ƒαìт αccσмρℓì - - { private } - -

[momiji85]

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This is a onexone between momiji85 and OuEstLaCraie - you may not post in this thread, but please feel free to glance through and fallow the story. This particular thread is only here because of OuEstLaCraie's wonderful original thread of the same name. Inspired by the story and our characters, we have decided to carry on by ourselves - to see where our characters will end up. Carrying over our orignial profiles and the first few posts that were made, we hope to finally continue on an already wonderful story . . .

[momiji85]

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It's late fall of 1941 in the stunning capital city of France. The Germans have occupied the country for six long months now, taking over homes, businesses, and the entire French way of life. But the French are still optimistic; nothing you say will change their mind about the strength of their army, the determination of their boys at the front, or their will to retain their identity in the face of extreme adversity. But the Germans are just as determined to win the war and assert their authority over any and all who question their supremacy.

History has already told us the outcome of the Second World War, but what actually occured during the war years in Paris, France? Babies were born, people fell in love, businessmen (the lucky ones) went to work; painters continued to paint, writers still wrote, performers continued to put on their shows. Life went on, because it had to. Even as the entire world succumbed to the darkness of war and hate, people continued to live. Some fought their enemies. Some died for their patriotism and pride. Some tried to pretend the war was a nightmare from which they would, in time, awake.

The choice is yours, dear friends. Will you be a native Frenchman or a stranger in a strange land? Are you a Nazi sympathizer, a Resistance fighter, neutral? Are you friend or foe (and who decides such titles)? Where does your allegience lie?

Fait Accompli is designed to be just a small snippet of history, a snapshot of the imagined way of life in Paris, France, during the German occupation in the years of World War II. So, when given the choice, when asked the toughest questions of your life, when told to choose sides...how will you handle the pressure? And what decisions will you make to survive?

[momiji85]

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FaitFaitFait

m o n n a m e: Eponine Leà Sabatier

But, please, mes amis, c a l l m e: Eponine, Nine {rhymes with "green"}, Mademoiselle de Montmarte
I am c u r r e n t l y: 23 years of age
I was b o r n: April 7, 1918
I currently r e s i d e in: an apartment in Paris, France
My f a m i l y consists of: ma mère, Solange Marie; mon père, Toulouse Christian; mes deux souers; mes quatre frères; et mon fils, Enjolras Louis
I a m: unattached
And my r o l e in the story? member of the Resistance--Vive la France!

The Life I Have Lived.

I was born and raised in Montmarte, living the first 21 years of my life under the protection of my parents, Toulouse (an aspiring novelist) and Solange (a painter). I was the second of seven children, just a year younger than my eldest brother, Jean, and to be followed by five more who would come to be (mostly) the joy in my life. Maman and Papa were not very successful at their separate endeavors, but we lived comfortably in a rather large studio above an art gallery. I worked a little, wrote a little, sketched a little; I have been told I have a rather intiguing voice, but the arts were not to be my niche. My passion, I eventually realized, was science, which I persued up to the university level.

When I was 21 and still living at home, I met Auguste in one of my classes at university--some kind of advanced biology, I believe it was. Before I had time to fully understand it, I had fallen in love. I moved out of the studio in Montmarte, away from my childhood and my family and our tight-knit little community, and Auguste and I took an apartment together in the Latin Quarter, each of us continuing our studies. Three months before graduation, I found out I was pregnant. With the happy news came darker reports from the surrounding countries. World War II was raging all around us, but we all believed victory would be swift. After all, we had beaten back the German Huns in the Great War--why could the same not be done now?

Auguste was sent to the front lines in July of 1940. In October of that same year, my Enjolras was born. He became the light in my life, my very reason for being, my hope and oppurtunity and undying optimism for the future of our country. Earlier this year--the fifteenth of January; I will never forget the day--I received word that Auguste had died, killed on a lonely battlefield only God knows where. Then, in May, the German occupation began (our worst fears realized). We managed to retain our fighting spirit, but even that appears to be fading. My son is now only one year old, but I have decided to do what I can to help France. I learned of the Resistance from the professor who lives downstairs; his baker is a leading member of the movement. It was from them that I heard the rumors and tales of Charles de Gaulle and the proud work the French people can do to help drive out the enemy and regain our former grandeur. I don't expect to do much, but every bit can do some good. I joined in July.

The Best Things in Life.

♥ my son
♥ my family
♥ my country
♥ logic & reason
♥ a warm meal
♥ music
♥ plans for furthering the Resistance Movement

To Hate, to Loathe, to Despise.

↓ the Third Reich
↓ war
↓ the fact that death is a necesscary part of life
↓ any pain or suffering that threatens Enjolras
↓ being looked upon as "fragile" because I'm a woman

The PUPPETMASTER {OuEstLaCraie}
And everywhere I look, I see { Light Pink }

n a m e: Fritz Gordon Hoffmann

I am p r o u d to be a: Captain of the 4th Infantry Division
But, please, c a l l m e: Fritzi
I am c u r r e n t l y: Twenty Four
I was b o r n: November Fifth, 1917
I currently r e s i d e in: an army owned apartment
My f a m i l y consists of: Maria, my fiancee back in Germany, and my sister, Anna.
I a m: betrothed
And my r o l e in the story? conflicted member of the German Army . . .





The Life I Have Lived.

Fritz was born in 1917 - just before the First World War - known only as the Great War until recently. Irony abounds then in the notion that he is to fight in the Second World War, when his Father died in the first. Then, barely a year later, his Mother dies of the Spanish Influenza and Anna (his older sister) took care of him. But being a young child still herself, they were first shipped off to stay with a family in the countryside. In fact, the earliest memories Fritz carries of his childhood, are afternoons spent in pastures with sheep, playing tag with his sister. It was an almost blissful existence, except when his sister was married off at sixteen and they became forcibly seperated for quite a few years. It wasn't until his brother-in-law died, that Fritz was reunited with the only family member he was ever close to. Anna for her part, had struck it rich as a widow, and was able to help take care of her brother until he became of age, and a different kind of calling spoke to him.

At the age of eighteen, he enlisted into the German Army, quickly making his way up the ranks to Captain. But it wasn't until the Invasion of France, that Fritz showed his true capabilites. Cornered by Resistance fighters, he bravely made his way around them (sparing their lives with minium impact of his weapons) and saving most of his unit who were already wounded. This act alone brought him to the attention of several Generals and he was recruited into the 4th Infantry Division to guard ranks in Paris. But Fritz had onbly considered fighting to help Germany land in France, not that he would have to stay there. Homesick, and unaccustomed to city life, Fritz has been cooped up in his apartment for three months now. Writing letters to his sister, he seeks solace in her replies, and tries to get in contact with Maria - his fiancee - whom he strangely hasn't heard anything from in over a month.

