The Bounty Hunters Of Paris
Part Twenty One - The Real Paris Blues (Act I)
Can you believe how long this fic has been going on for? It's crazy. But I said I'd finish it. Oh yes.
Ok. Now things get back on track. Somehow, the bounty hunters have to deal with the students, who really have ventured into the world of work by now. Why on earth did they make Grantaire the Mayor of Paris?? Maybe you shall find out.
Paris. Yes, Paris. You know the place. Not the kind of city that takes things lying down. When there is unrest, a surge of rebellion, the stench of revolt, it will listen and observe. And when it is truly moved by what it witnesses, it will take action in the most mysterious of ways.
In some respects, Enjolras WAS Paris. Attractive, exciting, yet with a timeless quality and strength of character unrivalled by any other city ... or person. Born to lead, born to be a saviour and a martyr. There was never a flicker of uncertainty in his pretty eyes, nor a stumble in his forceful stride. And he took action when necessary, no matter what the obstacle. Even if the obstacle is a three foot thick stone wall and a swarm of prison guards.
Feuilly and Joly, who had by now been forced to discard their aliases, sat glumly in their cell. They huddled in one corner, trying to be as physically far away from their filthy cellmate as possible. Babet grinned at them, albeit with more empty space than teeth.
"How did we come to be in this horrid place?" Joly asked.
"I ... really can't remember. It's been too long. My memories have been eaten by the rats and the stench!" lamented Feuilly.
"This place i'nt so bad! It's a lovely sunny ice-cream in the cool tide, dipping our feet in Nice and licking a beach ..." Babet croaked with pride, despite having unsuccessfully quoted Eponine from her experience in the very same cell. He had been practising this phrase over and over for a couple of months, and after the words had become mangled in his head he had thought this was exactly what she had said. The four walls of his current abode dizzied the mind. They had, however, the opposite effect on the two students, who now cowered from the madman Babet. Their twisted thought-patterns as fishermen of the Seine, brought on initially by the strange experience of resurrection (and then developed into an act of sorts), were straightened out by the sobering effects of jail. For the first time since that day at the barricades, they felt afraid. Both the light and the darkness were threats, their sanity tested by the monotenous ranting of their neighbours.
"One more day ... and I may have to bash my head against this wall and hope my brains leave my skull." Feuilly said, running his fingers along the cold partition. Joly would have protested, had he not privately agreed with his friend.
"Perhaps we have entered Hell after all." he merely stated, unable to offer any more words of comfort. He blinked as Babet began to twitch.
"Lookit!" the prisoner cried out gleefully, contorting his body so that his legs wrapped around his head.
"Maybe I should start that head-bashing thing right away." Feuilly said.
Paris. Again. A place that was feeling a little down in the dumps. Its fighting spirit would never die, yet loyalty, morality and everything inbetween were things that were only temporary. They were, as happened in a periodic fashion, absent for the time being. No one really knew what was going on anymore. But then, with Grantaire as the Mayor, what did you expect?
He had employed some art students from the Academy to decorate the city, but he failed to offer any design specifications. Large displays appeared on plain walls, with seemingly little point other than to show how great Paris was. Couples dancing in front of landmarks, the sun always shining, the stars always bright. This was not, however, a reflection of how it was; it was the dream of the future.
Combeferre grimaced each time he caught sight of these. Especially the latest, which was conveniently visible through Grantaire's office window.
'Such a disgusting sight ...' he thought privately, while giving the Mayor a false smile.
"Now, we need to discuss the new policy on -" he said before being interrupted.
"You're so boring! Unless this policy of yours includes wine or beer." Grantaire raved. Combeferre's glasses glinted.
"Unfortunately ... not." he admitted. It was only then that he detected a strange sound, ever increasing in volume and ... was that anger?
"You know, I liked you a lot better when you only talked to Enjolras about your theories on this and that and the other. Can't you see I just wanna ... sit?" Grantaire said, standing up and sitting back down again to illustrate his point.
"Now may not be a good time to sit -"
"You're just jealous because there isn't a chair on the other side of the desk! Oh wait, there is ... why didn't I notice that ... hahahaha."
Combeferre, no longer a part of the conversation, was peering out of the window and into the street below.
"I think you should have a look at this." he said quietly.
Combeferre, it appeared, was not the only one riled by the new artistic ventures that were appearing in Paris. In retaliation, they did what they did best; a mob formed, and snaked its way through the narrow lanes of the poor districts, eventually converging on the small plaza by Grantaire's office. The ringleader, a gruff-looking man with what appeared to be pajama bottoms on, bellowed upwards.
