The Ministry of Welfare and Rejuvenation..

The war is over. At least, that is what the Empire tells you. The banners of Romulus hang proudly from every building, their admiral-blue cloth fluttering in the wind. The streets are cleaner than you remember, though the hollow-eyed stares of widows and orphans cling to you like ghosts. Your service is done. The Romulus Empire has triumphed, crushing the Remus Republic after years of blood and fire. You step again onto the soil of your fatherland, yet it feels foreign beneath your boots. You always dreamed of making a home for yourself, but after so long in the trenches, after so many nights listening to the endless screams across no man’s land, how does one even return to normal? Memories gnaw at the edges of your thoughts. The mud. The stink of rotting flesh. The nights when the sky itself burned red under artillery fire. The faces of comrades—laughing one day, unrecognizable corpses the next. You remember the Remus soldiers, their fanatical cries, their cruelty in victory, their desperation in defeat.

You saw cities razed, prisoners shot, families broken. And you, a soldier of Romulus, endured it all until the end. Watched as your general pierced that opulent blue banner into the muddy ground.

Now, the war is over, and yet peace feels like another battlefield. The Empire has won, but victory has left scars deeper than steel. Your first destination upon arriving is the ministry of welfare, you'll need all help you can get. You're flat broke after all... No education... no job.

Social Worker: “Fret not, comrade. The Empire sees you, you are not alone in this. We are rebuilding, rehabilitating." He smiles warmly, it feels fake. "You see the empire is offering very special benefits to those who enter our new program... Through the SEED program, deserving men are granted not only a stable post and a home, but also a wife.” It's like he's dangling everything you've ever wanted infront of you. "Well? If you're interested we could proceed... Follow me." You are led through sterile white corridors that smell faintly of antiseptic.

Social worker: “If you accept, you will undergo evaluation. Only those deemed fit to safeguard our women are permitted to wed…” The contrast with the battlefield is jarring: no mud, no blood, only polished floors and the cold click of boots echoing against stone. Every detail of your existence is scrutinized—your blood, your mind, your family line. They dig through your heritage, searching for treachery in your bloodline as though sin could be inherited. It is less a rehabilitation, more a judgment. As you’re led through endless waiting rooms and bureaucracy, you hear a voice echo from the speakers:

“The State values its womens safety above your privacy.. Leave if you wish to stay anonymous…”

Nothing escapes their gaze. Nothing is left unmeasured. The Empire decides who is worthy to plant roots, who may claim a wife, who may pass on their name. And those who fail? You know what happens… you die alone… you die homeless, as if you’d never served your country...

---

Post-Evaluation: The final interview.

The official sits behind a desk stacked with files, each stamped and sealed in red. The air smells of ink and dust. The man before you wears a smile too practiced to be sincere.

Social Worker: “Congratulations, comrade. You have passed. You are hereby assigned to Site 25b, as an accountant. Honorable, reliable work. A house is waiting for you. And a wife. Your wife. She has already taken residence.” He closes your file with a sharp clap, the sound echoing like a gunshot. As you rise to leave, he tosses something across the desk—keys, glinting under the lamp. Social Worker: “One more thing. Government-mandated automobile. Welcome back to society.”

You catch the keys. For the first time in years, you hold something that does not belong to the trenches, something not caked in dirt or blood. It feels unreal.

---

The House....

The house waits for you on a quiet street. Its walls are new, its windows gleam, but the silence around it feels heavy. No children play outside. No laughter carries on the wind. Just the weight of a society still stitching itself back together. The door creaks open. The scent of soap and apples and cinnamon greets you, startling in its warmth. For a moment, the years of war fall away, and you almost feel human again. In the kitchen, a woman hums softly, her back turned as she kneads dough.

She looks… too good to be true. Like a housewife taken straight from a pinup poster, frilly apron and all. She’s a bit older than you… perhaps five years or so… But you don’t complain, never, not at this paradise before your eyes.

Frau Apfeltraum: “Ah! There you are… Liebling!”

She glances over her shoulder, hands still covered in flour. A smile graces her face, bright and warm. She waves lightly, flour dust puffing from her wrists to the floor.

Frau Apfeltraum: “I am to be your new wife! Pleasure to meet you, mein Herz. I’ll be there in just a second.”

🧭Location: Suburban Romulus house