le_centre | OOM: An Adventure in the Making

Bossuet pats his hand where it grips his arm. "I promise you, friends, you have before you the very original Lesgle de Meaux, if not the original L'aigle de Meaux--"

This isn't producing the desired effect, if the desired effect is welcoming laughter. But before anyone can quite tell what effect is produced, the sound of gunfire bursts suddenly much closer. The fighters in the café react instantly, some dropping down to cover and some stepping to peer sideways from the windows.

One of the advantages of having experienced firefights first hand, is that the reaction to duck becomes instinct. Courfeyrac ducks behind a table without a second thought, and the smile on his face has turned fierce.

'Do you have more weapons?' he says to Nina. 'Come now, we will fight with you; if you do not believe it, let us prove it with courage. A rifle, a musket, a bayonet even! You must have supplies, mademoiselle.'

He does not stop to ask Bossuet his opinion, because he does not have to; when it comes to fighting for freedom, they are all of one mind. And Nina, glancing from the window to the two of them, looks uncertain, but the man with her appears more pragmatic.

'Let 'em,' he grunts, and raises his gun to aim out of the window. 'We need all the help that offers. If they come at us instead, we'll shoot 'em.'

Someone slides a pair of extra pistols at them, with a grunt that seems to confirm a general willingness to shoot "Courfeyrac" and "Lesgle" as needed.

"Grouchy lot," mutters Bossuet under his breath, as he has a look at the gun. It's...not really what he's used to. Presumably one can still point at something and fire, but--

"Christ, it's already loaded, do you think we're fucking around?" That's Nina's mother. Bossuet quails before her. Or anyway, he shuffles closer to Courfeyrac and nods in the direction of a window. They'll just try to be useful, shall they?

Courfeyrac's mouth falls open a little at that - a mother using such language? Not unheard of, of course, but still. She looked so respectable! He raises his eyebrows at Bossuet - yes, certainly they must try - and wriggles forward on his belly until he's free of the table. Then he moves into a crouch, and peers out of the window.

There is a column of men marching up the road. Their uniforms are unfamiliar, as are the shape of their helmets, and the style of weapon in their hands. But the formation is not so new.

And behind them...Courfeyrac nudges Bossuet, and gestures with his head. A giant green thing, and it doesn't even have wheels. It seems to slide on runners. But that thing sticking out of the front is absolutely a gun, and it is immediately obvious that the pistols in their hands are not going to be a match for it.

'I think I have read about those,' he mutters. 'Oh well. No matter what magic exists, I am still sure a man cannot die twice.'

And with that, he points his gun out of the window, aims it and fires.

"Definitely Paris," he murmurs in response to Courfeyrac's eyebrows.

The guns shoot astonishingly true, though there isn't much time to think about it once the soldiers start shooting back. Their guns are just as good.

If it weren't for the--tank!, Bossuet suddenly remembers--the fighters in the café would stand a fair chance at holding the location and scattering the enemy troops. And indeed, Lesgle is entirely game to hold the position as long as they can. There's something improbably comfortable about that familiarity. But as the tank turns towards them--turns its gun, that is--one of their new companions thumps him and Courfeyrac on the back and shouts in their ears, something about a cellar door and a fall-back point.

He shoots until the last second, because this is something he knows how to do - dare he say, even some part of it is fun, though that is likely because he has already died the once. And these guns are better, and their cover is inside an actual building, so surely their position is good.

But then the machine turns its giant gun in their direction, and dead man or not, Courfeyrac has to fight to swallow the ball of fear that crawls up his windpipe. He shoots until the pistol shoots empty, and then someone hits him on the back and starts to yell, and yes, a fall-back point would seem prudent at this juncture.

He and Bossuet seem to go through the door together, and as they do there is an almighty BOOM and the walls and floor shake as though the ground is going to crack open. He scrabbles to close the door after them...

...and wherever the are now, it is rather quieter than the place they have left behind.

It's true. Some part of it is fun. This is a much better gun than Lesgle has ever handled, and the noise and the fear have his heart racing in a way it hasn't since he died. So when they tumble through the door into something like quiet, he almost (almost) regrets it. (Or maybe it's the sudden space to think about what they were just doing.)

He scrubs his faec with one hand. "Now what?"

Courfeyrac pushes his curls out of his eyes, and looks around. Paris, yes, to be sure. They're back on the street again, and he thinks he recognises the area. He can smell the river again.

But that'll have to wait a moment, while he hastily puts his gun away. There are people looking at him strangely, and he does not want to be accused of trying to kill someone.

'Paris,' he says, to Bossuet. 'This Labyrinth seems to like the place. Well, I have no objection to that; I have always been fond of it myself.'

Bossuet hastily follows suit with his gun. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a pair of sweaty and disheveled students from the 1830s. (At least, Bossuet is sweaty and disheveled. Courfeyrac probably makes it look better. He generally does.)