"COME ON OUT, MISTER MAYOR!"
Even Grantaire registered the meaning of this. They were looking to have a good old mini-revolution.
"Oh jesus, Combeferre, I'm Marie Antoinette!" he groaned, holding his fuzzy head in both hands.
"Well, you do own a pretty dress." Combeferre said coolly. "The old mayor seemed to like you wearing it, at any rate."
Moment by moment, Grantaire was experiencing a painful sensation; he was becoming sober. Everything would soon come into harsh focus, and he would have to make informed, rational decisions. He'd have to be - god forbid - he'd have to be COMBEFERRE.
With this in mind, Grantaire shuffled out onto his office balcony, glancing down at the masses below. Their clenched teeth and raised (home-made) weapons said it all. And so, without a word, the Mayor bowed before them, trying to embody a regal kind of humility. At first, he was confident that it was winning them over, judging by the amount of surprised gasps issuing from the crowd. But this was short-lived. This was Soberland at its most terrifying.
"What the hell is that???!" someone cried out, prompting everyone else to react as well.
"Are you trying to mock us??!" The Pajama-man shouted, seething with anger.
"All right, that's it!" Grantaire retaliated, and gave the crowd a rude sign involving one, single finger. Silence.
"Now. This is the thanks I get for making Paris a better place to exist? You people sure find strange things to rebel against these days. What happened to the important things, like freedom of speech and liberty? Where has your pride gone? We want to show how great this city is. You too can help in our quest for glory!" he said, his speech containing a selection of mis-quoted parts from Enjolras's infamous rallies. His audience seemed to be genuinely moved, or at least intrigued, by his words.
"And how do we do this?" a thin man next to the ringleader asked. Grantaire smirked.
"By painting MORE murals! More and more! And by making more beer -"
A stone hit him squarely on the forehead as the crowd raged again.
"You rotten animal!"
"You vile traitor!"
"You art-crazed idiot!"
"You snot-nosed brat!"
Grantaire tried in vain to deflect such insults.
"Hey! I may be an animal, a traitor and an idiot, but I am NOT a brat!" he growled, not even noticing Combeferre's quivering hand being placed on his shoulder.
"This is a losing battle." Combeferre croaked, his voice finding it hard to speak any more than that over the din. "What are you going to do now, Monsieur la Mayor?"
Grantaire, surprisingly, had a rather positive expression.
"I'm going to assume that something will happen to put an end to this." he said, and glanced back into his office where a lovely bottle of scotch was waiting for him, sitting seductively on his desk.
"You should know better than that." Combeferre said sternly, adjusting his glasses. "There is a less than 2 percent chance of -"
"GERROFF ME!" a cry rushed through the air, making both men on the balcony turn their attention back to the crowd. The ringleader was being man-handled by two others, one of which had grabbed him from behind.
"Now now, please do not make this situation any worse." the taller of the two said in a clear, deep voice.
"Can't you see that I'm striving for justice here??" the man wearing pajama-bottoms grunted, trying to wriggle free from his captor. The tall man winced.
"Justice ... all right, let us leave this place. Let your cronies here finish the job." he said in an irritated tone.
High above, Grantaire leaned over the balcony's railings, pointing down at the two men who had caused the distraction he had wanted.
"You! You are protectors of Paris. I shall give you some medals and stuff if you like." he grinned. They did not appear to hear him, or perhaps they didn't care.
"Come on, let's go. You're annoying, old man." the shorter of the two mysterious men sighed, pushing Pajama-man towards the edge of the mob. Everyone had quietened down, subdued by events they could not possibly have predicted. In the near silence, as they watched their leader being led away for an unknown reason, a young boy's voice rang out from the next street over:
"Breaking news! Prisoners have escaped following a daring rescue by what is believed to be their accomplice!"
Firstly, they were angered that THEY were not the breaking news. Secondly, the crowd began to murmur with concern.
"What are you going to do, Mayor?" someone yelled.
"I wish people would stop asking me that today! Fine, this is the deal." Grantaire gripped the railings and addressed the expectant Parisians. "If you all get the hell out of here, I will make sure those criminals are put back behind bars, and that the prison is reinforced to make sure it never happens again. You got that?"
"..." After a few nerve-wracking seconds, a ripple of agreement ran through the gathering. As some began to disperse immediately, Combeferre scanned the area for the Pajama-man and the strange men who had taken him to one side. He had left it too late, however, for there was no sign of those odd green and white striped trousers.
