Viva La Resistance!

Subject: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:47 am

Viva La Resistance!

a roleplay by Tweek and Kyla

Co-Starring;
Gregory Thorne
Christophe DeLorne
Kenny McCormick
Kevin McCormick
Kyle Broflovski
Ike Broflovski
Filmore Anderson
Eric Cartman
Stan Marsh
Wendy Marsh-Testaburger
Craig Tucker
Thomas Thompson
Tweek Tweak
Pip Pirrup
& Damien

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:47 am

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The television flickered weakly through the darkness of the room, narrating along in fluent French dubbing over the English conversations in the background to drown out the accented babble as the people gestured madly about, the people at the broadcast of the meeting hooting and screaming in favour of their wretched country. Cigarette smoke misted the screen as the young woman on the tele babbled away to France in an emergency broadcast, the background image illustrating marching lines of men with weapons and fleets of airships rolling through the skies.

"... as the opposing lines of offence stretch toward the border from the English Channel into Amiens and Rennes. Civilians are advised to evacuate their homes immediately in the audited locations for review and protection. Civilians are encouraged to not interfere; drafts have been made to each family and remaining townspeople are being dismissed from their homes as we speak. The Neo-Nazi's have finally declared a call of war after multiple governmental figures were taken down within the last month in the ongoing debate on land and ownership..."

The report continued but the man watching was no longer paying attention. Licking his lips as he watched the background scenes, he marvelled the activity of the English with interest, sorting carefully through papers within the hold of his hands. His cigarette bobbed on his lip as he sighed through his nose, expelling smoke again throughout the little burrow that he called a home. There was a pretentious moment where last week's assassination of one of the British leaders was displayed for public viewing. The bullet was a clean shot while he stood on his podium, and a small smirk curled onto the brunette's lips as he admired his work, finally finding the desired page in his rifling. Uncapping a red sharpie, he bit the lid between his teeth as he doodled a red bullet hole in the centre of the man's forehead, striking x's through his eyes and a frown on his ugly mug.

"Pas problème... pas difficile..." he muttered, curling his fingers around the lid of the marker with his cigarette still neatly balanced between his lips. Capping the utensil, he tossed it lazily over his shoulder before sliding his papers back into his folder, taking a deserving sniff before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, withdrawing a deep breath.

"OIIII! MAMA! Nous sommes déplaçer ce soir. Emballez vos merde... L'Angleterre a fait guerre." There was an assortment of furious shrieking from the kitchen as he sniffed indignantly, rising from his chair and stuffing his manila folder within the safe hold of his jacket before zipping it up. Strolling into the kitchen as the blustering woman cussed loudly in fluent French, he patted her cheek and kissed her on top of her greying head before musing to himself, grabbing an apple off of the counter and taking a righteous bite out of it. Christophe turned to her as she muttered something to him quietly about where they were going, and he laughed at her, speaking in heavily accented English.

"Not me pairmanentlee, mama. Just you. I 'ave beeznis to take care of in ze war, you know zees."

Angrily his mother turned on him, smacking his arm. "NON! You said you wair not going to be drafted! You told me I would not looz my baby to war! I 'ave already lost a spouse. You are a liar of a son!" She crippled slightly against the counter, and he looked down at her with bored pity, patting her on the shoulder. "Neizzair of us are dying in zees war. France will win, Mama. You know I will nevair die. E'specially not at ze 'ands of English Nah'zee peegs."

The woman seemed unconvinced as he stepped by her after back into the livingroom, glancing up slightly as he spied the television once more. Once again he was no longer drawn in by the babbling of the woman on the screen, but the picture displayed on it, and the headline beneath.

Commander Thorne á la Bureau d'Angleterre

Christophe stared for a long time, slowly straightening as he stuffed his hand within the holds of his none-too-neatly ironed jacket, flipping the manila envelope open as he stood, carefully pulling out a paper and staring at its contents, before holding it up to hang adjacent by the screen, comparing the face on the screen to the photograph and name at hand with a bitter smile.

"A shame we should meet again zis way, Gregory..."