But more important factors are lingering around him. He sees the starvation on the urban streets, the desperate pleas to escape to the country side were rations aren't as meager as in the city, and the Jewish children hidden within Catholic schools for their protection. A part of him, is beginning to wonder just how good this mission could possibly be. Just how killing off most of the civilians can aid their endeavour. And just how many more people Jewish people can be simply "escaping" the boundaries set by the Army on the city outskirts, when missing flying posters are hung by the hundreds every day. Yes, Fritzi is beginning to question everything.


The Best Things in Life.

♥ Germany
♥ Army
♥ my home
♥ my education
♥ music and theatre
♥ books
♥ art


To Hate, to Loathe, to Despise.

↓ France
↓ The Resistance
↓ Paris
↓ ignorant people
↓ movies
↓ excessive violence
↓ pet animals




The PUPPETMASTER {momiji85}
And everywhere I look, I see { darkcyan }








m y n a m e: Victor Darren Joseph Rigby IV


But, please, guys, c a l l m e: Vicky or Rig
I am c u r r e n t l y: 22 years of age
I was b o r n: March 15, 1919
I currently r e s i d e in: a shack on the outskirts of Paris . . . or a doorway somewhere in the city proper. Depends what I'm trying to accomplish at the time.
My f a m i l y consists of: my dad, Vic III, and my mom, Sally
I a m: single and searching, ladies
And my r o l e in the story? an American stranded in Paris




The Life I Have Lived.

Maybe I should start off by explaining the nickname. I'm just not a Victor, like my parents were hoping I'd be, and I can't pull off Vic like Dad can. I'm kind of scrawny, I guess - "a beanstalk," my mom always says, God bless 'er - and I got teased a lot as a kid. Hell, I still do. So Vicky I was christened (way the hell back in third grade) and Vicky I remain. But I really push the "Rig" thing when I meet people - it sounds macho. Badass. I like it.

Anyhow, I grew up in the Midwest on a farm - yeah, really - that my mom and dad bought when they were kids. Back in the day, Dad was a hotshot and a daredevil, hated by all the guys in town and loved by all the ladies (I've got half of that going for me). When the Great War went down in Europe, he enlisted with the Army and got shipped overseas. Before he went, he married Mom and bought the farm, plunking her down on some empty land in a drafty house and hoping he'd return to some semblance of a home. I'll never know how it happened, but she did it - Dad came back to a warm, two-storey farmhouse, complete with flowerbeds up front, a small vegetable and spice garden out back, and a few modest rows of burgeoning lettuce. I kind of grew up with the squash they planted later.

At home, I liked harvest time and chopping wood, the chores most kids complain about, but I didn't have many friends beyond the weird kid who lived on the neighboring farm down the lane a piece and a few pet chickens that Dad would eventually slaughter for some special occassion, so work was the next best thing. Like I said, I was teased as I kid, so it wasn't like I wanted to hang out with my tormentors and give them even more reason to hate me. Why did they hate me? Eh, well, the obvious answer is that I was small. I'm a rather handsome and strapping lad now, but I was small for my age until my fifteenth summer, and I've never been able to retain even an ounce of muscle. I don't like fights; I'm more of a verbal kind of guy.

To avoid Mom's worried glances and Dad's obvious questions ( "Why the hell don't you ever leave the house, Vicky? You some kinda freak, or something?" ), I often escaped to our barn. Sounds impressive - it wasn't. We had only one sturdy horse for plowing and one cow and one bull at a time. That was about all the livestock we could maintain on our income (the farm goods, plus whatever Mom could make and sell in town and the odd jobs Dad completed for the neighbors but never seemed to remember to ask for payment for), so we didn't need a huge place to house them. We had a pretty good stock of hay above the horse's stable, fresh and crisp and perfect for lounging on, and that became my place to read and imagine. I liked adventure stories, probably because I never had any of my own. Mysteries were fun, too, since I usually solved them quicker than any of those moron "private eyes" could. The inner monologue and vivid imagination I kept up in the barn gave me quite the wit both inside and outside the home - a downright barbed tongue, and a lack of social grace that allowed me to talk my way into too many troublesome situations. Growing up wasn't very much fun.

So, Dad was in the army, which didn't appeal to me at all. War always seemed pretty stupid, personally - why ruin perfectly good lands and take people hostage and all that? Why bother, really? It never solves anything, and it's really only bound to start something worse in time. In an effort to help me grow a little patriotism (among other things), Dad started retelling me his war stories when I was about thirteen, and gave me a bunch of books and pamphlets on the army. I think he wanted me to enlist, whether there had been a war or not. But life in the trenches seemed like a dirty business to me, and I wasn't old enough to grasp his happy sighs whenever he mentioned some tramp he'd met on a lonely road in France, so I usually just nodded politely along and then ran away to study the books he gave me. And suddenly, war began to make sense - the advances in techonology, the new science that could be applied to the battlefield, the chance to see the world . . . to fly. I was sold. I'd never be an army man, but I could definitely see myself flying.

When the Second World War began, I was first on line to join the Air Force. I wanted to be a pilot, but I really didn't have the stamina for it. So, I became a navigator and general communications man. I loved tinkering with things, building radios out of nothing and listening in on things I probably shouldn't have heard; damn, it was great. I liked building things and had recently become something of a science nerd, so the job fit me to a tee. I pulled everything apart in the cockpit, whenever I could, just to prove that I could put it back together again. I was mocked for awhile because, yep, I was still thin and gangly, but I earned a little respect when I made my pilot laugh instead of having him punch me out for some stupid comment I passed his way. It also helps that the guys who messed with me often found their radios out of commission or their flying insturments malfunctioning. Ah, to have talent . . .

When things in Europe really started heating up, they picked some of us over to fly missions with the Royal Air Force (that's in England). I navigated for a nice bloke (the lingo rubs off on ya) from Liverpool, and I split my time between reading maps, charting courses, writing home to Mom, and working on a few radio shows. Yeah, that put a Yankee on British propoganda radio - it was a good deal I had going over there. Too bad we got shot down over France. It was a routine recon mission, but the Germans got us, and we hit the ground about fifty miles outside of Paris. One of the guys on the crew died; an American I didn't know too well. Me and the pilot and the otehr guys on-board wandered in the general direction of Paris for awhile, wary behind enemy lines but eager to see the City of Lights. One by one, they met girls or found work, and we lost them along the way. Soon, it was just me, trudging along on my way south to Paris. I stole some clothes in the countryside, but I still couldn't quite bring myself to head into the city just yet. I had only these clothes, a few apples, and three radios with me. I found my shack, set up shop, and I've been spying on the Krauts and broadcasting a radio show full of my endless sarcastic chatter to anyone within a three-mile radius. I've heard I'm quite popular.

I wonder why I still can't find myself a girl?


The Best Things in Life.

