Little One.
AN: Heh. I know. This took so much longer to post, but I had all these assessments to work on for school, and that ended in a lot of late nights... which meant practically no time to write anything. But now I'm all done! (Don't worry! I didn't fall off any cliffs that just spontaneously appear out of thin ai -) So, chapter four! Another time skip. This time about ten years... Into the future, that is.
Disclaimer: Ah. Now, all of you, read that word. Yes, that's right! DISCLAIMER. And do you all know what a DISCLAIMER is? Good. Then I don't need to tell you. If you don't know what a disclaimer is... then go and ask The Doctor. He has a 51st century dictionary. He'll be sure to know!
Teenagers were not easy to deal with. Raymond had decided this long ago, just after Jean turned twelve. He had never imagined that he would be worrying this much over the boy four years later - Jean had always been, and still was, a very quiet and secretive young man. But right now Raymond was not only worrying: he was panicking.
The boy had completely disappeared. He wasn't hidden behind any books in his room, neither was he in the cellar, creating another one of his machines. There was no answer of 'Here, Raymond!' when he called the boy's name, no pattering of feet, no clink of a piece of metal being dropped. Then, in the living room, he had found the letter.
It was addressed to 'Mister Jean Descole', and the paper was damp. Raymond, just after looking at the envelope, felt his throat already tighten up with dread. He shook the paper open and read:
Mister Descole,
On behalf of the government organisation of Targent, I write to inform you of the restriction of our severely classified information to outsiders. Your inquiries are unable to be met. We ask you cease your demands or else suitable measures shall be taken. This is your only warning.
Signed,
Bronev Reinel, Commander of Targent.
As Raymond read the letter through, he first felt shocked at Jean's careless display of details, then worried as he read, over and over again, 'suitable measures shall be taken', and then, finally, he froze as his eyes rested on the signature at the bottom.
He knew exactly where Jean was.
Raymond swept his coat from the hook and stepped out into the bitter winter weather. The wind stung his face as he walked, or rather, 'ran', and the usually golden sunset was reduced to an ash grey behind the blanket of clouds. He strode down the street, up the street, past the Christmas specials and happy shoppers, and all the while he felt as though a part of him was crying with the boy just blocks away.
At this time of the evening, the park on the outskirts of London was deserted. Jean had come here often just after the news had reached them that his mother was dead - over a year too late. Raymond remembered the many sleepless nights he had been through, listening intently to hear whether Jean would sneak outside again. Of course, whenever the boy did slip away, Raymond would find him in exactly the same place every time: hidden in the bushes in the park. And every time Raymond approached him, the boy would look up and say, by means of an explanation; "I just didn't want to wake you." They both knew that what this really meant was: "I just didn't want you to hear me."
Only then, it had not been winter. It had been frightening enough - the concept of a seven - nearly eight - year old boy out on his own. But Raymond knew that Jean - now a teenager and too over-emotional for his own good - was more likely to do something very, very, stupid.
The empty swing to his right creaked ominously as Raymond slowed to a wary walk. He veered off the path and to the right a few steps past the playground slide, and slipped into the bushes that were clumped there. He let out a long, slow breath of relief as he caught sight of Jean, curled under one bush, eyes like smoldering ashes - a sight Raymond had now forced himself to get used to.
The man slipped down beside the teenager and looked at him for a while, before murmuring, in a gentle, soft voice; "I'm sorry."
Jean sniffed, "I should have guessed," he said, and his voice was strangled.
Raymond shook his head sadly. "Nobody could have imagined it. Stop being so hard on yourself, young one. Your father -"
"My father is dead," Jean hissed through clenched teeth, "He died the day he became a part of those... those monsters. That man," he continued, voice wavering, "That man who we saw at my house all those years ago, that man who the others called General..." His voice trailed away, but then his head snapped up, and Raymond was made to look right back into those fiery eyes.
"You knew," The boy breathed, "You knew it was him the whole time, even then -"
"Now," said Raymond sternly, but not unkindly, "Just wait a moment -"
But Jean was already inching backwards, away from him, "You knew this whole time," the boy repeated dazedly, his eyes - an inferno of rage and sadness - now filling up with betrayal as well.
Never had Raymond felt so hurt before.
"Listen," he began, "Just stop and listen, please -" but Jean was shaking his head, looking more than ever the lost and confused child that he really was, darting backwards all the while.