Christophe DeLorne left his home in silence; it would be a weary trip to Rennes.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:49 am

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory Thorne, the commander of the troops currently pushing their way into France, was standing in a meeting room with his top-ranking officers, looking around at the six other men with a calm, arrogant look on his face. He knew that he deserved this position. Despite the fact that their group had dropped from ten to seven in less than a month, Gregory was unafraid. He was not going to be assassinated anytime soon. He kept his head down, allowed others to relay messages as he plotted the next movement, directed the Neo-Nazi troops on where to go, on what to do.

It was the perfect war. Hitler had been the perfect leader; his idea of world conquest had been perfect. This time, they were using an updated plan, including not only Hitler’s ‘enemies’, the Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals, along with countless others, but every race. There was no race that would survive the holocaust they were wreaking, aside from the Anglo-Saxons. Britain had controlled most of the world once, the leader, the boss, and then it had fallen from grace.

Gregory was in charge of bringing it back. There were two people higher than him: General Atkins, a man of great renown, who happened to pass most of his information onto Greg directly. Above that was Denzel Brown, the ‘Hitler’ of their operation and a reclusive man who was constantly surrounded by guards. Gregory had met him but once, and he cut an imposing figure, a man who matched the cruelty and intensity behind his eyes.

Gregory was not as large as Denzel, or, rather, most of the other commanders, but he was imposing at all times, his blue eyes leaving an impression in those beneath him and anyone he came in contact with. He was arrogant, but he had every right to be; barely in his thirties and he was already commanding the largest invasion since the D-Day invasion of 1944. A cruel smirk passed his face; the circumstances were reversed. Instead of saving France, they were destroying it. Gregory, for one, had been pleased they had come to France, first.

He had someone he needed to find here.

The blonde looked around the room once again, that same unfeeling smirk that never touched his eyes plastered across his face. “We need to be in Paris by tomorrow evening, at least. I know we can push the troops forward and arrive there in time, yes? I will stay in Rennes for the time being; there is business to be done here. I will be in Paris by next week, however, I expect the plans we conferenced about earlier to be already well underway.”

Another quick glance around and then he called the room to attention, the officers beneath him standing immediately. Greg spoke, his voice icy. “Dismissed. Get some rest. You are useless to me if you are tired.”

The men shuffled from the room as Gregory lifted his laptop, sliding it into a case and flicking his eyes around once again, nervously. He adjusted the scarlet epaulette on his shoulder; his uniform was a throwback to the Revolutionary War, very Victorian in style and fitting his calm demeanor at almost all times.

He sighed, leaving the meeting room and going back to the room that had been given him on the second floor. Gregory stepped inside, guards in the hallway outside, and walked over to the bed, unbuttoning his coat and licking his lips, looking around. He hung it up and began working on the rest of his clothing, unbuttoning his shirt swiftly and laying it on the bed before working his pants off, setting them down as well and then simply laying on his bed, senses fully heightened and a gun nearby as he stared at the ceiling.

He hadn’t been in France in years. It was bringing back unpleasant memories. Well, no, that wasn’t true. The events were pleasant. The parting had not been. The blonde fiddled with the fleur-de-lis around his neck, a necklace he kept concealed beneath his uniform, and sighed, letting his usually arrogant visage slip into a rather sad one.

He was tired, and although he knew that the cause they were pushing for was the best, he felt… empty. Sad, sort of. Maybe he was just lonely. A prostitute might dispel those feelings…

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:52 am

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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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 bastard 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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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:53 am

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory had been so close to finding that much needed rest; sleep did not come easily for the blonde, not after the events that had transpire in the last fifteen years or so. Especially not since joining the military at eighteen. A heightened sense of awareness came with a price, and Gregory was lucky to get more than an hour of sleep on a regular night. This had been one of the nights where he was starting to think he would get a relatively decent rest…

And then the knock came.