♥ radio
♥ technology and other geeky things like that
♥ music - especially jazz
♥ women (ha, like I'd know . . . )
♥ flying
♥ humor, that old stand-by


To Hate, to Loathe, to Despise.

↓ war - it's hell
↓ living in a shack
↓ my constant lack of food
↓ that I've only seen Paris a handful of times and I literally live ten minutes away
↓ talking about anything that isn't related to the war or myself
↓ politics



The PUPPETMASTER {OuEstLaCraie}
And everywhere I look, I see { Tomatoes?! }











n a m e: Judith Alexia Lavigne


But, please, c a l l m e: Lexi
I am c u r r e n t l y: sixteen years old
I was b o r n: December Twenty-fourth, 1925
I currently r e s i d e in: outskirts of Paris
My f a m i l y consists of: My Father, Alexandre and my three sisters; Émilie, Noémi, and Mathilda
I a m: alone . . .
And my r o l e in the story? a discriminated Jew - cliché, oui?





The Life I Have Lived.

Judith Alexia Lavigne. It's a name that can be quite a mouthful for any child, but since this particular girl enjoyed being simply called "Lexi", the usual frustrations of such things never really bothered her. In fact, save a few obligatory temper tantrums that befall even the best of kids, Lexi was a perfect angel. Even her parents liked to compare her to her sisters as an example of what they strived to see in her siblings. But though usually this would cause resentment between the foursome, they took it in stride, knowing full well that Lexi was more than what she seemed. For unlike them, Lexi wanted more than what her merchant father could provide them with. Sure, they were quite wealthy by the local village's standards, but personally, Lexi relished in the idea of one day sipping coffee at a cliche cafe in Paris. She even pretended to be doing just that with her dolls at tea time, picturing herself as the bell of the ball among her friends, some one everyone was envious of. Yes, she wanted more for herself - that is, until the world went to hell.

Now, she just wants to live.

Putting her own dreams aside, Lexi helps provide for her family, any which way she knows how. An odd job here, and an odd job there - but she'll never stoop down to the level her two older sisters have. They leave every night to party with the soldiers, and don't come home until dawn, with cash and ration stamps in hand. And though Lexi knows better now than to speak up about the matter, she still carries an obvious disgust over their current "occupation". Never the one to resort to such methods, Lexi spends her time between the family and cleaning houses. Sure, it won't pay the bills (or even put a dent in it), but at least she'll have her dignity at the end of the night. After all, if their mother could see her sibling's desperation, then she would have died from the shock. It was the only time in her life that Lexi was glad her mother was dead. In the ground, two winters ago, Lexi's father, Alexandre, has never fully recovered from the loss. And due to a newly developed bad heart, has put her sister's "jobs" in overtime. Maybe at the end of the day, Lexi is being selfish for not doing everything in her power to make money - much less ends - meet? But then again, she wasn't even sixteen yet. She needed to at least loose her virginity before she snuck around doing the "unmentionable's", non?

Yes, she probably should do more, but until then, she'd do what she could and still manage to sleep at night. She'd continue taking care of her youngest sister, and of the American man hiding outside the fields past her house. She helped bring him the radio he needed in order to broadcast his message of hope and disgust over the Germans. And she gladly brought him half her rations in order to sustain him, so he may continue bringing encouragement to those who need it the most. Eventually, she realised that the Germans might find him, but until then, she'd focus on what she could do for him. And if she could at least help him, help others, then maybe she was doing something right after all?


The Best Things in Life.

♥ family


♥ Americans


♥ fashion


♥ music


To Hate, to Loathe, to Despise.

↓ her religion


↓ her looks


↓ and above all, the Germans!




The PUPPETMASTER {momiji85}
And everywhere I look, I see { darkorchid }

[momiji85]

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It is currently


| January | February | March | April | May | June | July | August | September | October | November | December |


the


| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |


in the year


| 1941 | 1942 | 1943 | 1944 | 1945 |


The clock reads


HOUR
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |

MINUTE
| 00 | 15 | 30 | 45 |

AM | PM




And the weather for today?


| sunny | cloudy | raining | foggy | snowing (flurry) |

| frigid | cold | chilly | mild | hot | sweltering |

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

It was going to be a dismal winter. Already, the snow had begun in Paris, and it was only November. God only knew what the proper winter months held in store for the struggling French...but that was just a saying. Many people had begun to believe that not even God, Himself, knew what new atrocity or hardship would be inflicted upon France. Hadn't the Great War been enough? Hadn't thousands of soldiers dead been enough? Hadn't the loss of innocent civilians been enough? Hadn't the crass over-taking by the Germans been enough? What more were the French expected to take?

Clouds hid what little sun there might have been, making the snow feel even more cold and the wind's sting more agonizing than the feel of shrapnel through tender flesh. Bundling her trench coat tighter around her as her long scarf whipped wildly behind her in the stiff breeze, Eponine trotted along the River Seine after work and hurried for her apartment in the Latin Quarter (the Fifth Arrondissement, just a few blocks from the chill waters cutting through the City of Lights). Paris in the autumnal months had once been a pleasure (as had Paris in any other season that graced her streets and buildings), but, now, the growing darkness and the none-too-distant clatter of hard enemy boots on the cobblestones made Eponine's hometown a forbiding place, a city meant for nightmares and horror tales.

She had been born here, nearly two and a half decades before, in a simpler time. War had still been raging, but her father had returned, safe and sound, and life had gone on. Living through this, so different from what her parents had been force to endure, Eponine doubted life could ever go on; how could life begin again in a place so devoid of color, of energy, of its own identity? Signs of the Germans were everywhere - curfews, official orders posted on the sides of stone buildings, soldiers quartered in apartments and summer homes that had been in families for centuries, German men enjoying the company of pretty French girls from the countryside who knew no better. Their very stench seemed to have imbedded itself within the foundation of the buildings, rising off the Seine like a foul cloud of disease.

She let herself into the foyer of her apartment building, slammed the door behind her to keep out the cold, and shuddered, though whether it was with cold or disgust, she knew not. Allowing herself to relax just a bit, convinced that no harm could come to her now that she was home (a fallacy, but a comfort, nonetheless), Eponine began the climb up three long, winding flights of stairs, and came to pause before one of two apartments found on the third floor. She knocked on the door and was greated by the sound of a child's excited cry and a woman's voice telling the babe to shush. The grin lit up Eponine's face before she saw her son at the door, cradled in the arms of the good Professor's wife, Madame Léon.

"He's been crying for you since you left this morning, poor fellow," Madame Léon told Eponine, smiling sadly as she passed the infant to his mother and stroked his head, a weak attempt at one final comforting gesture. "There's been so much commotion in the streets lately; it's no wonder he's frightened."

