"Victory!"
"Ura! Long live the Revolution!"
As news of the finalized peace treaty and the ultimate victory spread via radio and newsprint, tens of millions of Union citizens poured into the streets, their hearts swollen with a long-awaited joy.
"Meals are on the house today! Eat your fill!"
"Liquidation sale! Take everything!"
Shopkeepers flung their doors wide, offering their wares at pittance prices or giving them away for free.
Yet, despite the sudden largesse, few felt the sting of loss.
"On a glorious day like this, even a teacher like you should enjoy himself."
"This much money..."
Caught in the fervor of triumph, people spent their Rubles as if they were mere Kopeks, as if every citizen had suddenly become an oligarch. For a fleeting moment, a communal ecstasy held sway.
And then, the news they had been anticipating above all else finally arrived.
— [Greetings, listeners. This is the Voice of the Union, broadcasting from Birmingham, the Victorian Republic. This Friday, the first Victory Parade will be held here in Birmingham. The authorities request that all citizens maintain spontaneous order and discipline—]
Upon hearing the broadcast, the masses immediately descended upon the ticket booths. Railway unions, inundated with a deluge of inquiries, scrambled to organize special train services to Birmingham. Over the course of three frantic days, they succeeded in transporting the vast majority of the hopeful to the city.
When Friday dawned, Birmingham's Red Square held more human souls than it did cobblestones.
People had begun gathering in the pre-dawn frost, forming ranks with an innate, unspoken discipline. No commissar had ordered them into lines; no soldier had shouted commands to control the flow.
If the front row moved, the back row filled the void. If someone stumbled, a stranger's arm immediately caught them. They were a collective bound by a self-imposed, revolutionary order.
At the edge of the square stood a makeshift wooden rostrum, adorned with a sea of scarlet banners.
The flag of the Union, the banner of the International Communist Party, the ensigns of individual factories and trade unions, and the standards of student organizations—all fluttered in unison.
Every gust of wind caused the heavy fabric to snap against its neighbor. To those listening, it sounded less like cloth and more like the rhythmic booming of celebratory cannon fire.
Then, the Chairman ascended the platform.
"Long live Comrade Vladimir!"
"Lead the Union toward eternity!"
The roar of the citizenry was deafening. Though the Chairman's face briefly tightened with a flicker of complex emotion, he soon composed himself and stepped to the microphone.
"Citizen comrades of the Birmingham Red Square—workers, soldiers, and every child of the Union gathered here today: I speak to you now."
"We have brought this war to an end."
"We have ensured that our children will never again hear the rhythm of an invader's boots as their lullaby. We have ensured that the windows of our cities will never again be illuminated solely by the fires of conflict."
"This victory did not descend from the heavens. It was forged in the freezing mud of the front lines, in the gnawing hunger of the field, amidst the rubble of shattered brickwork, and upon the bones of the countless nameless who vanished into the darkness of the struggle."
"Today, I honor first the victory of those nameless souls. The soldiers of the International Brigades. The cavalry and infantry of the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army."
"The motorized infantry, the combat engineers, the Caster detachments. And I honor the Internal Guard, the drivers who ferried ammunition through the night, the dockworkers who shouldered heavy batteries, and the signalmen who tapped out life and death on the telegraph lines until dawn."
"Because of you, we have won. But today, we must also remember that this triumph is not ours alone."
"The Victorian Liberation Army has reclaimed its capital. The blood they shed belongs not just to Victoria, but to all of us; it was the definitive proof that the people's hands can dismantle the machinery of grand oppression. The Leithanian forces, with their grim tenacity, completed the encirclement—becoming the hand that finally broke the neck of imperial arrogance. And the citizens of Lingones reclaimed their own city with rifles and barricades. They have resurrected their own nation."
"A war ends with a gun, but the victory is decided by what follows. Thus, I did not come to this square merely to speak of triumph. I came to speak of the aftermath of triumph."
"We did not end this war to prepare for another. We fought to end war itself. To ensure that the peace we have seized is never surrendered, we must live with even greater resolve."