Gregory sighed, sliding out of bed and hastily pulling on pajamas, fixing his hair in the mirror before walking over and opening it. There was a dark-haired man in the English uniform standing there, and while he looked vaguely familiar, Gregory was not one to jump to conclusions. His shrewd blue eyes scanned the other immediately, taking in the scent of tobacco that clung to the man. That was what triggered his memory.

He showed no sign of it, though, masking his face as carefully as he could, giving the other no sign that Gregory recognized him. Rather, he lifted the envelope, looked it over, and allowed his eyes to fall on Christophe again, sizing him up. Gregory nodded, placing a hand on the other man’s arm and looking at one of the guards. ”I need to speak to this man alone. If I am not out in an hour, then come and check.”

”Sir, are you sure you should be alone with him?” One of the captains stepped forward, looking uncertain and unwilling to let Christophe alone with Gregory.

Gregory glanced at the man and spoke, his voice rather haughty.”He is obviously one of us. If you would like to complain, take it up with someone else. I need to speak with this man.”

Before anyone else could protest, including Christophe, Gregory had pulled the Frenchman into the bedroom, closing the door behind them but not locking it. He walked over to his mirror and looked in it, his eyes flickering to Christophe’s reflection. He fixed his hair again and then turned, looking worn out and tired, like he always felt.

He spoke, his voice soft. “Christophe, I know you aren’t on our side. You’re far too much of a loyalist. Why are you here, then?”

Gregory wanted to think, out of some misguided emotions, that Christophe was there for him. He knew that wasn’t true, though, and couldn’t let feelings he had been harboring for years get in the way of killing the other man if that’s what it came to.

He sighed slightly, messing his blonde hair up before going to sit on the bed. ”Christophe, I won’t hesitate to kill you if that is what I need to do. Now, say what you came here to say. You always have a reason.”

He hadn’t talked to the other in who knew how many years and this was their reunion? Terrible.

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:54 am

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX X X xx X X X X X X X

The french man stood respectively at a distance as he entered the room, admiring its surrounding innocently enough for a quick moment with an unplaced expression before he entered further, listening to his friend talk with a vacant nonchalance as he adjusted the collar and again slid his gloves back on more properly. Patting himself down a moment, he sighed, searching the crisp fit of the uniform for the pack of cigarettes that the man had drawn the one from that burnt his hand earlier. Pulling it from the left behind pocket of his trousers, he tugged out a fag and lit it up. Natives. How sad.

"But you are hezeetating right now. You are indeefrent to ze lives of ozzairs now, are you not? Take a look for yourself."

He dismissed the rest of the conversation for the time being as he approached Gregory's window, peering out over the city after firmly placing his fist against the glass. His country. Despite his cold front to everything he did, within his heart, he ached. To see so many of his people destroyed, for no reason. The same could be said for the English side, but a fair fight would have been to kill political figures back. Seizing the country and obliterating everything in their path seemed hardly necessary, in Christophe's eyes. Then again, it was a government against a government. It was his political customers now who had ordered him to do these things that had the English now trampling their entire country. Bitterly, he stared out the window longer, before turning away from the cool pane of glass.

Folding his hands carefully behind his back with the letter now pinched between his index and middle finger, he licked his lips slowly before setting the platter carefully down on Gregory's desk. Turning to face the half-dressed gentleman now, he removed his hat and tipped it, before setting it back onto his head.

"I am ash'ually, 'onestly, 'ere to give you zees lettair."

Strutting across the room carefully, he approached Gregory's bedside, standing directly before him now as he handed it towards the captain carefully, and cautiously. Both of them were in marring distance now. However, with the little intent that Christophe presently had for killing the captain of the brigade, he could not presently say the same for Gregory Thorne. The thought was depressing, for Christophe, at least.

"I am also 'ere to tell you zat you are a dees-grace. I am so deesappointed in you. I zought you wair a better man zan zis." He rose a hand sharply, but not violently, his true anger over the whole situation finally shining through as he gestured dramatically to the outdoors. "I do nah' undairstand your moteeves. Howevair, it iz nevair an excuse. Zis iz sickening. You disgust me as you smile on our televisions. I zought you should know."

