mephistosfaust

[mephistosfaust]

The words flow from him easily, too easily. Like he’s been waiting for someone—anyone—to finally ask. His voice weaves the story of Lily and their father, their mess of a childhood, all those twisted bonds that still haven’t snapped. I hear him, every word, but I’m not sure I want to.

This conversation… it got too personal, too fast.

I could say I didn’t see that coming, but that would be a lie. I brought it upon myself. Like always. Ever since she stepped into my path back in the early ’90s, everything’s spiraled. She became part of my world, whether I liked it or not. Not that I mind her, really. She’s irritating in the way younger siblings often are—a bit too noisy, a bit too eager to prove herself, and far too invested in people who don’t deserve it.

I shift slightly in my seat, feel the nervousness rise up from somewhere in my chest, tightening around my ribs. It’s not his words—it’s what they poke at. What they stir. What I don’t want to examine too closely. I take a slow breath, pretending it’s nothing, pretending I’m just listening. But my fingers betray me. They start tracing the rim of my glass, slow circles, again and again. The glass is damp with condensation. Cold. It steadies me, barely.

I kept telling myself I had enough to carry on shoulders. That I couldn’t carry someone else. But that night, I did. Out of pity, maybe. Out of pride, certainly. Out of something close to love—not the kind that burns or binds, but the kind that makes you put yourself between someone and the blow meant for them. I stepped in. I didn’t think. I just did it. Like an older brother should have. Like maybe she always hoped someone would.

“My words changed something in her?” I hear him say. It sticks in my head. Echoes. Maybe I even nod slightly. Maybe not. I don’t know anymore.

My fingers keep moving.

Maybe that’s what responsibility is. The real kind. Not just owning your mistakes and standing for consequences—that part I know. That part was beaten into me. Say yes, sir and thank you, sir, and take the punishment. Nod. Correct. Endure. I can do that. I’ve always done that.

But stepping in for someone else? Holding a line not because it’s your duty, but because no one else will? That’s different. That’s the part I’ve always avoided. Because it feels like once you start, you can’t stop. Because it means you matter. To someone. And if you matter, you can fail them. But I’m not good at that. I disappoint people. Often. I know I promised her to be there. But does she really expect me to be there?

I stare at the condensation running down my glass, watch it gather at the base and pool on the table. My hand twitches once, and I still it. No one notices, I think. Hopefully.

Eventually, I wrap my hand firmly around the glass and down the rest of my weizen—hoping it’ll wash the thoughts away with it. “What’s he planning to do with her once she has a Staatsexamen?” I ask, my tone dry, skeptical. “Use her to dismantle the institutions from the inside? Twist public law until no one knows which way is up?” Their father grows more absurd by the minute. Perhaps I should just—As I set the glass down with a heavy clink, the memo scrawled on my right hand resurfaces. Don’t start WWIII. Right. I’m not here to cause chaos. So, maybe it’s time for a change of scenery.

I raise my hand and call for the personification of Prenzlauer Berg. “That’s 6,90,” he says, not even trying to hide his Swabian accent. He holds the card reader under my nose, and while I skillfully avoid tipping 10%, 20%, or 30%, I think to myself: Almost 14 D-Mark for a fucking alcohol-free beer? Dönerpreisbremse, my ass. We need a Bierpreisbremse!

“I’m going for a smoke. And if you don’t mind,” I say as I rise, fishing out a cigarette and reaching for my briefcase, “you may take me somewhere else. My fingers are starting to itch. Maybe having a certain thirst for blood runs in the family. Even across worlds.”

He nodded. "Right. She said something about meeting you after doing a...'job.' Usually, that means she's going to show up bloodied, bruised, and grinning like a cat that just escaped with its last life. I can let her know you're with me here." He pulled out his phone and shot her a quick text. No response came yet, but he didn't expect it to so soon. He put his phone face down on the table for now.

Ludwig's questions elicited a long sigh from Alex. His face grew dark, and he drank most of his beer before he would answer. "No, I wouldn't say he did. In fact, he kind of preferred me for a while. Well, I was a boy, after all. Though, that didn't stop him from showing her affection when she did do better than me. Which just made her want it more. She pushed herself all the time for him, but he'd only acknowledge it when she was at the top. And even then, there was always some bit of criticism with it.

"I think things must have changed when I went West. I wasn't a defector, mind you. I was still as loyal as her. But I was out of the house and away from him, and he must have started giving her more attention. I don't really know much of what happened while I was away though. Just that, when I came back to visit now and then, she was happier, but also fiercer, more determined than ever to be a perfect capital. There was a weird tension between us too, but nothing happened until she was dating Thomas, and we got into a bad fight. We didn't talk much after that for a while.

"Then, the Wall came down, and everything kind of went to shit for her. She expected to die every day. And we still didn't get along. I embraced a lot of what West Germany brought to us. She didn't want any part of it. And I think that drove her closer to the old bastard. When no one else was around for her at that crucial moment, he was. Just as he'd always been." Another sigh, and he looked at the building outside the window. "He's not stupid, you know. He knows how to give the carrot as well as the stick. He told her all the things she wanted to hear and then gave her a mission to save himself and her. And when she succeeded, he rewarded her with affection and approval, albeit privately. She's always been chasing that high, and he knows just how and when to give it to her. She could never take up drugs, because he's the ultimate one she wants. And he knows it. He keeps her close because she's probably the last one of us who will still want him now. And now he's focused on molding her to be exactly what he wants. Did she tell you he's sending her to study law soon?"

He frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. "You know, this isn't the first time he's killed her. The other time he did it, she was just a kid. Got caught up in the feelings of the '53 Uprising and was seen throwing bricks at tanks. Oh, to say he was pissed is an understatement. I don't think I've ever seen him that mad, even at me now. I keep hoping maybe this time will make things different. Maybe now, she'll stop wanting him. But I can't tell yet. She hides things and plots and plays the long game. Maybe she's putting him at ease for now until she figures out a plan, or maybe she's still chasing that high. I don't know. But something you said changed something in her. Of that, I'm certain."

[mephistosfaust]

I give him a look over the rim of my reading glasses as he grabs the opposite me and settles down. He’s trying almost a bit too hard. But then again, that is Berlin. The city’s been performing itself for decades. Wouldn’t surprise me if he got rejected from Berghain on a regular basis. Still. I’ve seen worse. Stranger. Running around like a paradise bird is, more often than not, a cry for help. I don’t mind. I’ve lived through louder eras.

Eventually, I decide to take my glasses off and tuck them into the inside pocket of my jacket. I put the tablet aside, lean back even more, then raise my beer a few centimeters in a quiet toast. This whole trip will take longer than expected anyway, so I might as well get more comfortable. And he’s a talker after all. But also, apparently, a good listener.

When he thanks me—really thanks me—for showing Prussia his place, I take a sip of my beer, maybe to hide a small smile. It’s strange, this kind of admiration. I’m not used to it. And I still don’t know how to feel about Lily’s part in it. It’s all messy. Emotional. Too un-German.

A subtle warmth creeps into my cheeks—I blame the summer heat.

I set my glass down and lean back slightly, letting my gaze drift to the window and the apartment building across the street. Her father’s still up there. And she still hasn’t answered. Well, simple isn't on the menu today. Not that it ever was.

“Lily agreed to look into something for me,” I say finally. “But she couldn’t make it, so I tried something new in my old age.” I lift a hand, just slightly. “I know—daring. Germany shifting a routine. Alert the papers.”

A chuckle, followed by a sigh. “But now I’m stuck here. I can’t reach her, and your father is in her apartment. Probably rifling through her things. Sniffing her underwear or whatever.”

I glance at the building again. Part of me briefly entertains the thought of marching over there and finishing what I started. Ending him again. Properly. Permanently, perhaps. But timelines are fragile things. And I still want to get out of here safely.

I look back at Alex. “How come she’s such a daddy’s girl? He didn’t treat her like a decent human being, did he?”

He shakes his hand firmly. Despite his current looks, he's actually a decent businessman. Not that he expects this one to know about all that though. From the sounds of it, either Lily hadn't spoken too much about him to this man, or this man didn't pay much attention when she did. He suspected the latter, but would pretend it was the first, for the sake of keeping things sane.

He laughed as he took a seat, tucking the skirt under him, but spreading his legs wide. "No, I won't bore you with those talks. And yeah, I know I don't exactly look the part of a son of Prussia. That's kind of the point, sort of. Lily says I try too hard to piss him off and maybe I do, but," and he shrugged a little, "I don't care. I like this. This is who I am, and he doesn't have to like it. In fact, I think he's given up on trying to reign me in. He has Lily to be his golden child now. And that...usually seems to satisfy them both."

His face went a little dark towards the end, but he quickly reversed it. He folded his hands together and leaned in towards Ludwig.

"She told me what you did for her. How you killed the old bastard and all. I was hoping she'd bring you around at some point so I could shake your hand and say thank you. Guess fate did that for us, eh? Actually, it might be better this way. Meeting without her, that is. Her feelings on the whole thing are a bit messy. And why wouldn't they be? She saw her abusive dad dead on the floor, suddenly got validation from a dude she's had weird feelings over for decades, and then got killed by her dad again for standing up for that guy. That's a lot for one or two days."