"They seemed too familiar for comfort." he said to himself. The men, you understand. Not the trousers.
Robert Prideux, as he was less commonly known, hated not being able to use his mouth. A piece of coarse cloth was covering his lips, making even the slightest sound in his throat hurt from exersion. He had to let his expressive forehead, reinforced with twenty or so frown lines, do the talking instead. Four faces, a peculiar variety, peered mockingly at him.
"Anyone who disturbs the peace has to get through us first." Courfeyrac said.
"Did you kidnap him from his bed?" Fantine scoffed, oblivious to the captive's feelings.
"No, this appears to be his usual attire." muttered Javert. Prideux chewed on the cloth in his mouth angrily. Who were these people, who dared to tie HIM up?? One minute he was voicing his opinion - no no, that of the masses - and the next he was in some dank basement. The tall, older man thrust a candle next to his face.
"What do you know about the new Mayor of Paris?" he asked, his eyes shining like ice.
"Mmmmmh hmmm mm yrmmm hm."
"Is he a crazy man?" the young girl questioned, prodding his nose with her forefinger. Sighing, Fantine wrestled the cloth from Prideux's jaw, backing away in time to prevent him from biting her hand.
"LET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!" he roared, a torrent of spittle flying into Courfeyrac's face.
"Not until you answer our questions." Javert told him frankly, as Courfeyrac dripped with both spit and comtempt.
"All I know is that he's worse than the last pervert who sat in the Mayor's office." Prideux growled, slouching in his chair. "No one even knows why he's there. I certainly didn't vote for him!"
"I'd be surprised if you even knew HOW to vote." Courfeyrac muttered, wiping his brow with his unfortunate sleeve.
"The whole of the city's officials are all new, you know. No one is sure where the old ones have got to. Some say they're in England; some say they were murdered and disposed of secretly. Is it so wrong for us to be suspicious?" Prideux had evidently calmed down.
"That actually makes sense." Fantine said, pouting thoughtfully. "And it also explains that strange letter."
"What strange letter?" their captive said, as if he was a part of the team. Fantine held it up, its scrawled contents dancing on the page by the light of the candle. It read:
PREFECT OF POLICE - 2000 francs.
MINISTER FOR BOUNTY HUNTERS - 2500 francs.
DOMESTIC SECRETARY - 3000 francs.
SECRETARY TO THE MAYOR OF PARIS - 1500 francs.
THE MAYOR OF PARIS - 5000 francs.
"I agree, it is very odd." Prideux acknowledged, rubbing his bearded chin with a hand. A hand ...
"Just when did you free yourself??" Javert exclaimed, scrabbling to restrain the man.
"Ahh, well you should have done your research more thoroughly. My old father was captured when he joined the storm which felled the Bastille, and learned a trick or two of how to escape. That is the only legacy he passed on to me ..."
"Shame he didn't pass on any fashion sense then!" Courfeyrac dived to wrap his arms around those awful pajama bottoms. As Prideux kicked him away and pushed Javert into the nearby wall, he smiled with menace at the two women.
"If you want to prevent yourselves from being enemies of the people, listen well." He bared his teeth, standing to his full, rather impressive height. "I would interpret that note as a description of bounties. If you can bring these pretenders to justice, we may not burn your house down."
"My house ..." Javert croaked, winded by his collision with the brick wall.
"Yes. Just look at what the power of the people have achieved in the past." Prideux said, before making a break for it. Fantine, her dextrous self as always, whipped out a pistol and bopped Prideux on the back of the head with it as he passed. Stumbling, he lurched for the stairs. Like a monkey, Eponine leapt onto his large expanse of back and dug her nails in hard. He threw his torso this way and that, causing her legs to swing about. Consequently, she kicked both Fantine and Courfeyrac clean in their surprised faces before being flung off. For such a hulk of a man, Prideux soon disappeared into the hallway and out of the house, picking up speed as he ran down the street and scaring many bystanders by his wild appearance.
The bounty hunters, ashamed, picked themselves up and regrouped.
"Maybe he's right about the letter." Fantine said, one hand clutching the paper and the other nursing her bruised cheekbone. "If that's the kind of money they're asking for, then I'd go to the Mayor's office this very minute."
"But why would the Minister for Bounty Hunters be on the list if this was the case?" Javert pointed out. Eponine's shoulders fell dejectedly. She hated puzzles.
"Well, I do know that Mr Pajamas was wrong about one thing." Courfeyrac said whilst searching for something cold to place on his swollen eye.
