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People were already going through perilous levels of physical pushing to get out of Rennes, mixed between thrusting threads of Englishman as they poured their operations through the city. People fell left and right, stragglers were caught and held prisoner or dragged back to various bases. No mercy was felt with the revolutionary air of human equality; men, women and children alike were obtained, or destroyed.
It was almost enough to make Christophe sick.
Seeing the English trump through his territory really made him question the past of things. Hanging upside-down amongst gargoyles atop a clock tower was a less than pleasant location for hiding, however it was the simplest way of disguise. The common flaw in every human was their common misguidance, and forgetting to look up. A few had, of course, but in the sleek black clothing with blood red rufflets to blend him well into the fiery-clouded sky, he blended will with his stoney, monstrous comrades as they roared off the apex of the clock tower in a resemblance of good architecture and a nesting place for birds.
By night fall the clocktower was as invaded as the rest of Rennes and likely Amiens to the north-east. Occasionally a patrolsman would peer out of the window yards and yards below his perch, but all would make the common-law mistake of all the rest, and it made him smirk. Where he was not usually one to typically roam the skyline, it was an interesting switch. The grounds far below, however, were no place for anyone but the English to be trapezing right now if they valued their lives. As the final fingers of sunlight bled away over the horizon, Christophe swung up among his stone friends, perched on the edge of the roof, and carefully unzipping his travelling pack.
Instead of a cigarette he pulled out a stick of Nicorette with bitter hatred, sticking the piece into his mouth and trying to pretend that the zap of nicotine was in the form of smoke. There was no time to risk anyone spotting the ember atop the roof, however, and it would have to do for soothing his addiction for the time being. Pulling a pair of binoculars from his pack, he set them to an acceptable level before reclining against the rooftop and peering down to his destination. It would take less than ten minutes to scale the buildings to the scout towers, where men could already be seen tucking in for the night. Spotlights shrouded the location like pale ghosts through the dark as patrols littered the building on each and every balcony.
This was way too easy.
Swinging down from the clocktower in a matter of moments, the man moved like a bat through the night. Perching soon atop the residential building of the higher marked candidates of the Anglo-Saxons, he licked his lips tenderly, hanging once more like some kind of night-going animal from the edge of the building, and feeling very humorously like Spiderman.
"Aye, mate. See you in the morning, rest up, aye?" A voice from within the window spoke strongly.
"That I will sir, and yourself. Long day tomorrow. Paris!" A second followed, nearer to the open window.
"Paris!" the other man toasted, before the door was shut, and only idle movement could be heard from within.
Moments passed before the man peered out the window with interest to inspect the city with care, raising a lit cigarette to his lip. He barely had time to take a lasting drag when a pair of gloved hands slid down, snapping the gentleman's neck with one swift movement and no hesitation. Chris bit back a swear as the cigarette dropped from the man's lips as his body went limp over the windowsil, just managing to snatch it in his hand. The embers pit into his palm as they outed in his fist, but he made no noise, taking that second to drag the fellow up and out of the window. A careful stuffing of the b*****d down a chimney and Christophe was safely tucked away in his room, with the curtains drawn, the lights low, and the window shut.
He admired the uniform now carefully fixed onto his figure. The other fellow had been slightly fatter than himself but it fitted well enough to pass as his own as he carefully gelled his hair with the fellow's comb into the acceptable form that was prominent in style amongst the Englishmen in order to reflect that of their leaders. He felt filthy in the freshly pressed clothes, his own carefully hidden. His accent would not be a problem; plenty of Francophones had immediately sided with the English. Despite the dispute of war in land, there were still many in France not pleased with the government or the organization. Many sided with England in the political affairs - the most popular group, of course, was that of Les Renégats, or, rather, The Renegades.
These people disappointed him. Traitors at best, but it was England's own fault for trusting the French, for there were pieces within the Renegades that Christophe knew were definitely not there to help any petty Anglo-Saxon.
He pressed his hands down his body to identify the majority of his weaponry, before finally placing the blasted hat on his head, and shining the silver strip of metal across his breast pocket with a risen eyebrow of interest.
How quaint. It appeared as though he was a first lieutenant today.
He marched out into the hallway with a cigarette between his lips, tipping his hat keenly to passing 'comrades' as they eased through the corridors to their designated sleeping quarters. The clean-shaven brunette did little more than this for the first little while, entirely familiar with the inside of the building, not only from multiple reviews of blueprints, but because it had been a governmental residence not a day previous that he had been in on missions far too many times. The annoying jingle of the metal decor on the carefully tailored boots of his uniform were more than a piss-off but he did his best to ignore it as he tugged the white leather gloves on his hands keenly, turning a corner.
"Hey! Who're you?"
Ah, it was only a matter of time. Turning, he was almost surprised to see someone as minute as a cadet staring back at him. The tawny-haired male met his dark eyes, before letting his eyes slide down to the silver strip over his pocket. Christophe simply looked at him narrowly, lifting his chin, and sliding a bit of an English accent into his French one to give the misguidance that he had been residing as a loyal man of England for some time.