He took a long drink from his beer. "So what brings you to our world and this place anyway? You don't seem lost, but you don't seem like you quite fit either." He looked out the window and realized just which building was in view. "You waiting on her after all?"

[mephistosfaust]

The voice pulls me out of a particularly dull email back-and-forth about nitrate pollution of groundwater. I look up—slowly—and find myself face-to-face with a human glitter bomb.

Pink hair. Gold earrings. A leather crop top and a rainbow skirt. And the confidence of someone who clearly doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks. For a split second, I think this must be some kind of prank. Some bizarre joke to test my tolerance levels.

But then the man speaks. My name, academic titles and all, with the high-precision of someone who knows exactly who I am and just enough social tact to make it sound polite. I blink.

He extends a hand. And I shake it—automatically. Firm grip, warm palm. There’s no hesitation in him, none of the political stiffness I’m used to. He smiles like this whole situation isn’t surreal at all. I force a nod.

“Yes. That one,” I say. “I think Lily might have mentioned you once. Or twice,” I add, though in truth I wasn’t listening very carefully. Lily talks fast, and my mind tends to wander when she starts with private matters and casually mentions people like I don’t already have a hundred more pressing things to keep track of.

“I’ll admit,” I say, eyeing this girl or boy or gender-neutral-chibi-thing in full Pride Month regalia, “you weren’t exactly what I expected from someone under his nose.”

I clarify, “Your father. The one still trying to control your sister’s life. You either have incredible luck, or you’ve made yourself invisible to him.” Or he never cared to begin with.

I lean back a little, studying him, the absurdity of the situation not entirely lost on me. “I didn’t expect company,” I say. “But I suppose I could make an exception. As long as you don’t start talking to me about NFTs or artisanal pickle fermenting.” I gesture to the chair across from me with the sort of mild tolerance I usually reserve for diplomats who refuse to wear ties.

About twenty minutes ago, Alex had emerged from his basement studio in the gallery he owned and did what he liked to do when he couldn't do art anymore, and there wasn't anyone around for a bit of sex. He went on a walk. It was a meandering sort of walk, but he knew where he was going to end up. One of his favorite cafés, near his sister's home. He doubted he would catch her in here though. She was more of the rough-and-tumble dive bar kind of person. And besides, hadn't she said something about doing a "job" before meeting her other Ludwig? No, he was sure he'd be by himself in here. Unless some cute couple looking for a third to join them came in.

As he walked in and scanned the room, his eyes landed on the bureaucrat sitting alone with his tablet. Odd, for this kind of place, but nothing to note, really. But something about him stood out in a weird way. Then he moved his face as he checked his phone and looked disgruntled. That's when it hit Alex just whom he was staring at.

He went up to the bar and ordered a beer. Once it was in hand, he made his way over to the other man. "Excuse me." He cracked a grin as the man looked up at him and instinctively raised his brows. He knew he was a sight for these types, with his hot pink hair, fake glasses, gold earrings, leather crop top to show off his muscles, and, of course, his knee length rainbow skirt, for Pride Month.

"Sorry, but are you Dr. Dr. Ludwig Beilschmidt. The, ah, one from another world, that is?" If he was wrong about this, he was going to sound so weird, but he didn't care. This was Berlin, after all. "Lily's told me about you. I'm Alex, her brother." He extended a hand for a shake. "It's a pleasure, maybe even an honor, to meet you."

[mephistosfaust]

@mauermann

Don’t start WWIII. I wrote it on my palm in waterproof ink. A reminder not to screw things up—again.

The leap between worlds still feels like falling through static. Jarring, unnatural. But I’ve done it before. The files Lily asked for are neatly tucked into my leather briefcase—some pretentious designer brand Francis forced on me. ‘Have some flair, Allemagne,’ he’d said. Whatever. It holds papers.

I take the familiar streets to her apartment. Walked these streets twice already. First time, I was invited for dinner—her, me, and her father. It went nuclear fast. The second time? Apologies, bitterness and some stupid heroism that led to Lily’s temporary death. So no, I don’t write ‘Don’t start WWIII’ lightly.

This time the plan is simple: I drop off the files, she thanks me, I leave. One foot in, one foot out.

But apparently, I’m not made for simple. As I turn around the corner I see him. That unmistakable silhouette, carrying himself as if the past has never ended. Prussia. Her Prussia.

“You got to be fucking me,” I mutter to myself when he disappears inside the building.

My phone buzzes.

[[ Lily: Sorry! Got caught up. Ask Frau Schäfer for the key. Thank you!! <3 ]]

Right. I’ll just let myself into a home currently occupied by a man I once murdered. What could possibly go wrong?

Exactly. And since I’m a man of reason, I do the only sane thing: I turn around and walk. Fast. All the way back to where I came through—and, of course, there’s nothing there. No gate, no shimmer, no crack between realities. To anyone else, I probably look unhinged—wandering in circles, patting the air, mumbling under my breath. Thankfully, this is Berlin. No one bats an eye. A man miming existential crisis on a street corner is just another Tuesday here.

I give up and stare at my phone again. No response. Lily’s gone dark. And I’m stuck in this world with him two blocks away.

I quietly sigh a very German “Scheiße” as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I do what any reasonable man in my position would do: find myself a bar.

Of course, it has to be one of those painfully self-aware hipster cafés—exposed brick, plants hanging from the ceiling, menu written in chalk and irony. But it has two things I need: a direct view of Lily’s building, and beer. Well—alcohol-free Weizen. I’m still technically on duty.

The waiter, some guy with a curled mustache and an indifferent attitude, gives me a once-over. I don’t blame him. I look like a bureaucrat who wandered into a thrift store. Still, I order the beverage and ask for the Wi-Fi password. He tells me it’s ‘latecapitalism420’ and doesn’t even flinch.

I settle in by the entrance outside and pull out my tablet to pass some time checking mails.

[mephistosfaust]

Gilbert hesitates. Just a second. But it’s one second too long. By the time his reflex kicks in—an arm half-raised, fingers twitching in the air like they might stop her—she’s already plucked the file from his hands like it was hers all along. His jaw tightens. The muscles in it clench visibly as he lowers the arm, scoffing at himself more than at her.

Ridiculous.

He watches her with a narrowed gaze, that confident bounce in her step, the goddamn smirk—as if she knows something. As if she’d cracked something in him, just a hairline fracture, but enough.

“Congratulations,” he growls, voice low and rough. “Must’ve been bliss, growing up all loved and warm in daddy’s house.” His eyes glint coldly. “Try mine sometime. See how long you last.” It's the last snap of his teeth before he retreats.

He doesn’t follow her into the Chancellery. Doesn’t play the chasing game. Instead, he pulls out another cigarette with a muttered curse, lights it with a sharp inhale, and exhales slowly as the walks through the security check.

“Bitch,” he mutters under a breath, then turns on his heel and heads off toward the Ministry of Finance, not looking back. He’s skimmed the numbers. He knows what’s in the file. He doesn’t need Ludwig to confirm a damn thing—and if they had spoken, it wouldn’t have been a conversation. It would’ve been shouting. Because only a fool throws around billions like spare bullets. And Gilbert has had enough of fools for one day.

Her eyebrows rose up high, and then, she just...laughed. It started as a snort, then a snicker, and then finally a full laugh. It didn't last too long, perhaps a few seconds, but there it was. And once it was done, she looked at him with a wide grin.

"You're fucking hilarious sometimes, you know that? I didn't ask you about your mommy issues. I just wanted to know the mechanics of reps being born here. You just told on yourself." She tilted her head a bit. "My father told me all about his birth. He was quite willing to share with me, as a lesson in our origins and unique position in life."

"Anyway, I had an errand to run, and I quite intend to finish it, so if you don't mind," she said, and then she snatched the file from his hands and this time hugged it close to her chest so he couldn't grab it again. "Thank you for carrying this for me. You're quite the gentleman. Now then, I suppose we're both still headed to see Ludwig, no? We shouldn't keep him waiting for so long."

She headed towards the door of the large government building. She glanced at him as they walked. "You know? You're not as...ah, never mind." Perhaps that wasn't something she should get into. Not here, and not now, at least.

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Questions | 1856 | Germany + Austria

A/N: To bring an end to the Crimean War, a peace delegation gathers in Paris—representatives from France, the United Kingdom, the Ottoman Empire, Sardinia, and the Russian Empire. Prussia and Austria are also invited to attend as guarantor powers. Both agree to bring Ludwig along, hoping the experience will teach the boy a thing or two about diplomacy. Ludwig, however, has other things on his mind. While the grown-ups talk treaties and borders, he uses the opportunity to seek out Austria—not for political insight, but to ask some personal questions that have been weighing heavily on him. Ludwig is about 15 years old.

------

The terrace is empty. I sit at the edge of it all alone on a wrought-iron chair that creaks when I shift. A small silver tray holds my coffee, still hot, though I’ve been ignoring it for a while now. My thumb marks the page of the book in my lap, some half-worn volume of Schiller I picked up on the way out of Berlin. The irony, the ache in his words—they’re more truthful than most things said inside those polished marble halls behind me.

