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Paris, 2034. Today, the president signed a law that allows the government to withdraw human rights in the case of an emergency. The move, which will take effect immediately, is designed to “save and protect our citizens in times of danger by entrusting their lives into our safe, capable hands.” Furthermore, the bill includes a paragraph detailing the approval of military and police forces to exercise the right to “take all actions considered necessary,” including and emphasizing “the extermination of possible threats,” as stated by the president's official spokesperson earlier this morning. The definition of said ‘threats’ refers to single persons and/or groups that show “suspicious behaviour” even during times of peace and normality.
There have been quite a lot of revolutionaries throughout history. They all believed in a better world, a happier tomorrow. They were motivated by their love for humanity and held strong to their pacifistic ideals. These were good people. Sophie Scholl, Louise Michel, Mahatma Gandhi...
Enjolras is a different kind of revolutionary. There is a fire burning inside him, a passion that pushes him over the edge. He wants to change the world - yes, of course - and he doesn't care how. No cost is too great, no life too important. He's mysterious, a shadow on the wall. He’s a phantom that stands by your bedside at night and whispers into your ear. And you? You wake up in the morning with this unexplainable presence in your room and an urge in your soul to go out and destroy. Some people say Enjolras is terrible, but truth be told, terrible doesn't even begin to describe him and his Amis.
His Amis, well, that's another story entirely. They are legendary, feared not only by their foes but by everyone. Jean Prouvaire was no exception; he feared them. That is, until he became one of them.
I have never seen "Volcanoes"—
But, when Travellers tell
How those old—phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still—
Bear within—appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men—
He woke up in a small room, the buzzing of the cold, neon lights like a swarm of bees in his head. Jehan touched his forehead, looking for the source of the piercing pain that was radiating through his body. He felt a bandage wrapped all the way around his head. He struggled to remember what had happened, but there was nothing left. Only darkness and pain.
“Sorry about that. Bahorel sends his condolences,” a cold, almost emotionless voice said, pulling him out of his thoughts. The pain was too great for Jehan to move his head around and find the source of the voice. Turns out, he didn't have to. There was the scratching sound of an iron chair being dragged across an iron floor and soon a young, blonde man was seated in front of him.
“Some random bus stops over the past few years, the Passerelle de Simone de Beauvoir in 2032, 'La Liberté guidant le peuple' last year - I really liked that one - and the Commissariat de Police de Gare de l'Est two weeks ago.” With every item he listed he tossed photographs of burned buildings or objects on the table between them. “You're good.”
“I try,” Jehan answered.
“Please, you're not trying. You're wandering around, lost, with a box of matches in your jeans pocket.” The blonde's eyes pierced into his, his look stern and sober. I know more about you than you do, it seemed to say. I know you better than you know yourself. And even though he had never met the man, Jehan knew that it was true. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to let him have that satisfaction. Jehan wouldn’t - couldn’t - let this man play with him. After all, everyone knows what happens when you play with fire...
“You don't know anything about me,” he tried to protest. Jehan refused to just give himself over to a complete stranger without at least trying to gain the upper hand. Years on the streets of Paris taught him that. Never let your guard down.
“Well, I know that you like poetry,” his opposite answered, as if it was the only thing worth knowing about Jehan. Weirdly enough, it almost was.
“Yeah, but that's not much.” Another lie. “Everyone knows that.”
“Who do you like?”
“Cummings, Plath, Rimbaud, the usual.” Jehan tried to be careful. He still didn't know who he was dealing with. One wrong answer and only God knew what would happen.
“So you like depressing poetry?”
Their conversation was tense. Neither of them moved, nobody dared to let their eyes slide away from the other man even for a second. There had been a time when situations like this would have completely destroyed Jehan. A time when the air had smelled of sunshine and flowers. A time when Emily Bronte and John Keats were songs swirling through his hair. A time when it was love that ran through his veins, not gasoline.
“They're not necessarily depressing. Actually, I find Cummings to be rather uplifting.” Jehan tried to sound confident. He couldn’t let this man know he was getting to him, couldn’t let his flame flicker.
“Sure, compared to Plath...”
“Yeah, but, I don't...compare him to Plath, I mean.”
“No...you don't. You compare him to your own life, don't you?” Shit.
Jehan remained silent.
“You think your life is more depressing than a Cummings poem?” The man seemed to be baiting him, pushing his buttons to see which ones set him off.
“No, not at all. I think my life's more depressing than a Plath poem.”
Jehan himself was startled at his own honesty. Shit, fuck, damnit! How did he do that? How did he get him to spill out all of his fucking secrets like that? Jehan's fists clenched; his back tightened. He didn't even know this man’s name. Hell, he didn't even know where he was.
The other man could tell Jehan was getting nervous.
“Oh, I’ve hit a soft spot, I see. Well, to be honest, that was my intention.” How could he be so emotionless, so cold, while he played Jehan like a fucking board game? Jehan, who had set a police station on fire. Jehan, whose arms were covered in cigarette burns. The boy who played with fire, who burned his way through life. And, more importantly, why didn't Jehan hate him for it? Why didn't he hate him for making him feel?
“I've got an offer for you. We know that you like fire, that you're talented. But we also know that you have no clue what you're doing with your life. So, here’s how it works: you give us your gift, we give you a purpose.”
Jehan snorted.
“I don't even know who you are. Why should I give you my life?”
“I'm Enjolras. We're the Amis. I think that's reason enough.”
Jehan let out a gasp.
“I'm in.”
If there was one thing anyone in and around Paris knew, it was that you didn't fuck with the Amis. They ask you to join them, you join them. Nobody had ever heard of someone who refused. It was common knowledge, after all, that they would kill you if you did. The boys and girls of that group were gods of destruction. Their routes were covered in blood. There may had been revolutions fought with words and wisdom in the past but their’s surely wasn't one of them.
There were rumours of them everywhere, whispered in alleyways and murmured in bars. Each one was more terrifying than the next. Words roamed through the streets - talk of two lovers, a man and a woman, whose fists were made of steel. They called them Bea and Ares, gods of violence and war. Others told stories of a ghost-like woman who entered their homes at night, robbed them, and left flowers on the places where their most valued objects had been. No one knew if those stories were actually true. Most people didn't want to believe, and yet, the risk was too high and the cost was too valuable to dismiss the stories all together.
“Good.” Still, Enjolras didn't show emotion. No triumphant smile, no hint of satisfaction. Jehan realised he did not only save his life by agreeing, he’d also sold it. To what, he wasn't quite sure. He didn't know if he even wanted to be sure.
“I'll get someone to show you around,” he said. And, without a second look at his new member, he left the room. Jehan didn't have to wait for long, though. Barely five minutes later someone entered the room, a man with messy, brown curls and a lively face. His tongue was pressed between his lips, just barely hanging out of his mouth. He walked without looking where he went, eyes fixated on a tiny piece of paper in his hands. Sighing, he rolled his eyes and put the paper back into his pocket. Suddenly, his expression went stern, an almost cartoonish seriousness taking over his features. He looked like a cute, little puppy trying to chase away a mailman from his property and failing miserably. Jehan almost wanted to smile.
“I'm Courfeyrac,” he said. “Do not forget my name.”