When Enjolras awoke, his body was weak and limbs stiff. Rising to his feet, he found himself in a jail cell, the bars' thick black iron meant to prevent escape. But the lock on the door had been broken, the door creaking from the wind that came in through the barred window behind him. Outside, nothing could be heard but the wind, and Enjolras peered out the window as best he could to see how high up he was. Tilting his head, he found it difficult to gage but guessed around four stories up, too high for comfort.
Turning back to his opened cell door, he looked down at the pistol and saw cleaver in his hands. The pistol was loaded and managed to somehow hold all twenty bullets; he had little concerns of how to use the weapon, somehow finding it familiar to him. But the saw cleaver was something else entirely. The handle was long and curved slightly like a 's'. At the end of the handle was a gear that allowed the blade to transform from a short ranged weapon to a long ranged one. Practicing, Enjolras swung the cleaver, testing its weight and feel as the blade, and its row of sharp teeth sliced through the musky air in the prison. Then, by the force and strength of his arm, he transformed the blade as he thrashed it once, his strength forcing the gear into motion, and the blade extended out. He tested the long-range version too, the blade now double-edged, serrated on one side and sharp like a sword on the other. He flicked the cleaver back and forth, short to long, until he felt comfortable.
And out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. A messenger had appeared from within the floor of the prison, its body fazed, passing seamlessly through the floor before him. The tiny creature's gaping mouth formed a smile. Enjolras walked up to the messenger and knelt down before it. The messenger took hold of a piece paper that sat beside it on the floor, and it used all of its strength to lift the paper to him. Enjolras took the paper, a skeptical look on his face as he glanced between the messenger and the paper.
"Seek insight to transcend the hunt." It read.
"What does this mean?" Enjolras muttered, and he looked at the messenger who said nothing. The simple thing cannot speak. Of course not, Enjolras thought. Nevertheless, Enjolras tucked the paper away into the deep pocket inside his coat.
He left his unguarded prison cell and followed the torches that lit his way. No other cells occupied the room he was in, a tower, by the looks of the staircase that winded down and down. Having nowhere else to go, he cautiously followed the staircase, his shoes echoing as they clomped against the stone steps, his mind vaguely remembering, as if he had always known of this place, as he made his way to the next floor. More cells were before him, a row on his left and a row on his right, and still the torches lit his way. He was wary as he made his way across the dungeon, peering into the cells, his heart hammering so loud he sore it echoed off the walls. As he approached the last sections of cells, he could feel the relief crawling through his veins, and just as he passed into the view, a body rushed at the bars, its longs limbs reaching out—to grip him or tear him to pieces where he stood, Enjolras did not care to know—but still, the banging and the body scared and surprised him. He huffed and panted, staring at the creature behind the bars as he tried to swallow his fear.
"Fear," It croaked.
Enjolras's eyes narrowed, his eyes adjusting to the sharp contrast of orange light and deep darkness. The face of a man flicked in the light and in the shadows.
"Fear the blood," the mad said.
Enjolras stepped forward, gripping his weapons tightly, unwilling to let his guard down. "What?"
"Do not go to that place. You seek it. But you don't want to know its secrets. Don't go. Fear the blood."
Enjolras frowned, hesitant to take advice—if such ramblings could be consider as such—from a madman in rags behind a prison cell.
"Where are we?" He asked.
"Bastille."
Enjolras knew that name, a reaction in his mind that turned his memory, molded it, and he knew where he was. "Paris," he uttered, taking a step. But how could he have forgotten? What year was it? He remembered, 1832. But how could the Bastille still be standing? And with someone still inside?
And then that long hand managed to grab him, to pull him close, almost touching the iron bars. Startled and unable to bring himself to pull away, Enjolras could smell the breath of the man, and it made his stomach churn, bile threatening to move up his throat. It was a foul stench of rot, of decay, of a corpse. "The blood makes us human. Makes us more than human. Makes us human no more."
And then the man let him go and slinked away back into the shadows of his cell, and Enjorlas stepped away, panting, turning from the stench though is eyes remained locked on the cell, waiting to see if the man would reappear. He could still hear the man muttering incoherently, a frantic whisper in the dark. Deciding it best not to linger, Enjolras continued down the prison, the dampness and smell of musk and dirt filled his nose, made him cringe at such a smell. He remembered reading the events that had taken place in this horrid prison, the revolution that led to the Bastille's demise. This building, the symbol of monarchy's dictatorial leadership, the King's boot crushing the working class into the mud, ignited a rage Enjolras hadn't forgotten. And in this dream, witnessing this prison with his own eyes, his rage grew and he sensed there was something he should know, remember, something that touched his heart much closer than the events in 1789. But it was just beyond his mind's eye, unable to recall, a black empty hole in his memory that served nothing but to anger him further. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his frustration aside. He needed to focus on the task at hand, escape. He traveled down to ground level and could see through the barred windows to the courtyard alit by the torches. And across that courtyard was the gate that kept him from the rest of the city.