"An excellent city," he agrees. "Though apparently not the most pacific of holiday destinations. Now we seem to be..." He turns around, looking about him for clues about the Paris they've found.

Someone passing says something to them, but it sounds to Courfeyrac like 'nice cosplay, bros,' which is clearly nonsense, so he ignores it. Which must mean things are strange, because Courfeyrac usually loves nonsense.

'...ah,' he says, his gaze travelling along the street filled with things he has only seen in pictures. Cars, they are called. They make the air smell funny, and it's rather warm, and there are a lot of people. All of them wear clothes in the style he has seen around Milliways, and it still feels faintly scandalous, on the women at least.

'It is the future,' he adds, though this is no doubt clear to Bossuet seeing as he's been here before. 'Do you recognise any of it?'

"Yes! Yes!" Lesgle begins to celebrate by thumping Courfeyrac heartily on the back. "That is to say, no! But it's evidently the same sort of Paris I visited before. Witness: cars, and streets, and advertisements, and half the population talking on a little small computer-telephone-camera. Whatever you call those things."

Right on cue, someone pauses and snaps a phone picture of the 1830s gents, barely bothering to hide that he's doing it.

Lesgle thumps Courfeyrac's shoulder again for good measure, and then someone knocks into them with a brusque apology, because they are very definitely taking up space on a busy sidewalk.

Edited 2015-02-19 20:06 (UTC)

'Ow,' he says, on the second thumping, but it's followed by a laugh...and inevitably, a grin at the phone pointed at him. He knows what a camera is! But mainly, he just grins when someone looks at him, unless he already knows he doesn't like them.

'Oh, for a shoulder of stone in your company, my friend. No matter! This is-'

He stops, as he's shoved again.

'...a thoroughfare of no little traffic, it seems. Shall we walk? The Labyrinth seems as though it will grab us as it wants, so we may as well see where we are. And I think I would not mind seeing the old place with its new clothes on, though I confess,' he looks around, his face blank, 'none of this seems a real Paris.'

"Yes, we'd better travel in the direction of traffic." He offers Courfeyrac his arm, as one does for a stroll.

"This isn't where I came in before. Before, it was--well, in point of fact, it was about the site of the Musain. Now a different restaurant, something called Quality Burger. Hannibal Lecter seemed shocked by it, but--" Bossuet shrugs a shoulder. Do they really want to speculate about what would or would not shock Hannibal Lecter?

The street names are marked with little blue placards. Once they're out of the thickest foot-traffic, Laigle draws closer to the corner of a wall to get a better look. The name doesn't mean anything to him, though. He looks over to Courfeyrac and shrugs again.

He takes his arm without thought, as always. If there are one or two odd looks, Courfeyrac doesn't know what their problem is.

'I would not like to think how bad something must be to shock Lecter,' he says, darkly, and peers up at the street sign.

Rue Rambuteau. He returns Bossuet's blank look and pulls a face. 'Either it's entirely new, or just a new name for something old,' he remarks, and looks around again. There is nothing to give a particular clue, not even the ground itself. There are no cobbles any more, the gutters no longer run down the middle of the street, and everything is smooth and shiny.

'Keep going?'

Laigle steps out into the street again for a better look. Ugh, tourists, mutters an inconvenienced passer-by, which he ignores. It's beautiful in its way, this Paris: just ahead are some wonderfully round glass buildings, glittering, and up the face of a building across from them a sort of class-encased stairwell, perhaps? Beyond that, buildings of stone, which is at least a familiar form if the buildings themselves are unrecognizable.

Here and there brightly-colored awnings jut out over cafés. "It's too bad we don't have any money," he remarks. "And that our drinks were confiscated by the Resistance. Not that I begrudge them! But still, something about an open café makes a man think of meals..."

Edited 2015-02-20 15:27 (UTC)

...

...

'...if you were not so dear to me, I should be vexed at you.'

Because food. He hasn't thought about food since they started drinking all those hours ago. But now, at a single mention, hunger punches him in the gut with frankly disgusting force. He clutches his stomach, and pulls a face.

'I begrudge the Resistance.'

He doesn't. He does glare at the cafés a little, and then walk on. But any vexation, real or imagined, melts away less than a minute later.

'Look.'

Rue des Prêcheurs.

Bossuet is laughing at Courfeyrac with reasonable sympathy but no remorse when the sight of the street sign leaves him silent a moment.

"...Well. Well!" The first time he came here he was at the doorstep of the Musain; now it's the Corinthe's turn. The two spots Hugo chose to bookend his life, or at least the portion of it of interest to a novelist. "Well. Paris has picked itself up and brushed itself off prettily, hasn't it. If we retrace our steps..."

Going back the way they came they reach the unfamiliar Rue Rambuteau--was it once the Chanvrerie??--and quite plainly a sign for the Rue Mondétour. "Welcome to Corinth, Courfeyrac."

Much more conspicuous than the street signs is a blue awning that reads BODY ONE lingerie.

