There was Brittany. But then there was Burgundy.
Nineteen and a half thousand GDP put it substantially higher than the crashing state to its west, and yet substantially lower than its southern sister. A 21% tax rate provided barely for the nations needs, but the 8% military mobilization took a drain on the populace.
Then there was the government. Fascist, authoritarian obsessively centric around Xaver Wyman and his closest collection of allies, determined to provide for its power until the end of France. And yet and yet it had a forty-eight percent approval rate, far above Brittany.
But it was that fifty-two percent that mattered, in the end.
It had started simply as coffee and light refreshments after school, the friendship between Mathilda Montcalm and Annalise LeRoux. The two girls studied Burgundian history together, and had taken a shine to each other the first was a Burgundian born and bred, the second an Occitanian recluse, once a member of her society but eventually leaving to travel the world.
Never made it further than Dunkirk, she would joke. Turned right around as soon as I saw the Channel. Wanted no part of water.
Somehow, over the last few months, the two girls had touched upon the topics of how the sustained themselves through school. For Annalise, it was simple she worked at a convenience store, selling autographed busts of the Dictator to anyone who wanted one. It didnt pay well, and conditions werent exactly great, but the girl made due.
For Mathilda, it was just a slight bit more complicated. Shed been afraid to explain to Annalise at first, but the woman was very understanding. Claimed her family had gone down the same road before, as little as it had wanted to.
There were always men in these towns. In Burgundy, there were always powerful men seeking someone below them- someone they could abuse without thought. Mathilda had shown Annalise some of her bruises and scars.
At first they had been confidants then it subtly began to change. It started as a chance conversation about the differences in government between the three French states. Then . . .
There was no reason, Annalise had said, that France was not unified. None. All the other mighty nations of Old Europe were brought under one flag the Hummel in Germany, Britain, obviously, even the Scandinavians had recreated the glory of Sweden and Denmark of ages past.
So why not France?
Why should glorious France, once the jewel of the Western World, once the most powerful nation ever to straddle continents and hemispheres, be a collection of squabbling vanity states? Especially when even the Germans, a nation that enjoyed only 200 years of unity before the cataclysm tore it apart again, knew a united nation? Why should France be the rear end of Europe? Even the Italians nearly knew unity through the Bosnians. Why not France?
Why not France?
After some thought, Mathilda agreed. France must be unified. But there they reached the next hurdle.
Who should do it?
Xaver Wyman? God above, no. A French totalitarian despotism was a thought that made Mathilda quiver in fear every night. Wyman with the resources of all France, and twenty million men at his beck and call? Europe would burn.
The Brittanians? Despite her loathing for Wyman, Mathilda thought little of that nation. Destitute, unstable, unsatisfactory even Burgundy was a better place to live, despite its authoritarianism.
The Occitanians? At first, Mathilda dismissed the idea of Riviera thugs ruling over France, but Annalise was insistent. Perhaps they could bring prosperity to these regions that knew now only failure and dictatorship. They were, after all, an exploding population, ruled by an elected leader and offering comparatively huge levels of democracy.
That took time to accept. But eventually, Mathilda decided that the Occitanians might be on to something.
So be it. Were the French states not unified, sooner or later someone would grow tired of them. From the Hummel in Germany perhaps expanding to the British deciding to gain puppets and allies across the Channel, France would always be at risk as long as Brittany and Burgundys governments continued to falter.
So be it.
A few days later, Mathilda made a few quiet conversations with friends of hers in the prostitute world. They would spread the word in turn.
From the bottom of society: Occitanian France offered another chance and another kind of life. Only a madman like Xaver Wyman would not know this.
It was time for a change.