"Like the bombs last night," Eponine agreed and glanced instinctively to the east, the direction from which the sounds of warfare had invaded her comfortable domestic setting. She pressed the boy closer to her chest, letting him gnaw eagerly on her woolen scarf. "He woke only once, but then there are also the soldiers, all day and night, in and out of the bars and clubs and..." She covered her son's virgin ears and whispered, "The whores."

"Mon Dieu, don't I know it!" Madame Léon rolled her eyes heavenward, seemingly more exasperated with the failing state of her country than the fact that they'd been invaded. She patted Eponine's arm gently and managed a genuine smile. "The Professor's out, another tutoring session - God forbid the young aristocracy miss a few months of their schooling! When he returns, shall I tell him you're home?"

Eponine smiled in reply. Professor Léon had been one of her many science professors at university; be sheer luck had she and her beau, Auguste, chosen the apartment directly above the wise old man and his lovely wife. Madame Léon could feign exasperation with the upper class as much as she liked - Eponine knew that the Professor's tutoring sessions meant money for their family, and no one could turn that away in these times. Occassionally, to make a few extra francs, Eponine accompanied her mentor to the homes of the wealthy, helping to impart a love of learning in the spoiled brats. It never worked out very well, but, at the very least, it made Eponine feel that her education in the sciences was not going to waste, as she worked day after day in a bakery down the street, as a part-time maid for an old, established family, and doing any other odd jobs that happened to come up. Anything to keep food on the table for her 'Jolras.

"Yes, perhaps I'd like a visit from the Professor," Eponine told Madame Léon, then resettled Enjolras on her hip. "A thousand thanks to you, again, for watching Enjolras, madame - you're a saint, truly."

Madame Léon waved the praise away, though a small smile blossomed on her lips as she said her farewells and shut the door to her apartment. Reunited with her son, her reason for living, Eponine kissed the boy and laughed at his little giggles as they continued up a fourth flight of stairs to their own apartment, ready to sit before a warm fire, eat a little something, and then sleep until she had to get up and do it all over again the next morning. His laugh resounded in the stairwell, then filled the apartment as she laid him gently into his ancient crib and covered him with a heavy fleece blanket. The laughter of children had always been, to her, a sound that was reserved for peacetime; how strange to hear such a ruckus in the middle of the Second World War.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

[momiji85]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz sighed. Having only recently had his belongings positioned within the apartment by some fellow Army recruits, the young soldier questioned the details. His grandmother’s clock wasn’t situated over the fireplace mantle (mainly because there wasn’t a fireplace); nor was his Father’s painting placed on an easel for all the world to see - no, now, it was simply hanging against the flimsy wall paper; a nail hammered in the upper centered spot. It almost felt like an invasion on his Father’s memory . . . Invasion . . . A lot of that had been happening this past year. Whether he agreed with it or not - oh who was he trying to kid, he agreed with it - at first. Opening the shutters out of the one window in the whole studio apartment, Fritz looked down below at the few civilians daring to show their faces. Things were getting harder and harder for them, and even looking the wrong way at the soldiers seemed to aggravate the situation to a boiling point. This was the world, the reality that Fritz had to deal with. He was given promises and false hopes about a better life they would be providing for them once they invaded. How eventually, they would come to love the German ways and be better of for it. And arrogantly, Fritz joined right in. But this wasn’t the German way . . . This was Hitler’s way, and that made for a big difference in his book.

Hitler was always angry (to say the least). Malicious, and downright disturbed, would be more along the right alley of things. Sure the German people weren’t that much better by avoiding the disappearances of fellow countrymen, but most of them had been Jews; and though Fritz hadn’t had a personal vendetta against the religious organization, he didn’t believe they were rightfully German citizens either. He didn’t mind the idea of exiling them back to their homeland where they belonged, but he wasn’t demanding it either. Really he didn’t care either way. He preferred they’d stay away from him, and he more than welcomingly would return the favor. But Fritz’ sister’s words rang more clearer than ever these past few months: "There are two kinds of evil Fritzi. Ones that do evil, and ones that see evil being done, and do nothing about it." What's worse was, with the rumors about these camps swirling in the air like a pestilent fog, made even some of Fritz' most anti-semetic comrades wrinkle their noses in disgust. So why would Fritz become a soldier then? Why would he allow himself to become a spokesperson for Hitler? Well in fact, he joined the war effort; one, to honor his Father, and two, to help the French see their barbaric ways and learn culture and class from the Germans. He was told it would be a quick invasion, they would grow accustomed to how things needed to be and then he would get to return home. But that was nine months ago - his birthday had passes without notice. Not even a postcard from his fiancée regarding the matter. Even his sister's latest monthly letter failed to recognize - or at least didn't care enough to - her baby brother's celebration of life. Then again, what was there to celebrate really? His head lowered, and he closed his eyes painfully. Lately, probably thanks to the isolation insisted on by the Army to keep their soldiers as far away from the civilians as possible (including their own families), Fritz’ sister’s voice seemed to fade out from underneath his memory. More and more lately, when he listened for her voice to chime in on his thoughts, his own voice would respond. And when he pictured her smiling back at him, the scenery around her faded more and more each time, a watery effect of dissolution seeping into her form - cleansing her from his mind it seemed.

Slamming a fist against the wall, the shutters rattled against their confinement, ready to burst along with him at his command. But instead, they lolled back to their resting place, and grew silent once more. Instead, Fritz reached for his jacket, and his sister’s pocket watch and headed downstairs. Taking two steps at a time, the young soldier was easily able to leave the premises, but getting down a block without having his papers was another thing. A rookie soldier not catching onto his superior officer’s rank, asked for his papers, and Fritzi (though normally a lot nicer), couldn’t help - thanks to his mood - verbally bash the man for interfering with his rounds of the neighborhood. But sighing, the fellow young soldier relented, and even apologized for his behavior right away. It wasn’t the rookie’s fault for doing his job, though. So Fritz moved to the side, not wanting to be in anybody’s way, and presented his papers that allowed him pretty much free reign of the district. The newbie quickly saluted, added an enthusiastic Heil Hitler! and Fritz practically pushed to him to the ground as he passed him. It was because of the Fűrher that he was even in this s**t hole. He didn’t like the French ways, their customs, their attitudes, and missed his own homeland terribly. He missed his sister and he missed his fiancée. He simply wanted to get back, and the sooner everyone did their job, the sooner he could return home.

Resentment abounded freely in this one, and the soldier turned around the building, and headed to the nearest café. Soon enough he’d drink some of their splendid brew (which in his eyes was the only decent thing this God forsaken country had to offer). Within a moment, he’d be sitting at one of their prissy little tables, sipping a hot espresso and trying to contemplate how much longer he could tolerate the place. The countrymen (and women and children) didn’t want him there, nor did he want to be there. Hopefully soon, Fritz could make both their wishes come true.