"The Union must not succumb to the arrogance of a victor. We must not allow ourselves to rot, intoxicated by the spoils of war. Our task is not to plunder, but to set right that which was made crooked. The Gaulish Empire of Corsica I has collapsed, but imperialism itself remains a lingering specter."
"We recognize the People's Front government in Lingones as the sole legitimate authority of Gaul, and we will provide every possible support to help that nation function once more. What we send shall not be the banners of an army, but cement and steel, wire and machinery. And more importantly: the very framework of our methods and our institutions."
"When Gaul stands tall again, that shall be the ultimate victory of the Union. Let us make Gaul a healthy nation once more, so that they may stand as our brothers in the international community, and so that the phantom of imperialism may be torn out by its roots."
"Comrades. This parade today is not an ending. It is a covenant. The Union does not move by the decree of a King. It moves by labor, by organization, by mutual responsibility, and by the individual creativity of its people. Therefore, what we celebrate today is not the victory itself, but the way of life, the freedom, and the survival we have defended."
"As Chairman, I promise you: never again shall any Emperor, nor any Empire, initiate a war of their own whim beneath our sky."
"Comrades. Rejoice today. Laugh without restraint. Embrace your families. And then, prepare for tomorrow. 'Tomorrow' is the name of the peace we begin today. Tomorrow, let us ensure that every soul across Terra can enjoy this same liberty and equality. That is all. Now, enjoy the parade!"
With those words, the Chairman's lengthy oration concluded. As he descended the rostrum, a momentary, heavy silence fell over the square.
Then, the military band surged into motion.
They stood in perfect formation, their brass instruments glinting gold in the sun, the leather of their drums pulled tight. The conductor raised his baton. The entire square seemed to hold its breath in unison.
The Commander of the Birmingham Military District roared: "Parade troops, 'tention! Prepare for the march-past!"
"Marching by battalions! One marker's interval! Lead battalion, straight ahead! Remainder, right turn!"
"Shoulder... arms! Eyes... right! Quick... march!"
The procession began. To the clarion call of trumpets, the International Brigades emerged first.
Their uniforms were a patchwork of necessity—diverse caps, varied tunics. Some wore hats adorned with traditional plumes; others wore worn greatcoats with simple red armbands. Yet, their gait was a singular, thunderous rhythm.
As the flag of the International Brigades passed through the center of the square, the citizens began to edge closer to the route. An old man stepped forward with floral wreaths in both hands. Without a word, he draped a wreath around the neck of a passing soldier. The soldier faltered for a moment in surprise, but as his comrade nudged him with an elbow, he smiled and bowed his head in gratitude.
A woman tossed a bouquet; a soldier caught it, and she stepped forward to kiss his cheek. He paused for a heartbeat to hug her before continuing his march. This scene repeated down the line: kisses, handshakes, pats on the shoulder, crusts of bread, single cigarettes offered and accepted.
The word 'Victory' ceased to be a slogan; it became a tactile sensation of palms meeting and the warmth of proximity. One soldier, scanning the crowd, suddenly broke into a wide grin. He raised his hand in a frantic wave toward the edge of the square, where two children were jumping for joy while a woman behind them laughed, covering her mouth with her hands.
Following the International Brigades came the Red Army Cavalry.
"Neigh!"
"Long live the Revolutionary Cavalry!"
The horses' hooves made the ground tremble, their beat overlapping with the drums of the band. The crowds surged even closer. People looped wreaths over the riders' reins and tied bright ribbons into the horses' manes. A child reached out to stroke a horse's flank, only for his mother to pull his wrist back in a panic; the beast merely shook its head gently, snorting in contentment.
Next was the motorized infantry. As the trucks and armored vehicles rumbled through the square, the roar of their engines briefly drowned out the music. Citizens covered their ears, yet their expressions remained bright. Painted onto the sides of the vehicles were various slogans—some were names of factories or unions, while others were playful jests.
[Rosalyne's boyfriend is on board!]
[In memory of our comrades from the Manchester 81st Engineering Plant!]
[The Comrade Chairman's Flying Chariot]
The infusion of humor made the end of the war feel tangible, human. Behind the vehicles marched the bulk of the infantry.
