I...hello there, friends. I have abandoned this account for so long and I apologize. A lot's happened in the past few months. Please don't hate me. I'm starting this one, a new fanfic. Give it a go- the first chapter is short and exciting and please just try it?

~Marseillaise

"Apollo. Come in, Apollo."

Static. Again. Nicolas Grantaire slammed down the radio receiver, cursing himself for having even the slightest of hopes that there would be a response. Hands shaking from lack of sleep and worry, he fumbled with the recording machine until he found the recording he was looking for. He pressed Play.

"C'est Apollo." The voice on the other end was frantic, hurried. "Jean a une casquette. Je repete, Jean a une casquette." There was a burst of static, and the line went dead. The recording went on for about fifteen seconds of dead line, he knew. He had listened to it repeatedly. John has a cap. A seemingly meaningless sentence that could singlehandedly sweep desolation across the Resistance. It was a code. I have been captured.

The wireless operator ran his hands through his black curls. Enjolras, as only those who had known him before the war, before the Resistance, knew him, was Apollo. One of their best operatives, he was brilliant, selfless, and completely devoted to the cause. Moreover, it had been almost three days since his line had sent that final message.

Grantaire knew that the Nazis wouldn't get any information out of the fiery young man. No matter what they did, he was sure that Enjolras would never give in. That was what scared him. He didn't know to what lengths Enjolras would have to go, but he was sure it would be painful, terrible, and end in the death of the maquisard.

Of course, there were other operatives, too. The Maquis des Manises, a group of the Resistance, numbered about two thousand, at the top. No one really knew for sure, though, because most of the operatives only knew the real identities of three others. A partner, a superior, and an inferior. Enjolras had been among the more knowledgeable, but even he couldn't name more than fifty people. Not that he would. He would die before betraying even the most expendable among them, Grantaire knew.

A radio crackled to life. Hurriedly, Grantaire set the recording machine. The message said nothing unusual. Not unimportant, or good, but not unusual. A young man who Grantaire had met briefly, code name Chat, quickly relayed a report of the failed attempt to assassinate a German official. Three confirmed dead, the other two presumed captured until confirmed alive or dead. They had known what was happening beforehand, said the operative, that we must have a rat. A Vichy in the Maquis. End of transmission.

The thought of Vichys made Grantaire's face darken. It was one thing to be forced into occupation, but to go over to the enemy's side, to relay your own country's secrets in exchange for money, power, you name it…the thought made him sick.

He keyed in the code to Versailles, and relayed the encrypted message. That was his job. Day in, day out, relay messages to Versailles, Paris, and occasionally Lyon. It was a boring job, and depressing sometimes, but it was relatively safe. That is to say, if he were caught he would be tortured, tried (but really- there wasn't need of a trial), and killed. But the chance of that was relatively low compared to some of the other positions.

Enjolras had been a field operative. Active, he had been the one to lead sabotages, to scout out the enemy's headquarters, to wreck train tracks and water towers. Enjolras was the man in a mask who gave starving children extra ration cards. That was how they had captured him, presumably. Nothing else was known. It was not allowed to attempt any sort of a rescue mission. It was up to Enjolras, on his own, now.

-:-

It wasn't an unusual job, or even a difficult one. Just get in, hide the ration cards, and get out. Simple enough. Enjolras shivered in the chill air, rounding a bend in the street. He was out past curfew, but that wasn't his biggest worry right now.

The young man wasn't particularly tall, with blonde curls and blue eyes. Enjolras was, to put it in a word, majestic. He held his head high, spoke with confidence, and had the sometimes-unnerving ability to lie seamlessly. This talent, while not exactly something to boast about, was incredibly useful. Combined with a selfless personality and a fiery, patriotic spirit, Enjolras was the perfect operative. And he had volunteered for this.

His coat collar fluttering in the wind, Enjolras patted his chest for the umpteenth time, making absolutely positive that the ration cards were there. Sewn invisibly into the lining of his coat, one couldn't tell that they were there unless they knew where to look. It wouldn't be much protection if he was actually caught, but to the casual observer or even lax check it was flawless.

The boulangerie was just in front of him. Enjolras glanced quickly around the street. No one. He dug the key out of his shoe and opened the shop.

It was dark inside, and smelled faintly of breads. The night was quiet, and Enjolras could hear his own heartbeat.

Two boxes down and to the left. Prizing open the top, Enjolras pulled out a jackknife and began to rip open the lining of his jacket. The soft fleece lining gave way easily, and soon he had almost one hundred illegal ration cards in his hands.

And that was where it all started to go wrong.

Just as he was closing the top of the breadbox, he heard a cry.

"M'aidez! S'il vous plaît, m'aidez!" The voice was a child's, and Enjolras quickly but quietly put down the box and rushed towards it.

A little girl was sitting in the corner of the shop. She was crying, and for a second Enjolras couldn't figure out why. Then he noticed the gloved hand holding her wrist.

A flashlight clicked on, flooding the little boulangerie with light. Three men, wearing black to disguise themselves in the shadows, stepped out from behind a shelf. One of them lunged towards Enjolras.