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

Immeditely upon returning home from a long and frustrating day with a gaggle of school-aged brats (all minatures of their snivelling father and large-nosed mother), Professor Léon pecked his wife on the cheek, murmured that he would return, then bounded up the stairs and rapped twice on Eponine's door.

Enjolras shifted and pouted in his near-sleep, threatening to wake again. Eponine took a moment to calm him, rubbing his little chest with a gentle hand, before turning her head to the door and calling, softly, from her spot beside her son's crib, "Come in."


The Professor entered, shutting the door firmly behind him to lock out the late autumn wind and the smart clacking of a German foot soldier on patrol on the street below. "Mademoiselle, I needed you today. Mon Dieu, those children - what a circus!" He shook his head in exaggerated disbelief as he slumped down into a battered armchair opposite his former student. "You would not have stood for it, my dear, I know. And, perhaps, they would have actually listened to you. Ah, what a life the rich are living - what a dreamy, wisftful fantasy they've built to suit their lifestyles! While the world is at war and townhouses explode around them from enemy bombs, the best they can do is sip their champagne and offer their sincerest condolences to the families of the lost."

A small smile played on Eponine's lips as the Professor talked and talked, his words straying dangerously close to a full-blown rant. She kept her eyes averted, studying her son's dozing form to avoid laughing at her companion's reddening face and strained muscles. He and Madame Léon were, by no means, at the poverty level; neither was Eponine, though she certainly felt like it. There wasn't enough food to feed every soul in the city three square meals a day, but the Boches seemed to be doing quite well for themselves. Their living conditions weren't much better than those of the Parisians, she admitted, but added in bitter silence, It's easier for them to get papers - at least they're allowed out after dark.

"Any other news, monsieur?" Eponine interjected, hoping he didn't simply ignore her and continue on his way as he often did when he was in a mood. She raised her eyebrows, urging him on when he paused for air, mid-sentence, and slowly began to comprehend her inquiry and formulate a response.

He stroked at his tiny beard and leaned back into the over-stuffed chair, glancing at the fire, then to Enjolras, and, finally, back to Eponine. "Yes," he said, at length, but seemed wary to say more.

"Perhaps from Monsieur Pericand?" she prompted, mentioning the butcher's name to prompt a response, to show that she understood his restraint, but wanted, badly, to know what plans were in motion as they spoke.

Professor Léon sighed heavily. "From him, yes. In fact..." He glanced at his watch and shuffled to the edge of the chair cushion, making as if to rise. "I am to meet him at the café down the street in a quarter of an hour. I wasn't sure those opulent swine would allow me out in time to keep our appointment; thankfully, I am free." He stood, dusted off his rather worn slacks, then held a slightly wrinkled hand out to Eponine with a tiny half-smile. "You will accompany me, of course - will you not?"

Eponine sincerely wanted to go. Who knew what would be decided tonight? Who knew what could be accomplished? And, of course, she would forever hold onto the fanciful hope that, one evening, Monsieur de Gaulle, himself, would appear at one of their meetings - in the butcher's back freezer, in the basement at the hair salon, in the secluded private parlor of the whorehouse across town. "I would love to," she replied in a whisper, and sighed, smoothing a hand over Enjolras' thin layer of new, blondish hair. "You can see what that is quite impossible, though. You only need me to help you keep control of your students, occassionally, Professor Léon; I'm no use at the meetings. I see the way the others look at me and I know what they think - 'she can't do a thing of worth, because she's a woman.' As if it's a sin to be female!" She scowled, over-stepping her bounds and failing to notice it, uncaring. Quietly, bitterly, she added, "You should get going, monsieur."

She felt the Professor's heavy hand on her thin shoulder, then he leaned past her to heft the infant into his capable arms. He glanced down at her and shook his head, just a bit. "You have worth, Eponine, m'dear; you merely fail to recognize it." Sweeping past her towards the door, he paused only to open it and glance back over his shoulder. "Come - vite! Madame will not mind a few more hours with your precious 'Jolras. But don't forget you scarf!"

In a flurry, Eponine put out the fire in the hearth, swept on her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and locked up behind herself. She flew down the stairs, past Madame Léon and the sleeping Enjolras (where she paused, only for a moment, to kiss her son goodbye - again), her hand skimming easily over the dusty, familiar banister, and she alighted beside the waiting Professor at the foot of the stairs. He tapped his foot impatiently, mocking her, and gave her a winning smile as she came to rest at his side, where his pseudo-apprentice always belonged.

"Ready, now, Mademoiselle Sabatier?"

Puffing a little after her run downstairs, Eponine managed to smile sadly with a small shrug, as a realization dawned on her. "I have no papers, no passes, nothing," she said softly. "I can usually talk my way out of trouble, or avoid it altogether, but, accompanying you, I feel I may need them; they suspect any groups of Frenchmen of being up to something."

"Psh!" The Professor waved a nonchalant, dismissive hand, then reached into his coat pocket and flashed her the exact passes she needed to wander the city streets. He grinned at her speechless gratitude. "A...gift. From a friend."

"Merci," Eponine managed to murmur, tucking the pass away for safe-keeping and then following Professor Léon out into the cold. They walked down the street, along the river apace, until they turned away from the Seine and, eventually, into the warmth of a sidewalk café that had taken its business inside for the chill months of autumn and winter. The place was swarming with the joyful upper crust of Paris...and a few German officers, Eponine couldn't help but notice. She allowed the Professor to take her arm and lead her towards a table at the back, where Maurice Pericand, the butcher, awaited them.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

[momiji85]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz felt random eyes staring, or rather glaring, him down. Pulling his shirt collar up a little, he pretended that it would give him some sort of protection from intrusive looks, but it served little, if any purpose. Shoving cold hands into his pants pockets, Fritz felt the pocket watch dangling around his fingers, the thick chain intertwining itself into his grip. God, he was sick of this place. He only wanted to get back to Germany - to get back to his sister, and to his fiancée. Sighing he forced himself to pay more attention to his surroundings. Though a civilian would have to be a damn idiot to attack him, it wasn't unheard of a Frenchman, woman, or even a child to lash out against a soldier strolling down the street. But Fritz didn't associate himself with a lot of his comrades. He didn't believe the same things Hitler was enforcing. He mainly didn't believe in them, because it was these theories that landed him in this country in teh first place. By not associating himself with it, Fritz could pretend that he would get to go home soon. So it wasn't to help the people around him, but for his own selfish needs of returning back home - but still, the point remained, that he wasn't the enemy here, even though he was dressed as such.