"My son!"
"Mother!"
The infantry, being the largest branch, offered the most opportunities for recognition. Mothers hugged sons, fathers hugged daughters, grandmothers embraced granddaughters. Some wore uniforms with freshly sewn buttons; others wore helmets still caked with the soil of the trenches. Many were wrapped in bandages, into which the citizens tucked fresh flowers. Soon, the sterile white gauze was transformed into a polychromatic display of life.
The Caster detachments followed. Unlike the other units, they maintained a wider interval between their ranks. Their gear was alien, their weapons distinctive, and the gaze of the crowd shifted with them. Some eyes held curiosity; others held awe. While many were Sarkaz or the Infected—those who might usually face derision—today, that prejudice was absent.
Then came the engineers. The cheers intensified as they passed. Citizens hung wreaths on the handles of their shovels. Some women blew kisses at the brawny arms of the sappers. When someone offered a loaf of bread, an engineer accepted it with a laugh—not the desperate laugh of a soldier in the trenches, but the light laugh of a man whose labor was now for life, not death.
Finally, the civilians took their turn. Trade unions marched, followed by peasant collectives. Student groups passed with their banners held high. The Internal Guard brought up the rear. As the parade wound down, the Red Square did not descend into chaos; instead, it achieved a new level of organization. The people cleared their own paths. The military band played their final piece with smiles on their faces, and songs spontaneously broke out around the rostrum. Everyone understood: the war was over, but the work of building the nation had only just begun.
****************************
At the logistics hubs along the Union-Gaulish border, the lights never dimmed. Cranes whirred and stevedores signaled for shifting rotations. The cargo being hoisted onto the trucks was no longer ammunition.
Sacks of cement, steel beams, bundles of wiring, crates of glass, generators, water purification systems, medical supplies, and mountains of small mechanical parts. This procession of Union-made trucks began its steady flow eastward.
Though checkpoints increased as they neared the frontier, the flow was never impeded. The Internal Guard and the Gaulish Border Guard opened the gates as if these convoys belonged to their own nation.
Upon crossing into Gaul, the atmosphere changed. First, the scent shifted. If the Union's roads smelled of fuel and freshly laid asphalt, Gaul's roads smelled of damp earth and wet lime. It was the scent of ruins exhaling with every gust of wind.
As the cities came into view, the destruction was absolute. Many buildings were hollow-eyed, their windows shattered. Brickwork was partially stripped away; signs hung at crooked, agonizing angles. Tram tracks sat unearthed and twisted on the ground. In some places, artillery had sheared off an entire side of a building, exposing the wallpaper patterns of private rooms to the indifferent outside world.
Hospitals and schools had been rendered useless by power failures, and government offices had been ransacked during the initial riots. When the first team of Union engineers arrived on the city outskirts to begin repairs, a team of Gaulish technicians was already there, waiting. Their handshake was brief. Their greetings were short. Even without a common language, they began work using gestures and diagrams. Technical skill preceded words.
There was friction in the streets. Some Gaulish residents watched the Union trucks with unease; they looked like an army of occupation. That anxiety was dampened not by uniforms, but by overalls. The sight of Union soldiers disembarking not with rifles, but with bags of cement, slowly began to soften the faces of the locals. Gaulish militia members stood at the intersections, guiding the Union trucks with hand signals, ensuring children didn't run into the path of the wheels. It was as if they were signaling that their 'muzzles' were no longer aimed at the people.
In Lingones, the effort was on a far grander scale. The Imperial Palace, once a negotiation hall, was now the nervous system of the administration. There was no time to build anew; the reality was repurposing what was seized. Several halls within the palace were converted into temporary departments. Filing cabinets stood beneath ancient frescoes; typewriters clattered under gold-leafed ceilings.
Administrative experts from the Union taught systems to young Gaulish clerks. The Union's victory was being stamped into the mud of Gaulish ruins every day by truck tires. As those tracks became established roads, Gaul was being reconstructed from a defeated empire into a functional nation.