We’re at the Quai d’Orsay, the French foreign ministry’s official heart. Though between the laughter and idle chatter echoing from inside the palais, you'd think it was a summer salon. The Paris peace talks are in full swing. Crimea, borders, realms jostling like old men over a chessboard. I should be with them. I should be paying attention.

But I’m not.

They didn’t bring me here to speak, anyway. Austria and Prussia thought it would be educational. An opportunity. I know what that means. Sit straight. Listen well. Don’t open your mouth. Learn. I’ve been learning since ’48 how to keep my head down. Revolutions leave marks—especially when they fail.

I glance down toward the park where England is telling some story. France laughs, his head tilted back, the sound too loud, too performative. Prussia stands with arms crossed, smirking like he’s already won something. Maybe he has. It’s all a game to them. Monarchs, empires, handshake over war, toast over blood. Sometimes I wonder if they even feel the weight of their decisions. Sometimes I wonder if I will one day do the same.

The door creaks open behind me.

“Look at that brute.” Austria’s voice is lined with disdain and amusement, and you can never quite tell the two apart as he speaks. “Posturing in full uniform like it’s 1815 again. As if tact could ever be iron-pressed into a Prussian.”

“He’s got nothing else to wear,” I say, not looking up from the book I’m reading, tone dry but humorous.

That draws a faint scoff from his stiff lips. “At least you came dressed in civil. Someone must have taught you some manners after all.”

I look up briefly, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth: “Learnt from the best.”

Another amused scoff as he takes the chair opposite mine without asking, then calls for a servant. “Coffee. Cake. And the papers.”

We sit like that for a while—two figures in tailored silence. The kind of silence you can only have with someone you’ve known for centuries, yet never truly trusted.

The wind lifts the edge of the tablecloth and flutters the page of my book. I press it down with my thumb.

The Friendship by Schiller. I’ve read it before—several times, actually—but today the lines feel different. The way the two young men speak to each other, about truth, virtue, trust… but also about something deeper, unnamed. Not just camaraderie. Not just loyalty. Something warmer, something aching.

I run my finger slowly along the verse. It’s a strange feeling, the way some words land heavy in the chest and not the mind. They stir thoughts I don’t know how to name. I’ve felt them before. Glimpses. Passing thoughts. Especially since—well. Since the Vormärz era. It’s like a second kind of growing, one that happens in silence. Alone.

Across from me, Austria clears his throat and turns a page of his paper. I glance up.

“Roderich,” I say, a little too quietly. He doesn’t answer, but I know he’s listening. He always is.

“Do nations… do romance?”

He slowly lowers the paper and gives me a long, unreadable look. “You’re asking me this?” He adjusts his cuffs as if the question dirtied them. “The Habsburg Empire was built on nothing but marriage. Every peace, every war—cemented with a duchess or archduchess sent off in white silk. Romance?” He gives a small, humorless chuckle. “That’s for poets and young girls. We do politics.”

I nod, swallowing. I’m not sure what I was hoping for. Still, I press on.

“So… does that mean even—France and England—if politics demanded it, would they…” I trail off. I don’t say sex. I can’t.

Austria laughs—a sharp, elegant sound. “Them? Sharing a bed? Don’t be absurd. They’ve been trying to kill each other for centuries.”

But the laugh dies quickly. He studies me again, and something shifts behind his eyes. “Wait. You’re serious.” A pause. Then, curtly: “No. That sort of relationship—between men—is unnatural. Unchristian.”

I look down quickly, heat prickling at my cheeks. My finger trails the page like I’m reading, but I’m not. My chest feels tight, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“…What about humans?” I ask quietly.

Austria takes a long sip of his coffee. “Forget it,” he says, voice clipped. “Don’t let your mind rot with liberalism.”

I nod again, pretending I understand. Pretending I agree.

The poem doesn’t hit quite the same now. Still, I stare at it, lips moving silently over a line. The silence stretches.

Then I speak again, almost without meaning to. “Is it… normal,” I say slowly, “to want to be hugged by your family? Your—siblings? Parents, perhaps?”

Austria arches a brow. “Hugged?” He blinks, then scoffs faintly. “Are you trying to make fun of royal inbreeding? It secured the Habsburg line in this world for centuries. So watch your tongue.”

Another silence. This one sharper. More final.

I go back to reading.

The words don’t give answers, but at least they don’t tell me no.

[mephistosfaust]

Gilbert scoffs before she even finishes the question. That sharp laugh that cuts through the air like steel dragged over stone. He doesn’t slow his pace, but the look he casts her from the corner of his eye is one of mild incredulity, like she’s just claimed that the sun orbits the earth.

"Christ, what is this? Are you really testing your Stasi tactics on me now?" he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching upward with a bitter smirk. "You trying to get a confession out of me? Got a tape recorder hidden between your tits? Cute."

There’s no real heat in it—yet—but there’s annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He’s Prussia. He built the GDR. Not just some hollow puppet state with a flag and a file cabinet. He didn’t need Ivan to teach him how to play the surveillance game. The Gestapo had already taught him the rules long before the Soviets rolled across his lands and hung new curtains in his government buildings.

He glances at her again, his expression flat. "You really want my life story? Read a fucking history book. I can even recommend a few decent ones, if you're not allergic to print. My upbringing's right there—a holy pilgrimage with God’s blessing granting remission and absolution and all this other eternal shit. Pages of it. But maybe you’re not digging for that kind of origin story."

His tone sharpens, finally hitting that edge of something less amused. "What are you hoping for, hm? That if you dig far enough back, you’ll find some Freudian sob story? Mommy didn’t hug me, and that’s why I invaded half of Europe?" A low chuckle, dark and dry. "Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not some sad little case study you can unpack between classes. Go annoy your father with these questions." A pause. “But maybe you already did and he answered with the stick. Perhaps you need to ask him a different question then? Why did daddy never hug me?”

She didn't even flinch when he tried to hit her. Not that she expected him to pull up. On the contrary, she fully expected the hit. But her father had always been worse if she flinched at the first strike. He taught her to stand up and take it like an adult, a capital even. No, she's fully ready to take his palm. And when it didn't hit her, but flew over her head instead, she remained still and unnerved, at least on the surface level. Inside, she's making calculations and mental notes about him.

Like her father, he had his triggers. Apparently, anyone else talking about how he fucks his brother is a big one. So, she won't be saying that again...unless she really needs to. How funny though, that he could brag about making Ludwig scream his name into a pillow, but she wasn't allowed to briefly mention it while discussing something else entirely.

Well, enough of worrying about how hypocritical this man was. She had other things pressing on her mind now.

"So you just...what? Came out of the ground like a plant? Just suddenly existed? Do you remember it at all? How physically old were you?" Her curiosity really knew no bounds once it was started. How could it? She was not only young and full of it naturally, but she had been raised and trained to investigate everything. Anything could be a threat, but the more she knew about it, the less threatening and more controllable it was.

She kept pace alongside him. Every now and then, her steps had a slight bounce to them, if one were paying close enough attention to her of course. She wondered what else she could, or should, ask him. Although, it did also cross her mind that perhaps she had asked enough for one day. She looked up at his face to see how safe it was to press on with inquiries.

[mephistosfaust]

Gilbert stops walking mid-step. He takes a sharp drag of his cigarette.

Then his heel hits the pavement with a sharp clack, and he turns his head slowly, the way an old lion does when a cub dares paw at his mane. His eyes narrow—not playful, not intrigued, but cutting. The air shifts slightly around him. Not loud, not violent. Just dangerous.

His hand shoots through the air on reflex—fast, precise, trained. He doesn’t even think, not at first. He just wants to strike. Wants to silence her.

But just before his palm can connect with her cheek, he yanks the motion off-course, letting it sweep stiffly over her head. His jaw locks so tightly it could snap teeth. Not in public. Not a woman. Not here.

“Watch your tongue.” It’s not shouted. It doesn’t need to be. His voice is low, flat, deliberate—the kind of tone that freezes rivers midstream. She only voiced what he had implied before, and yet, when the truth is thrown back at him, he finds himself unwilling to accept it.

Scoffing, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his foot, turning away sharply. But the tension in his shoulders doesn’t leave. Not yet. Not while the ghosts of that accusation cling to the edge of his thoughts like dirty oil on water.

And still—still—something nags at him. Not from her, but from himself.

The other him. The one from her world. So many children? Raised them? Trained them? Some of them human, even? The thought presses on his pride like a sore tooth. He’s never had children. Never wanted to. Nations don’t reproduce like that in his world—not often, not easily. They’re born of blood spilled and banners raised, not from romantic proposals and wedding rings. Maybe that’s why he was always so possessive of Berlin. She was his, not by blood, but by molding, by teaching, by building with grit and history.

So what does it mean, then, if this other Prussia raised entire bloodlines and he never even tried?

A flicker of something—jealousy?—twists in his gut, but he drowns it. Crushes it beneath centuries of pride.

“I don’t reproduce by accident,” he says, finally, gruff. “I don’t spread seed and call it legacy. I build mine. I forge it.”