"Some re-zpect for your higher ranks, cadet," he drawled briskly, rapping his palm on the side of the kid's face. Looking a mix between embarrassed and insulted, he thumbed over his shoulder to the dorming area. "Paris tomorrow. You best be watching your arse, if you ever plan to get somewhere in zis war. Hail England."
"H-hail England!"
The insult was completely drowned out by embarrassment now as the youngster saluted him reespectfully and took off. Christophe simply shook his head, almost feeling bad. The kid would be one of many to die in this war, and so early, too. It was sad. He barely looked a day past nineteen.
Trapezing through the corridors still however, he rested the gun on his shoulder carefully as he strolled along, not making eye contact with anyone unless it was necessary. No, he had people to find. Not just those of whom were his targets, but those of whom were his potential allies on better days. He always worked alone, of course... but it was always nice to have ears on the inside.
"Ahhh, zair you are, ... Lieutenant... Laurant." He turned carefully, looking at the cadet that had called for him. Ah, speak of the devil. It was nice to not have to search the whole godforsaken building for someone he knew. Nodding carefully at the Renegade as he stared at him as though he was criticizing him for taking on a higher ranked position than himself, he was pleased to see him dressed in the same ironed uniform. Brushing his shoulder off as he tapped his cigarette carelessly, he nodded at the 'traitor'.
"Ah, Dubois. Fine time as any, non? We have some fi-nair zings to discuss, do we not? Please, come. To my post."
The cadet followed him along as they strolled together, now looking must more trustworthy as a pair of soldiers as opposed to the singular one that he had been earlier. Sliding onto a balcony, the two looked at eachother, and 'Dubois' began speaking immediately in code, though his gestures told Christophe everything he needed to know.
"Ze wind is coming in heavy from ze west tonight. Gunman are enlisted to either side, our focus iz below on eizair side, just in case of Frensh invasion." He gestured to the furthest window, to the West, where Gregory's resting quarters would be. It was in perfect adjacency to the clock tower, making for an easy escape. There were going to be guards in both corridors, in case any assassins would show to break through and try to kill him - in case Christophe showed up to try and kill him. But ten guards were nothing for Christophe, guns or no guns. Dubois continued.
"As you know, of course, ze windows weel lock at ze crack of midnight and zere will be no ins and outs. Patrols will be locked for ze rest of ze night until dawn, when we will move eento Paris. Our commandair iz a strong man, he haz everything under control."
Cristophe nodded slowly, speaking back in a similar code. "Tonight, Rennes, tomorrow, Paris. Our commander can do no ill work. He is a strong man." Christophe narrowed his eyes slightly, mouth a straight line. "He always has been. Tomorrow, organize a meeting wiz our people. Zere are big matters to discuss."
The cadet nodded solidly, handing him an envelope, before taking off. Christophe took another few careful drags of his cigarette before he headed back inside, making his way through corridors and dipping in and out of patrolling balconies, as though making sure that each man was doing his job. Eventually he came to the main hall that would lead him to Gregory's room, and he stood at the end of the hall in silence. The guards outside conversed between themselves wearily. Christophe gazed down at the envelope in his hands, the royal seal closing it into confidentiality in the form of a stamp of red wax. The queen's own lips had touched this piece of paper by force at gunpoint, but Christophe LeLorne couldn't have cared less.
Plucking a decorative platter off of the wall almost lazily, with his gun still strapped to his back, he set the envelope neatly at the centre of the platter and began down the guarded hallway.
Immediately there was an erratic clicking of guns as they pointed in his direction, but he simply halted holding out the platter to display the sealed envelope as he bowed in respect, putting on his best English accent after many years of practise.
"A notice for our Commander, from the Queen herself. Please, this is a royal message of urgency."
A few guns cocked backward, but not before a man stepped forward to carefully examine the envelope, holding it up to the light only to reveal paper inside and nothing more. The seal was validated, and his gun was taken carefully from his back after a further examination. "The Commander is resting. Where is your position to deliver such a message at such a fine hour?"
"There is no time in the line of duty, sir. If you please, a moment. I'll even be so polite as to knock."
And he did just that, the careful rap of a fist on the door with his gloved knuckles, the platter in his other hand. He looked quite different now, and with his carefully practised accent in place and his uniform on, even Gregory couldn't shoot him on sight as a traitor if he recognized him. It was fair game. All he wanted to do was... talk, of course.
Waiting for the door to open patiently, he glanced up into those murderous blue eyes with his own of a deeper, muddy hue, his expression respectful and flat. "Good evening, Commander. A private note from the Queen, if you are not too busy. It is urgent." He let no twinkle of familiarity dance behind his eyes in his well-kept shape, playing ignorant. "If you please."
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