Reincarnated: Vive La France

The halls of Command Pavilion E were quieter than usual.

Located in Lyon, surrounded by stone courtyards and camouflaged under decades of peacetime bureaucracy, it was once the beating heart of France's war machinery.

These days, it was a mausoleum of memories, where high-ranking officers played politics more than war.

But today, there were whispers.

General Delon entered the eastern corridor.

Officers straightened as he passed.

Beauchamp followed, hands in his pockets, watching everything.

The first door they knocked on belonged to Brigadier General Chauvin.

A student of Beauchamp's back in '27, he had since risen through the ranks with quiet loyalty.

When he opened the door and saw them both, he didn't speak.

Delon stepped in first. "Still keep your desk clean, I see."

Chauvin shut the door. "To what do I owe this unholy reunion?"

Beauchamp gave a slight nod. "We're not here for memory, Philippe. We're here for a favor."

Chauvin walked to the window and opened it just a sliver.

He looked out into the silent courtyard.

"I heard rumors. About the operation at the border. About Moreau."

Delon's voice was firm. "They're not rumors. The republic's skeleton is showing, and we've decided not to let it rot in peace."

Chauvin turned slowly. "You're serious."

"I'm done being ceremonial," Delon said. "So is Beauchamp. The boy… he's the storm. We're just the wind before it."

Beauchamp placed a thin folder on the desk.

Chauvin opened it.

There was a single sheet inside.

On it, a name Moreau.

And beneath that, a phrase.

"The time has come."

Chauvin closed the folder rubbing his temples. "If I say yes.."

"You're not saying yes," Beauchamp cut in. "You're just listening. When the time comes, you open the gates and step aside. Nothing more."

Chauvin stared for a moment, then nodded. "You'll need my battalion in Marseille. I'll have them rotated north under the guise of exercises."

"Do it quietly," Delon said. "And don't die before the curtain rises."

The second meeting happened in a cellar bar once used by Vichy officers.

Lieutenant Colonel Florent Lamarque, a tactician with a taste for fine wine and backroom deals, greeted them with a raised glass.

"You two walk in here like spooks,"

Lamarque said, raising his glass.

"Should I expect to be shot or promoted?"

"Both," Beauchamp said, sitting down.

"We're looking for men with short memories and long knives," Delon added.

Florent laughed. "I have both. But what makes you think I'd risk everything for your little… thundercloud?"

Delon said, "You've always hated the Ministry. We're giving you a chance to destroy it."

Florent narrowed his eyes. "And replace it with what?"

Beauchamp answered, "Something that bleeds like us. But doesn't rot like them."

Florent smiled. "Moreau, right? I knew he'd come back. Too quiet. Too damn dangerous."

Delon passed him a second folder.

It had everything logistics, routes, falsified dispatch orders, and a list of names.

Loyal officers.

Angry men.

Useful soldiers.

Florent whistled. "You've been planning this for a long time."

"We've been surviving," Delon said. "Planning started when survival stopped being enough."

Florent drank again. "You'll have Dijon and part of Nancy. I've got former students embedded deep in supply chains. They'll move gear without questions."

Beauchamp stood. "We'll be in touch."

Florent's final words followed them out. "If this fails, at least we'll be legends."

Two days later, they visited Rennes under darkness.

Colonel Romain Mercier, brother of Captain Louis "Singe" Mercier, met them in an abandoned artillery depot.

"No ranks," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Just names."

Beauchamp took off his gloves. "Fine. Romain, this country is ready to break."

Romain exhaled. "My brother sent a message. Said the storm's real. Said you were gathering ghosts."

"We need your reserves," Delon said. "And your silence."

"I've got 12,000 men. Some hate Paris. Others love their pensions."

"Then remind them what happened to the last country that forgot its soldiers," Beauchamp said.

They walked out without shaking hands.

The fourth meeting was less polite.

Major Clément Roux, posted at Reims, was young, ambitious, and disgusted by politics.

Beauchamp invited him to a dinner in a quiet restaurant and sat across from him in silence for five minutes.

Delon finally spoke. "You ever hear of General Lasalle?"

Roux blinked. "Napoleonic commander. Died charging Austrian guns. Refused to retreat."

Delon nodded. "Before that, he said a man who hasn't died by thirty isn't worth much."

"I'm thirty-two."

"Then prove him wrong," Beauchamp said.

They laid out the plan, quietly.

Roux, initially skeptical, grew pale as they spoke.

At the end, he looked down at his wine.

"I'll call back two companies from the border. 'Morale rotation.' But you know what this is, don't you?"

"We're trying to prevent civil war," Delon said. "By pulling the infection out by the roots."

"And Moreau?" Roux asked. "He ready for this?"

"He's already at the gates."

But it wasn't just the military anymore.

Delon and Beauchamp began reaching out into the bureaucracy, the civilian world that kept the army moving.

In Paris, Delon summoned a bureaucrat.

His name was Lemoine.

Tall.

Thin.

Glasses that made him look dull.

But he controlled the Defense Procurement Division nothing entered a base without his rubber stamp.

They met in an old hotel suite, no names, no phones.

"You're late," Lemoine muttered.

"You're paranoid," Delon replied.

Lemoine adjusted his tie. "Why me?"

"Because when this happens, we can't let the arsenals go dark."

"I want a place at the table."

"No," Beauchamp said flatly. "You get a seat in the crowd. But you live."

Lemoine laughed softly. "Well then. That's a better deal than most revolutions offer."

Two more meetings.

One with Colonel Vaillant, head of the reserve armor division in Dijon.

The other with General Sabatier, commander of logistics in the northern region.

Sabatier simply opened his drawer, showed them a file marked "contingency assets," and smiled.

"I've been waiting twenty years for someone to have the balls."

Beauchamp saluted him. "Then we'll be on our way."

In all, they met seventeen key figures across five cities.

Each one loyal to them.

Each one disgusted with the current regime.

Each one ready to act, not for politics but for restoration.

Back in Paris, Beauchamp and Delon sat in a study beneath the War Ministry.

A map of France lay before them.

Colored pins marked zones of control.

Beauchamp circled three names.

"These are the last ones," he said.

Delon nodded. "After that, we wait for Moreau."

"And when he gives the signal?"

Delon's voice was low, steady. "Then we cut the throat of the republic before it bleeds itself dry."