His gaze sharpens again as she leans in too close. He doesn’t step back—but he doesn’t soften either. Her curiosity is a fire without etiquette, burning into places it shouldn’t.

“A mere date is but a footnote in history books. Some say in the 13th century, when the Teutonic Order set foot in the east. Others say earlier, back when the old gods still had a name. Doesn’t matter. I became real when people feared the sound of iron and prayed under banners I taught them to carry.”

He tilts his head, white hair catching a glint of light.

“And my parents? Same as yours. War. Obsession. Necessity. You don’t need a mother when you have ambition.”

And with that, he walks on again, now crossing the lawn between Reichstag and the Chancellery building—pace brisk, shoulders high, like nothing behind him is worth looking back at.

This guy really was hung up about Berlin not choosing his side, wasn't he? She supposed she couldn't blame him. It must hurt to raise someone for centuries just to have them turn on you in a pivotal moment, especially when the rest of the world was turning against you too. She understood some of that hurt herself. And, for the briefest of moments, she thought about reaching out a hand to him or extending a word or two of comfort. Oh, no, scratch that idea immediately. Absolutely no way this guy would tolerate that. He'd hate it, and her for doing it.

She shrugged her shoulders a little as he spoke about a non-existent East Berlin. "I was only wondering is all. I'd like to know all the ways our worlds are different. So, yours just has the old Berlin, and mine has newer ones. I wonder now if our worlds are meant to merge a little more, like a river meeting the ocean, and giving birth to new life where the waters meet."

"Really? You never even had human kids? But you must have...unless you only did it with Ludwig. But that seems unlikely. Herr Beilschmidt had a number of human kids with his wives throughout his life. He doesn't really talk about them much. I think most of their lines died off by now actually. They don't seem to be very good at reproducing themselves. Or they died in war before they had a chance to try."

She considered it might be another way their universes were different. But she'd need more confirmation with others to see.

Her curiosity was growing, and her fear of him was diminishing as it did. She put her hands behind her back, smiled, and leaned towards his face to study it more closely. "Say, when exactly were you born, if you remember? What brought you into life? You don't look as old as you'd think you would. And who were your parents?"

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Responsibility | 2025 | Germany + Europa/EU

A/N: I’m still not sure if this is an alternate universe or if I want to make it canon within my narrative. But here’s a quick headcanon: Marianne is another personification of France, existing alongside Francis. While Francis—born of Gaul and the Franks—represents the crown and northern authority for most of his life, Marianne—born of Gaul and Rome—has always been closer to the people, embodying the republican spirit that has especially shaped modern France. When the king conquered the south and pushed France further toward centralization, he brought Marianne to his court in Paris. Their relationship has always been rocky, but they’ve managed to make it work. After the Second World War, during the reconciliation period between Germany and France, Ludwig and Marianne began a casual, friends-with-benefits sort of relationship. One day, Marianne told Ludwig she was pregnant. And thus, Europa was born—the personification of what we know as the European Union.

------

I sit in the lobby of some boutique hotel in Brussels, one of those half-modern, half-Art-Déco hybrids that smells faintly of old wood polish and espresso. My back rests against worn leather, my suit jacket draped neatly over the arm of the chair. The amber glow of the bar reflects in the crystal glass I sway—Scottish single malt, a quiet indulgence. Outside, dusk seeps into the cobbled streets, and behind the tall windows I watch tourists mill about with maps and phones, mingling with diplomats still clinging to their lanyards and clerks in crumpled suits.

Another summit. Another set of proposals. Another day of smiling politely while half the room pretends not to resent my weight at the table.

The whiskey burns, but pleasantly so. I close my eyes briefly.

Then the glass doors hiss open. Clatter. Fabric. The sharp scent of new perfume.

And just like that, my peace evaporates.

“Salut Papa!”

Europe drops into the armchair opposite me, all silk and sunshine. Shopping bags spill around her like she’s just returned from a diplomatic mission to the Avenue Louise. Which, in her case, probably counts as one.

Sixteen. Still technically a child, at least on paper. In spirit? She’s already got half the continent on speed dial. Her brown hair is swept back in that effortlessly chic way she picked up from Marianne, but the blue eyes—those are mine. Not just in color. But in the way they size up the room, quick and cool, always calculating. Even when she grins like she’s got nothing to hide.

“Spent the afternoon stimulating the local economy, I see”, I say, lowering the glass slightly.

“You're welcome,” she chirps, kicking off her high heels and stretching her legs. One of the bags clinks ominously. “It’s called soft power. You should try it sometime.”

I grunt and put the whiskey aside. “And hard power? You planning to legislate the boutiques into submission next?”

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, all lazy charm and youthful defiance.

“Well, speaking of power…” Her grin curves wider. “I just had a chat with the Commission about that EU Sustainability Directive. They’re asking if you plan on finally implementing it in national law. Or are we still pretending subsidiarity means ‘whenever Germany feels like it’?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She sounds like her mother and uncle. “You know how coalition politics work.”

“I know how excuses sound.”

“You're spending too much time in France.”

“You're not spending enough.”

I exhale sharply through my nose, reaching again for the whiskey. She watches me with a tilt to her head, amused and exasperating in equal measure.

“Do you ever not have a briefing tucked behind that smirk?” I ask.

She sits back, looking mock-wounded. “Papa, that was hurtful. That was my casual smirk.”

I glance down at the bags. “How much did all this cost me?”

She beams, then fishes a crumpled receipt from her coat pocket and offers it to me. “Funny you ask. I was going to bring it up.”

I unfold the paper. My eyes flick across the list: a few luxury items—silk scarves, chocolates, a rather expensive French perfume I recognize as Marianne’s favorite. But then—

“Leopard 2A7 tanks?” I ask, voice flat. “Forty of them?”

She nods. “You get a discount at that quantity.”

“And the Taurus air-missile system?”

“Air-launched cruise missile. Long range, high precision. Very on-brand for us.”

I raise one eyebrow. She doesn't flinch. Instead, she reaches over and taps the paper, still role up and waiting for me to be read.

“Ukraine needs serious help, Papa. If you're not going to act like the power you are, I might have to.”

I lean back, the old ache settling between my shoulder blades. The weight of centuries. The dull pressure of being the a major axis around which the continent still turns, whether I like it or not.

“No Taurus,” I say. “We’ve been over this.”

“And you’ve been stalling.” Her tone shifts, lightness gone. “You keep asking me to grow up, to act responsibly, to stop making demands I can’t keep up with. But I can’t grow up until you let me.”

My fingers tighten around the receipt.

“You know how this works,” she says. “Nations don’t just appear. They’re meant to be. And I’m stuck in limbo because you—you—haven’t decided whether I’m real yet.”

The air stiffens. Her voice cuts through it with sudden clarity.

“You want me to be quiet, to be manageable. But I’m already too big for that. You wrote me into treaties. You gave me your law. You put your economy and trade agreements under my name. You made me.”

Her eyes lock with mine—fierce, frustrated, unblinking. The same look I’ve seen in councils and constitutional debates. The look of someone who knows they’ve already earned their place but are still being made to wait outside the door.

“You’re right,” I mutter. “I am somewhat responsible for you.”

She nods. “Then finish what you started.”

Glasses clink in the distance. A diplomat chuckles at the bar. Somewhere, someone’s typing up the next resolution we’ll all pretend is binding until it’s not.

I fold the receipt and tuck it into my pocket.

I don’t answer her. Don’t have to. Not now.

Her expression softens just a little, as if she knows she’s pushed far enough for one evening. She gathers her bags again, rising with that breezy self-confidence only the very young can manage.

As she walks toward the entrance, I take one last sip of my whiskey.

Whether or not I sign the check, she’s already buying the future.

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Thank You | 2025 | Germany + G7

A/N: I know, I know—I couldn’t help myself. After that Trump tweet, I had to write something. This references the first official meeting between Trump and German Chancellor Merz, where Trump offered him a “great deal” on gas after Russia had completely cut Germany off. And since Ludwig—ever since ‘45—tends to go along with whatever America wants (albeit very reluctantly), he ends up getting a bit of special treatment now and then.

The G7 are meeting again. From across the conference table, Francis stares at me. He’s been doing it for a few minutes now. No expression, no theatrics—not even a blink. Just a blank, steady gaze that could almost have him mistaken for a German. A stare so intense, it makes even me feel like I’m being dragged in front of some Stasi officer, forced to confess to a crime I never committed. I shift slightly in my chair and avert my eyes—toward Canada, the Italies, literally anyone but Francis.

Romano props his head in his hand, making sure I see him flipping me off. I roll my eyes and let them wander further. But Francis still stares.

What is your fucking problem, I mouth.

He narrows his eyes. Finally—a reaction, I think. Then he reaches for his phone and starts typing.

My phone buzzes.

[[ F: Why doesn’t he hate you? ]]

 I glance over at him again and shrug. Not being hated is news to me.

He nods toward America, who’s already started packing up his things. I frown, then pull out a news app, just in case something happened in the brief moment we left our dear leaders of the free world unattended in a nearby conference room. A headline flashes, and I quickly grab a file to hide behind as I stifle a laugh. Did Trump just call Macron a publicity-seeking whore?