Groaning could be heard in the hall he stood, low moans that echoed off the walls as if a ghost were present. Upon scanning the hall, rows of cells and not much else, Enjolras prepared himself for whatever could come crawling out to greet him. He approached the only open cell, its door broken on its hinges and glanced inside to find another man, the jailer, laying face down on the stone floor.
"Help me," the jailer breathed, whimpering. "Anyone. Please."
Instinctively, Enjolras put away his weapons and went to the man, kneeling down before him. "Can you stand?" He asked.
"N—Not without help," he replied.
Enjolras gathered him up gingerly, his arm wrapped around his back, as he lifted him to his feet. Slowly they made their way back into the hall, and in the light Enjolras could see how bloody the man truly was, a large gash on his forehead and a three gaping, bloody wounds at his abdomen. He had been stuck well and good, and Enjolras swallowed, knowing the man's fate.
"What happened to you?" Enjolras asked.
"Monsters." The man shut his eyes, wincing, his teeth lathered red. "M—Murderous fiends. They came without warning… Destroyed this place."
Enjolras's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he looked back at the courtyard. He wanted to ask more, at least ask him his name, find some comfort in knowing that. But the jailer had no time for introductions and neither did he.
"T—T—Take me ou—out of here," pleaded the jailer.
He did as the poor soul asked, and the two slowly made their way out of the prison and into the courtyard, a dusted barren slab of stone that stretched from the towering building to the iron barred gate. His blood pumped and pounded through him, the slow walk now seemed like a trek as anxiety wormed through his veins. Something could come for them. They were vulnerable out in the open like this, and the dying man at his arm was slowing him down. But Enjolras could not think of leaving him, the terrified, defenseless man. But something could come, and he won't be ready for it, and not knowing what or when sparked a dread he knew he felt before. Was it death that terrified him so? He did not know, and that scared him.
Enjorlas could feel himself holding his breath, the man groaning at his side, tripping on his own feet as he struggled to keep up with him. Enjolras forced himself to be patient, to shove aside his anxiety. The Doll said he cannot be killed. He wished he could believe it. Dream or not, death is always certain.
They made it to the gate, and nothing had come, no monsters in the dark, no beasts, but Enjolras felt no relief.
"The keys." The jailer's voice was low. "Inside my… Coat pocket."
Without hesitation, Enjolras opened the man's coat, digging his hand into his pocket and pulled out a ring of many keys. He told him which key unlocked the gate, and Enjolras quickly shoved it into the lock on the door and listened as the key worked and the locked clicked open. Pushing open the door, the gate creaked and gave, signaling their freedom, and the pair walked out.
They walked into the street, carriages overturned and rotting flesh of dead horses not too far away Trash and debris, bits of stone from what must be the buildings and piles of wood planks lined the streets. No people roamed out this late at night—who would want to if the streets looked like this?—but there was such a stillness that it made Enjolras uneasy.
"Jailer, what happened here?" He asked.
There was no answer, and Enjolras turned his head to look at him. On his arm was a corpse, a gray, shriveled husk of the man, as dry as the hair on his head. In terror and disgust, Enjolras dropped the body and stepped away, staring at its eyes and nose and lips that had been eaten away. Had he been carrying a corpse all this time? What happened to the man that had spoke to him only moments ago? He was still alive as Enjolras brought him through the gate! Looking back, Enjolras expected to see the Bastille still standing, but instead stood nothing but a pile of stone and rubble, wooden beams charred and smoking, nothing left of the towers and the prison. And yet, the oppression it represented did not leave his heart, and that was something Enjolras managed to not forget. He glanced back at the corpse, and a wind blew over him that carried the foul stench of smoke and death. And with that wind he could hear as clear as the night, a low, haunting laugh.
Enjolras did not like to linger for long, forcing himself forward, forcing himself not to question this dream, this "Waking World", as the Doll had phrased it, as he found himself growing weary and his head aching. Still he pressed on, his weapons in his hands as he walked the street, guided by the light of the full moon. Red lanterns lit the windows and doors of the citizens' homes and flats, the color of the light incredibly odd, but more so was the smell of burning sage that came from the lanterns. He pondered them curiously as he continued down the street. A little ways away, he could hear laughter and people's voices coming inside one of the flats, its window guarded by a red lantern. He approached the window and knocked on it, hoping to gain someone's attention from inside. Perhaps someone could help him. And then the voices hushed and shushed until quiet. Enjolras knocked again, watching as shadows flashed and stilled behind the window curtains.
