Work Text:
Weimar pulled his coat closer, an involuntary shiver passing over him. He was exhausted and terribly hungry to boot, and yet. 200,000 million marks for bread... Not enough money... Weimar looked down at the meagre number of paper bills in his hands, crumbled from the months of him doing his best to save up. 36 billion for meat... I'll have to go hungry again.
The thought sent a stab of resentment through Weimar as he thought of the Allies' opulence.
With a sigh, he exited the struggling store empty-handed, passing by several beggars on his way back home, to the crumbling remains of German Empire's legacy.
Perhaps it was for the better that he hid his true nature from the humans around him, hiding behind pale skin and black hair. Weimar rather enjoyed the feeling of being one with a crowd. Even then, he could feel the underlying tension within many, many people. Something big will happen soon...
That feeling had become more and more intense as the years passed without any improvement to his economy. Rather the opposite, in fact, it only crumbled further and further into hell. And Weimar didn't know how to fix it, fix himself. He was a child in the body of an adult, as much as it rankled to admit that, and so he mainly relied on his own politicians, as they all did these days.
And the politicians were not doing a very good job.
Once out of sight, Weimar left the human world, returning to their own. And to the crumbling mansion.
Perhaps it would be better to take this all down... to reclaim Vater's glory. What would he think, looking at us now? A more cynical part of Weimar wondered. It had been speaking up far too often for comfort, these days. And yet, Weimar couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.
It was just a voice, after all.
How dangerous could it be?
Weimar shook his head to get out of his own thoughts. He had a meeting with USSR to go to, soon. Two outcasts drifting toward one another, a tentative warming of relations. After all, neither of them was in a place to senselessly make enemies.
And both needed what the other could provide.
"Thanks for having me." Weimar said, taking a seat once the Russian offered.
He towered over Weimar, but it was better than getting stared at as if he were about to commit a murder.
"It's no problem. People like us must hold together, no?" Soviet answered, calmly.
He was always so calm.
A balm for Weimar's frayed nerves.
"I suppose." Weimar chuckled humourlessly. "I don't really have anyone else to be my ally, I think I have made that clear." He shrugged and looked down at the food that Soviet brought.
Steaks.
His first meat this month.
...luxurious.
Weimar sure as hell couldn't afford meat on his own.
"But enough about that. How have you been, Weimar?" Soviet asked, jerking Weimar out of his thoughts.
He sighed. "As well as you can expect, friend. I'm still very short on money, and food. And everything else, really. I'll survive, but I feel like something has to give, soon." Weimar answered, voice almost whispery as he spoke.
"I am sorry to hear of your troubles, Weimar. I must bring it up again, but it is not too late to turn toward Communism. It had fixed my own issues." Soviet said, an old mantra at this point.
But it was only a gentle push, so Weimar did not mind. He chuckled. "Sorry, but I don't think that's for me." At least his friend was trying to help, in any way he could.
"Would you be opposed to having me for the night? I don't have the mind for more travel at this point..."
Of course, Soviet accepted. He always did, such a good host he was.
A few hours later, when their conversation flowed just like the beer and vodka Soviet provided and the food had long since disappeared, Weimar felt something within him finally relax. He was safe, for now, and the voices were silent.
He felt an... attachment, to the Russian, born both out of desperation and certain... fondness. Even so, Weimar did not act on it, could not act on it.
The years passed by once more. Austria and Hungary were in the same boat as Weimar, all struggling, all of them resentful. But they were much older, and they knew when to stay their hand, and how to resist such temptations. Without outside prodding, they would not act.
But there was one other nation, aside from Soviet, which seemed to understand, at least partly.
Italy.
Italy, who was providing that bitter part of Weimar with endless inspiration.
After all, the ideas of fascism seemed so tempting...
Democracy was weak, destined to fall. Democracy didn't help them. But this, or something similar, would.
…
"France." Weimar said, attempting a smile, though it came out rather resembling a grimace.
The lady stared at him coldly, but she seemed willing to listen, for now, anyway.
The smallest mistake could set her off and Weimar would be done for. At least for that opportunity.
"I trust that you have your payment for this year?" France asked, detached. Weimar paused to gape at her. "So soon-? No, no, I wanted to ask for help... The great depression hit me hard, my people are starving." Weimar explained, but there was no sympathy behind France's eyes.