Raymond choked back his welling sense of regret and grabbed Jean's wrist, effectively stopping him in his tracks - the boy froze, staring straight at him "I suspected," the man said slowly, and with great emphasis, "That he could have been your father. Suspected. I didn't have any proof, Jean, and I thought it... unlikely..." Raymond let his voice fade into the frosty air, and for a moment the two gazed unblinkingly at the other. Then Jean seemed to go limp.
"He's dead," the teenager whispered, and then the anger returned. "He's a monster, Raymond! He threatens people, he has an army there at his command to do everything for him on a whim - and he's killed people, Raymond! I've read about what he's done, and back then I didn't know... I didn't think him capable... I didn't..."
Jean raised his head from his knees.
"I didn't think."
And he was running, dragging Raymond up with him, out of the bushes, through the park gate, back up the considerably quieter street, and then they stopped. Jean looked up - only slightly - at Raymond, expression desperate and confused.
"What are you doing?" the boy cried, "We need to hurry! Don't you realise what I've done? They know my name now! They know... they could know everything! Raymond, our house -"
Raymond nodded. "They know your name," he muttered darkly, "But Jean, you didn't give them our address?"
It was barely a question at all, more of a statement, but the teenager could tell that Raymond wanted a reply. "I didn't," he said warily, "I gave them our public postal address. I picked the letter up from the post office." Raymond nodded, and then pointed down the street.
"Well, Targent can certainly move fast."
A group of men in uniforms were moving up the street, stopping passers by and asking questions. Jean's gaze sharpened, and his breath hitched. Then he began to tug Raymond up the hill again.
"We need to get the book!" the boy hissed, dashing unwanted, angry tears from his eyes, "If they really are looking for me, then they'll find our house and the book. And the book is the thing that they need." Raymond must have looked incredulous, for Jean had added, in a defiant voice, "We can't let them win."
And for that split second, Raymond saw the six year old boy standing in his old living room, telling him that 'Evil people aren't supposed to win'.
The expression on Jean's face right now was identical to the one that he had worn ten years ago. Raymond found himself, as though in the midst of a dream, nodding slowly, and allowing himself to be dragged along behind the desperate teenager.
Then a vision flashed before his eyes of a man, hidden behind a mask, wearing that exact same expression.
"Your views on world domination disgust me."
Raymond shook himself from his stupor with a start, already feeling like something was going to go wrong.
The two of them reached the house, and the door was unlocked, just as Raymond had left it. Jean raced upstairs, and there was silence for a full minute before there came a shout:
"No, no, no!"
Raymond's eyes narrowed as Jean came back downstairs again, face scrunched in concern.
"It's gone," he informed Raymond with a panicky edge to his words, "It must have been taken!"
Despite himself, Raymond let out a shaky, relieved breath. "If you can't find it, they never will. It's not the book they want, Jean, it's the person who asked whatever questions you asked. You're a risk to their organisation!"
The was a click behind them. "Quite right," a said a gruff voice, "Now turn around, nice and slow. Both of ya."
Raymond got a quick glimpse of the absolute burning fury and contempt etched into Jean's face before he spun on his heel. Two beefy men stood, just out of the shadows of the wall. One held a gun, and the other held Jean's precious book.
"Why, you -" the teenager started, but the first - and bigger - man cut him off.
"So you're our little problem," he sneered, "Well, I expected you to be older."
"And I expected never to have the chance to speak with an ape," Jean shot straight back. Raymond closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths. When he opened them again, both men were glaring.
"Watch your tongue, boy," said the first man, his face reddening - with rage, embarrassment or both, Raymond couldn't tell. "You have no idea what we're capable of."
Jean clenched his fists. "Oh, don't I?"
The second man finally spoke up. "Let's just get this over with. Shoot the brat and leave. Maybe the other one as well."
Raymond felt his gaze harden as a spark of fear lit in his heart, and he glanced at Jean, trying to convey as much of the word 'run' in his gaze as possible. But the teenager was doing something entirely unexpected: he was relaxing, allowing every inch of tension that had been there before to slip away. Raymond stared, wondering what the boy could be planning now.
"Get outside with the book," the first man ordered the second, "I'll finish 'em off." The second man nodded, and he was about halfway across the room before Jean sprang.