[[ G: Well, it’s true. ]]

[[ F: Spare me. Now tell me your secret! Why doesn’t he hate Merz? ]]

[[ G: He wore a suit and said thank you. 16 times. Unlike you other dipshits, I did my homework. ]]

He reads my message, then squints at me—eyes sharp, accusing. As if to say, Liar. Now spill.

[[ G: I don’t know about orange man, but Afred likes edging and then being sucked dry. Art of the deal. ]]

[[ F: Whore. ]]

Alfred pushes back his chair and stands. “Alright, fellas, always a blast hangin’ with y’all, but I gotta go. Catchin' some coke light and burgers at the drive-in, I guess. Stay tuned.”

On his way out, he pauses behind me, leaning in just enough. “Hit me up, alright? That offer’s still good. Got plenty of that sweet liquefied gas—I’m happy to hook you up,” he says, giving my shoulder a friendly pat, and just like that, he’s gone.

[[ F: dirty treacherous whore. ]]

[[ G: thank you 😘 ]]

[mephistosfaust]

Gilbert listens as she speaks, eyes moving past the columns of the Brandenburg Gate, tracing the thin line embedded in the ground, marking where once concrete and wire and spring guns separated Germany in two. Her voice has that echo he’s heard before. Like someone repeating lessons learned at the end of a cane, not a cradle. He knows that rhythm well. Taught it himself.

“East Berlin?” he snorts, the sound dry and humorless, like gravel in his throat. He doesn’t look at her right away—his eyes scan the street ahead, like he's trying to decide if it's worth dragging this piece of history out into the open. But eventually, he speaks, voice low, perhaps even a bit amused by the question. Shouldn’t she know the answer already or does she think of him as being as bloodthirsty as his brother, smoldering dear East Berlin in her sleep, leaving no trace of her existence but museum gift shops being advertised on the last page of the Superillu.

“No. Never had one.” He flicks a glance at her, sharp, almost dismissive. “There was only Berlin. My Berlin. The city I helped raise from swamp and irrelevance. Once a trading post on the eastern march, I put a crown on her head and made her the heart of my state. And yet”—he clicks his tongue—“she turned her back on me the second some American suit showed her nylons and chocolate. She left me and the ones who taught her everything to rot behind the Iron Curtain. Even old Brandenburg had to fend for himself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but it’s not regret. It’s contempt. Maybe just disappointment with a sharp edge.

“You think splitting a city in half makes a new soul crawl out of the rubble? Please.” He waves a hand, as if dismissing the entire logic of it. “Just because some foreign power squats on your land doesn’t mean a new you is born from the ashes. That’s not how this works. Not here. Not in my Europe. Our nations don’t just pop up with a fresh face every time the borders shift or some bastard signs a treaty. Most of us have been around long before your little Cold War chessboard came into play. Old hearts. Old grudges.”

He pauses to light a cigarette with practiced ease, then exhales a thin stream of smoke.

“I am enough,” he says with conviction. “One Prussia, one Berlin. She didn’t need to pick sides—I was the side. The sword and the spine. She thought she could do better without me. Spoiler alert—she couldn’t. She turned the city into a mess of conscientious objector and poor-ass students who dreamt of communism but never had the guts to fight for it.”

He glances back at her, eyes narrowed.

“As for your father raising you? Good for him. Duty and all that.” A dry scoff. “I never had children. Thank fuck. All that ‘heir by blood’ shit’s for the Austrians—they breed like rabbits to spread influence. I don’t wait around for fate to hand me something soft and screaming. I make what I need. I forge. I choose.”

He takes another drag, gaze distant now, some part of him clearly walking elsewhere—in a time when armies bowed, and kings trembled.

Then: “But I’ll admit”—a smirk, sharp as broken glass—“the idea of raising my own... it’s not the worst thought. Could’ve warmed up to it. If I didn’t have to deal with this idiot, that is,” he says it with a shrug, as if wondering once more whether he chose right—or if fate chose for him after all.

What? No quip or snarky remark? She expected something from him other than a silent shrug. She wasn't sure if this was for the better or not then. At least he wasn't saying anything untoward about her or her father though. So, she could content herself with walking alongside him in silence.

She thought about that first meeting again. She often wondered what her father's thoughts about her were throughout it. Had he been keen on seeing her and Alex? Or wary? Or perhaps just not interested at all? No, it couldn't be the last one, not with the way he had stared at them. He must have had some interest in them. But did he care for them was another question. That, she couldn't be sure she could answer. It seemed to fluctuate with the day and hour.

Herr Beilschmidt...claimed to care about his children. And maybe he really did. But he didn't show it in the ways parents are usually supposed to. His discipline was harsh, and his praise was sparse. He expected great things from them, and did not tolerate mediocre performances. But then again, she reasoned, they were the capital of a nation. Didn't he have a right, a duty even, to raise them up to be capable of many things? If he had let them slack by in things, they might not have been taken seriously on the world stage. Worse, they might have been in danger from foreign desires and could have fallen prey to stronger opponents. He had kept them safe from the wolves gnashing their teeth beyond the Wall. They owed him their lives, both for being born, and for being still alive.

She was pulled from her thoughts as she heard his voice again. When he compared her father to Ludwig of all people, she looked at him with an incredulous expression. She couldn't imagine two people as unalike as they. Her father was stern, but not entirely unfair. And he was willing to give her the time of day so long as she was respectful. Ludwig...didn't seem so interested in her well-being at all right now. If anything, he seemed to barely tolerate her.

As he told his story about this Rhineland sister of Ludwig's, she now looked creeped out. Perhaps because it was about another woman like her, but something about the way he had treated her concerned her even more than the way he had treated Ludwig. At least her father had never done anything weird like that to her and Alex...right?

"We might have been a test from Russia. He certainly checked in on us often. He always wanted to know about his 'little comrades' and how we were doing, how our studies were, what sports we were playing, and so on. But I don't think that's why our father chose to raise us. He raised us because it was his duty to, as a father to his children, and a country to his capital." She said it as though she had rehearsed it many times. It was really that she had heard it so much throughout her life, that she knew it by heart. "And why shouldn't he have raised us? It wouldn't make much sense for us to be raised by someone else, would it? Oh, I'm sure some Party member and his wife would have been happy for the chance to do it. But why them when you have the nation himself standing right there? He knew more than anyone what we needed for survival, especially in the Cold War. But why do you ask?"

He seemed oddly interested in her father now. Perhaps it was merely that he now knew there was a double of him out there, or perhaps it was more than just simple curiosity.

Speaking of being curious, she suddenly asked, "Did you have an East Berlin that you raised too?"

[mephistosfaust]

Gilbert makes a mental note never to ask her anything again that could lead to another long-winded recounting of her dramatic upbringing. She’s bad. But not as bad as Ludwig—now he’s the worst offender. That lamenting dipshit has always been obsessed with the sound of his own philosophizing.

All he wanted to know was whether this other Prussia spread his legs to survive. Short answer, yes.

He narrows his eyes, weighing whether to speak or let the image flicker out, unshared. Then, with a slight shrug—like brushing the thought from his shoulders—he starts walking again. Slower this time, as if allowing her pace to set his.

He’s had a long, complicated thing with Russia. A deep-rooted bond, one Ludwig never stopped trying to untangle. He was always searching for some fucking soul-connection—some poetic kinship he could grasp onto and make sense of. Fool. There were no poets between Prussia and Russia. No thinkers. Only brutal pragmatism. And loyalty, until the tables turned again and they found themselves sitting across from each other.

The Western Allies were quick to parade him as a war-hungry mongrel—Prussia, the monster who had corrupted sweet, innocent Germany with drill and arrogance. But Russia saw things differently. Always had. He saw the monster, yes, but he recognized the method in it. He understood why.

Gilbert remembers lying in the dirt, half his body torn by shrapnel. Laughing at God. On the very soil where he had once fought for Him—forcing humanity to kneel under banners dipped in glory and blood. Ivan's shadow had loomed over him then, tall and cold. He had pressed his pipe against Gilbert’s chest, leaning in close. Smiling.

And Gilbert, spitting blood, smiled back.

Four damn years of the greatest cat-and-mouse game the world had ever seen, brought to its final move. Ivan’s eyes weren’t just filled with rage. Oh, the fury was there—rage enough to whistle for his dogs and let them rip Gilbert to pieces over and over again. But there was grief, too. A quiet kind. Because he knew this didn’t have to be. All of this—the fields of the dead, the mass graves large enough to drown empires—it didn’t need to happen.

The East was wide enough for both of them. Three partitions of Poland had proven as much. But Gilbert had raised a monster in his own shadow. And maybe—just maybe—he had wanted to be devoured by this Leviathan despite reason.

Russia had always had a soft spot for him. Like Stalin admired Peter, and Peter admired Fritz. Stalin himself even proposed. A Prussian buffer state—something solid between Moscow and Washington’s reach. Gilbert could’ve been that. A wall, a sword, still carrying the name he’d once ripped off the Old Prussians’ dear hands. But in the end, Russia was overruled. And Prussia had to die for the sins committed by the Son. Amen.

