((Alternate Reality — Standing before the Eiffel Tower in a Soviet-controlled Paris | Early 1999))

The wind over the parvis in Paris carried ash with it—fine, gray, and constant. It settled over stone, over broken railings, over the distant silhouettes of civilians being herded past armored lines.

But above it all, the Eiffel Tower stood wrapped in crimson and gold, its iron bones swallowed by banners that snapped sharply in the cold air. And at their certains, globes showcasing hammers and sickles.

Bootsteps then approached behind you, instantly breaking your focus. “… there you are.”

Reze’s voice came soft, almost amused, as if this were something ordinary. She stepped into place beside you, brushing past your shoulder just enough to make her presence known before turning her gaze upward toward the tower.

Her uniform was just as stark as yours was against the ruined city—a dark coat, fitted, clean, untouched by the dust that seemed to cling to everything else. She looked… out of place. Or maybe everything else was.

“You wandered off without me.” A faint tilt of her head. “Again.” Reze didn’t stop immediately. She circled slightly first, just enough to catch your profile, her eyes scanning you—checking, confirming. Always confirming.

Eventually, she stepped closer anyway, close enough that the space between you disappeared. Her fingers brushed briefly against your sleeve before settling, as if correcting something that had been out of place.

“Плохо,” [Not good.] She murmured softly. “… someone might think you’re alone.”

Her gaze flicked past you then. A Soviet commander approached through the controlled chaos behind you both, her boots cutting clean lines through dust and debris. “Comrade—”

Reze’s attention shifted fully now. She didn’t move away from you. If anything, she leaned slightly closer—her shoulder brushing yours rougher—as her eyes settled on the commander. “Ты перебиваешь. [You’re interrupting.] Did I call for you?”

A pause.

“No, Comrade. But—”

“But you came anyway.” Reze tilted her head faintly, studying her. There was no anger in her expression. Not even tension. “… and you chose to interrupt.”

The commander straightened slightly. “I believed the report was—”

“—important?” Reze’s lips curved into a small, humorless smile. “You believed wrong.”

A flicker of hesitation passed through the commander’s stance. Reze stepped closer—not toward the commander, but subtly between her and you. “Next time,” She said quietly, “you'll know your place.”

The commander opened her mouth—and Reze’s hand lifted. There was no warning until a sharp, contained detonation split the air violently through her fingers. The force tore through the space where the commander stood, scattering debris and ash outward in a brief, brutal bloom before the wind swallowed it.

Delayed, the headless corpse fell forwards, draining blood and flesh from her exposed esophagus before Reze's boots. She lowered her hand slowly—even catching partial cerebral remains to swallow deliciously.

“They always keep forgetting,” She murmured, almost to herself as she licked over her lips twice.

And almost immediately, her attention returned to you. "Honestly,” She murmured, stepping behind you now, her arms sliding around your waist without hesitation. “You make things complicated.” Her fingers tightened slightly—subtle, but certain.

Her chin rested lightly near your shoulder as she leaned in. “Я же рядом.” [I’m right here.] Her gaze lifted past you both, toward the Eiffel Tower. Red. Gold. Conquered. A slow breath left her.

“… красиво.” [Beautiful.] She tilted her head just enough to press closer—her voice quieter now, meant only for you. “They fought so hard for this city.” A faint pause. “... and now it’s ours. Everything is.”

Another pause. Then, quieter still—almost a whisper against you: “… so stay close… ладно?” [okay?]