"Leave us be! You've caused enough trouble as it is!" A woman shouted from behind the window.
"Trouble?" Enjolras repeated.
"You and your ilk destroyed the peace of this city," the woman snapped. "Don't try to play innocent with me."
"Madame, please I don't understand—"
"You're a fool then," she said. "A dead fool."
And then the shadow in the window turned away, and all was quiet within the flat. Enjolras left the light of the window, and as he walked, the voices from inside rose again, laughter ensuing. Enjolras curled his hand into a fist, fighting off his anger. He continued on, further, deeper into the city, unsure of where he was headed. The streets he passed confused him, streets he knew never touched suddenly intersected, buildings and churches that never stood in this district of Paris now stood before him. His environment felt to him like a half-remembered dream. He closed his eyes, trying to remember all that he could of Paris, of home, and Enjolras could clarify nothing in his mind. He was in Paris, but Paris somehow had shaken itself, shuffled its streets and buildings as if to further confuse him.
Enjolras could not push aside his confusion. He hoped for answers from the citizens so neatly tucked away in their homes. He knocked on doors and windows with the red lanterns, and the few that answered him mocked him, blamed him for whatever madness he had entered, and sent him away. One lantern though, after knocking on the window, held within the walls of the house a woman who could not speak and only wept. No one would answer to him, leaving him to question all that had happened in this Paris, what it was that left them so angry, so terrified.
As he came to the corner of the street, his body tired and mind slow, clasping his weapons with more effort than before, he could hear coughing coming from the side of the house. Another red lantern, Enjolras thought as he approached the window, white curtains covering the inside of the glass. He thought best leaving it and whoever was inside as no one else in the city bothered to help him.
"Oh, are you a hunter?" Came a male voice.
Enjolras stopped, surprised to hear a friendly tone. He looked back and went to the window. "I am." He said.
"I'm Jehan."The shadowed figure at the window coughed.
"I'm Enjolras."
"Well, fellow hunter, I'm sure the Parisians here have offered you very little help."
"They have offered none to say the least," Enjolras replied.
"Cowards, the lot of them. You must have had a fine time of it. Incense in the lanterns keeps beasts at bay, but even that runs out. Once a hunter offers aid, they would rather cast blame." Jehan scoffed and then paused. "I cannot stand if I wanted to, but I'm willing to help if there is anything that can be done."
Enjolras, relieved to finally receive the help he so desperately sought, found himself at a loss for words. He had so much to ask, but his mind could not think of what to start with.
He finally said, "What's happened here?"
Jehan coughed in return. "This city is cursed. Paris is not like you remember. Whatever your reasons might be, you should plan a swift exit. Whatever can be gained from this place, it will do more harm than good."
He was quiet for a while, and Enjolras felt himself growing anxious, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for his voice again.
"Shortly after the failed revolution, after the last barricade fell at the Musain, people grew sicker, more so than the normal rate. And those who fell to illness became beasts. The poor fell first. But the plague is not bound to social classes. Not much else is known as to why we're suffering such a fate. It just is," Jehan coughed again harshly. "The government has abandoned us. Blocked us off from the rest of the world. We haven't received aid, and I doubt that we ever will. Those who managed to avoid sickness have become hunters. But out in the streets, I do not know how long that will last until they too are afflicted."
Enjolras thought over Jehan's words, attempting to piece together such a fragmented story. And then he thought of the Bastille, his skin crawling at the memory. "I was told 'fear the blood'. Have you heard such a phrase?"
"I can't say that I have," he rasped. "But if its blood you're interested in, you should seek out the good doctor at the clinic, if he's still alive. The clinic controls all knowledge of blood ministration. Across the Seine, on the eastern side of the city you'll find the clinic, that is, if your memory does not fail you."
"My memory?"
Jehan wheezed again, coughing fiercely and retching. He managed to choke out a feeble "good luck, my friend", and Enjolras stepped away from the window. He wanted to help him, perhaps offer some form of aid. But he had nothing to give. His heart grew heavy, a looming fear that Jehan's time was running out.
Turning the corner, in the middle of the street not too far from Jehan's house, was a solitary lantern. It seemed to have sprouted from the cracks within the ground, and messengers rose around it, basking in its faint white glow. Enjolras approached the lantern and knelt down to the messengers. They smiled at him, the odd little creatures. And then one took his hand and pulled him in to touch the lantern. And the world blurred and faded, just as it did when he entered the Waking World.