Hmm, maybe I should take the lack of reviews (except one - thank you, LesMisLoony!) as a sign that I should drop this story. Do you think? Hmmmm . . . nah.

Now, I've got some warnings/notes for those of you who have decided to read my next installment (kudos to you, by the way):

Numero 1 - This story is AU, so some things have been altered to fit the little weird universe this is set in. For example, Valjean's prison term has been changed from nineteen years to thirteen years. If you really want to know why I changed it, send me a message. If you really couldn't give a crap, good for you.

Numero 2 - I know that, though not all that specified in the book (I think), the "prison" is really a ship. While I have made ship references here, the majority of the prison part of the story takes place in a prison on terra firma, for reasons that you will probably figure out as you read.

Numero 3 - I am REALLY not familiar with the warden hierarchy in 19th French prisons, so some titles may be inaccurately applied. Please forgive me, I was too lazy to do that much homework. Isn't college bad enough, Okay, bad excuse. If you do know the proper titles and what-not, feel free to inform me.

Numero 4 - Yes, there are OCs here, so please do not take without permission. As far as I know, there will be no Mary-Sues. If you encountered a character that resembles a Mary-Sue, feel free to inform me about that, too. Be specific. Don't just say, "Ugh, Mary-Sue, blah!" Specific details are what allow me to improve the story.

Numero 5 - There is no Numero 5. Just enjoy the story! And REVIEW! Thanks.

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A sharp, metallic clang made my eyes open. "24601?"

I didn't bother sitting up. "What is it?"

A middle-aged guard with tiny eyes addressed me through the bars. "Are you prisoner 24601?"

"Who wants to know?"

"That's him, all right," snorted another guard from behind the first. "The smart-aleck. Think you're so tough, don't ya?"

"What do you want with Jack?" asked one of my barrack-mates, Brevet. It was not a question of concern, merely of curiosity. He was more of a gossip than an informer, if you asked around.

"We've got orders to take 24601 to the east-end annex. M. Richelieu wants to see you."

Brevet and I both started at the name. "Richelieu?" For my first five years at Toulon, Richelieu had been little more than a legend – a myth, even – among prisoners and guards alike. When the mysterious name first reached my ears, I thought it was a nickname. "No," Brevet told me one day when I asked him about it, "That's his rightful name, all right. Kind of a joke on the old fellow, don't-cha think?"

No one in my barracks had ever seen him. From the ambiguous rumors we heard about him, we could only surmise that he was wealthy and he held a lofty, sinecure position somewhere within the prison. He might have been the one who wrote letters to the Paris prefecture to ensure for funds and such like. Some people doubted his existence, including myself. Others whispered that he was a crazy old bat. Either way, there was very little fact on which to base our assumptions, so it became a good topic for discussions and debates when boredom (of the brain, not the body) nearly drove us mad.

Never had I imagined that I would be summoned by that man of whom so much was spoken but so little was known. I couldn't even begin to wonder why on earth he wanted to see me.

"It must be for something pretty bad," remarked Brevet with a grin as I was escorted from the cell. "He'd only want to see you if you had been awfully good or awfully bad, and you ain't exactly Toulon's 'model citizen.'"

That was true enough. I just returned from solitary confinement, where I had been punished for my second escape attempt the previous week. My sentence had been bumped up from three years to eight. Perhaps this summons was a special reprimand from a high-ranking official who had the power to make my life even more miserable if I dared to cross the line again. Preparing myself for the worse possible scenario, I allowed the two guards to lead the way without a fuss. The bitter fire than usually burned within me had been quieted, though not completely extinguished. I was biding my time, always silently observing and plotting, but now waiting for the best opportunity to present itself.

The grim stone walls of the prison had done well to drive away what gentleness had once been in my heart. In this place, you had to make yourself as hard as the rocks in the quarries – that determined survival. Gentleness was weakness in the eyes of convicts and wardens, one that earned constant harassment and cruelty.