Becoming more aware of his surroundings, Fritz spotted the small café shop from down the street and hurriedly headed towards it. He was moody, tired and thoroughly hating his life at the moment. Sipping on coffee seemed to be the only thing he could do at this point. Though truth be told, whether to hinder morale among the civilians or just to excude more corporal punishment, the Army had been forced to limit the amount of coffee handed out to shops. Fritz believed it was to make sure to drive the citizens insane. Though coffee wasn't a life saver, it was an intricate part of who these French people were, and an important part of their lifestyle. By limiting, and even replacing coffee beans from shops, the German invaders had ensured an uproar - a riot that Fritz felt was unecessary if only his fellow countrymen could be resonable. Get those thoughts out of your head now Fritzi . . . it was thoughts like these that led others into the hot pan - that sent them down the dangerous road of the Resistance. And if Fritz kept up with the mood he was in, he might as well deport himself right into Hitler's hands himself. The way the Fűrher insisted on complete, and utter obedience from everyone down from his highest official to the lowest of foreign peasants was astounding - and infuriating . . . ugh, there he was again, questioning things. He needed to tread carefully and make sure that everything he did and said looked appropiate for a soldier of his calibar.

Settling into a small table, he sat against the high backed metal chair. It was hard and cold against the little bit of skin that was left uncovered - which wasn't much. But leaning forward onto his elbows, the young soldier simply lifted the menu up to his eyes and scanned it carefully before motioning for the gaston to take his order. The skinny little man rushed to him quickly, surely afraid that if he didn't, the soldier would write him up, and dissapear like so many of his friends. But Fritz tried to look and sound reassuring as he stared up at the man, "Bonjour monsieur - une espresso, sil vous plȃit." The waiter thumbled with his pencil, marking into a white pad the small order before rushing off to hurriedly fetch it for him. As he waited behind, Fritz mentally skipped from table to table, looking at each inhabitant to scope them out. It was his job to figure out who were the troublemakers and who were the bad guys - but as he watched for any significan signs, all he found were empty stares back at him. They were literally scared of him, and had they only the opportunity to really know him, they'd know being scared of him, was laughable!

But it was one table that made him linger, unlike the other ones. Resting his eyes on the sight a few yards away, Fritz watched a young blonde woman sit beside an older man - a May/December romance perhaps? And though usually that would have been the end of it, the young soldier couldn't help but continue to keep his eyes on her. She was absolutly stunning, much like his fiancée, and seemed to move effortlessly into the wrought iron chair beneath her. She was like a ballerina, graceful and petite and Fritz felt horrible for staring. But as soon as his eyes moved back down to his own table, they deliberatly disobeyed him and shot right back up at her. A slight blush of embaressment crept up on his face, but no matter how hard he tried, his gaze stayed fixated on her.

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[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

The butcher sat in shadow, hoping to keep himself hidden without being obvious about his wariness to be known, but flicked a hand in greeting towards Professor Léon as he shuffled into a seat. Pericand grunted at the sight of Eponine as she sashayed into her own chair, unconcious of her effect on a certain German officer as she set about getting comfortable. She slung her coat over the back of the seat and unraveled her scarf, soaking in what little warmth the building had to provide. Pericand sincerely liked Eponine, truly, and was glad for her help and her dedication to the cause, but he didn't necesscarily want her coming to supposedly private meetings. "I said to bring no one," the butcher muttered, tone dark and words coming quickly, to the Professor.

"I didn't - I brought somebody." There wasn't even a flicker of amusement on Pericand's face as Professor Léon grinned cheekily, proud of his wittiness; the Professor sighed wearily and, in an attempt to get to the point, waved a hand as if clear the air and replied, "She's here, mon ami, here to stay."

Barely restrained, Eponine spoke up in her own defense. "I suggest you put aside your prejudice and speak before we arouse any suspicions, monsieur," she said to the butcher, eyes narrowed. To think, she'd left her son in another woman's charge, to sit here and be looked down upon as if she were a mindless child! "If you want to get anything done, you'll need all the help you can get - don't alienate your allies now."

Professor Léon glanced at his student, smiling faintly in satisfaction, then turned his attention back to Pericand and said, "You heard her; give us the news."

The news was scant and rather dismal. Occupation hadn't begun very long ago (what were a few months to a people who had felt they were under seige for a lifetime?) and the hated Germans didn't show any sign of letting go of the struggling France or their blasted quest for superiority. Aryans: a race above all others, created to serve Hitler and their glorified Germany - who the hell wanted perfection in such a crazy, mixed-up world, anyway? On the homefront, a dozen wet-behind-the-ears Resistance fighters had been taken prisoner by German soldiers in a raid not three days earlier. It was kept quiet, but the butcher had it on good authority that all of them had been executed via firing squad. Understandably, the movement had chosen to head deeper underground and keep their plans of attack simple, as well as few and far between. A planned seige of an armory on the outskirts of the city had been cancelled; all members were ordered to keep their wits about them and their tongues safely behind locked lips. That was all they could get out of Pericand, before he told them of another meeting at the back of his store the following week and made a hurried escape. The man could no longer take sharing the café, his favorite since he was a boy, with the enemy.

"I would call that unproductive, at best," Eponine noted with a sigh to her learned compantion, glancing at him with a painful, infinite sadness in her eyes. "I feel as if we'll forever be at the mercy of the Boches."

The Professor toyed with a loose thread on his overcoat. "Not forever, my dear," he said slowly, the same sadness reflected in his own eyes, "just long enough." They looked away from each other, a desparaging silence falling between them, until Professor Léon abruptly stood and glanced down towards Eponine, a sudden, mischievous smirk on his lips. "I'll buy you a drink - we're bound to be caught out after curfew, anyway. And we can't even get a mug of coffee in a proper café!"

The young woman managed a tiny smile in reply, not entirely enjoying his dark humor, and simply shook her head. She didn't have to say non for him to get the hint. With a touch to an invisible hat brim, the Professor followed Pericand's lead, bobbing his head at the café owner before heading outside into the snow.

Alone, Eponine hailed the waitress and ordered tea which, when it arrived, was luke warm, at best, and weak. Such were the sacrafices of war - the deaths of lovers and friends, insane new laws in your hometown, and watered-down tea. Sipping at the delicate cup, she contemplated ordering something to eat, but feared what she would receive and, thus, abstained. After having sat in the place for a good half an hour, Eponine suddenly shivered and realized the cause. She'd felt eyes on her back as she sat with the Professor, but she'd pushed the unnerving feeling aside in lieu of talks of the Resistance. Now, the memory returned with a vengence, whether the eyes were still on her, or not. She bundled her hair into a single mass and pulled it over one shoulder, glancing casually over the other shoulder to spot her apparent admirer.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

[momiji85]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz' eyes dashed towards the coffee cup the waiter had placed before him. The frosted glass table top reflected a twisted pair of legs back at him - a set of feet that refused to budge, refused to dart off and escape the embaressment that threatened to spill over his cheeks in a slight blush. He knew he needed to play it coy, to glance back up at the blonde stranger before she thought too much of his hesitance, but for the life of him, he was frozen in place. Inhaling a deep cold breath of fresh air, the young soldier let it out, transforming it into a soft blow of smoke that rustled around his mouth before evaporating around him. Finally, he felt his heart slowing down a little, and his hands reach for the coffee. Though he didn't remember bringing the cup to his mouth, Fritz did feel the hot liquid go down his throat in one fluid motion. It seemed to revive him, a blessing he was utterly grateful for, considering the circumstances. Though he should've taken it slow, he felt the uncontrollable need to drink it down as fast as he could. But having forced it down so quickly, the heat of the espresso only revealed itself after he had finished it. A burning sensation soon let its presence be known, and Fritz instinctivly held a cold, ungloved hand to his throat, before slowly setting the now empty cup back down on the white small dish.

