Somehow when I was listening to the song, "Shot in the Dark" by Ozzy Osbourne, the other day, this scenario entered my mind. At least, the premise of Clopin and Esmeralda going up against a team of Frollo's guards one night, and generally being badass while doing it, all to the tune of the song did. Like many fanfics I've done in the past, this started out as a drabble in my mind, but pretty much grew itself the moment I started to write. I've included the song lyrics as pointers throughout the story for reasons of clarification; each italicized section bears a segment of the song, and immediately follows the section of the story that is meant to fit in with it.
Copyright for HoND and its characters belongs to Disney and Victor Hugo, while "Shot in the Dark" belongs to Ozzy Osbourne.
On the otherwise deserted Parisian street, two dark figures can be seen creeping along their way, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass. A young woman and an older man, gypsies, each predominantly adorned in purple clothing, although while the woman is wrapped in a blanket of similar colouring, the man preserves his warmth with a cloak of rich crimson. As gypsies these two are well familiar with the need to be careful when roaming the streets, for fear of capture by the guards, but tonight all of their senses have tuned in to danger moreso than usual.
(Instrumental opening)
The man, Clopin, haults the woman, Esmeralda, behind him and presses her against the wall, which he himself leans back against. Peering round the corner he observes the owners of the voices which prompted his cautionary act. Guards, indeed. Picking on another of their people, who has been unfortunate enough to get caught on this moonlit evening. Clopin's eyes narrow in cold fury, and it is all he can do to prevent his breath from increasing its pace to the point where it could awaken the entire block. He turns to his companion and gives her the agreed-upon silent signal. Time to split up.
Esmeralda retreats back along the building and then into an alleyway, coming around the building until she is directly facing the guards and their quarry. Her lovely green eyes hold the glint of heartfelt compassion for her fellow gypsy, in this dreadful predicament. In seconds she fishes a handful of stones from a bag on her person, which she proceeds to sling at the guards, one or two at a time. Each and every one of the missiles hits its mark, and the two weaker guards are conked out by the impact. The burlier (or perhaps just plain denser) two catch sight of their surprise assailant, and turn their interest on to her. Wordlessly she gives indication past them to the other gypsy, and taking her heed, he makes himself scarce.
Out on the street, I'm stalking the night,
I can hear my heavy breathing,
Paid for the kill, but it doesn't seem right,
Something there I can't believe in,
Voices are calling, from inside my head,
I can hear them, I can hear them,
Vanishing memories of things that were said,
They can't try to hurt me now!
As both agree it will only take one of them to overpower Esmeralda, one of the guards takes off after their escaping victim, leaving the other to deal with his rescuer. This would seem to have been a poorly calculated move, if judged by the ensuing events. With lightning quick manoeuvres, Esmeralda has ducked down and slipped between her would-be captor's legs, snatched his lance from behind him and whapped him headwise with the weapon. While this series of events has confused and physically pained the guard, it has not yet stopped him. He snatches his weapon back from the gypsy, who holds on to her end of it and manages to work their motions into a parody of a romantic dance, taunting her opponent with words to suit the "occasion". To say this increases his rage and frustration is not even a quarter of it, but when the guard tries to bar her down with the lance after gaining a better grip of it, she succeeds in ducking under again, then swiftly swishes her blanket around his head, simultaneously jumping onto his shoulders and snatching his metal helmet before his head is completely enveloped. Keeping careful to stay atop him as he struggles to free his head and reclaim his sight, she then raises the helmet high and brings it down atop his cranium with all the force she can channel. The dull thud and duller groan which sounds beneath her hands is all the confirmation she requires, before relinquishing her perch and leaping off of the falling, unconscious body. She comes around to the head of the guard and retrieves her blanket, smirking. This fellow was almost too easy.
But a shot in the dark,
One step away from you,
Just a shot in the dark,
Always creeping up on you!
All right!
