Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: The First Blueprint

The Dubois factory loomed at the edge of the estate, its brick facade streaked with coal dust and the faint tang of oil lingering in the air like a stubborn ghost. Julien stood at its entrance, the morning sun warming his back as he clutched a leather satchel stuffed with his rifle sketches. The hum of machinery—gears grinding, belts creaking—echoed from within, a reminder of the tractors that had kept the family afloat but now felt like relics of a fading era. His heart thumped with purpose, but the smoldering cigarette butt he'd found by the stables yesterday gnawed at him. Someone was watching, and the note's threat—Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you—felt heavier with every step. Inside, the factory floor buzzed with workers, their aprons stained with grease as they hammered and welded tractor parts. The air was thick with the metallic bite of steel and the sharp scent of sweat. Julien's eyes scanned the room, searching for signs of betrayal— a lingering glance, a too-quick turn away. Nothing stood out, but his soldier's instincts, honed in the trenches of his past life, prickled. He tightened his grip on the satchel and headed for the foreman's office, where he'd start turning his blueprint into reality. Élise trailed behind him, uninvited but undeterred, her boots clicking on the concrete floor. "You look like you're marching to war, Julien," she said, her voice teasing but her eyes sharp. "What's in that bag? Your secret weapon?" She wore a practical skirt and blouse, her hair tied back, looking more like a conspirator than the mischievous sister who'd tormented stableboys. Julien shot her a half-smile, dodging her question. "Shouldn't you be charming the cook for extra pastries, little fox? This is no place for you." "Pfft," Élise scoffed, sidestepping a worker hauling a crate. "I'm here to make sure you don't blow up the factory. Besides, I want to see this rifle of yours. Is it as grand as you claim?" "It's better," Julien said, his confidence masking the pressure of his one-month deadline. He pushed open the door to the foreman's office, a cramped room smelling of stale coffee and machine oil. foreman Paul Renault, a burly man with a graying beard and hands like shovels, looked up from a ledger, his brow furrowing at the sight of Julien and Élise. "Monsieur Julien," Paul said, his voice gruff but respectful. "Didn't expect you here. Your father's orders are for tractors, not… whatever you're planning." His eyes flicked to the satchel, curiosity warring with skepticism. Julien set the satchel on the desk, pulling out his blueprint and unrolling it with a flourish. "Paul, I need your best men and the workshop's tools. I'm building a rifle—a semiautomatic, better than anything the army's got. Papa's given me a month to prove it." Paul's bushy brows shot up, and he leaned over the blueprint, tracing the lines with a calloused finger. "This… this is no tractor part. Gas-operated? Ten rounds? You're dreaming, boy. The Lebel's what the army trusts. Why change it?" "Because the Lebel's a relic," Julien said, his voice sharp. "It's slow, heavy, and by 1914, it'll be outclassed. My rifle's lighter, faster, cheaper. I can build a prototype in three weeks with your help. Will you back me?" Élise leaned against the desk, her grin sly. "Come on, Paul. Don't tell me you're scared of a little change. Or are you worried Julien's smarter than you?" Paul snorted, but his eyes softened at Élise's teasing. "You're trouble, Mademoiselle Élise. But this…" He tapped the blueprint, his skepticism easing. "It's bold. Maybe too bold. The workers won't like it—tractors are their trade. They'll grumble about switching to guns." "Then I'll talk to them," Julien said, his tone firm. "Get me the floor for ten minutes. I'll make them see." Paul hesitated, then nodded. "Ten minutes. But if they don't bite, you're on your own." Minutes later, Julien stood on a crate in the factory's central aisle, facing a sea of workers— fifty men, their faces weathered, their eyes wary. The clatter of machines slowed as they gathered, murmurs rippling through the crowd. Julien's past life flashed before him— leading men in the trenches, rallying them through fear. He could do this. "Men," he began, his voice carrying over the hum of the factory, "you build tractors that feed France. But the world's changing. War's coming—not today, but soon. Germany's arming, and our army's stuck with rifles that can't keep up. I've got a design—a rifle that fires faster, hits harder, and won't break the bank. We can build it here, make the Dubois name a legend, and keep France safe. Who's with me?" Silence hung heavy, broken only by the creak of a belt overhead. A wiry worker, Jacques, stepped forward, his arms crossed. "Why should we trust you, Monsieur Julien? You're a scholar, not one of us. What do you know about war?" Julien's eyes flashed, a spark of his old soldier's fire. "I know enough to say we're not ready. I know a bad rifle means dead soldiers. My design's no theory—it's practical, built for men like you to make and men like us to use. Give me a chance, Jacques. One prototype. If it fails, I'll take the blame." A murmur ran through the crowd, some nodding, others skeptical. Élise piped up, her voice bright. "Don't be fools! Julien's the smartest man in France. You want to be the ones who said no to history?" A chuckle rippled through the workers, easing the tension. Jacques shrugged, a grudging smile breaking through. "Fine, Monsieur. One rifle. But it better shoot straight." Julien grinned, his heart lifting. "It'll shoot straighter than your aim, Jacques." The workers laughed, and he felt the tide turn. He had them—for now. As the crowd dispersed, Paul clapped Julien's shoulder. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. I'll assign you three men and a corner of the workshop. Don't make me regret it." Julien nodded, but his eyes caught a figure lingering at the factory's edge—a worker he didn't recognize, his face half-hidden by a cap, slipping out the side door. The faint scent of tobacco trailed him. Julien's stomach twisted. The note. The cigarette butt. This wasn't coincidence. "Élise," he said, keeping his voice low, "keep an eye on the workers. Someone's not what they seem." Her eyes narrowed, catching his tone. "A spy? Oh, Julien, this just got interesting." She darted off, her mischief masking a purpose he trusted. As Julien headed to the workshop, blueprint in hand, the weight of his mission settled deeper. The rifle was his first step, but enemies were already circling. He'd need to work fast—and watch his back.