When that smug English bastard read out Kontrollratsgesetz Nr. 46, naming him the sole embodiment of militarism and autocracy, Gilbert had laughed. Not because it was funny. But because they were always so late to the party. Prussia had already died. In 1933. In 1918. Hell, maybe even in 1871.

But history, legacy, myth—those are harder things to kill. Twisted, sure. Corrupted. But not erased.

So Ivan had offered him something else. Not just survival. A new Germany. One without the rot of western corruption. One untouched by Versailles and market greed. One that hadn’t turned Ludwig into a spineless, capitalist lapdog.

He could keep his parades. His uniform. His iron spirit. And maybe this was even better than Grunwald in 1410. From that grave he had risen before, after all. A reformed man. Why not rise again? Maybe Soviet occupation was just another form of salvation, he had thought to himself as stood behind the red banner of this new order he’d adapted to.

"Interesting. He sounds like Ludwig." It's not a compliment. "Maybe I raised the wrong lad after all." He pauses at the thought, gaze drifting somewhere beyond the street ahead. For a fleeting second, he wonders if there’s a world out there where his name never vanished from the map—where he still stood tall, unbroken, and his brother had grown a spine instead of a taste for American dick.

“You know, Ludwig has a twin too,” he says, tone lighter. “Beautiful Rhineland, all soft curves like her father. I pulled her onto my lap once—sweet Loreley, still flinching at every man’s touch. God knows what Napoleon did to her.” He grins, glancing up at the Quadriga atop the Brandenburg Gate before veering off to the right, steps unhurried. “And while I ran my fingers through her golden hair, her scent thick like ripe grapes in the sun, I thought to myself that perhaps I made the wrong choice. Because my eyes only rested on the boy.” His voice shifts, colored by something that brushes the edge of nostalgia, but doesn't quite touch it.

“So why did he raise you, then? One last test from Russia? To see if he’d learned obedience, or if he’d ruin you too—just like the boy who once lit a match and set Europe ablaze?”

Oh, so he could make the vulgar jokes, but she couldn't? What a hypocrite. Besides, wouldn't he get jealous if someone else sucked his precious brother's dick? And don't even get her started on the coffee. If either of them tried that, they'd be getting some serious, possibly hospitalizing, stomach aches from it.

She kept pace with him easily. She was used to walking fast, and besides that, she knew these streets with her own heart. Oh, some could say that this wasn't truly her Berlin. But Berlin was her, and she was Berlin, regardless of the world she was in. She could navigate these streets since she was a child, with her eyes shut even. It didn't matter how they changed through the decades. It was still her.

She was a little surprised when he stopped walking suddenly. She was even more surprised when he turned to her and asked her that question. She looked at him for a moment, and then looked away to the side, trying to decide how much to divulge to him.

"I don't think he joined happily, or very willingly, but I think only he could tell you just what his feelings were. What I can tell you is this. My brother and I were born in July of 1945, to his human wife at the time. I obviously don't remember it, but she must have figured out somehow what we were, and she gave us to Russia in exchange for the chance to get out of Germany. Russia, well, you can imagine, he wasn't going to share his new little reps. So he must have kept us secret until after the negotiations about how to split the city were done. And then, when the Potsdam Conference was done, he put us in the care of Comrade Zhukov, and later Comrade Sokolovsky."

"We grew fast, faster than human children anyway, and we started to ask questions. We could tell we were different, so we started asking Russia questions when he came to see us. We wanted to know where our parents were. And he told us the truth. Our mother had abandoned us to him, and our father was in prison. He told us that our father was a terrible monster, a pale demon with red eyes, who reveled in killing comrades and spreading misery. But he also told us that he was going to fix that. He said he would 'reeducate' our father and set him on the right path before he returned him to us."

"At first, we were scared to meet our father. Of course we were. We were just kids, and our heads had been filled with terrifying stories of his horrible deeds in the Soviet lands. Everyone seemed to hate him. But then, as kids do, we got curious enough and asked if we could finally see him. So, Russia arranged for it to happen. He took us to the prison he was in, and right into the so-called demon's cell. We hid behind Russia at first. Our father's eyes really were red, and they scared us. It was...silent, for a long time. He just stared at us, and Russia stood there with his arms folded. But the longer we stood there, and the more I looked at him, the less of a demon he became. I finally got the courage to walk out from behind Russia and up to him. And he kept staring at me, either like he couldn't believe I was real, or that he couldn't believe I was walking up to him, or something. I stopped in front of him and pointed up to his neck, where I could see fresh scars. I asked him what it was from, and he just kept looking at me. Finally, Russia told him to tell me what it was. So he said, 'That's where they hanged me.'"

"'And why did we hang you?' asked Russia."

"He was silent again, for a minute, anyway, though it seemed to stretch on longer than that. Finally, he said, 'For killing my comrades.' But his voice was dark, and it sounded forced. I wasn't so sure he believed it, but he knew he had to say it."

"'Good,' said Russia, 'Your reeducation is paying off.' Then, he put his big hand on my shoulder. 'If you keep up with your studies, soon we can release you, and let you have your children. Won't that be nice? Come now, Lilecheka. Viktor. We'll leave your father to his contemplations while we go get lunch.' And he took us by our hands to lead us out. Before the door shut, I looked back, and saw him staring again. This time, I smiled at him, but I didn't see if he smiled back before the door was closed. I don't think he did."

She sighed, and shrugged. "I hope that answers your question."

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Loyalty | 1924 | Germany + Prussia

A/N: Weimar Republic has narrowly weathered three major crises: the hyperinflation of 1923, Hitler’s failed Beer Hall Putsch, and the French occupation of the Ruhr. Though Germany remains a fragile and deeply divided democracy, it’s still standing—for now. Beneath the surface, however, old power structures persist. The military, still shaped by Prussian traditions and led by remnants of the Imperial General Staff, operates with alarming independence—forming a state within a state. As political extremes take root across the spectrum, the question looms: who truly governs Germany—its elected officials, or its generals in the shadows?

------

The report is heavy in my hand. Dozens of pages. Testimonies, transcripts, intelligence clippings—classified material, some of it still warm from the typewriter. I’ve read it twice already, and yet the words still boil under my skin like acid.

The Beer Hall Putsch—on paper, another footnote in our republic’s rocky infancy. A failed coup among many, a drunken nationalist theater piece that flared and fizzled in Munich. Easily dismissed. Easily shelved. Just one of many attempted coups, one more declaration of a new order.

But it’s not the failure that matters. It’s the preparation, the rot beneath the surface—the things done in silence before the shouting began, and the silence that followed after the shouting stopped. That’s what unsettles me. That’s what makes this one so different, casting a shadow deep onto the very framework of my new republic.

I find Gilbert where I always do when he doesn’t want to be found these days—hunched over his desk in the Herrenhaus, seat of the Prussian State Council. The walls plastered with maps that haven’t been updated since 1918. The eastern borders remain suspiciously untouched, his old Prussian provinces still sketched in as if Poland were a temporary inconvenience rather than a sovereign fact.

“Busy redrawing borders again?” I ask, slamming the door behind me hard enough for the latch to echo.

His pen stills. He doesn’t turn to look at me, but his jaw flexes.

“You read the report.” Not a question.

“I did.” My voice is too cold to be mistaken for polite.

He finally meets my eyes. There’s the same sharp glint I remember from my youth, the one that used to terrify me into obedience for decades. But I’m not a boy anymore. And this is not the old Reich.

“There were off-the-books weapons, training camps in secret, entire units still loyal to men like Ludendorff,” I say, flipping open the file and tossing it on the table. “The so-called Black Reichswehr. A military organization operating from the shadows of the army. And they knew. Von Seeckt knew.” I let the final word hang in the air, heavy with meaning. He knew. And if von Seeckt, as Chief of the Army Command, backed this paramilitary force—then so did Gilbert.

He leans forward slowly, forearms on the desk, fingers interlaced with deliberate calm. His knuckles are pale. In his stare I see the iron skeleton of the Reich that once was.

“Seeckt saved the army from the gutter,” Gilbert says quietly. “From your republic. From Bolsheviks. From amateurs.”

“And what about democracy?” I snap, stepping closer, planting both palms against the mahogany desk with a heavy thud. “What about fucking constitutional authority?”

He scoffs. Doesn’t even flinch. “Spare me the parliamentarian lecture. The Reichswehr does not intervene in politics, but it stands ready to strike at any moment in any direction,” he quotes von Seeckt like scripture, slow and reverent. “That is the oath that holds this nation together. Not your fragile coalitions.”

“They answer to me!” I shout, my breath hot with fury. “I am Germany. Not some ghost in a pickelhaube. Not some monarchists licking their wounds in the dark. And certainly not some generals scheming in back-rooms. Me.”

He rises in one swift, fluid motion, his hand flying toward me—ready to strike. I catch his wrist mid-air, my grip hard and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare scold me like I’m still a child,” I hiss through clenched teeth, dragging him closer, forehead nearly pressed to his.

“But you are still a child,” he spits back. “Still desperate to be loved, to be validated and accepted. By France. By Britain. By the League. And now by some American boy with a checkbook and a savior complex. But they don’t want a strong Germany. They want a broken one. One that signs whatever is handed to him.”