The rescued gypsy makes good his escape, and the guard who went after him is soon left standing in the middle of the street, glancing at the routes in each direction that his prey might have chosen to continue his getaway. It might have been wiser for him to have pondered for fewer seconds, however, for an unsuspected weight pounces onto his shoulders from behind. A black-gloved hand with long, clever fingers has shot around, pinching his jaw and covering his mouth in a premeditated effort to silence any shouting on his behalf before it should start. He hears a melodic tenor voice chuckling in a sinister manner into his ear, just as he feels something cool and sharp literally knifing its way along his neck, searching with alarming success for his jugular.
For all he can be so loving and protective, as he is to those whom he serves as leader of, Clopin can also be frighteningly cold hearted to those who pose him or his people a threat. Now normally when in combat, he prefers to have a little fun before finishing his enemies off, usually in the form of teasing, tricking or otherwise mocking them, but right now he is in a comparatively serious mood, and inclined more to just get the job done. He does not care at all for the guards, and why should he? They are the mindless drones of the vile Minister of Justice, Claude Frollo, a truly despicable man who wants nothing more than the absolute annihilation of the gypsies. Even if he wasn't their king, Clopin, having no desire to be rubbed out any time soon, would still be on a collision course with that ambition. He is not sure, nor holds any regard, how many (if any) of the guards actually deeply believe that the existence of the gypsies is in itself a crime against God, as Frollo has made it plain on occasion after occasion that he does, or if any just blindly follow his orders, follow them because they have families of their own they must support, or simply possess an irrepressible attraction to the idea of bullying and torturing gypsies. Clopin cannot afford to let himself think of such things, for fear that his heart might soften, ever so slightly, towards the guards. What an unnerving thought! Never in a month of Sundays will he allow himself to lower the prejudicial walls shielding his heart from the threat of sympathy towards these dim-witted devices of gypsy-torment. Were that to ever happen, oh, all the things that would proceed to crumble as a result!
No, just as Frollo will never, for his own corrupt reasons, budge from his solid belief that the gypsies are flesh and blood manifestations of evil, so Clopin will never allow his mind to probe the thought that there are actual characters, actual individual personalities with their own requirements and life problems, inside all that heavy black armour. He is not stupid, he knows full well that it's most likely the case, but he is also not that crazy. When engaged in any form of battle, you must never allow yourself to feel pity or compassion for your enemy, or you might as well bare your chest to the tip of their sword and blithely suggest that their blade will look great in that deeper shade of red. Never mind the hypocrisy in his cold disregard of the guards, when compared to theirs - and Frollo's - for the gypsies. Dog eat dog.
Taught by the powers who preach over me,
I can hear their empty reasons,
But I wouldn't listen, I learned how to fight,
I opened up my mind to treason,
But just like the wounded, and when it's too late,
They'll remember, they'll surrender,
Never a care for the people who hate,
Underestimate me now!
Back to the present, just as the guards are all agreed in the belief that all gypsies are cold-blooded criminals, so the gypsies are all agreed in the belief that all of the guards of Paris are hulking blockheads, capable of being outsmarted by the most elementary of tricks. Every now and then, however, one turns up who seems to have half an inkling of what should be done in a crisis. This one certainly is driven with the intent to take his opponent down with him, now that his own death is imminent. Clopin yelps as a spirited bite is delivered to his hand, pain piercing even past the sanctity of his glove and forcing him to obey the instinct to draw the offended appendage away. With his mouth now free, the guard proceeds to cry out as loud as he can with his dying breath. Lips pursed into a scowl, Clopin jumps atop the collapsed guard and punctures him one last time before he dies. Just for that!
Eyes half-closed as he wears a satisfied smirk, the gypsy draws back his knife, admiring momentarily the fresh blood staining the blade, before cleaning and polishing his weapon and sheathing it once more. It is as he is sliding the knife back into its holster, however, that he glances up, gasping in alarm at the sound of many armoured bodies advancing rapidly on him from more than one direction. Hearing their shouts directed at him, Clopin feels a profound chill forming a spansive nest along his spine. A chill he cannot request for his cloak to eliminate, for it is the chill of his own body temperature forsaking him in search of safer grounds.
