He always had an affinity for broken things. As a child, he'd wanted to be a doctor, a physician, tending to people's ills, or a mechanic, a fixer-upper of people's possessions. Enjolras supposed that was what he was trying to do now, to fix a broken society, to cure it of its wounds. (By murdering it from the ground level up. Right. Good.)
And from his place as a planet orbiting another sun, he thought this particular satellite was as broken as broken could be.
Enjolras had met the girl through Marius — Marius-the-dreamer, Marius-the-lovestruck, Marius-the-one-who-played-at-revolution — and had been immediately struck by how jittery she was. Eyes flitting left and right between two doorways and calloused fingers that twisted around each other like snakes waiting to strike.
She had hair, raggedy hair, that sat matted to her face, and eyes rich as the bedrock of sweeping rivers, dulled by years of malnutrition. she was skinny in a way that was hard to look at for long, with arms and legs and an emaciated neck that looked brittle and breakable, as if the merest graze would shatter her.
She was a street rat, but had the defiance of a queen.
Yes, he had decided. This was what his revolution looked like.
note
um, yay? decided to post this from tumblr with actual capitalisation this time.
feel free to get on my case about bad writing and characterisation. :)
- nora