The memory of my family had half-faded away, and thinking of them only made me homesick. How were they to survive without me? Henri had passed away, so there had been no breadwinner. Being young, rash, and unemployed, I became increasingly desperate to provide for my sister and her children. My only hope in feeding my starving family came to one option: stealing. It was a loaf of bread, and I was caught. Now I paid the price for trying to feed my loved ones, and in the process was separated from them. The more time I brooded on these thoughts, the more scornful and reclusive I became. Youth kept me reckless when I came to Toulon, although I had spent my first day in that place bawling. I became alert to every possibility of escape. I was no better at that than at the crime I was imprisoned for, a lesson I only learned after being caught fleeing over prison walls a second time. Now, at the age of thirty, I was finally learning patience.

It did not take the wardens long to become wary of my actions. Even when I was not making escape attempts, I proved my incredible strength enough times to make them a bit nervous and label me as a "dangerous devil." I figured that I was capable of snapping a man's arm or neck, but I made a point of never flaunting my strength, nor employing it to its limits unless it proved absolutely necessary. It did not take me long to learn that one's assets are most useful when everyone else is not entirely sure of what they are. If a person does not know your strengths, they cannot pinpoint your weaknesses.

I silently walked with the guards, not looking at either of them, and telling myself that I could handle whatever they had in store for me. Our stroll seemed to take us to another part of the country as we went through passage after winding passage, and I should not have been surprised when my legs and feet began to ache. I was nearly prepared to ask them how much further we had to go when we finally turned toward a door that seemed to signify the end of our trek. The guard who had first spoken to me approached the door and unlocked it with a small iron key. He then stepped aside and silently instructed me to go first. I obeyed, followed by the second guard, and then by the first. He firmly shut the door behind us.

What we entered struck me as an empty attic or spare room, lacking any furniture or ornamentation, with a wooden floor rather than stone one, and little cobwebs that were gathering in the corners. On the opposite side was another door. It looked like the entrance of an aristocrat's townhouse, with elaborate engravings and an impressive brass doorknocker. In front of that was an iron grate.

The first guard went up to the door, reached through the bars and banged the knocker loudly. I felt as if I were standing at the front door of someone's home, even though we were in a windowless chamber within a prison. After a minute or so, a slot above the knocker slid open, and a pair of luminous blue eyes peered through the square opening. "Name?"

"Sgt. Carmichel. We've brought the prisoner."

There was a quiet sigh followed by, "Quite right." The tiny door slid shut.

The guard who had referred to me as a "smart-aleck" suddenly asked, "Say, do you have the time?"

The sergeant pulled out the watch-and-chain from his uniform coat. "Yes, it's about . . . a quarter past three. Just when we said we would be here."

The large, heavy door gave a mechanical 'click', and slowly opened to reveal an image I would never forget.

A young man – no more than twenty years of age – stood before us in a calm, casual manner, with one hand placed on his hip and the other holding the heavy door ajar. He was 6' easily, with a slim frame, mahogany skin, and the most engaging sapphire eyes you had ever seen. Perhaps I was so startled by these features because they were accompanied by the uniform of a prison guard. There was something simply odd about this combination that worked against my normal pattern of thinking, though I barely realized it. He arched a black brow. "Is this the one?"

"Yes, number 24601," replied Carmichel flatly. I briefly glanced at the sergeant to note his behavior. He must have seen this fellow a time or two before, and thus was not affected by the youth's appearance.

I had barely turned my head and paid attention in time to hear the young guard say, "Ah, so you are Jean Valjean, are you?" He unlocked the grate and opened it. "Come in, Jean Valjean."

I was momentarily paralyzed. How did he know my name? Most of the guards did not take the time to know our names; they simply called us by our numbers. Many of my mates in the barracks and galleys called me le Cric, anyway, due to my useful strength. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed me by my full, proper name.

It only took me a few seconds to realize that my body had decided to go on without me, and when I fully recovered my senses, I was inside the next room. I did manage to observe the exchange between my escorts and the stranger, though. The older guards were beginning to follow me through the doorway when the youth stopped them. "Oh, do you wish to see M. Richelieu?" he asked innocently.