He gave the blond a firm look, but made no move to harm him in any way. Still peering down at him as he waited patiently for him to open the envelope, he fell silent as he sipped the nicotine from his cigarette, shaking his head with a vacant sigh.

"I am alzo here to warn you zat ze moment your troops ztep into Paris, Monsieur Atkins will die. It iz undair your choice how to take zis information. It iz all I know, and all I am obligated to say."
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:55 am

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory sat at the edge of his bed, tight-lipped and empty eyed as the only man he had ever cared about denounced his actions and pretty much put his disgust on display. He stayed emotionless, though, his mask carefully in place as he attempted to play off how badly this hurt him. This was his job now. He had worked for years to get where he was at the moment; he was successful, plastered across televisions worldwide, all eyes on him, and the year before he had been the most eligible bachelor in all of Great Britain, the fact that he was gay falling to the wayside.

He looked up at Christophe when the other approached him, taking the envelope and running his slim, pale fingers over the seal easily. He stood, dropping envelope on the bed, and put his hand on Christophe’s neck, blue eyes piercing the dark-haired boy’s mud-coloured hues. He ran his thumb over Christophe’s cheek, speaking in a soft, intimate tone, one they had shared many times in the past. “Christophe… You are my oldest friend. You know me better than anyone. If you think that I am a cruel person or anything of the like, then I suppose we both had each other pegged incorrectly. And for that, I am sorry.”

Gregory let his blue eyes fall once more, gazing at the lushly carpeted floor for a few long moments before letting his blue eyes meet Christophe’s again. He stared at the other’s lips for a moment before chuckling wryly, although the laugh held no humour whatsoever. He was in a terrible mood now, now that he knew that Christophe seemingly hated him. ”I thought you were going to quit smoking, Christophe… You’ll die before forty.”

The news of General Atkins’ assassination did not bother him in the slightest. Sacrifices had to be made in order to advance. If Atkins needed to be the next necessary casualty, then so be it. Gregory would take his place. The blonde had sworn his lover to Mother England, his homeland, and he would allow himself to be assassinated if that’s what it took to take another city.

Once Paris fell, France would fall.

It was not a difficult concept.

Gregory glanced at the clock; ten minutes had passed since he had let Christophe in the room. That left them with fifty. The thirty year old spoke, voice holding that same intimate, haunting tone that was reserved only for Christophe. ”Christophe. I don’t care how much you hate me right now. Come to bed with me. One last time. After this… we never have to see each other again. Fifty minutes is all I ask of you.”

He studied the other for a reaction before plucking the cigarette out of Christophe’s mouth, holding it in his own fingers and then kissing the other man softly. Chris had always tasted like tobacco, despite the infrequent, spaced apart kisses. It was a taste Gregory would never, ever forget.

The blonde pulled away, touching Christophe’s face again, gently, as he took a puff off the other’s cigarette. ”I know you haven’t forgotten, Chris.”

One night.

One night had ruined damn near thirteen years of friendship.

That one night, when they had been seventeen and stupid. Gregory would never, ever forget it. The pain of their parting after such a bittersweet night had been so much… too much pain for a teenager to bear. It had started Gregory’s path towards the military, was the reason he was commander of hundreds of thousands of troops, waiting at his beck and call.

It was Christophe’s fault that Gregory was no more than a tool of the military.

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:56 am

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Christophe could have laughed at his expression as he stared back at his day-old friend with his usually cold stone expression. Admirably Gregory had also hardened over the years but Christophe saw through those baby blues as he always had, reading straight into him like nothing. He didn't move as he the pale hands of his comrade crept onto his face, glancing wearily to the side as his best friend caressed his skin like they had just seen eachother yesterday.

There was some ache within him as he heard him continue, glaring at him stubbornly with an obvious frown as he moved onto the petty topic of Christophe smoking, glaring even more and rolling his eyes to the side as he felt the cigarette plucked from his lips. Almost unwillingly, his mouth parted slightly to only better the kiss as Gregory's lips collided with his own, responding immediately despite the decade and some that had passed between them with his own heart caught up in his throat.