He knew he probably looked liked an idiot by now, but maybe that was for the best. After all, he didn't want this girl - woman - to be led on by the belief that she even stood a chance with him. And if he turned her off by looking stupid, than that was fine with him. He didn't want her to notice him in any way, for her to think of him in anyway - he was engaged, to a woman that he loved . . . but then why I am wanting to look back at her so much? He shook his head. He gave himself to much credit, he wasn't that much a catch, and especially not to a French woman whose country he was forcibly occupying. Dammit - things were just not looking good for him today. First it was embaressment over being caught dead in the act of staring. Then it was embaressment over drinking the coffee way to fast. But now, the embaressment was gone - leaving only shame in its wake. Shame for even noticing the way this stranger's blonde tresses curved around her delicate shoulders . . . fists clenching tightly, Fritz reached for his wallet before pulling out a bill or two. Flinging it onto the table, he picked himself up and walked away, without ever lookig back at the woman - or so she probably thought.

The truth was, that Fritz felt liked he recognized the older man the woman had arrived with. Recognized him from a list of suspected Resistance fighters. Maybe this woman intrigued him so much, because she was the enemy? Ducking into a nearby alleyway, Fritz waited several minutes, hoping that none of them were still keeping an eye out for him, before he dared to look past the corner - and back at the cafe. Gott - sometimes he hated his job. It was bad enough to be away from his sister, to be away from his fiancée, but now, having to spy on possible other spies? He didn't agree with his country's decision reagarding France, or this war, but here he was; having to do this redicilous job of hiding in cramped, dark alleyways, as he watched three strangers chat at a small café table. But however much he hated his job, it was still his job. And if he didn't do it, somebody with a lot less inclination to sympathize with their cause, would - and then they'd definitly be in trouble. At least here, he could shoo any other soldier away, and just continue to watch them . . . like some weird stalker - like that's any better . . . Sighing, he reached for his notebook and began to scribble detailed descriptions of all three of them. The first two were simple enough. Older males - middle class. But when his eyes settled down on the young woman once more, he froze again. What was it about her?! Gott, it was driving him nuts! Flipping the notebook shut, he waited for them to leave. If he was right, and this was a small group of the Resistance, he was duty bound to report it. So because of his duty, and not because of somekind crush on her (or so he told himself), he would fallow her as soon as she got up from that table.

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ooc; whoot - new post! (and just when you were probably thinking I wasn't going to be posting again! XD) Anyways, sorry this post isn't so good . . . I was thinking that maybe, when you and the professor (sp?) leave, Fritz can fallow in the shadows a bit, and they finally confront one anohter in private? Or something like that >,<

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

Imagine the young Resistance fighter's surprise at being oogled by a German officer! She almost retched at her thought only a moment ago, how nice it felt to be noticed in the dismal night, what a shiver the stranger's eyes sent down her love-starved spine. But though his face looked enough like a potential friend's, the look in his eyes (whether actually present or imagined) and his spiffy uniform gave him away in an instant. He was quite easy on the eyes, but she shook the thought away with an unpleasurable shake and replaced the handsome young military man in the café with the Hun she knew him to be. For he was the enemy, and that usurped all.

Eponine hurriedly turned back to her terrible tea and took another long gulp without thinking about the horrid taste or lack of real cream. She felt her face flush and hoped it was with anger - perhaps even a certain amount of embarassment at being so openly admired by the enemy. But something deeper whispered that the rosiness in her cheeks was not rage, nor shame, nor even the cold winter wind. It was pleasure, pure and simple, and oh so hated the instant she recognized it. She almost stood up to cheer when the German tossed his money down carelessly and stormed fromt he café, and thought vaguely that she hoped Professor Léon was far and away by now, and not waiting for her just outside. She hated the young officer enough; she didn't need him to arrest her friend to abhor him with a newly-flamed passion.

Polishing off the last of her tea with delicate sips at the now-chilled liquid, Eponine felt also a painful stab of betrayl, sharper than any Hun's knife in her heart or bullet to her proud French flesh. She was not the betrayed; rather, the betrayer. Auguste had been with her for such a short time - mon Dieu, they had barely been more than children when they'd met, playing at the grown-up lifestyle! But he had been her first and only true love, the man with whom she intended to share not only her home, but also her child and, eventually, the rest of their long and lovely lives. He had been stolen from her on a lonely field, somewhere in the world, in the midst of this soul-engulfing war, but his spectre followed her everywhere. Sometimes, he was more real to her than any of the blank faces she passed on the street. Everytime she looked at Enjolras, she saw Auguste; whenever she cried, it was Auguste who wiped her tears. He was still her one and only true love, the only man in her life, a bright spark in her otherwise-desolate existance. And by allowing herself to enjoy the admiration of a man - any man, be he French, Ally, or otherwise - was like spitting on Auguste's unknown grave. It was an insult she would be sure to avoid in the future, until the ghost began to fade and the wound was not as fresh. But she doubted such a time would come anytime soon.

With a sigh, the lonely young woman flagged down her waitress and paid her, thanking her curtly (but politely enough) for the tea, before shoving the mug back at her and standing to rearrange her scarf and coat around her slim frame. She tucked the chair back into place at the table, raised her shoulders against the winter onslaught, then began the long walk home at a quick trot, hurrying up the avenue back towards the Seine, hurrying home to her son. All the way, she clutched her newly-acquired papers, to reassure herself they were real and there to protect her, and all the way, she prayed that she would not have to use them.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

O O C : Hey, no, awesome post! I like internal thoughts and emotions - probably to a point where it's unhealthy ^^ And the professor already made his exit, but Fritz can follow Eponine if he really wants to...which I think he does...just saying.

[momiji85]

ooc;

Just letting you know, I was really busy these past couple of days, but I am working on the Fritz post tonight! XD

[momiji85]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz had watched the young woman get up quickly enough, after protecting herself from the ever cooling weather around them, before heading in the direction of the Seine. Though the young soldier didn't really like being in France, he did enjoy the now iced river because of all the small vendors, lined against the stone walls, adorning the classic waterfront. Eager to figure out what was setting off the internal bells of alarm for him, the German flicked up his own collar around his neck before beginning to fallow her.

