain in Berlin for its duration, the escalating crisis in France. and the coup that loomed, demanded his personal attention.

The Kaiser granted him leave to return to Tyrol, to his family, and to begin arranging his next political stroke.

Bruno arrived at the Berlin airfield in full dress uniform, greatcoat billowing behind him in the breeze.

The Reich had recently updated its ceremonial regalia—his new uniform mirrored the crisp cut of the M35 Waffenrock from his past life.

But this time, it bore the symbols of the Kaiserreich. Not the twisted banners of a regime that would never exist in this world—thanks to Bruno’s hand reshaping the flow of history.

His greatcoat was trimmed in black mink along the upper collar, a sharp contrast to the polished leather of his boots, belt, and visor cap.

As he strode toward the waiting aircraft, he offered a salute to the escort pilots, two of Germany’s finest, each seated in one of the newly unveiled Focke-Wulf PTL-1 advanced turboprop fighters.

As for Bruno’s own aircraft, it was the second Messerschmitt P.1108/I Fernbomber to ever roll off the line.

The first had gone to the Kaiser as his personal flagship. The second had been reserved for Bruno by unanimous understanding.

He stopped for a moment, gazing up at the monstrous craft. It had once been little more than a paper design in his past life.

But now, fully realized, it soared on engines that rivaled the Soviet Tu-95 in power and efficiency, years ahead of its time.

A multi-role titan, the Fernbomber could function as a strategic airlift, a globe-spanning bomber, or, in future variants, a flying refueling station.

With the PTL escort fighters supporting it, there would soon be nowhere on Earth beyond its reach.

But today, it would simply take him home.

Bruno climbed aboard and entered the lavish interior—not a troop transport, but a palace in the sky.

Polished wood panels, velvet-lined booths, and gold accents adorned the cabin. It was fitted for long-range diplomacy, not warfare.

A steward offered him a glass of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch—aged its final years in a sherry cask.

As the engines roared to life and the cabin gently hummed with power, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom:

“All clear for takeoff, sir. Please fasten your seatbelt.”

Bruno shifted to a proper seat, clipped the belt across his waist, and relaxed as the Fernbomber lifted off the tarmac with unnatural grace.

It climbed high above Berlin, shrinking the imperial capital beneath the clouds.

He gazed out the window, the skyline falling away into soft haze. Memories stirred—of the past life, of wars lost and opportunities squandered. Not this time.

When they reached cruising altitude, the pilot’s voice returned.

“Altitude nine-one-four-four meters. Estimated flight time: fifty-five minutes to Innsbruck. Sit back and enjoy the ride, sir.”

Bruno smiled faintly. A pressurized turboprop aircraft capable of crossing continents, flying at 600 km/h—this wasn’t just a personal victory. It was the harbinger of a new age.

Before he knew it, the aircraft descended toward Tyrol. Less than ninety minutes after departing Berlin, Bruno stepped through the gates of his palace.

Heidi, not expecting him, dropped everything and ran to embrace him the moment he appeared.

She kissed him deeply, heedless of propriety or surroundings, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

“You’re back so soon? Is everything alright? Don’t tell me you’ve already won the war—that’s not possible, I would’ve heard!”

Bruno kissed her back, grounding her with a single touch. Heidi melted into his arms, reassured by the calm presence of the man she loved.

“Everything’s going according to plan,” he whispered. “I’ve only returned to settle a diplomatic matter. In two weeks, we’ll be hosting a guest. An exiled royal.”

“Here? In our home?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Who’s so important you’d go out of your way to offer them such a gesture?”

He rolled his eyes. She laughed.

Everyone knew Bruno was notoriously anti-social, especially toward strangers. But when he gave his answer, her laughter died.

“The future King of France.”

The words struck like thunder. Heidi froze. She understood immediately.

She alone knew the full weight of Bruno’s ambitions—the true scope of the future he had set in motion.

France’s subjugation was not a matter of revenge, but the final act in a long campaign of restoration. A return to thrones and crowns, to order forged in iron and blood.

Heidi nodded solemnly.

“Then I’ll make sure everything is perfect. Nothing will go wrong.”

—

The iron sky above Paris was silent, moonless. Only the hiss of steam and the cold screech of steel wheels against the rails broke the stillness at Gare de l’Est.

Marshal Philippe Pétain stood stiffly between two German officers, his breath frosting in the midnight air.

His overcoat hung loosely from his frail frame, the marshal’s baton in his hand now more a prop than a symbol of power.

“This is highly irregular,” he muttered. “I have not authorized any relocation. Who ordered this?”

The taller of the two Germans did not answer. Instead, he gestured toward the waiting train; a sleek black engine marked only by the sigil of the Imperial Eagle and the red-and-black banner of the Kaiserreich.

Its windows were opaque. Curtains drawn.

Behind them, German soldiers stood at intervals along the platform. Not a French uniform in sight. Not a crowd. Not even a shadow of protest.

“For your safety, Monsieur le Maréchal,” the officer finally replied. His accent was clipped, precise. “We cannot allow you to remain in Paris. The situation is… fluid.”

Pétain turned to glance back toward the city; his city. But the skyline was shrouded in fog and darkness. Paris offered no comfort now.

“Am I being exiled?” he asked.

“No, sir,” came the reply. “We are establishing continuity of governance. You are simply being… repositioned.”

A pair of boots approached from the rear; another soldier, carrying a sealed leather valise. It bore the tricolor and the crest of the French Republic.

The officer took it and handed it to Pétain with polite precision.

“Your emergency documents. Presidential seal, ministerial decrees, and the communications line to Berlin. You will remain president of the Fourth Republic… in spirit.”

Pétain’s hand trembled slightly as he accepted the case.

He paused on the steps leading into the train. Then he turned, slowly, to face the empty platform.

“They’ll call this a betrayal.”

The officer gave the faintest shrug.

“History will call it a transition.”

The train doors hissed shut behind him. Moments later, the engine groaned to life and began rolling into the darkness; eastbound.

The Reich had not just removed a figurehead.

It had cleared the stage.

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