He was aware. He was aware of his fault in this outcome, but never truly blamed himself for the whole thing. Their decisions had been mutual, but when the time had come, his family had needed him, and his departure had been quick. He'd written some letters but had never found the power within him to send them. His life soon became that of the careful mercenary one, and here he was so many years later, simply doing work with no fun. No time for relationships. No time for bouncing back and forth between his home and America anymore for dreamt-up summers of the good life that he figured he might have had at some point.

Maybe it was his fault, after all.

However, even if he obliged to his friend's request, they would be seeing eachother again, and Christophe knew there was no serious naivety that strong within his friend, whether he was stupidly working for the English armada or not. Licking his lips daintily to contain and savour Gregory's taste, however he took the cigarette back from his friend and outed it carelessly on a cup holder on the mahogany bedside table, pushing his friend back down against the bed and crawling over top of him with ease.

"You say zeze zings to me like some common woman in ze second world war bidding her newlywed 'uzband to ze troops..." he murmured against the other's ear, carefully running his hands up his friend's side beneath his shirt with care, spine tingling at the reunion. "You know I do nah' care if I die before I am fourty. I 'ave a feefty-year-old woman 'oo iz crying right now waiting for me at 'ome, whezzair I come dead or alive. And what do you 'ave? Nuzzing."

His words were cruel to conflict his actions as he kissed along the commander's jawline carefully, sliding his hands along his arms now and pinning them above his head with one hand, the other rested against the other man's stomach as Christophe's hat tipped off his head to the bedspread and allowed his previously neat brown hair to fall around his face in that usually haphazardly way that it always had in the past.

"You will die before me in zis way you are going now. Far too soon," he said, and leaned down again to take the Englishman's lips for his own, his grip tightening around the wrists pinned above his head while his other hand carefully withdrew a revolver, clicking off the safety and replacing his lips with the mouth of his gun in Gregory's mouth.

"So you 'ave two options. You can come wiz me quietly out zat window," he purred against the other man's lips calmly, "or I can jus' blow off your pretty 'ead now when you go calling for 'elp, and I can die atop you wiz twenty or more bullet 'oles in my back." He continued to hold his friend's wrists firmly, hooking his boots between Gregory's thighs to keep him from kicking him off.

"Besides... you know zat zey kill fags in your military." He smiled in pity, eyes boring pained holes into Gregory's blue ones as he waited for a decision, or a counter to his actions.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:57 am

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

He had seen it coming.

How could he not have? Christophe was there for a purpose, and as much as Gregory wanted it to be, the dark-haired man was not there for Gregory’s sexual needs, despite the fact that the blonde had stayed chaste for these last thirteen years. He had never looked at another person sexually, hadn’t had sex with anyone since Christophe and he had parted ways. Christophe had been his first and last.

If there was one thing Gregory was, it was loyal. He willingly would have spent the rest of his life in a self-condemned chastity belt if it meant he could stay loyal to Christophe, at least until they had officially broken things off.

And here he was, because of that loyalty, a gun shoved in his mouth and the only person he ever loved looking at him with pity in his brown eyes. No love. Just pity. And that hurt more than anything else. Gregory looked at Christophe for the longest time before, finally, managing to rise, the gun still in his mouth and his wrists still in Christophe’s hands. He looked at his former best friend for the longest time and then, just like that, all emotion was gone from his face, nothing lingering behind his eyes. His face, eyes, and body language was dead, empty, and he merely nodded, eyes flickering towards the window to indicate his choice.

He didn’t care anymore. It hurt too much to play off Christophe’s words and actions as he usually did when the other said things to him. He had spent a long, long time in their childhood ignoring the insults that spouted from his best friend. He couldn’t do it anymore.

Gently, Gregory moved the gun out of his mouth and looked at Christophe. ”I will come with you, Christophe. If that is what you want, then that is what you’ll get.”

He watched his former best friend with those same emotionless eyes, waiting for Christophe to take him wherever they were going.