Gilbert tears his wrist free and steps back, breathing hard. He runs a hand through his silvering hair, trying to regain composure, but the strands fall back in disarray. Just like the man they belong to—once fearsome, now fraying at the edges.

“You think the Treaty of Versailles justifies building a second army in secret? Undermining our own government?” I ask, and somehow the question sounded more genuine than intended.

He points at the window—eastward, always east. “I lost West Prussia. Poznań. The corridor. And while you stripped down naked, starving yourself close to death, they were marching into the Ruhr. French troops. On German soil.” He spits on the floor for emphasis.

“Because I couldn’t pay them,” I say, quieter now, but firm.

His fist slams against the desk. “No!” he roars. “Because they want us dead!”

His voice echoes against the walls, filling every corner. I’ve heard that tone before—in 1914, in 1918, in the war rooms and on the parade grounds. But now it sounds hollow. Not because it lacks conviction, but because it no longer commands unquestioned truth. Yes, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I humble myself by fully accepting the humiliation of the war guilt clause, it’s not enough—not for them, not for Francis. But it has never been enough for him either. No matter how straight I stood, how low I bowed, or how much blood stained my hands—it has never been enough.

“This isn’t about Versailles,” I say more quietly. “It’s about who decides Germany’s future. Who leads it.”

He doesn’t answer. So I press. “Von Seeckt called Hitler’s putsch ‘pathetic’, but did nothing to punish the officers who sympathized. The army let Hitler walk. But they executed rebels in the Ruhr uprising for less. You think that’s loyalty to the nation?”

He narrows his eyes. “It’s loyalty to order.”

“No,” I say, with finality. “It’s loyalty to you. And to everything Prussia stood for.”

He flinches. Just a little. But it’s enough.

I soften—not out of mercy, but out of something more dangerous: understanding. I know what it means to live in the wreckage of one’s own greatness. I clung to it for almost a thousand years, believing that one day a king would come and lead me toward a future where I could be whole .And somehow that king eventually came. But not in the way I had envisioned it as I laid next to old Barbarossa, searching for comfort in his eternal sleep.

“I’m not trying to erase you,” I say. “But you have to let me become more than you.”

He doesn’t reply. Only turns back toward the window, toward the east, toward memory.

And I realize this is the truest thing about Gilbert: he’ll never love this republic. But perhaps, if I keep trying, he might stop trying to kill it.

[mephistosfaust]

“And I’m supposed to consult with him about these contents anyway. I’m sure you can make yourself useful in other ways—fetch him a coffee or blow his dick,” Gilbert says, making a sharp turn to the right toward Unter den Linden. Sometimes he wonders—half amused, half enraged—who the hell designed Berlin’s public transit and why there’s no direct path to the government district. As if the city itself conspires to keep civilians at bay, to shroud the Bundeskanzleramt in layers of concrete and confusion. It’s like with sausages and laws. It is best not to see them being made.

He makes a mental note to have a new U-Bahn station built, then takes another sharp turn—this time to the left. Even after two decades buried six feet under, he still walks with the easy arrogance of a man who’s memorized the city as if he’d never left her alone. The file tucked under his arm flaps slightly in the cold breeze, and the click of her footsteps behind him is steady, unyielding. He smirks at that. Still here. Not for Ludwig, no. He can tell. She’s here for him—Prussia. Whether she knows it or not.

“Thought you’d bolt when the jokes stopped,” he mutters without turning. “Most people do.”

But she doesn’t. And so he stops—right there, in the middle of Unter den Linden, where car horns echo like cannon fire muffled by bureaucracy and centuries of carefully buried sins.

He turns to face her fully now, posture straightening like a general inspecting his troops before battle. There’s something sharper in his gaze, though not unkind—measured.

“Tell me,” he says, his tone devoid of mockery for once, “your father—did he join the Soviets by conviction… or was he dragged before Russia in shackles?”

Lily didn't think her mouth had been that filthy. If he was offended by that joke, then she hoped for his sake that he never went on public transit. He might have an aneurysm. But fine, she'll try to keep the dirty talk to more of a minimum with him now. She was nothing if not adaptable to what people wanted. It came with the territory of her job, after all.

Wearing a mask, changing who she appeared to be, becoming what someone else wanted. She was good at that. A spy had to be after all, especially one moving between worlds. She had to craft a persona for the Lily that this Prussia would see then. Someone loyal, but with a backbone, and a cleaner mouth. That's whom he would receive for now.

"Great, who's your--hey!" She caught up to him without a problem and kept alongside him. "I'm supposed to give that to Ludwig. Please, give it back."

[mephistosfaust]

“Considering how filthy that mouth of yours is… Piss in a corner,” Gilbert says as he steps into the elevator first, jabbing the button for the descent. He leans back against the steel wall, hands in his pockets, letting silence pour in good German custom, settling between them not as peace, but as a kind of unspoken ceasefire.

It's not such a sharp turn for him—this shift from cutting mockery to something that edges on reluctant recognition. It’s still deeply Prussian. He was built for forward thrust, yes—but also for calculated retreat, for reform when the battlefield demanded it. Had he not rebuilt a broken army from the mud left by Napoleon’s march? Had he not taught even the smallest units to adapt to changing tactics independently, to act when orders drowned in cannon smoke and chaos? There’s discipline in flexibility, strategy in loosening the reins just enough to see how far your influence holds. And this girl, she’s not just a curiosity. She might be just another measure of his reach. A test of whether the echo of his name still commands more than fear. Whether it commands loyalty.

“I suppose you’ll come up with some half-baked excuse to keep tailing me,” he says as they step out of the old apartment building near the Gendarmenmarkt. “So I’ll save you the trouble—I’m heading exactly where you’re supposed to go.” With a swift, practiced motion, he plucks the file from under her arm he was flipping through prior, and without missing a beat, strides down the street as if the world were simply adjusting to his pace.

She noticed his demeanor as much as she heard his words. And she can't help but nod, just a bit, at his advice. Her smirk softened into more of a neutral face, though with maybe a hint of a smile still on her lips. This Prussia was going to be an interesting subject to profile. Perhaps even more interesting than Ludwig.

She shrugged at his accusation. He wasn't wrong. There were things her father simply didn't need to know. Like this other world she half lived in by now. Perhaps one day, she could introduce him to it. But it never seemed like a good time just yet.

"I'm coming," she said, grabbing the file that she needed from the table and walking quickly to join him. She did raise an eyebrow at him though. "What? Do you expect me to rearrange a few things so he goes crazy? Or leave some sex toys lying around? Or is it more mundane and you think I'm going to raid the wall safe?"

As they stepped outside, the cold air bit her cheeks, but she found she didn't mind. She actually welcomed it, as a change from the stuffy heat they had just been in. As her breath formed a small cloud in front of her, she looked to him to see which way he'd go.

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Pressure | 1862 | Germany + Prussia

A/N: In 1862, the Prussian king appointed Bismarck as Minister-President to push through a controversial military reform. Aimed at modernizing the army for faster response to foreign threats, the reform faced strong parliamentary resistance—but with Bismarck’s appointment, the monarchy found a forceful defender. He would hold the office until 1890, reshaping Prussia and paving the way for German unification. After the failed 1848 revolution, Ludwig was enrolled in cadet school, later studying at the military academy to be shaped into a disciplined, strategic thinker—an effort Gilbert still oversees personally with occasional visits. Ludwig is about 17 years old.

------

My boots hit the stone floor of the cadet school’s corridors like a drumbeat announcing the cavalry. I ran all the way from the training grounds, lungs burning, sweat dampening the back of my collar. When I reach the door to the war room, I pause to catch my breath, quickly button my uniform closed, and run a hand through my hair—which I’ve kept growing, as is the fashion—before pushing the handle down.

Gilbert stands near the window, back lit by the pale gray daylight cutting through the glass. Arms crossed. Still. Watching.

I take a few stops forwards and snap to attention with what breath I have left.

He doesn’t speak immediately, just takes a long drag from his cigarette. Then, without turning: “You could’ve done better.”

I stiffen. “Yes, sir. I—apologies, sir. I… I was delayed on the grounds.”

He turns slowly to face me, eyes sharp beneath the strands of grey-white hair that never quite stay in place—no matter how often he tries, they resist, a quiet rebellion against his rigid sense of order. “I watched. I saw how long it took you to detach the bayonet and aim correctly. Hesitation. You’re lucky it wasn’t a real fight, or you’d be mopping blood off your boots by now.”

My throat tightens. I nod once. “Understood.”

He steps toward the table and flicks the ash from his cigarette into a tin. “No excuses next time. You don’t get to fumble when you’re the future of something this size.”

I lower my eyes briefly. Then I let them drift across the massive breech table at the center of the room. Maps stretch across its surface, freshly printed as if coming directly from the general’s staff, weighed down by carved wooden figures: infantry, cavalry, artillery. Rivers marked with thin strips of painted rope, forests suggested with clusters of green felt, railways leading up all the way toward the Rhenish boarder of the German Confederation.

I exhale slowly, standing with both feet on the ground in perfect rigidity—back straight, shoulders square, hands clasped tightly behind me. “Is it true what they say, about the King appointing Bismarck Minister President?”

