"Don't shoot! Long live the King!"
Enjolras dropped his gun as he yelled the words. It clattered loudly against the floor. The Paris Military Main wasn't a smart thing to break into, in all honesty, but it was a necessity. Four of Enjolras' men were breaking into the safe to burn the French Constitution of 2120, which was neither written in French nor constitutional, more like the English Declaration of Dictatorship. Another three men were waiting outside, their backup team. Enjolras was currently connected to them via a mike and a small contact-lens camera.
Really, Enjolras just wished he wasn't the goddamn bait again. You would have thought the leader of the resistance could stay safe, but he was here, holding up both arms as a guard stared him down with the barrel of a gun. It didn't really matter on the whole if he died—Combeferre could take over the operation easily—but Enjolras would much prefer to stay alive, thank you very much.
"I've heard of intruders in the Parisian Military Main right now," the guard said suspisciously. "Are you one of them?"
"Clearly not," Enjolras said, forcing his voice into a Brooklyn accent. His native was American. He'd mastered many of the most common accents as well as languages. "M'name's John. I forgot my badge, that's all—is that too hard to see?" He patted his chest. "That ain't a crime."
The guard narrowed his eyes. "Do you speak French?" the guard asked in French.
"Fluently," Enjolras answered. It was his first language—English was his second. He had learned them at the same time, though, so it didn't really matter. He also spoke Japanese, Russian, German and Arabic from a young age. From there it was easy to branch out into less fluent languages that were similiar—Chinese, Italian, Persian. God bless his father. "Can I put my hands down now?"
"How old are you?"
"Calm!" Enjolras insisted. "Twenty-two. I was ten when King Louis-Charles II came onto the throne. New York Native, was able to learn French easily."
The guard was still suspicious. Who wouldn't be? A young man appearing, unidentified, in the single most important military base of the French Monarchy. "Get down," he ordered.
Slowly, Enjolras lowered himself to the ground, keeping his eyes trained on the barrel of the gun. "Please. Don't shoot. I just want to get my damn badge. John Fabian, look it up. Jem Lee should tell you—he let me in."
"Up," ordered the guard.
Enjolras was forced to suppress a laugh at how stereotypically idiotic this guy was. He didn't resist as the guard handcuffed him to the nearest post.
The guard stormed over to the nearest phone, as he didn't have Jem Lee's number on hand. After a nice lengthy chat with Jem Lee, some freshfaced youth that didn't know how to do anything, the guard turned around, ready to let John Fabian go.
Except he wasn't there. Instead, scrawled on the post in black marker was, VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE! LONG LIVE THE FUTURE!
The guard cursed. Loudly. He called Jem Lee on the radio this time, demanding that the alarms be turned on and that he should be fired for letting an intruder past, while Jem Lee stammered and cried that he didn't know he was letting anyone past.
When the guard slammed the phone back down, he got to work scrubbing the goddamn graffiti off. Nothing like this was happening on his watch.
XxXxX
The alarms blared, startling Enjolras. Jehan blazed forwards into the cramped airlock. Jehan was smaller than Enjolras, which gave him an advantage. He also didn't have a handcuff dangling off his left wrist. The handcuff clanged on the cold metal floor with every move Enjolras made.
"Thanks for that," gasped Enjolras. He crawled after Jehan, getting a nice view of his ass. And then he immediately felt guilty for admiring Jehan's ass, because this was a mission, and Enjolras was the leader. Leaders weren't supposed to admire asses.
"What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?" Jehan said. "He was going to find out sooner or later. Come on, this way."
Jehan took a sharp right and Enjolras almost smashed into the wall. Instead, he turned to a large room that immediately blew his shirt up; they were standing on a metal grate that looked and felt rather unstable, and underneath it was a giant fan. Over was a small grate barely big enough for Enjolras' body to fit through, if he was correct.
This plan wasn't looking very good to Enjolras, but he trusted his team with his life.
"Courfeyrac," said Jehan. "We're at gate sixty-nine. Do you read me?"
The telltale giggle in Enjolras' ear gave the man away. Courfeyrac was twenty-one, but he had the maturity of a five-year-old. "Yes, I read," Courfeyrac said, "and of all the gates, you had to pick sixty-nine?"
"Pervert," Enjolras said.
"Right, I was looking at your camera about thirty seconds ago. You can explain that to me later. I'm coming for Jehan; if you want to stay there, that's fine."
"We have one minute!" Enjolras barked. At that moment, there was a clatter from the gate above them and Courfeyrac's bright green eyes appeared.
"Fast enough for you?" he called. "Hold on a sec and stand back. I'm undoing the gate." Jehan pushed Enjolras back, and within thirty seconds the gate was undone and a rope snaked down in front of them. "Jehan first," said Courfeyrac.
