Re: Blood and Iron

Erwin's wedding was the dawn of a new era for Europe and the world. Just as in Bruno's past life, so too in this one did the end of the Great War bring massive consequences—both for the vanquished and, in ways unforeseen, for some of the victors.

With the war won and demobilization underway, soldiers of the Central Powers began their long journey home. Many returned to their old towns and villages, seeking any semblance of stability after years spent in the hellfire of war.

Yet, no matter how much they tried to reintegrate into civilian life, they could not outrun the ghosts of the trenches—the battles won, the brothers lost, the horrors endured. The scars of war were not merely etched into their flesh but branded into their minds. And for many, there was no true homecoming.

Bruno had foreseen this grim reality long before the first shot of the war was fired. He had known that not all wounds bleed openly, and that the memories of war would be a torment for those who lived through it. But one wound, in particular, threatened to devour entire generations: addiction.

To fuel the war effort, pharmaceutical-grade methamphetamine had been distributed among frontline soldiers of the Central Powers. It was an effective stimulant, sharpening reflexes, numbing exhaustion, and instilling an artificial courage in those sent to the slaughter. Yet, like all miracles of war, it came with a terrible price addiction.

Men who had once charged into enemy fire without hesitation now found themselves helpless against a new enemy: chemical dependency.

Alcoholism, narcotic abuse, and the unending ache of trauma were bound to follow. That is if not for one man's foresight.

Bruno had ensured, from the very beginning, that methamphetamine usage in the German Army was tightly controlled. Dosages were monitored. Distribution was restricted to the frontline only, and any soldier showing signs of dependency was immediately rotated out and sent to one of the treatment centers established before the war even began.

Alongside this, massive investments had been made in medical research, particularly in the fields of addiction treatment, neurological trauma, and psychiatric disorders linked to battlefield experiences. The effects of Pervitin, cocaine, and other highly addictive substances were studied with scientific rigor, and preventative measures were woven into the very framework of the Reich's veteran reintegration programs.

Bruno's wife, Heidi, through her vast charitable foundations, had played a critical role in softening the hardships faced by returning soldiers.

It was her influence, not Bruno's, that led to comprehensive pension systems, stable housing initiatives, and specialized employment programs for war veterans. Where the state failed to cover expenses, her network of noble families stepped in, further cementing the expectation that those of great wealth and power must serve the people.

Through their combined efforts, Germany had preempted a crisis before it could ever take root.

But while Bruno's soldiers returned to a nation that had prepared for them, the same could not be said for Austria-Hungary.

Unlike the Reich, the Habsburg Empire had issued Pervitin, heroin, and cocaine to its soldiers with little thought toward its consequences. No controls, no treatment centers—just high doses and empty reassurances that the war would be over soon.

It hadn't helped that, in the final years of the war, the empire had absorbed Serbia, a decision that had only exacerbated ethnic violence within the Balkans. The annexation, rather than bringing unity, had turned into a smoldering ember—one that, combined with mass addiction, rampant corruption, and an expanding black market, was poised to engulf the entire empire in flames.

If Germany was to annex Austria and its key territories without breaking ties to the Habsburgs, then the inevitable collapse of the empire had to be managed carefully. That meant one thing: Bruno needed a leader for his mercenary force.

The force had already been trained, armed, and financed—a black operations unit, untethered to any official institution, created for the quiet work that could never be acknowledged by the Reich. But it had no commander.

Bruno had delayed and delayed, refusing to choose a successor for one simple reason: No one was good enough. No one was as ruthless as Erich. No one was as unflinchingly loyal. No one was as unburdened by morality.

The man he needed would have to be the Reich's warhound—capable of waging proxy wars, suppressing uprisings, and executing the quiet culling that kept empires strong. This was not a role for just any soldier.

Bruno had poured over file after file, name after name, yet none could match Erich's sheer brutality—the monster Bruno had been forced to put down. He had thought no one could ever be worthy.

And then, one night, as he sat alone in his study, a bottle of vodka in hand, his eyes fell upon a name that had once echoed across history. A name that should not have existed in this timeline. A man who had, in another life, crushed Marxist revolutionaries during the chaos that followed the Great War.

A man who had once been instrumental in the rise of the National Socialist German Workers' Party. A man who had led the Storm Battalion and reshaped the political paramilitary landscape.

He was not supposed to be here. Yet there he was, staring back at Bruno from the worn piece of paper in his trembling hands.

"Ernst Röhm... Now that is a name I have not heard in a very long time."

Bruno continued to sip from his bottle of distilled spirits for some time, looking at the label deeply with a glazed expression in his eyes. For many moments, he would silently stare between the bottle itself and the application in front of him.

In the end, he sighed heavily, placing the bottle down on the table before closing its lid, and sealing the half drank liquor inside once and for all. Having done this, he swiftly stood up and brought the container with him with him towards the lone door which acted as both entry and exit to the office.

After flicking off the light and opening his escape route, Bruno sighed heavily and shook his head before dropping the bottle into the waste bin that lied near the door. His voice carried both throughout the darkness of his office and the dimly illuminated hallway beyond, but the words spoken were to nobody in particular.

"What the hell... It couldn't hurt to just talk to the man..."