The wardens were a bit surprised by this, and the sergeant replied, "Well, if M. Richelieu wishes to see either of us . . ."

"Ah!" replied the youth almost cheerfully, "but you see, he doesn't." He closed the grate and door in their faces, and turned to walk by me. "This way, con."

A chill rushed down my spine as I looked ahead of me and beheld a sight that seemed to come out of a gothic novel. (I had only picked up a gothic novel long after my release from prison, but the visage spooked me nonetheless.) The breadth of the passage widened a few paces, and the low ceiling suddenly rose into a great arch and continued to linger thirty meters above my head till the end, or what I guessed was the end; the passage was swallowed by darkness. The floor was covered with an exotic, decaying carpet that extended as far as the hall did. There were two light sources present: the dozen candelabras that lined the dust-coated walls, and the candlestick that the young guard picked up from a small table, one of only two pieces of furniture in that hallway. The other, which caught my eye after the guard spoke to me a second time, was a grandfather clock. In the dim light, it took me several moments to see that not only were the hands not moving, but they were frozen at twenty minutes to nine.

"Stop loitering!" snapped the guard. "M. Richelieu does not like to be kept waiting."

Slightly startled by his harsh tone but not permitting myself to appear fazed, I turned to him. "Your clock's stopped."

There was a pause, and he without speaking, he took three steps toward me while holding up the candlestick, as if he were examining my face to see if I had gone mad. This employment of light also allowed me a better look at his face: his eyes seemed to glow a little in the darkness, as does a dog's or cat's when they catch just a tiny bit of light. His dark brows were drawn together, his lips tight and firm, his square jaw and chin jutting out from his collar. Although the young face tried to appear ten years older, the eyes – though precocious in lucidity – held a subtle touch of childlike curiosity. I could see that he had never dealt with convicts in this manner. Indeed, I wondered if he had actually been on barrack or galley duty yet, since I had never seen him before. I was not sure at what age men could enlist as prison guards. The youngest I had known up until that time were in their late twenties. This one . . . even for twenty, he still looked like a boy . . .

"Pardon?"

I started, and blinked several times. "What?"

His scowl deepened as he emitted an impatient growl. "What are you talking about?"

It was another few moments before I remembered what I had said just a moment ago. I reddened at my idiocy (and afterward thanked God for the darkness), then said, "Your clock – it should say a quarter past three. It says twenty to nine."

The lad held up the candlestick higher until it was very nearly in my face. "What business is that of yours? Now stop dawdling and come along, con."

Still a bit warm in the face, I walked in front of the guard and proceeded down the sconce-lined hall with the light of my escort's candles behind and to my right. His long strides forced me to keep up the pace so my heels would not be trampled on. I grew more uneasy as we walked, not completely certain of where my feet would land. My fears were justified when I took a step and felt no ground underneath. I stumbled backward and nearly bumped into the guard. "For God's sake, what is the matter with you?" he snarled. "It's just a staircase, even a convict can handle that."

The leg-arms made the descent more difficult than I believe could have been, but I highly doubted that this guard would be willing to remove them for my comfort. I wished that he could have been a bit more patient as I clumsily maneuvered my way to the bottom. I constantly feared that I would trip, keel forward and crack my head on one of the steps. If my mates had known that these thoughts and concerns were running through the mind of the man who was deemed the most dangerous man in their barracks and had made two escape attempts in five years, I would never have lived it down.

We reached even ground at last, and I would have given anything for a chance to sit down and rest my weary legs. The young guard, however, would have none of it; one look made me not dare to ask. There was no place to rest anyhow, as we were still in a hallway. To my momentary relief, though, I could see a door just a few meters in front of us. Then apprehension set in, and I realized that this was where that enigma – M. Richelieu – resided. The guard did not permit me to pause, but propelled me toward the door. When we came to it, he dryly stated, "This door, con."

My stomach began to twist itself into knots, and after a minute or two of staring at the door, I looked to the guard again. "After you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snickered. "I'm not going in."

Then he turned and departed, leaving me in utter darkness.

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Hehe, got a little Phantom-of-the-Opera-ish there. See you soon!