******************************
The Imperial Palace remained the Imperial Palace. Its pillars retained their gold leaf, its stone floors their exquisite detail. But flanking the main gate now were the banners of the Gaulish People's Front, not the Imperial crest. Every time the wind blew, the fabric brushed against the stone—a sound that resembled the breath of a new era.
A crowd gathered outside the gates. It was not a crowd of pure jubilation. It was a volatile mixture of revolutionary liberation, post-war hunger, resentment, and hope. Some held flags; some held clenched fists. Some started to shout "Long live the Emperor!" only to swallow the words back down; others wanted to scream "Give us bread!" but hesitated under the gaze of their neighbors.
Between them, the police cleared a path. Jacques Duclos emerged and took his place on a podium. He caught his breath before the microphones and spoke a single, short sentence.
"Gaul is alive."
Duclos did not look back at the palace. He looked forward, his gaze sweeping over the gates, the crowd, the reporters, the militia standing behind them, and the ruined streets stretching into the distance.
"We have ended the monarchy. We have ended the war. And now, in the name of the people, we are operating the state once more."
He turned a page in his dossier. The paper made a thin, sharp sound in the wind.
"I have a major announcement. First, the Provisional Cabinet of the Gaulish Soviet Socialist Republic will hold a general election within the next three months."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Even those who didn't fully grasp the nuances of an election understood one thing: from now on, decisions would be made by ballots, not bayonets.
Duclos did not wait for the murmuring to cease. He maintained his pace; his words were of the sort that could collapse if allowed to waver. "And upon the commencement of those elections, the People's Front shall voluntarily dissolve."
The noise grew louder. The People's Front was the banner of the revolution, the face of the war, the hand that had struck down the monarchy. To hear that they were dissolving themselves sounded like a surrender of power.
Before the misunderstanding could catch fire, Duclos delivered the next blow. "The dissolution of the Front is not a retreat, but a normalization. A wartime alliance must remain a creature of war. We have no intention of governing peace with the machinery of conflict."
He named the successors specifically. "Following the general election, the Gaulish People's Front will be reorganized into the People's Party, the Labor Party, and the Communist Party."
Reporters scribbled furiously. Duclos did not raise his hand to calm the crowd; he spoke of harder realities. "As of now, the government will immediately disclose the national reconstruction budget, reorganize the rationing system, and integrate regional security organizations. We are shifting the focus of state policy from military rule to administration, from punishment to restoration."
As he finished, someone in the crowd shouted: "And what about the Union?"
A sharp, jagged question. The people of Lingones already knew where the sacks of cement and the rolls of wiring had come from. They knew where the trucks and technical experts originated.
Duclos nodded, as if he had been waiting for that very spark. "Regarding the Union?" He paused for exactly one heartbeat to ensure clarity. "Following the general election, the Gaulish government will hold a national referendum on the question of joining the Union."
This time, the sound was a tidal wave. Cheers broke out in some pockets, while anxiety surged in others. Some saw it as a lifeline; others as a new form of vassalage. Those who had believed in the Emperor yesterday now swayed without an anchor; those who had dreamed of revolution yesterday feared the dream was hardening too quickly.
Duclos bore the weight of all those faces. These were expressions that could not be reconciled into one today. He added a promise. "The referendum will not be a matter of compulsion. Approval or dissent is the absolute right of every Gaulish citizen."
Finally, he uttered the words he had held closest to his chest. "Whether we walk with the Union or we stand alone, from this day forth, the master of Gaul is not the Imperial House, but the citizen. I ask you to remember this."
When he finished, the noise of the crowd became impossibly complex. But complexity was not a bad sound. When a nation dies and is reborn, it is only natural for its affairs to be convoluted. An idealized, harmonious chorus is a rarity. Duclos did not retreat from the microphone. He remained standing.
Questions poured in, flashes exploded, someone shouted for the punishment of Corsica, another asked about reparations. He did not answer everything. There were questions that had no answers, and questions where the answer itself would be a torch. Instead, he addressed the reporters one last time.
"Starting tomorrow morning, every department will begin election preparations and reconstruction planning simultaneously. I ask you all to pray for the future of Gaul."
Then, he stepped down from the podium.