"So, not only do you not have your reparations, but you also come asking for help? Please, had it not been for your father, you would have been doing alright." The woman scoffed, and Weimar couldn't quite believe it. "My money's literally losing its value as we speak!" He burst out, only to realise his mistake once France's eyes narrowed. "You will not speak with me this way, young man." She said, chastising Weimar as if he were just a child.
It was... Humiliating.
But Weimar knew better than to object. "I... Apologise. But surely you can see the trouble I'm in?" He asked, trying to find some sympathy, some help, because running a country like this, with no substantial preparations... It was insane.
"I think that you can handle it." France eventually answered, giving Weimar a fake smile and a pat on the shoulder.
As if that was going to help him any...
Weimar did not approach Britain. Every time he looked at the Brit, he was assaulted with images of his dear Vater, disfigured and broken...
Weimar liked to pretend that Britain didn't exist. As vengeful as France could be, at least Weimar didn't fear her.
"Czechoslovakia." Weimar said in greeting. The joint country gave him a nod of acknowledgement, which was better than what France managed, he supposed.
Czechoslovakia looked frustrated. His gaze was cool when it washed over Weimar, but there was no hatred there. "Alright. I know you have a lot of work without me giving you more, but can you please calm your people the fuck down? Every other day there's a disturbance in areas where they're most numerous." The country grumbled and Weimar could only sigh. "What can I do? It's not my territory." He said, pointing out the flaw within Czechoslovakia's reasoning.
The old country huffed and massaged his temples. "Can you at least get the people in charge to respect my damn borders? I don't care what you do or how you live your life, just leave us alone." At that point, Czechoslovakia stood up, ruffled his wings and left.
And Weimar had another issue on his plate...
Wonderful.
Couldn't they all just shut up? How was Weimar supposed to fix Czechoslovakia's issues...? He was probably just bad at taking care of his own people...
"I'll see what I can do..." Weimar told the empty room.
The resentment within him was growing.
And yet, Weimar did not act on it, chose to silence the voice, attempted to shut it out entirely.
It was getting harder and harder each and every passing day.
Weimar was staring at himself in the mirror. He studied his eyes, his hair, everything that made him, him.
It was getting harder and harder to spot such features.
Weimar huffed.
His forehead met the mirror with a thunk, hair falling around his head in messy waves.
The tiny bathroom felt like a tomb, dirty and unkempt. Like Weimar.
Aren't you a sorry sight.
With a gasp, Weimar jerked his head up, only to gape at the reflection in the mirror.
It no longer belonged to him.
Indeed, staring back was an entirely different man, his hair neatly combed, entire face crimson aside from a stark white circle right in the middle.
There, in that circle, lay a strange cross.
And there, two grey eyes, staring down at Weimar in a mix of condescending care and pity.
His thin lips were quirked in a small smile almost completely void of any warmth; arms folded behind his back.
He was at least half a head taller than Weimar.
The country in question stumbled a few steps back wherein the newcomer remained right where he was, in the mirror.
"Who in the world are you?!" Weimar snapped, attempting to sound decisive, but in return he got derisive laughter.
You are funny. The shade said. In his mouth flashed sharp fangs, as if from a shark.
If possible, Weimar would've recoiled even further, but he was already pressing his back against the furthest wall, the cold of the tiles bleeding through his shirt.
His lips spread in a grin, entirely too wide and full of too many teeth. Something was deathly wrong with that expression, full of dark amusement at Weimar's fear and confusion. I'm your replacement, dear Weimar. The shade said, his tone of voice almost gentle, almost caring and yet missing such descriptives by a mile each.
Incensed and steadily regaining his wits, Weimar almost choked on the audacity.
"H-how dare you?!" He choked out the words, full of incredulous disbelief. He approached the mirror again, rage giving him bravery as he held the sink in both hands. "I've done all I can for the nation, to live up to Vater's legacy!" Weimar snapped, but the only answer to him was the slow widening of the shade's grin. And that's the problem, is it not? You follow the Allies' beck and call, acting like a good pup, just so they would give you more of their scraps. You're a coward, plain and simple, too cowardly to take our honour back! The shade shot back, not missing a beat. "Do you only care about honour?! Honour won't feed my people!" Weimar snapped back but further remarks were cut off by the door opening.