Standing up straight, he calculates his best move, as he stares at the black metallic figures cornering him. The gypsy king needs to create an air of confusion amongst them, if he hopes to get away safely. Throughout the years he has acquired a reputation amongst the guards as fearless to the point of foolishness, so if he pretends to be scared into a state of cowardice, then perhaps…
It takes the guards a moment to fully believe what their eyes are telling them, that the infamous king of the gypsies, whom they've either dealt with unsuccessfully before or else heard brandished legends about, has actually fallen to his knees, quaking in helpless terror. What fungus did he ingest? Well no matter, if he's going to be this simple a target, they're going to take advantage of it.
Just as they've immediately surrounded him, the gypsy king seems to come to his senses, or at least finds his voice again. Turning a wide-eyed glance to a part between two guards, he calls out a warning to the gypsies behind them to get out of there, and fast! Just as he'd counted on, the guards all look in that direction, puzzled by the lack of any fleeing persons whatsoever. It only takes five or so seconds to look up, register, and look down again, but by that time Clopin has slipped out of their circle and around one of the neighbouring corners.
But a shot in the dark,
One step away from you,
Just a shot in the dark,
Nothing that you can do,
Just a shot in the dark,
Always creeping up on you!
All right!
Esmeralda searches street after street, trying to find Clopin. Turning her gaze towards the milky shine of the moon, for just the count of a second or two, she scurries to the protection of the shadows and stays there for a moment, considering where he'd be likely to have gotten off to if involved in a chase with the guards.
She gives a wry frown up at the lunar light source in the sky. Beautiful though she's always thought the moon is, and as much as it can lend help when trying to get from place to place during the night, in large part it renders camoflauge easier said than done. The sound of men's voices makes her instinctively paste herself as flat against the wall as she can get. More than likely those are guards, and without doubt they are nearing her current position. From which direction, though? She needs to determine that before she can figure out her most liable approach to escape. Should she turn the corner and risk the blaring moonlight, or should she grope along this wall till she reaches the other, somewhat darker side?
Her heart hammers in her chest as the voices come closer still, she bites her lip and forces herself to drown out the sound of the muscle demanding freedom from her ribcage, opting to listen instead to the angry men closing in on her proximity. Receiving a better sense of the direction from whence the voices encroach, she makes her decision. Fingering her knife should she come to need it, Esmeralda rounds the corner she was nearest to… and in seconds her wrist is snatched with sharp haste. By chance it was not the knife-bedecked one, which she draws out while turning towards her captor, snarling and primed for attack. Seeing who it is, however, her reflexes catch up in an instant and she lowers her knife again, letting her breath out and easing her beautiful face into a more gentle expression.
Although she has learned many of her fighting/evading techniques from Clopin, Esmeralda feels better having him with her when the danger of the guards looms near. She may have uncommon fighting prowess for a woman, but this is invariably one of those situations where two heads - and bodies - are better than one. The two of them are about to flee, but the guards have already found them by this point. Esmeralda quietly inquires of Clopin if he wants to just use their last resort and make a break for it right now, but he shakes his head. She nods in agreement with that decision - she's not quite ready to call it quits yet herself - and with that the two of them directly approach the guards, speaking conversationally about what a lovely evening they've all chanced to meet together on, and how splendid the moonlight is, and might the guards be able to spare a little time for idle chit-chat, perhaps?
(Instrumental)
Understandably, they do not appear amused by this distraction, but while it is undergoing Clopin notices that there are nine guards where before he was pursued by twelve. That could be a problem, for it could mean a trap is involved in here somewhere.
The guards have had enough of the nonsense the gypsies are feeding them, and embark on another attempt at capture, but Clopin and Esmeralda respond by engaging in a fluttering, twirling dance hither and tither amidst their foes. To make a long story short it leads to a lot of stumbling and bumbling amongst the guards, during which Esmeralda manages to snatch a sword from one with minimal struggle. Clopin, while continuing to dodge the grasps of the brutes reaching for him, offers Esmeralda a tidbit here and there on her best shots to take with that weapon. He even offers some advice to their attackers, albeit glazed in sarcasm and mockery.