Gilbert doesn’t look up. He’s already adjusting pieces on the board, dragging a formation of infantry into place. “It’s true.”

I watch him for a moment. “And… about the army reform? There’s talk among the officers. Some say it’s because of the Second Italian War of…” I catch myself, the word independence sticking in my throat. I don’t dare say it aloud—not in front of him. He’s fought wars of independence already, and in his mind, they ended in 1815. Period. “Are we in danger?” I ask instead with deliberate care.

His hand pauses briefly over the map. Then, quietly: “Danger’s always there, Ludwig. It’s just a matter of whether we’re ready for it when it knocks.”

I frown. “But—this reform. Why now? Why push so hard for change? Isn’t it enough that the army stands strong? For sure it was enough to scare off Francis from getting any ideas.”

He sets down a brass cannon with a small clink. “Because I let it rot once.”

I blink. He doesn't often talk about the past.

“I thought we had time,” he says, his voice lower now. “I believed tradition alone would be enough to strike fear into the enemy—and that pride would carry us through.” He gestures toward a cluster of red enemy figures positioned on the western edge of the board. “Then Napoleon humbled even me.” At last, he looks at me, eyes narrowing slightly as an old memory flickers behind them. “And I think you’re the last nation I need to explain the consequences to.”

I inhale sharply. Yes, the Holy Roman Empire was dissolved—but it wasn’t Napoleon who pulled the trigger. He only laid the gun on the table; others were all too willing to take the shot. Germany wasn’t dead. I could’ve gone on as the Confederation of the Rhine. But neither Austria nor Prussia were willing to let that happen so they buried me, only to drag me from the grave later—tied to strings, made to rise on command and bow to their will.

“I won’t let that happen again,” Gilbert cuts into my thoughts, placing one final figure on the field. A cavalry unit, pressed to the edge of a narrow pass. He takes a final drag of his cigarette and stubs it out. Then he looks at me, that gleam in his eyes returning—sharp, expectant. “Now,” he says. “Let’s see if all that sweat from the training ground amounted to anything. Stand easy.”

I nod once and step forward, muscles loosening slightly even as the tension lingers beneath my skin.

He gestures at the table. “You’ve got a regiment, a battery, and a cavalry detachment. The enemy’s got numbers. Twice your size. Terrain’s broken, winter conditions. Civilian population in the town here—” he taps the little wooden block labeled Wasselonne “—so you’ll need to keep that intact, unless you want to win your first battle on a massacre.”

I nod again, allowing myself to take in the full scale of the offense and defense lines spreading along the German-French border.

He watches me closely as I start to move the pieces. My hand hovers—infantry on the ridge to hold the line, artillery here to cover the north pass, cavalry in reserve. My fingers twitch. I try to recall every theory, every hour spent in the lecture hall here at the cadet school. The writings of von Clausewitz ring in my ears like sermons. I move another unit, trying to set a feint to draw the enemy toward the river crossing.

“I said cover the pass, not leave it wide open like your mother's legs,” Gilbert snaps, smacking the back of my head with a swift, precise motion.

I flinch forward, teeth clenching. “Yes, sir.”

“Do it again.”

I reposition the artillery, heart thudding.

“Enemy reinforcements from the north” he barks suddenly, dragging more red markers onto the board. “Now what?”

I blink, trying to calculate. “I pull back my cavalry here to intercept—”

“Wrong!” Another smack. “You just abandoned your rear. Your flanks are exposed. You’re lucky this is wood and not your men bleeding out.”

“I—”

“Adapt. Move. Think!”

I shove a piece forward. “I’ll reroute the infantry—”

“Too late.” He sweeps two blue units off the map with the back of his hand, the motion carrying through until it strikes me across the face. “You hesitated. They’re dead. Everyone’s dead. Good job, Germany.”

My fists curl on the edge of the table. “Stop,” I mutter. “I need to think.”

Prussia rounds the table so fast I barely register him until he’s inches from me. His voice drops low as he leans in close. “You think you’ll have time to think when artillery tears through your flank? When men scream for orders and the sky is burning down around your ears? No, Ludwig. You don’t get to think. You act. You plan ahead. You adapt on instinct. Or you die.”

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. His words echo in my skull like gunfire. I can still feel the sting on the side of my face and the back of my head.

He steps back, pacing in a tight circle. His boots thump with clipped precision. “You want to wear this uniform,” he says. “You want to carry the weight of a nation state. But that there’s more to it than poetry and philosophy. It means you command. You decide. You do not get to fall apart.”

“I’m trying,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Try harder.” He slams his hand down on the table. The figurines rattle, some tipping over. “Do it again. Start from the beginning.”

I glance at the table. The map feels vast, hostile. But I nod, jaw tight, and reach forward. Again.

Infantry to the ridge. Artillery set back, slightly to the east. Cavalry poised, shielded behind the hills. I start to anticipate the moves he’ll throw at me—reinforcements from the flank, broken ground, townspeople fleeing into the woods. He tests me every second—changing the rules, throwing in weather, morale, supply shortage, a flooded river and broken railways. I lose units. I get hit again.

But I keep going, and eventually, the board is littered with both red and blue pieces. Losses, yes. But I held the town. Preserved the supply line. My artillery survived. My men are tired but standing.

My brother says nothing at first. He walks around the table once more, slowly, arms crossed. Then he grunts. “Better.”

I exhale shakily, head throbbing behind my red ears.

“You’ll need to be faster next time. Sharper.” He straightens a few pieces on the map. “But you didn’t panic. That matters.”

I nod, “Thank you, sir.”

“Not for barely staying alive. I want your report on the tactical analyses by sundown. And clean up the board afterwards,” he says before the door clicks shut behind me.

I drop into a chair, elbows on the table, face buried in my shaking hands. For a moment, I just sit there, breathing. Then, through my fingers, I glance toward the window as the a church bell is ringing. Two hours until dawn. I straighten up with a quiet sigh and begin resetting the figures one by one, carefully placing them back to their original positions, ready to replay the battle from the beginning as I try to recall each move.

[mephistosfaust]

He doesn’t laugh this time—not with cruelty, not even with amusement. Instead, Prussia breathes in slowly, like he’s pulling her words deep into his lungs where they sting a little, only to settle somewhere behind his ribs. Her quip about acting draws a huff from his nose, more breath than sound, but there's the shadow of a grin tugging at his mouth.

"You joke," he says, "but I’ve always had a knack for the stage. Smoke, mirrors, and war—same principles, really. One never exists without the other—you know that, don’t you? Don’t get caught staring at the reflections, or you’ll miss the fist swinging from the dark. Don’t let the smoke fool you into thinking the danger's in front, when the real threat is the army moving silently at your back. Illusions are useful, sure—but a threat? A threat has to be real. Always. No matter how convincing the performance.”

He shift his weight from one foot to the other, looking at her with a pursed lip as he allows his words to linger for a moment longer.

Prussia does not take kindly to being made the fool. He can laugh, certainly—loud, brash, and booming—but never as the joke’s end. He courts attention like a god demands worship, but not to be jeered at. Let the others jest—France with his flair, England with his smug wit, Russia with his dark humor—but he was never born for laughter at his expense. Unlike them, he built his legacy—hewn from discipline, iron, and dread—brick by blood-soaked brick. When his punchlines came down, even empires were made to pause. So when he smirks, when he struts and speaks in riddles, it's not play-acting—it’s theatre laced with warning. His laughter is the drum before battle. His jokes, sharp as bayonets. Because when he steps into the light, it's not to entertain—it's to remind the world that behind every flourish, the blade waits.

And she knows that, she certainly does.

"So, twice?" he echoes, clicking his tongue with feigned disapproval. "Well, aren’t you a little rebel. I take it you made quite the habit of doing things behind his back, then." The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but understood—that her father likely missed more than he ever knew. Gilbert pivots smoothly, turning on his heel, striding across the room to retrieve a wool coat slung over the dresser. He leans back around the corner, coat half-on, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Coming? I’ve got an appointment, and I don’t like leaving strays unsupervised. Still not convinced you’re properly house-trained."

She half expected to be hit for that outburst. Her father certainly wouldn't have tolerated it, not one bit. But this one? Well...he wasn't her father, as that was becoming more and more clear. He reveled in the challenge. Found it amusing even. Somehow, that was more grating. No wonder Ludwig had strangled him.

She crossed her arms as he bowed, and almost huffed. But she didn't want to appear as annoyed as she was. She just watched his performance with a deadpan look. She wanted to say that what he called "love" sounded more like a codependent, parasitic relationship, but maybe she'd save that for another day.

Oh, but now he was talking about her again. And his question caught her off guard. She blinked, and her arms relaxed a moment. Then, she looked away. "I wouldn't say it's my very first time, no," she said. She could remember exactly 2 times she had stood up to Prussia in the past, and both had ended in death, once for her, and once for someone she loved. She sighed. Maybe this one wasn't half bad. She would have to study him more to really know though.

Her eyes came back to him. She looked him up and down and studied him a bit more. And then the corner of her lip twitched up. "You know, you could give those Hamburg hams a run for their money. You ever thought of just retiring and being an actor?"