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New World for the Winning

Author's Introduction: Or, the rant at the beginning of the story where I tell you all the information you might want to know about the story you have just clicked on! (Thank you for that, by the way, and I hope you decide to read on after I shut up). So, this is only my second fanfiction for Les Mis that has an actual plot, that will have the format of a real story, with conflict, rising action, side plots, climax, et cetera. It is also my first Enjonine story!

Finally, ratings: this story is rated at a T for occasional coarse language, possible mild violence, and some slight sexual content. Hopefully this doesn't scare all of you away.

Personal Milestone: 10th fanfiction, 7th story for Les Misérables.

Chapter One

…

Dying felt differently than Éponine had imagined it to. There was a mere fuzzy sensation of fading pain — no black pit open and ready to swallow her whole, nor any brilliant white light led by an open-armed angel. No, there was just this feeling of disappearing, bit by bit. It was almost pleasant, and she reached for it. Then the world gave way beneath her and she found herself falling.

It was dizzying, actually. She tumbled, loose-limbed as a newborn foal, through a whirlwind of times past, glimpsing snapshots of her life as she passed them.

Éponine was thirteen, and in love for the first time. She was ten and newly haggard, wandering the streets of Paris on her own. She was eight. Playing with the kitten that they'd had to leave behind when they'd left Montfermeil two years later. Six. Climbing a tree, skirts gathered, and laughing in childhood oblivion. Five. Four. Three, two, a baby bawling in its crib, and then something small, pale, and alien, as fragile as a tadpole.

At the end of all this came a cushioned landing, a dazed emptiness, and finally the anticipated blackness.

…

She awoke, coming to by degrees. Some hard surface beneath her — pavement. Her head was aching; she felt terribly dizzy. A foul, coppery taste in her mouth that might have been blood. Her throat parched. And there was a dull pain in her stomach, just above her hip.

Éponine moaned softly, and blinked her eyes open, squinting against the sudden sunlight. She sat up very slowly and found herself wincing against the sharp pain in her stomach as she did so. She lifted a hand to her aching head and massaged at her temples, deciding it wise to fully awaken and start moving little by little. What had happened to her?

It all came back in a rush that nearly knocked the breath out of her: Marius meeting Cosette. Marius, and her brother, fighting at the barricades. The letter. Returning to the barricades, keen to fight alongside her love, almost certain she would die there. Praying he wouldn't. Throwing herself in front of the bullet aimed at him. Rain and blood mixing, mingling, running as one through the cobblestones. And she remembered dying in Marius' arms, accepting her fate, feeling herself fading away …

And now she was here, wherever here was. Éponine, her eyes having adjusted a little better to the light, opened them fully and took in her surroundings.

Confusion mounted. She hadn't the faintest clue where she was at all, a feeling foreign to Éponine. Judging by the look of her surroundings, she was in an alleyway of some kind, but it was a very unusual alleyway unlike any she'd ever seen. Certainly not one typical of Paris, and Éponine knew every corner, every street, every alley of her city. Only Gavroche knew the streets better than she. But this place … why, even the pavement beneath her was a mystery, for she wasn't lying on cobblestones or even earth, but on some kind of rough black tarlike substance.

"I don't understand," she murmured softly to herself.

For she really didn't. The alleyway was long and narrow, ending with a high brick wall. Pressed up against this wall was a large green bin, the paint chipping to reveal oxidising metal underneath. The bin was overflowing with what appeared to be overstuffed glossy black bags that spilled out onto the pavement. The ground was littered, here and there, with scraps of things shiny and colourful, like scattered flattened candies. The entire alleyway was in shadow from the looming, sturdy-looking grey buildings that were placed severely on either side of the alley like sentries.

Éponine gritted her teeth. Wherever she was, she wanted to get out of there. Find her way to familiar territory. Perhaps there would be someone to ask. She drew in a deep breath, then, deciding it best to get it over with, got to her feet in one quick motion. She nearly cried out as the pain in her stomach intensified, and for several moments she stood unsteadily, her legs like jelly, as she clutched at the hurting spot with her eyes screwed tightly shut. Then she doubled over and vomited onto the tarlike pavement at her feet.