He successfully dodged the first man, but was quickly subdued. Pinned to the ground with his arms behind his back, he felt the cold steel of a pistol on his neck. Enjolras writhed, struggling to get away. But he couldn't help but breathe when a handkerchief was stuffed in his face. The room spun and whirled, and the dark came and swallowed up Enjolras once more.

-:-

Enjolras kept his eyes closed as consciousness returned to him. He was lying on a hard floor, slumped half against a wall, his hands uncomfortably cuffed behind his back. There were faint murmurs, but nothing decipherable. His coat had been removed.

Finally, he opened his eyes. Enjolras was in a small cell, perhaps three meters by three meters. It was stone mostly, with wooden door. The room was dank and barely lit.

With a bit of difficulty, he sat up, his back against the wall.

Click-click-click-click-click-click. As the sounds travelled closer, Enjolras backed up against the wall. His heart was pounding. They were, of course, footsteps. The sound of steel- toed boots carrying their owner closer and closer to Enjolras' cell. Enjolras closed his eyes. He didn't want to be here. How had this happened? He was experienced, and clever, and knew lots of things, too many things. He should never have been captured.

But this was war. Nothing ever went the way it ought to. The footsteps stopped, and Enjolras heard a rusty lock turn.

He opened his eyes. A man stood in front of him. The man wasn't particularly tally, but Enjolras estimated him to be slightly taller than himself. He had shiny boots. Enjolras wanted desperately to spit on them, but he didn't. There was a line between being defiant and being stupid and thus being killed.

"What is your name?"

Enjolras remained silent.

The man crouched down, grabbing Enjolras' face in a gloved hand.

"Your name."

"Jean-Marc Barrière." It was the first name he thought of.

The man grunted. "What do you know?"

Enjolras remained silent.

"You can be uncooperative if you wish. That is the more painful of the two ways, I can assure you. And what a shame it would be to mar that pretty face." The tone of voice he said it in, however, made it clear that he didn't have any problems with marring Enjolras' face.

Enjolras showed no sign of hearing anything the man had said. His stomach gurgled slightly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since a hurried lunch the day before.

Standing, the man looked down his (quite long) nose at Enjolras. "Very well then. I shall see you soon."

Opening the door, he left. The lock turned.

Enjolras rolled his neck, cracking it. He was already stiff. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.

-:-

Grantaire stood up. Exhausted, he dragged himself back to his room. Falling onto the bed, he closed his eyes. Before he could think, he was asleep. When he woke up, at first he didn't realize he had been asleep. But within a few moments, he sighed and got up. Pulling a comb through his hair, he gave up after trying for thirty seconds to yank out a knot. He splashed water on his face, rubbing his red eyes. All this was done in less than five minutes.

Walking into the station, he met a man. He knew him, or at least his rank. Higher than Grantaire's.

"Sir," he said, nodding his head.

"You knew the agent called Apollo?"

Grantaire's mind spun. Knew. Past tense. Swallowing and mentally preparing for the worse, he nodded. "Yes."

"He's been captured, as I assume you know."

Nodding again.

"Currently, he is being held in the Chateaux de Bordeaux. Bordeaux Castle."

Grantaire's head snapped up. "He's still alive?"

"As far as we know. We have an informant, but it is unlikely that they will be able to get back into the place. Just thought you should know." The man turned on his heel and walked away.

-:-

The cell door opened with a resounding clang. Enjolras hastily sat up, blinking several times at the sudden light.

"Barrière?"

Recalling that this was the name he had told them, Enjolras fixed a steely glare at the man and nodded ever so slightly.

The man walked forward and grabbed Enjolras by the lapels of his shirt. Enjolras scuffed his boot backwards and stood up. He was still shorter than the man was.

"What do you want?" Enjolras asked, hoarsely.

"Information."

"No."

The man slammed Enjolras down. Turning around, he grabbed his arm. Enjolras, tired and stiff, was helpless to resist.

A needle, or something thereabouts, was positioned underneath the left thumbnail of the man's captive.

"Tell me your real name, and your operating name."

Enjolras winced as the needle was poked slightly under his nail. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes. "No," he said, breathing heavily.

"Very well."

Slowly, the man pushed the needle under Enjolras' nail. The pain was excruciating, and Enjolras moaned loudly as he clenched his muscles.

"Are you ready yet?"

"No." Enjolras spat the word, slightly breathless. His eyes, he knew, shone with pain, but he blinked away the wetness and

The man twisted the needle, causing even more pain. Enjolras screamed, arching his back, a plea for it to stop. The guard scoffed at him, and Enjolras opened his eyes enough to glare. Remember the real enemy. Not the pain- the pain he could live with. Defy. Defy. Always defy.

He screamed words. Defiantly, Enjolras began to scream the words to the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. This earned him a cuff on the ear. The man wore a ring, and it cut him. Warm blood dribbled down Enjolras' face, but he smiled lazily. For now, he had a victory.

The needle came free, and Enjolras sat, panting. He had not given anything away.

The man smiled wanly and came back around to the front of Enjolras.

"That was just the beginning. Continue this noncompliance, and it will get much, much worse, believe me."

Enjolras had no problem believing what the man said, but he was determined not to say anything. He mustn't. The Resistance was more important than the life of one man, no matter what. He would delay his death, certainly. Anyone would. But it was inevitable that it would happen. Enjolras would die, if nothing else.

Well? Review, please!