He couldn't explain it, but something about the way she moved, so gracefully along the pebbled back alleys, reminded him of Maria - his bethroved back home. Maybe it was the way her scarf threatened to unravel from her swanlike neck, or maybe it was how some stray strands of golden hair flickered in the snow reflecting light - like glitter. Maybe even, it was her slim legs, taking shape with subtle high heels, adding an exagerated height that still couldn't meet his own. Or just maybe it was because he missed his love so much that any woman could remind him of her at this point.

It had been so long since he had heard from her, at least four months - or was it longer? Time seemed to go by so slowly when you were in a place you hated. Then again, it wasn't just his finacee he missed. He missed his sister, his only family really. He hadn't heard from her in two months . . .

Gripping the edge of jacket, Fritz insisted upon himself to focus on the matter at hand. He was becoming far to sentimental at just the mere sight of the back of a woman, as he fallowed her through Paris. It was depraved really - but if you asked the French, much of what the Germans did was depraved. In all likelyhood, him walking behind a woman was probably one of the least disturbing things his countrymen were doing at this point in time. So telling himself he was in the morally clear, Fritz continued his pace behind the stranger - hoping to Gott, she wouldn't notice his stealth spy moves (as if he actually had any).

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ooc; Lol - I totally passed out last night, and didn't write this post until now! XD (Sorry it's short! I didn't want Fritzi to ramble too much! xd ) Anyways, sorry I didn't catch on to the professor leaving >,< Gees, I'm so blond sometimes! Alrighty then, so yeah, Fritzi's fallowing you until you notice him ^^;

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as Eponine exited the café for home, with dusk just beginning to lengthen the shadows on the quieting Paris streets. Along the river, vendors were packing hurriedly to get home for the evening, while citizens hustled along in the cold to make sure they were home, warm and safe, before darkness fell. A few of the bold (or those who were friendly with the invaders in the city) strolled along the cobblestones, headed for bars and restaurants where they would wine and dine the night away with their officer friends. These people, Eponine knew, had a name - traitors, each and every one of them. She knew she would do absolutely anything to keep her son safe, but she could not imagine plastering a fake smile on her face just to gain the good graces of some German officer. She shivered as she remembered the officer in the café, and hurried her pace.

She rounded a corner and walked past modest apartment buildings with gardens and courtyards, some bombed out and others deserted. Students, mostly, enjoyed the Latin Quarter, and many of the young had either fled into the countryside or joined the army in defense of their country, leaving a few, urban-dwelling souls to maintain what was left of Paris and their way of life. Glancing up in time to see a mother, father, and their three children drawing the blackout curtains over their apartment windows, Eponine made a mental note that she must visit her own family soon, then walked on.

Finally, the old brownstone came into view, and the young woman trotted up the short stoop and paused to dig her keys out of the deep pockets of her long coat. Something didn't feel right, now that she had taken the time to notice it. She didn't fear an air raid or any other such danger in her immediate future, just that familiar sense of being watched. It was almost as if she could feel the same eyes from the café on her back now, but what in the name of all that's holy would that officer want with her?

I think you can answer that, darling, she answered herself, and shuddered. None of her prospects looked good as she glanced up and down the street - and, maybe, saw the same, handsome German walking in the shadows? He was either there to arrest her and interrogate her, or to make an ugly proposition, and she didn't want to have to deal with either scenario. Her fingers grazed over the false papers the Professor had given her, then finally touched the frozen metal of the front door key. She glanced behind her again, praying he would just leave her alone and let her see her son, then slipped the key into the main door's lock and turned it to admit herself to the building.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

O O C : Hahaha, no trouble at all - we all have our blond moments ;] And sorry this is kind of short - it'll get better once they actually interact and we don't have to rely on internal reflection to keep the posts going XP

[momiji85]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz could tell under the nervous form of the petite woman walking in front of him, that she was terrified of something - which most likely was him. Had she been given the chance to meet him before, she'd quickly gather that out of all the German soldiers currently occupying her country, he was the least of her worries. But being German meant several things. He was respected out of fear, and considered ignorant (though rightfully so) because of false information given to him by his superiors. But it was because of his own selfish desires to run back to his sister and Maria, that the young soldier forced himself to forgo any precaution and/or duty to his homeland. He cared so much more about his family - about his home - than his Motherland, and though he hated how much he emotionally betrayed his country and the war effort, as long as he didn't actually go through with the thinking imposed on him of late by his sympatheties for the French, then it was all good.

But as he stuck his cold hands in his tweed pockets, he had to deal with the fact, that this was not normal either. Stalking some pretrified poor innocent female in the dead of winter, solely to watch her? It was creepy by anybody's standards, especially his own, and images of his fiancee threatened to invade his current predicament. But for reasons that escaped him, he continued to fallow her. As her high heels tapped against frozen pebbled stone, so did his feet pound against the walkway. The sun had just settled, lighting the horizon with orange-purple hues that mimicked what was happening here. Two people, practically different in every way, we're meeting on the horizon. She was orange, as intimidating as the sun; and he was purple, hiding in shadows as if he was some common criminal (a obtuse reference that was probably used to describe him behind his back more than once).

But the clanging of sharp iron scratching against metal gates shook him from his metaphors. Realising she was about to lock him away from her, an inexplicable fear consumed him. As if he felt like he would never see her again, Fritz bolted, running behind her, and probably scaring her half to death. Swinging an arm between her and her escape, he landed a palm against the votive bars that fashioned into a doorway . . . And there he stood, as frozen as the ground beneath them. Stuck as if he had somehow wandered into a black hole, sucked into a place where neither time nor light refused to show themselves. The German stared down at her - more confused about his behavior than ever. But as he stood there, hovering between her and her only way out, he was able to get a closer look at just what it was that had caught his attention in the first place. Her eyes. The color, the very shape of them, looked like his father's eyes, glaring back at him. Neither he, nor his sister had inherited the physical trait, and he certainly didn't expect to see the hatred that came from them repeat itself in this stranger's stance, but here she was - staring at him with those very eyes. It was creepy, mystifying, and downright intimidating; and Fritz couldn't look away. Unbeknownst to him, until it was too late, the young soldier reached up his free hand, to better encircle the orbital intrusion on his soul; to hold a shaky hand up to it, and focus in on the force of nature going on behind her eyes. In very badly pronounced French, the young soldier mumbled under ice cold breath, "Stay still . . . "

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ooc; I actually posted when I said I was going to post! ^^; It's amazing that I managed to actually find the time to do so >,< And I also managed to find the time to do this - which is what happens when I'm left to my own devices <<; Oh and considering that Fritz, is like this close to touching Eponine, I wouldn't be shocked if she downright slapped him XP