Still feeling light-headed and a bit vulnerable, Éponine wandered out of the alleyway. Her steps were small and slow, for she didn't want to keel over, and her feet ached from walking in boots that were several sizes too big. But as soon as she stepped out of the alleyway, her mouth fell open and she almost fell over in shocked wonderment.

What greeted her was a sight of more buildings, all so much sturdier-looking than any Éponine had ever seen before; especially those in her usual hangout in the slums of Paris, where every building looked like it would cave in at the next strong gust of wind. But these buildings were secure, and were generally made of slabs of grey concrete and metal, and all were accompanied by enormous panes of clean glass. And they were so tall! The tallest looked to be about thirty or even forty storeys high! Who, Éponine wondered, could possibly have built such things so well?

The streets were, for the most part, deserted, and a glance at the cloudy sky showed why: the sun had only just started rising, small bits of colour and light spilling over the horizon. In Paris at this hour, the only souls on the streets had ever been drunks, urchins, and factory workers. This place, wherever it was, was clearly not Paris, but all the same Éponine only passed a few people. Most of them seemed drunk to her, and she hastened to step out of their staggering way.

There was not a carriage or horse or pile of manure or even a wagon in sight, and after a while, Éponine realised that the air smelled strange and foul: almost acrid.

She wandered quite cluelessly through this strange city's streets (for she assumed that city it was) for a long time, so overcome by combined confusion and curiosity that she barely noticed the blisters on her feet, the pain in her stomach, her pounding headache.

As Éponine wandered, the tall concrete buildings gave way to smaller brick ones, and with more time the small brick buildings became shops. She peered in their front windows, fascinated. Some seemed to be selling clothing; she could tell by the mannequins on display boasting alarmingly snug-fitting trousers, shirts, and dresses. But most of the fabrics were foreign to Éponine, and while she could identify most items of clothing, they were nothing like clothes she had ever seen before. There were other things, too: glinting jewellery, books, and other knick-knacks she couldn't begin to name. She also passed a few restaurants and cafes, but they were all closed at this early hour.

As the sun made its slow and steady ascent in the sky, the streets grew a little more crowded. Éponine supposed she could have asked someone for help, but she found she could not bring herself to just yet. Besides, confused and frightened though she was, she took innate comfort in idly wandering the streets like this. She kept her head down and watched the passing people out of the corner of her eye. They all wore the same strange clothing that the mannequins in the shop windows had been wearing, and she was surprised to see that most of the women wore trousers! And nearly all of them had their ankles on full display, bold as you please.

Some of the people cast her passing glances too: pity, disgust, curiosity. She knew full well she was out of place in this world, and the dirt on her face and clothes marked her status as exactly what she was: a creature of the slums. Most, however, took little notice of her, too lost to themselves and the rush of the day ahead.

Sometimes, in the middle of the roads, most curious objects would pass her by on four fat black wheels at alarming speed. Vaguely box-shaped and seemingly made of metal, they varied in colour, though most were grey or black. She thought them to be rather like funny metal animals. There were people riding inside them; Éponine could see them through the little windows. The first time one passed her by, she ran into the middle of the street to get a closer look, but the thing emitted a frightful loud honking noise, and Éponine scurried away. From then on, she avoided them as best she could. The things passed her more and more frequently as the morning wore on, and before long the streets were full of them.

The sun was fully in the sky, the streets were packed with people and the metal animals, and many of the shops had opened before Éponine worked up the courage to ask for help. She ever so hated asking for help; she was used to fending for herself. But she spied a man leaning against a post. He smoked a cigarette and was reading a newspaper.

Éponine folded her hands behind her back, swallowed hard, and meekly approached him. "Excuse me, sir," she said as politely as she could. The man looked up and put down his newspaper, so Éponine continued. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I seem to have gotten quite lost. Would you terribly mind telling me where it is I am?" The words felt strange on her tongue, almost as though they were not really French but some foreign language. But that couldn't be.

The man took the cigarette from his mouth between his thumb and index finger and held it there, aloft, as he blew out a long puff of smoke and answered. "Sure, love. Not a stone's throw from Russell Square; it's just round the corner there." Pointing, he gave her a sympathetic smile as his gaze skirted her, looked her up and down. "Rough night?"

Éponine didn't answer. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she replied, her heart beating faster now, "I … I'm afraid I don't at all know of any Russell Square. Might you know the way to the Place San Michel?"