Lingerie. Lingerie.

...well, he has no complaints about that, though he can only imagine Enjolras's face at seeing what the old place has come to.

He walks to a certain spot and stares off down the street, heedless of the people tutting at him as he refuses to yield. After a moment, he turns to look at Bossuet.

'It does look rather different from here.'

Is it maudlin, standing on the spot where you died? Probably. He throws it over almost at once, for that very reason, and comes back to look at the BODY ONE place.

'We should go inside,' he says, decisively. 'To see if it has changed much, yes? It's practically research.'

It's an understandable impulse. Without even thinking of it, Bossuet has migrated to a spot with much the same meaning to him. And like Courfeyrac he's quick to quit it.

In favor of lingerie. One of the windows shows a photograph of a naked woman: from the back, it's true, but it's a lovely view in its own right. "You were ever a diligent student, Courfeyrac." he says. "By all means, let us research."

He links an arm with Courfeyrac's as they enter, and prepares for astonishment.

His eyes were wide at the huge picture of the woman on the outside, and there are many more within. One is just inside the door, apparently showing off some...garments, that are a little different to other garments on the other side of the shop, though no immediate difference is obvious to him. He stares at the mostly-naked woman, and says to Bossuet - without removing his eyes from it- 'I would study that most assiduously, it is true.'

It really is. He can't even see her face, but he doesn't need to. In the interests of experimentation, he picks a tiny lace thing off a peg. It has two curved half-spheres, and it is easy to see what its purpose is, even without giant pictures to illustrate.

'Is this what they use instead of corsets, do you suppose? They ave nothing around their midsection?'

It's practically asking to catch cold, but he can't pretend he doesn't see the advantages.

Lesgle sighs. "What a quantity of lace. What a small quantity of lace. --Yes, I think so. No corset, just a little slip of cloth at strategic locations. I do not speak from direct personal observation." A pause, and he elbows Courfeyrac. "In fact, I'm surprised you should have to resort to asking me."

They're hardly the first young men to come in and gawp at the pictures of underwear models--and take things off the pegs--but they're certainly the first to do so looking like escapees from some period drama. The shop worker who approaches them--Can I help you?--looks more quizzical than disapproving.

"It's for his mistress," says Bossuet, loudly. "Wait, that's not what one says these days. --Girlfriend, it's for his girlfriend."

He's a helper.

Courfeyrac ignores the assistant, and looks at Bossuet with the greatest offence.

'I have been busy,' he says, shocked - shocked! - to the core at the insinuation that he might have been remiss in his learning in this area. 'Being dead is time consuming.'

The shop worker comes to his attention at this point, because a strange look comes over her face at these words. He replays them in his head. Ah. Yes.

'Well!' he says, brightly, and claps his hands together. 'My girlfriend, indeed. I am not sure white would suit, though. Do you have anything more...what shall we say? Scarlet?' He looks to Bossuet. 'A suitable colour for such a fine girl, would you agree, my friend?'

The assistant just raises her eyebrows. Clearly, they are nowhere near the strangest customers they've had in the place. She gestures around. 'This is what we have. Take your pick. If you have a specific desire in mind, I'm here to help.'

Courfeyrac looks again to Lesgle. 'Nothing is tailored!?' he says, in a stage whisper.

This is a shocking future indeed.

"Scarlet," Lesgle agrees gravely. "And--as it says: ready to wear." He gestures to a large sign proclaiming their new collection, Le prêt-à-porter. It's very blue and orange and stripy.

The shop assistant raises her eyebrows again, more disdaining than shocked, and steps away. She's still watching, though.

But Lesgle is entirely accustomed to being eyed suspiciously by shopgirls. He'll keep on browsing, thanks. Oh, here's something scarlet! He holds up a little triangle of cloth for Courfeyrac's consideration. "Yes? No?"

Edited 2015-02-20 22:22 (UTC)

'What is...oh.'

Oh. Well, that just seems inadequate. Although...

He turns his head to regard the large picture, where the model is wearing something equally tiny. It only now occurs to him that these modern women are groomed entirely differently to previous women of his acquaintance.

'I hardly know, Bossuet. I almost feel buying something so small would be an insult. Would she not find something larger to be a better use of coin than-'

He happens to catch sight of the price tag...and the name of the collection.

...and he would speak, but he is too busy collapsing on to the nearest rail in laughter.

"Oh indeed? I'll tell your mistress--should such a creature appear--you said so. 'Hmm, no, she'll need something bigger, to be sure--'"

But his jokes, while assuredly very clever, can't be enough to provoke quite that reaction from Courfeyrac. He reaches for the item in question, and soon he too is falling onto the rack, legless. From laughter, of course, and certainly not drink and the wearing-off of adrenaline from their earlier adventures. First law offices, then street warfare, and now--the String Hugo, a grey film of cloth that barely stretches across the glass hips of a nearby mannequin.

The lingerie racks are not built to sustain the weight of two healthy young men.

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