"...sir, are you alright?" One of the men assigned to Weimar's protection asked, and Weimar wanted to say that no, he wasn't, but his lips only stretched into an apologetic smile. "I am, sorry for worrying you." He sighed and let some of his exhaustion bleed through. He had a feeling that the shade was laughing at his expense. "It's just... Difficult." The man's eyes thankfully filled with understanding, and he nodded, doubtless thinking that this was just another of Weimar's 'quirks'.
And what a pretty name, a quirk of a country! It explained away all that was wrong as just another thing that differed between them and humanity.
...
Apparently, Weimar's presence among the people would help raise morale. In that case, he did not know why the guards were here.
Did they have orders to keep the humans out...
...or keep Weimar in?
...
The shade had grown to be a constant in Weimar's life, and soon, even his whispers became ordinary.
Weimar just adapted, aware of his possible doom. He just had to keep strong and outlast the shade.
But the shade was smart. He would scheme in the background, dancing beneath Weimar's skin, only ever talking to him when Weimar was many sleepless nights in and couldn't as effectively shut him out.
He heard that the leader of that rebellion was safely under lock and key, and hopefully, that would be the end of it. Weimar ignored the chuckling he could hear just at the edge of his senses, content to ignore the problem and instead count the nearly useless marks.
200,000 million marks for bread, 36 billion for meat...
He never had enough, and his stomach continued to cramp and hurt with hunger.
Sometimes he wanted to smack that look off France's face. How dare she look upon him as if he were the monster when she was starving him?
Weimar shook his head.
The thoughts stuck to him like tar.
He pushed a little harder upon his pen and the number thus came out scratchy and uneven.
Weimar huffed and did his best to focus back on his work.
Math, he liked math.
...so why did he never have enough for a single piece of bread?
The numbers were steadily losing their meaning.
Frustrated, Weimar set the pen down. He didn't throw it, that would have been childish, and he couldn't afford another pen, anyway.
It made him bitter.
And time went on once more. All Weimar could do was watch as it flew by, leaving no mark upon him beyond the hunger steadily consuming him. Hunger and bitterness.
Just nine months after his arrest, the leader of that dammed rebellion was free once more, and all his politicians could do was shrug their shoulders when faced with Weimar’s ire. They were going to get him killed for god’s sake!
Weimar felt like ripping his damn hair out!
30 January 1933. Hitler was appointed chancellor.
Slowly, the shade was gaining more and more power. And Weimar started to think that, well, it couldn’t be that bad, right? The shade promised to fix him… right?
Maybe he was correct when he spoke about how the Allies have made Weimar into a lapdog…
No…
That couldn’t be right… Weimar did his best…
He huffed, once more standing in front of the mirror. The shade had by now replaced all his reflections. Weimar felt lost as he gazed into those slate-grey eyes.
Don’t worry. The shade said, a worrying expression upon his face. You’re a coward, but I can fix your mistakes… I’ll get back all that they have stolen from us. Weimar jerked back, that fog of exhaustion suddenly leaving. He felt light-headed.
“No! What the hell are you doing? The constitution…”
The shade laughed. That piece of paper? It’s adorable how you think that you’re still in control… Weimar’s eyes widened as the entire room seemed to flip around him. The mirror seemed to almost be made of water as he stumbled toward it, attempting to see the other, to see what the hell was happening.
The shade was gone. Weimar had no reflection.
With a single shove, he was tumbling in.
…
When he gained enough awareness to know what was happening, Weimar realised that he was looking at… the shade. Fear ran a lance through him because Weimar was not where he was supposed to be. Weimar pressed against the mirror. The surface was unyielding, no longer water-like. He started to bang upon the surface, shouting as the shade left the room, only throwing one last glance at Weimar over his shoulder.
Then, opening the door, the shade took out a gun, aimed it, and let a bullet fly at the surface. Weimar jumped back as millions of shards shattered outward into his face as he did his best to shield it with his hands.
He could see nothing now.
He was…
He was alone.
Weimar lost.
Staring down at his bleeding hands, Weimar let out a cry as he dropped to his knees, utterly alone.
Third Reich was ready to fix what his dear brother broke. And now… now he had a body to do it. Pleased to see that he was no longer trapped, Reich left the room, already knowing that there was much work to be done. He would lift them all out of this hole the allies have made for them!
He just needed a place to start…