Jehan cast Enjolras an apologetic look and tied the rope under his arms as Courfeyrac pulled him up; Enjolras turned to scowl at Courfeyrac, who struggled for a few seconds. It seemed as if someone else had come to help; Jehan sped up a lot faster.
Which was good, because there were loud clanking noises coming from down the airway, and they were more than likely guards. Enjolras didn't have a gun. He had left it on the floor of the room he had escaped from, having no time to get it.
"Hurry up!" he shouted as Courfeyrac and the other person hoisted Jehan over. The rope immediately came sailing down again, still looped, and Enjolras simply stepped into it and pulled the loop to his arms. With three people to pull him, he journeyed up a lot faster.
Three guards broke into the room, waving guns and shouting. "Guards!" shouted Enjolras, and he was pulled up so fast he winded himself on the edge for a second, and a bullet grazed his shoe. Enjolras pulled his feet up and scrambled up, and Courfeyrac grabbed the grate, peered down, and instead of putting the grate back on, he threw it in.
And then he winced.
Courfeyrac turned back towards the other three, who were still panting with adrenaline. Cosette, the third, had Enjolras and Jehan by the hand. "What are you still doing there?" he yelled. "Go!"
Cosette took a running jump towards the helicopter, hoisted herself up and threw the ladder down to the boys, who climbed it. Courfeyrac was the last to get on; he grabbed the ladder and latched the door as Jehan took over the helicopter, sailing it away.
"The grate broke at the bottom," Courfeyrac told them, checking to make sure the door was locked. Jehan came back out as he got the helicopter under control. "They're all dead."
The four people in the helicopter shared a moment of silence. Cosette lowered her head, looking sad. She was a gentle soul, in the resistance because she cared about people, not to fight. She was tough and brave, though she didn't show it.
In her youth, her mother had been killed for badmouthing the French Government. Cosette had been only two then. She had been sent to live in the Monfermeil Youth Correctional Facility for years until she had been adopted by a man by the name of Jean Valjean.
Of course, those weren't really their names. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Valjean...
It was kind of silly that a revolutionary society should base themselves around a book, but in all honesty, it was perfect. The characters fit them like molds, and so they had adopted the names of who they thought fit them. It had been Enjolras' idea.
To this day, neither of them knew each other's real names. It had been years since Enjolras' father had set this small revolution ablaze. Twenty years later, Enjolras himself was heading it, a worldwide network of thousands of people ready to overthrow King Louis-Charles at any moment, when it was opportune.
Enjolras collapsed on the floor of the helicopter. "Did they get it?" he asked.
"Already halfway to the base," said Courfeyrac proudly. "They're going to photocopy it, send it to Bossuet, and incinerate it. This shit security really worked for us. I mean, that escape? Classic! So stereotypical they should have seen it coming!" He laughed.
Jehan grinned and grabbed Enjolras' left hand, holding it up. "Well, Enjolras has a souvenir," he said in his gentle voice, before ducking back inside the cockpit.
Cosette grabbed a tool from the wall and eased the blade between Enjolras' wrist and the handcuff, and she pressed down. The handcuff snapped and Enjolras shook his hand. "Thanks, Cosette," he said, smiling at her.
"No problem," Cosette said, smiling. "Jehan, can you put it on autopilot?"
Jehan walked out of the cockpit a second later, smiling. "Already done, sweetie," he said, sitting down beside her. "Wait a second—" and he leaned forwards—"Grantaire, where are you?"
"Nearly there," Grantaire said cheerfully in Enjolras' ear as he turned up the volume. "No one following. We're good."
"Stay connected until you get back to the Musain, okay?" Enjolras told Grantaire.
"Yup. Ten-four," said Grantaire, and he started whistling. Enjolras turned the volume down.
Courfeyrac yawned, stretching his arms. "Listen, you guys, I'm going to take a fuckin' nap, thank you, and I don't want to be interrupted unless we're going to die or we're back, okay?"
Scowling, Enjolras said, "Courf, you spent the entire time waiting in the copter. Who was it that got the French Constitution? Who was it that acted as a distraction?"
"Who was it that saved your sorry asses?" Courfeyrac responded, raising an eyebrow. "Goodnight, Enjy." He smirked and disappeared into the back, taking up the only bed.
"I hate you!" called Enjolras.
Actually, he was quite fond of Courfeyrac. Of all his lieutenants (or so they jokingly called themselves). Courfeyrac just never took much seriously. At least, though, he wasn't Grantaire. Grantaire took nothing seriously but his wine and his art. His entire life was cynicism. He raised his glass and he grinned, but did nothing else. (Okay, Enjolras was fond of Grantaire too, and he couldn't deny it.)