"Which is ...?" Javert asked.
"The power of the people is truly a dream. It is, even if it is not obvious, down to the power of one, whether they win or lose, succeed or fail." Courfeyrac then laughed. "Or, in this case, the power of four."
Enjolras placed two generous servings of whisky on the bar, which had been polished up to its former glory. He brushed his long, wavy bangs from his eyes and smiled warmly at the two, shaking young men before him.
"Were you expecting to rot in that horrid place?" he chuckled, resting his elbows on the bar.
"Oh yes, that would have been an unfortunate way to go." Feuilly said, downing his drink in one gulp. "Our room-mate was insane."
They were covered in dust, clouds of which Joly occasionally coughed up. Enjolras had coolly escorted the two convicts to their old base, in which he actually spent the majority of his time. He believed that, as the centre of their original campaign, he would never forget what they were ultimately striving for.
"Well, all that matters is that we caught up with you when we did." the blonde man said. "Amnesia is truly troublesome. Although, it was an excellent basis for hiring you both as my Special Agents."
"I know what you're getting at." Feuilly grinned, nudging Joly who was busy checking his tongue in the mirror behind the bar.
"Ah, yeah. You wanted to know about Courfeyrac." he said, his tongue retracting into his mouth. Enjolras nodded with collected eagerness.
"But first, tell us this." Feuilly cleared his throat. "If you wanted us to keep tabs on him, why did you send three of our brothers round to the Cop's house?"
"..."
"Can you not explain, Enjolras?" Feuilly tried again. Their leader's fine eyebrow (likely plucked, although it could have been naturally perfect) noticably twitched.
"They took a direct approach. I did not instruct them to do so." he said, pouring himself a drink. "Besides, it was not Courfeyrac that they were interested in."
Joly blinked multiple times, and looked over at his partner.
"Who did they really go to find, then?" he asked slowly.
"The woman." Enjolras replied.
Fantine's head appeared through the hole in the basement floor. Eponine, busy at her work-bench, did not even notice.
"What are you doing?" the older woman asked, drumming her fingernails on the dusty floorboards. She had only ever been up to visit Eponine a couple of times, and each time the pile of weird objects and contraptions next to the bench had been larger, higher and more colourful.
"Preparations." was the reply. This was unsatisfactory.
"For?"
"Whatever comes our way, Trigger." the girl said slowly, concentrating on the motion of the needle in her hand. She appeared to be sewing. The glint of the needle caught Fantine's eye, and she hauled herself up to get a better look.
"A new outfit? Ohh, do tell me that it's for me!" she smiled broadly, clasping her hands together.
"... nope." Eponine said. "It's for me."
Fantine's shoulders slumped, and a pout formed on her rouged lips.
"Selfish ..." she said, rather hypocritically, and was about to storm away to complain to Courfeyrac or Javert (whoever she found first).
"But yours is hanging up on the back wall." Eponine motioned in the corresponding direction with her head. Whirling around, Fantine caught sight of it. It was ... well, it looked rather modern. The ensemble consisted of a dress and a riding jacket, made of velvet and satin of rich purple, white and black. The effect was rather striking.
"You seem to have a history with lighter colours - but I think these suit your image better." Eponine offered her opinion whilst turning around in her chair. "And wait until you see what it does!"
"What it ... does? This clothing ... does things?" Fantine asked, stepping over to the garments to inspect them closely. Sure enough, what she had originally thought of as straps on the bottom of the jacket were actually gun holsters - rather feminine gun holsters, but that sort of unpredictable quality was pleasing to her.
"All right." Fantine said, rubbing her fingers over the soft velvet, "Show me all the tricks you have installed. Seems as though I'll be needing some soon enough."
"And he handled the situation ... in rather a slap-dash, random manner." Combeferre read from his clipboard, concluding his daily report to Enjolras. The blonde man, his slender hand raised to his face, let out an amused puff of air.
"That sounds like the Grantaire we know and love." he said, bemused.
"At least he quelled the disturbance." Combeferre said. "I do not doubt that the people shall raise an objection again, however. If only we could spread a message, to let them know it is all for their own good."
Enjolras considered this point, his forefinger rubbing his sharp chin. The reason why they had gone incognito this time around, or mostly incognito, was because they had learned from their past mistakes. He was not willing to let this mysterious second chance go to waste.
"In that case, it is time for Plan B." he concluded.
"Plan ... B? But we don't have a -"
"We do." Enjolras interupted his comrade. "Because I just thought of it."