Acte de Défi- Prop 10 Open Montelimar RP Thread

[Havenshire]

ACTE DE DEFI

The Knave of Hearts

City of Chambery
Occupied Montelimar
June, 1953

The Old Church Bell chimed out twelve times in the crisp, summery air. Jean Beaudoin sighed, dabbing his sweating brow with a hankerchief. He had a full basket of baguettes still to deliver, and it was noon already. Sometimes, he thought, life could truly be hard. He pushed himself to his feet with effort, his belly wobbling as he did so. Were it up to him, he would sit beneath the old willow tree in the Park all day, simply watching the fine people go by, and feeding the ducks crumbs from his stale loafs. He groaned, dusting himself off. But, such was life. Like so many other poor unfortunate souls, he had to work for a living. He pulled his old, worn bicycle out of the bushes, and checked to make sure the baguettes were still ok in their wicker basket.

Adjusting his beret, he clambered up onto his bicycle, which groaned under his weight. He winced as the saddle rode high, and he adjusted himself delicately. He had a long ride ahead, afterall. Peddling, he grunted as he cycled off down the path, sand and dirt crunching as he rode along. No doubt Remy's Cafe was clamouring for its afternoon delivery of bread. Jean never understood why it was customary for the local Bistros and cafes to over a basket of broken baguettes with their olive oil for afternoon repast, but it was a fine one, he reasoned. It kept otherwise fat and lazy bakers like himself gainfully employed, even in these trying times. And who could take offence at that?

A little while later, after he had delivered some of his baguettes to the Widow's Corner and to the Rue de le Fontaines, he made his way over to the City Centre, where Remy's Cafe was located. It was just across the road from the Provisional Police Headquarters, and as such usually had a fair number of the new Provisional Police as customers and hangers-about. Despite their new masters and new uniforms, Jean knew they were much the same as the old Gendarmerie. Much enamoured of their petty powers, and of their ability to expand their waistlines in relative comfort. A pleasure Beaudoin well understood.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Beaudoin! A moment if you please?" It was Clara, the delightful daughter of the local bone-setter. He brightened up almost immediately. She had the loveliest raven-hair, done in that modern film starlette style, and perky breasts which in this summer heat pressed against her light, flimsy dress. He sometimes saw her checking out the men at the Cafe, and talking with the students up at the College.

"Of course, Madamoiselle, I always have time for a rose as lovely as you." He said smarmily, bringing his bike to a hault. It was rare indeed for her to even notice him, but perhaps today was after all his lucky day?

"My, you have such -lovely- baguettes, monsieur!" she crooned, batting her eyelids at him, as she leaned over provocatively. He gulped, his eyes falling to her beautiful decollatage. "Of course, of course. Only the finest."

"And are they -all- for the Cafe?"

"Ah, only a few, to be sure. I would be happy to allow you one, free of charge."

"My you are simply too generous, Monsieur! Non, I shall not press for you such finely baked loaves. Perhaps...No, it is a silly thing..."

"Anything for you, Eau de Chantille." He crooned.

"Could you take this parcel for me to the Cafe aswell? Just put it under your baguettes, noone will mind. Say it is for Remy, my friend there will ensure it gets to him." She licked her lips seductively as she said this, leaning on his basket. His baguettes were not the only things jostled.

"Of course, of course. Anything for you Madamoiselle." He agreed, sweating, finding his bicycle saddle even more uncomfortable as he squirmed.

She slipped a small, handtowel wrapped item- perhaps a love token, or some such thing? Into the bottom of his basket.

"Thank you monsieur. I shall not keep you one moment longer! I will of course, be in your debt if you deliver it most hastily." She pouted.

"Right away, Right away!" He yelped, and, putting his fat feet to the peddles, began to exert his bulk with speed towards the Cafe, eager to impress.

The Provisionals watched lazily as they saw the Fat Baker cycle past their checkpoint, ignoring him with a lazy eye. Beaudoin late again for his deliveries? They chuckled, and shared a cigarette. The cyclist came to a skidding halt outside the Cafe, and he began to unclip the heavy basket full of bread, waddling in his haste to deliver the package.

"You're almost on time for once, Monsieur Beaudoin. What, did you leave a cake in the oven?" Joked Remy, watching the human walrus make his way in, towards the Kitchen.
"Oh shut it, Remy! You know nothing about anything. As a matter of fact, I have a parcel here for you, courtesy of Madamoiselle Clara up on the hill..."
Remy frowned. "The Socialist bitch? Why would she send a parcel here..."

Beaudoin's face fell. Had he misunderstood her? No, surely not. Still, he had done what she asked...hadn't he?

"Let's see it, then." Remy asked, inquisitively.

"Oh? Its just a little thing, here..." He lifted it carelessly from the basket.