Jehan already was at work passing the ride back by threading Cosette's hair through with ribbons. Enjolras lay down on the hard bench seating and closed his eyes.
Perhaps a nap would be nice.
XxXxX
The base of Les Amis de l'ABC was situated in the Alps, in and underneath a mountain. It was giant. It had to be. Thousands of people lived there. It was a safe haven for Europeans as much as it was a military base.
It had once been a base for the French Military, though it had been abandoned long ago, probably when Louis-Jules Bourbon was elected in 2089. The election of a Bourbon had changed things. Sure, Bonapartes and Bourbons had been in France ever since the monarchy fell, but they'd worked together.
A new France, they had whispered. Slowly, their plan took place.
Here they were. Louis-Charles. A dictator, to be honest. He was a dictator, not a King, and it wasn't just France living under the dictatorship: it was the world.
Twenty years ago, Enjolras' father had had enough. The infant Enjolras had traveled with him to a small cottage not far from where the current base currently was and lived there, silently gathering a force. He'd stumbled upon the base. And then he'd built with the force he had then, about a thousand people. Upgrading and fortifying it until it was no longer simply an abandoned military base, but a respectable haven for any members of the resistance.
Ten years ago, Enjolras' father had been shot in front of Enjolras himself. Enjolras had formed Les Amis de l'ABC at twelve years of age. Though only a child, he had his father's friends to help him. He christened himself Enjolras after the leader of the resistance in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, set nearly three hundred years ago, and he took over his father's operations.
By sixteen, he was adept at it. He could order people around without a second thought, people who were twice his age, and they would do what he asked. At sixteen, he had met Combeferre, and his lieutenants came together throughout the years. The last one was Feuilly, two years ago.
At twenty-two, Enjolras was fearsome to the French Monarchy, but they didn't know his name, only that he called himself after a leader vying to do the same thing as the present-day Enjolras: bring down the monarchy. At twenty-two, he knew all there was to know about the Resistance, the King, the military tactics employed by the Monarchy and the various revolutionary groups around the world.
He had maps of the world's bases situated in his office and kept a constant stream of information going, ready to act at a moment's notice. The government didn't know who he was, or what he looked like, or how he would act.
Rumor had it they called him a shadow. He'd hacked into the government computers from the palace in Versailles and stated that he preferred Enjolras. He knew his way around the world and had the best youth in the country helping him out, and the best advisors he could ever have. Cosette's father, Jean Valjean, was one of Enjolras' most knowledgeable people, and Enjolras respected Monsieur Mabeuf almost as much as he respected his late father.
It neared two in the morning as Enjolras finally shut the door to the garage and set off down the hallway. Everyone else was turning in, but Enjolras had go to check in the news room, because Bossuet would surely be there.
Enjolras rapped on the door. "Bossuet?"
"Hey, Enjolras," Bossuet said. Enjolras walked inside. The glare from all the screens lit Bossuet's face and his receding hairline. "Rumor is they have biological warfare research going on."
Enjolras winced. Biological warfare was never humane. "We're stopping that shit," he said, reaching to touch Bossuet's shoulder lightly, "but not today. Go to bed. You know we'll wake if anything happens."
Bossuet had programmed a software that would alert the heads of each department if anything major happened, due to key words and manual alerts from leaders of resistances across the world. Resignedly Bossuet nodded, standing up. "Okay, then. You sleep too. Goodnight, Enjolras."
"Night." Enjolras stood in the empty room for a few minutes. The fluorescents weren't on, but the light from the TV screens lit everything with a blue glow.
Enjolras hurried out of the room to his own. It wasn't particularly cozy. Really, it was a room that was connected to Combeferre's by ways of the bathroom, and it was spacious enough for a desk, a bed, a few drawers and a little bit of open space. Most of the furniture was standard. The bedspread was red, and the walls were painted white. The only bit of personalization were two framed pictures: one of his friends and the other of his father.
A laptop sat on his desk with the words ABC engraved into it. It was their brand, and only in this base, because it was too dangerous anywhere else. Only technology softwares were imported across the world, and the softwares were used to eradicate any BOURNAPARTE from anything a resistance group had. It had been coded by Bossuet, so it worked.
BOURNAPARTE was the company of the world. Enjolras had read up on McDonalds, and Wal-Marts, and Apples, but multiple transnational corporations were not the norm anymore. One company for them all: BOURNAPARTE.
And ABC, because Enjolras was loath to trust anything else. If it wasn't stamped with the circle and ABC, it probably had government influence on it.
He showered and changed into a clean pair of clothes and had finally almost drifted to sleep when he heard a slight moan coming from his ear. He'd left his earpiece in again, which wasn't uncommon. Enjolras opened his eyes.
Another moan. Enjolras rubbed his temples, irritated.
Fucking Courfeyrac.