The man shook his head, cocked it to one side. "'Fraid I don't know of that." He paused. "Not from 'round here, I take it?" When Éponine shook her head, he nodded. "Well. There's an Underground stop not a block from 'ere. Maybe ask the bloke behind the ticket booth for directions." Another smile, another look up and down. It made Éponine squirm.

Underground? she thought. Whatever is that? I must find my way back to Paris, wherever it may be from this strange place. And then I must hurry to the barricades and help Marius … if I can. She swallowed. The man spoke in a way that suggested she ought to know what this mysterious Underground was, as though it were an ordinary thing one saw every day. If she claimed not to know, he might think her a madwoman and call the authorities. So she put on her most winning smile, dipped her head, and said brightly, "Well, thank you for your trouble, sir. I shall do just that!" Then, before the man could say another word, she hurried away.

She decided to follow his directions and go to the place called Russell Square. She went in the direction he had pointed and soon found herself facing a large fenced-in green area with a fountain as the centrepiece just across the street. A few people lounged about on benches and on the grass. Righting herself, Éponine drew in yet another deep breath and slipped across the street. Another one of the metal creatures emitted its loud honking noise as she did so, and she scurried for safety to the other side of the street.

The square seemed to be open to the public, as she soon came across an opening in the fencing. Keeping her head down, she walked along a paved path and took a seat on one of the unoccupied benches facing the fountain. It was here, with her arms crossed over her chest that she finally allowed herself a moment to ponder her situation.

She'd been on the barricades. She'd been shot and was sure she had died. But then she'd woken up in that alleyway, and now she found herself in a bizarre, half-impossible world she'd never heard of but must be a very long way from her own. The thought that this might be Heaven occurred to her, but she dismissed it as soon as it came. Besides, it had been a long time since she'd bothered placing any faith in God. She'd never even been to church or Mass before. As children, she and her sister Azelma had watched other village children going to church, and they knew a passage or two from the Bible because they read from it at school, but that was all. And then, when their lives had gone upside-down and had turned into miserable ones, Éponine had decided that if there was in fact a God, then she didn't want to bother worshiping Him.

So, Éponine now reasoned, then she must still be alive, somehow. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she shed her coat, inspected the hurting area in her stomach where she'd been shot. She was alarmed to see her chemise was stained in blood. With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching her, she lifted her chemise to her chest and studied the bare skin of her stomach. There was no visible bullet wound, just a faint pink scar, though it stung nastily when she fingered it, drawing from her a hiss of pain. As though it would help, she put her coat back on.

So, yes, it seemed she was alive, her injuries miraculously mostly healed, and she was here. Now what was she to do? Perhaps she had gone mad after all. She was about to get up again and ask someone else for help when a young man sat down next to her on the bench. In one hand he clutched a steaming white cup that looked like it was made of paper, and his gaze was fixed on what he had in his other hand: a slim black device no bigger than a card that glowed faintly.

She watched him with wide eyes. Her face split in a relieved smile. Forgetting all decorum, she threw her arms round his neck. "Enjolras!" she cried.

Enjolras, for his part, just about yelped in alarm as the girl hugged him, nearly causing him to spill his coffee. "Oi!" he protested, perhaps a bit more harshly than was necessary, and tugged himself free of her embrace. It took a small effort; the girl's grip was strong. Sliding to the far side of the bench, he studied the girl as the smile slipped off her face. "Sorry," he added uneasily. "You just, er, surprised me." He pocketed his cell phone. "Um, yeah — sorry, do I know you?"

The girl looked as if her heart might break. "Enjolras, oh, Enjolras — but you must know me! It's me, Éponine! We have met. But … do you know where we are? I woke here, and … "

He goggled at her in puzzlement. Who was this girl? How did she know his name, and why the hell did she think he would know her? He'd never seen her before in his life, had never heard the name Éponine before. Maybe she was drunk. It wouldn't explain how she knew him, but … well, drunk or no, and whoever she was, the girl, Éponine, was a sorry sight. She was filthy, her face smeared in dirt and soot. Her clothes were in no better state: a tattered, muddy brown trench coat too big for her; worn, old-fashioned trousers, also oversized; big, mud-caked men's work boots. Her dark, equally dirty hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. And she was thin, horribly thin. She was olive-skinned and she was staring at Enjolras with large, dark brown eyes like a doe's. She couldn't have been more than eighteen.