But just like the wounded, and when it's too late,
They'll remember, they'll surrender,
Never a care for the people who hate,
Underestimate me now!
Esmeralda rapidly disarms a third of their opposing team, enabling Clopin to fetch one of their weapons for himself. In minutes almost half of the guards have fallen at their hands, and the remaining ones seem cowardly enough to surrender by this point. The gypsies are about ready to leave now, themselves, when a series of arrows fired from three points of origin towards them serve to create an element of surprise. Just as the guards had planned, this has left the pair in a temporary state of bewilderment. These men are indeed more meticulous than meets the eye! They've adopted the approach of giving their quarries a taste of their own medicine!
As he is presently surprised, Clopin is in a much more vulnerable state than he realizes, but Esmeralda's horrified cry of his name alerts him to the dagger now nested in his lower belly, and the thick, dark liquid which tests the crimson of his cloak, that is gushing forth from the wound. In shock, his hand shoots across his abdomen, clutching at the life-threatening stab as his face conveys the agony such a wound brings on its victim. Choking and gasping painfully, Clopin cradles his belly in his arms as he keels over and collapses to the ground, his cloak sprawling over his slender body in such a way that everything from his hat down to his feet is hidden from view.
But a shot in the dark,
One step away from you,
Just a shot in the dark,
Nothing that you can do,
Just a shot in the dark,
Always creeping up on you!
All right!
Now the fact that Esmeralda has not rushed to Clopin's side in all this should be enough of an indicator to the guards that something here is amiss, but as it is, only the ambush-providers are concerned with the escaping gypsy woman, who miraculously remains untouched by a single one of their arrows. One does manage to strike into the skirt of her dress, but it hardly demands strain on her part to undo that lousy shot, even while still on the run. Making it to the other side of the street, she ducks into an alley, just waiting for them to come to catch her. She is not to be disappointed, as soon all three arrow-firing men stand on the side of the alley by which she entered, aiming directly at her and calling out for her surrender. At the other edge of the alley she demonstrates genuine remorse that she cannot stick around, for she was 'due home an hour before midnight'. Her eyes gleaming with mischief and humour, she all but promises them another time, then with one swish of her blanket seems to dissipate into the air, leaving her assailants blinking in disbelief.
Meanwhile, the guards they were in immediate combat with before are almost hysterical with glee over the fact that they've finally outwitted and defeated the king of the gypsies! The one who delivered the stab bends down to pick him up, but almost as if by its own choice the bundle of cloak and body tumbles from his arms and vanishes completely into the ground. Only one item is left behind; a small sack filled with the blood of some sort of livestock, which continues to leak out of a slit formed by the guard's dagger. It is extremely insufficient to say that they are all stupefied and very disturbed by this.
Several blocks away, Esmeralda ceases running, and calls out to Clopin, who then emerges from behind a building, completely A-OK. He asks her in a boastful manner whether or not that was a brilliant idea of his, to harbour that sack under his tunic? Esmeralda gives no verbal response but he can tell from her grin that she agrees. She then looks down at all the weaponry they've acquired, and questions what they are to do with it. Weighing the pros and cons of each option they have, they ultimately decide to just keep it, and proceed triumphantly off on their way back to the Court of Miracles.
Just a shot in the dark!
Just a shot in the dark!
Just a shot in the dark!
Just a shot in the dark!
The end.
AN: To explain the lack of dialogue in this oneshot, I had in mind right from the moment I first decided to compose the idea, to give it the feel of a wordless story. I like this style for action stories because it allows the reader to experience the story through their own observations, instead of just being given the information through words, and when the story is of the action genre you can appreciate it better if you're applying the action to its meaning (by interpreting what's in the picture), rather than applying the meaning to its action (by envisioning the passages as they happen). Of course, that couldn't be done here; the closest I could get to "wordless" was sans-dialogue, ergo. I only wish I had a hand for drawing, figuratively speaking; then I might have tried doing this idea in picture form on Deviantart or somewhere.
In any case, I hope everyone enjoyed! :)