The boy leapt over the second man's head, kicking him squarely in the nose as he went. The man went down without a sound. Jean spun to meet the other, who was slack-jawed with shock, but a little more prepared as Jean leapt forward again. Raymond resisted the urge to cover his eyes as the first man fumbled with the gun for a moment, before firing a few shots. They missed, and soon the first man joined the second on the floor. Jean looked up at Raymond with a half smile.
"I knew that it would come in handy," he said, and scooped the book up from where it had been dropped on the floor.
Raymond shook his head slowly, as though trying to shake Jean's hard expression from his mind, wanting to ask him where and how he had learnt all that. "We'll need to move to the office," Raymond said instead, referring to the rather spacious flat he had purchased years ago. Just in case, he remembered himself thinking, "Pack as much as you can. We never know when those men we saw on the street may come up, or when these two will wake up."
The teenager glared down at the two prone forms on the floor, and then left. But Raymond was almost sure that he heard the boy mutter: "Not for a while."
The next few minutes was a rush of stuffing suitcases with as much as they could find, clanking down the stairs, up the stairs, and then forcing the suitcases into the back of their rather small car. Raymond knew that he had never felt this nervous, but Jean seemed the exact opposite. The more the boy stalked past the living room and the foot of the stairs, the more his expression hardened, until it reminded Raymond of a mask - a mask of calculating calm.
The moment they pulled out of the driveway, Raymond allowed himself to relax. Beside him, Jean kept his cold mask over his features. But the man's relief was short lived as they rounded the bend -
To be stopped by Targent soldiers.
Raymond tried to keep his panic from showing as he rolled down his window. A thin, scraggly looking man approached the car.
"Sir," the man said in a no-nonsense tone, "Do you happen to know of anyone who goes by the name 'Jean Descole'?"
Raymond swallowed, "Can't really say that I do," he said, forcing an apologetic smile, "Sorry."
The Targent soldier was still and silent for a moment. His eyes drifted over Jean, who refused to look anywhere but ahead, and then he nodded.
"Continue," the soldier said sharply, and the men in front of them stepped away. Raymond smiled as much as his nerves would allow, and the car trundled off, leaving the group of Targent officials behind. Beside him, Jean let his mask slip.
"They're like animals!" he snarled, "Like dogs kept on a leash, until let loose by their master!" The teenager spat this last word out like poison. Raymond, who had finally calmed his frantic heart, blew out a long, slow breath.
"You know that you cannot go by 'Jean Descole' anymore, young one," he began, but Jean interrupted.
"It's my name, Raymond! I can't just drop it!" The boy probably sounded harsher than he meant to, but Raymond ignored this.
"I didn't say that," the man continued patiently, "Or at least, I didn't mean it. Now that Targent's after you under that name, you'll have to use another one when dealing with... more public matters."
"Done," Jean snapped in an annoyed tone, "We can use the one that I use for school. Simon Foster. Easy enough."
When the two had arrived in London ten years ago, Jean had insisted that Raymond enroll him in school under a different name to 'Jean Descole.'
"Two names mean that I can change whenever I like!" the boy had told him seriously when Raymond asked Jean why he wanted this, and even back then, Raymond had seen the glimmer in the boy's eyes. It made the man feel as though Jean had a lot more reasons than he was letting on.
Over the years, Simon Foster and Jean Descole became two very different people. Simon Foster continued to excel in everything there was, but had a special love for archaeology. At home, Jean Descole was into science, building all types of contraptions and testing different theories. Raymond had always thought that having these two names was absolutely pointless, but had relented anyway to calling Jean 'Simon' while at school.
In the last few years, the two names seemed to be for a purpose other than to give Jean two personas. With 'Simon Foster' now in his final year, having being excelled two grades, there was an obvious goal meaning to be reached. However, Jean - or Simon - had not told Raymond what this goal actually was.
Raymond glanced sideways at the boy with a thoughtful expression. "And this has something to do with your eventual career, yes?"
Jean didn't look at him. "Perhaps."
"Are you going to tell me?" Raymond already knew the answer to this one. He had asked it many times before.
"Will I need to?"
AN: Ahem. So, that's one way to end a chapter. Please tell me what you think! After not writing for so long I feel as though my writing quality has deteriorated. Oh, and sorry about how short this chapter is. But I think that the length of the last chapter was a bit of a one-off. Thanks to all of those who read!
Peace is a blessing, so treasure it always!
Noe.