Enjolras coughed meaningfully, at a loss of what to do. He would feel guilty about leaving this poor girl here, especially in her sorry state. He released a whooshing breath as Éponine's lower lip began to tremble and her eyes glazed over. "Listen," he said as gently as he could muster as tears began to paint clean stripes down her cheeks, "if you're lost, or if there's someone you want to ring … " He trailed off as she drew her knees to her chest, looking very small indeed. Like a lost child, alone for the first time on the city's feral streets.

"You don't know me," she whispered. "You don't know me." She shook her head at him. "But I don't understand. Even if you've forgotten me, then … whatever are you doing here in this strange place? Surely you must be as lost as I am! And, come to think of it," she added, "why aren't you at the barricades? What of Marius and Grantaire and the others? You were there! I saw you there."

"Barricades?" Enjolras echoed. This was all bloody mental. Now setting his coffee aside too, he offered her an awkward pat on the back. "Listen," he said again. "It looks like we share some mutual friends, but I think you must've hit your head pretty hard." She blinked at him. "If you want, I can get you to my flat; it's just a couple blocks from here. We'll get you cleaned up or something, yeah? Then maybe you can give Marius a ring and we'll figure this whole thing out." He offered her his hand. It seemed to be the appropriate thing to do with a girl. He wasn't all that sure, though. Human interaction had never been his forte.

Éponine hesitated, then slowly nodded. She took his hand and he helped her to her feet. They started walking through the square. Enjolras noted how slow and shaky Éponine's steps were, and he passed her his coffee. Wordlessly, she took it, and took several small, hesitant sips as they walked and her tears dried. They said nothing all the way to his flat.

Enjolras flushed at the mess as they entered his flat. It was a reasonably spacious, comfortable place in a decent part of town, but ever since his flatmate Stephen had moved out after the rent had gone up, the place had become a bit of a wreck. Papers were strewn across the table and law textbooks were piled high in every available corner. Several articles of clothing were strewn about, too. But Éponine didn't seem to notice. Once Enjolras invited her in, the girl stood, hovering uncertainly near the door.

"D'you wanna sit down?" Enjolras offered, pointing at the sofa, and seemingly gratefully she picked her way across the floor and took a seat on the sofa, brushing aside a single sock. A pause, then Enjolras sat down next to her. It felt very domestic, as if he was getting a little too comfortable with this poor girl, but she didn't say anything. She kept her eyes trained on the bottom of her empty coffee cup, and Enjolras, raking a hand through his curly blonde hair, was forced to fill the silence. "So. You … said you know Marius?"

A small nod. "Yes. He was at the barricades with you and the rest of your friends. And my brother, too. Back at home — well, my home, at least. You don't seem to know about home, or me." A gulp. "Enjolras … are you from here?"

"From London, d'you mean? Well … yeah. I grew up here. And so did all my friends, including Marius and Grantaire."

Her eyes widened. "London, you say? Oh! Are we in London?" But then she frowned. "The one in England?"

"The one and only."

Éponine shook her head again. "No, no, that's impossible. I've not been to London, but I have seen illustrations of it. I have heard of it. It's not very different from Paris at all. But this place, it's strange and frightening."

Enjolras leaned forward. "You're from Paris? As in, Paris, France?" For the first time, she looked a bit pleased, and nodded. Enjolras paused and thought. "You say you're from Paris. And that … you know me and a few of my mates, but we're Londoners, the lot of us. Blimey, I haven't even left this city in my life. And you say you woke up here and, what? Wandered 'round and found me?"

She nodded again, a little more in earnest. "Yes, exactly."

"Well … " Enjolras sighed, and again raked his hands through his curls. "Well." He looked round the room, contemplating it, as though an examination of his own home might disclose some information about the situation at hand. He spied his pants, draped over the lampshade, and blushing, reached over and grabbed them. Stuffed them under the sofa cushion. Thankfully, Éponine didn't seem to notice. Enjolras allowed himself a few more minutes to think, until at last he came to his ever-so-thoughtful conclusion.

"Well, I don't know what the hell is going on, either. And it looks like this is gonna be a tough one."