=====================================================

The explosion shattered the calm of the lazy Montelimaren afternoon. Glass shards ripped out, showering customers and lazing Provincial Police alike. Screams and the moans of the dying filled the air. Smoke clearing, the Police ran from their checkpoints, their weapons left behind, more concerned with saving lives. Running towards the devestated cafe, they never saw the shadow-eyed loners who'd been watching from around the corner, two students, one with film starlette hair, who pulled small, snub-nosed revolvers, and fired full-chambers at the running Police's backs, downing three of them, before dropping their guns and vanishing into the streets.

Sirens wailed as Ambulances were called. Noone could quite believe what had happened. But then, when they heard about it on the Radio, they knew. The War was over. But the Peace...that was yet to be won.

The Communists were back.

 

[Havenshire]

The Queen of Hearts

City of Chambery
Occupied Montelimar
June, 1953


The crowds lined the Rue de le Fontaines, bunches of lillies clutched in their hands, united in grief for those who had lost their lives at the Cafe bombing at the bottom of the road. In tribute to those who had lost their lives, several carts had been arranged to carry coffins, in a staged procession, from the site of their murder to the city Graveyard at the St.Michel's Cathedral in Central Chambery. Thousands had turned out, some in genuine mourning, others to try and make sense of the violence that had struck at their community. Almost all were there in unison, a community reforging its bonds in the face of wanton terror.

The Provisional Police were out in force. In addition to their usual thick, wooden batons, they now all openly carried revolvers in shoulder-holsters, and had traded their soft, floppy caps for the older, metallic helmets of the Gendarmerie of an earlier age. Wooden barriers had been quickly erected to make some effort to control the crowd's size and placement, and to clear the route for the funeral procession. The City Mayor, a former businessman who had made his money exporting perfumes and lady's toiletries to the Engellexic, was sweating profusely, keen to be seen to be in control, wearing his full sash and going nowhere without a police escort. The Provisional Government in Valmy had been crystal-clear in their instructions to him: Order must be preserved at all costs.

The stage management of the Funeral began, and a band began to play up the Funeral March, as the procession's tumbrals clattered along the old cobblestoned Rue de le Fontaines. The Fountains that had given the road its name hadn't worked in over fifty years, but an effort had been made by the City authority to get them to work again, clear water flowing from at least two of them, providing some small spray and source of cooling on this hot, merciless day.

As the people, young and old, watched the coffins roll past, one young woman amongst the crowd watched carefully, with hooded eyes. Her name was Clara Oswald, and she was the only member of the Vanguard cell that, mysteriously, hadn't been snatched yet by the Security forces. She was deeply suspicious, and regretting not having fled, but she had opted to stay, and rely on her good looks, easy charm, and reputation as a "sweet girl" in this community to shield her. Running would have condemned her for sure. Besides, she smiled wolfishly to herself, who would the police believe? A well respected maid with good parentage, or scruffy, communist-zealot students who noone liked?

She moved amongst the crowd like a shadow, many not even noticing her, so fixated were they on the funeral procession. She had no wild plans to make a statement here. The Cell had done its job, and so had many others across the countryside. She would recieve new orders, in time. But for now, her job was simply to spread fear, suspicion, uncertainty. Right now the people were uniting -against- the Communists. This was bad. But if she could shift their thoughts, make them doubt the security the Provisional Government provided, even perhaps spread suspicions that the Engellexic had done this...She smiled. The work of poison words were her specialty. Ever since she had been a child she had been a master of wearing different faces, learning how to adopt just the right tone, the right cast of her eyes or facial muscles, to make people believe whatever she wanted. At first she had used this to satisfy childish desires, to get new toys, new clothes, and in the normal course of things she would have aimed to snag the Mayor's son, and marry her way to a life of luxury.

But a chance meeting with a young, brilliant man at Universite had changed her views. She had realised just how small such desires were. He had opened her eyes with his own, brilliant, far-seeing words, of the global struggle. She cared not at all for the proletariat, the shuffling, dull masses of idiot drones who would do whatever they were told. But the Vanguard had shown her just how much -power- was there, in someone who knew the right words, had the right face, was there at the right time. She felt no empathy for the poor, but she hated the old, established authorities even more. Dull, old, boring men, who sat around talking and smoking fine cigars. The Communists were exciting, violent, ambitious go-getters. Indeed, from what she could see, it was the Red Countries that were the most successful, for all that they might be small and not have Empires. Carentania held most of Southern Solaren, taking it in just under a year. It had taken a century or more for the Frescanians to tame their now vanished Empires. Havenshire, a remote backwater of Europe, was even now changing the course of world history with the precise application of funds and material in Vangala. Everywhere, she sensed, those who had the Will were joining the Winning team, the Red team.

No, she did not dream of being a fine lady with jewels, lounging in a parlour. Not anymore. She dreamed of being Madame Liberty, loved, adored, worshipped even as she spread poison and death amongst her enemies.

And so she began her work, whispering into the ears of people as she passed, carefully slipping pamphlets into coat-pockets and baskets, spreading her message, like a spider spinning a fine web.