The other man had done it again. In just a few short paragraphs, Christophe had managed to break his heart all over again. He had done it before; Gregory had woken up expecting to see Christophe in bed with him and his dark-haired friend had been nowhere in sight, making Greg feel like a cheap slut and like their years of friendship had been thrown away.

He had clung to the hope that Christophe would come back to him.

Well, now he had and there was no reason to continue to cling to the love that obviously meant nothing. He spoke, his voice changing tones to something icy, cold and distant. ”If you’re kidnapping me, then do it. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I absolutely must be.”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:58 am

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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There was no sadder look on a man's face in that moment then Christophe had ever seen, despite there being absolutely no readable expression at all.

In the rush of their closing time stamp, he was mad at himself somewhat that he had no time to talk it out. Instead, he snatched the case of a pillow with his gun hand, still with the blond's arms held high above his head as he kept his eyes on him. Carefully he stuck the closed end into his mouth, tearing the material with ease and tightening the ribbons of cloth around Gregory's wrists after sinking them behind his back to ensure no resistance. The second pillow case was stripped for different purposes as he slid the sack over his friend's head and drew the strong on it, leaving enough room for circulation of air so it wouldn't get too stuffy.

Upon finishing tying his knots with care, he lifted Gregory to his feet after tucking his gun back into the concealment of his uniform, swapping his captive's gun off of his table moments after and pocketing it as well for safe keeping, before pausing, and lifting the edge of the pillow up with his index finger to expose Gregory's mouth, leaving a soft kiss on his pale lips and then drawing away, voice quiet.

"Jus' so long as you do nah' say anyzing zat will corrupt zis escape, I promise, I will nah' hurt you anymore."

With that closing statement left open to the Commander's own interpretation, he tugged the pillowcase back down again carefully, before walking to the door, locking it, and then strolling to the window with Gregory in tow, wasting no time in jacking the lock clasps and sliding it open with his shoulder. He snatched his hat back before he left, and glanced at the note on the bed with a short smirk as he tossed the hat back onto his head after sweeping his hair back into it's more army-like shape. As he lead Gregory out onto the shingles of the roof top, he turned toward the room, biting off the top of his lighter, and draining the fluid onto the rug. A match followed, closing the curtains, and then the window as the plush carpet caught flame.

The journey across the roof was tedious and dangerous, but there was little difficulty aside from tile-sliding as they crossed the axis of the building with care. He lead Gregory from behind unless there was a drop to accomplish, at least feeling somewhat better now that he knew Gregory would at least be a bit agreeable. The silence between them was destructive though, and he knew that whatever friendship they had had was on the finest of silk strings at the moment, hanging by a spider's tail, but this mission was of more importance, within good reason.

Returning to the balcony where he had deposited his things, earlier, he passed the chimney where the body of the lieutenant he had haplessly murdered now rested. The stench of burning resonated through the air as smoke poured from the chimney, likely crisping the corpse, but he ignored it, sliding Gregory carefully down into the window after checking the bedroom to ensure that it hadn't been tampered with since his last escapade there. After collecting his bag and extra clothing, he went about the task of guiding Gregory down the building and back toward the clocktower, where the rest of his things would be located.

Needless to say, the journey nearer to ground level was going to be less than easy.

"Hey. You. Where are you going?"

His grip on Gregory's arm's tightened, but the rest of his composure was as collected as ever as he tilted his hat to the gentleman that had approached him, nodding toward the bagged Gregory. "More filth."

The man fell silent, glancing at the night attire. "A hide away, I suppose?"

Christophe merely nodded, offering a rough grab to the top of his best friends head as though to emphasize his business before abandoning the scout without another word before he was forced to talk more. Struggling with an English accent was difficult, particularly when you had been idling away speaking little English at all in your home country on and off for a whole decade. Multilingual from his multiple business partners, it was no shocker that he had some accents nailed better than others, but it was still a chore, and one he felt better avoiding.

He checked his watch as he collected his things from the top of the tower after a few similar situations, sighing and strapping his pack on Gregory to make it look like a reverse role even more so. He strapped a better amount of artillery to his back, however now, as he retrieved his belongings, and continued their blind journey after checking his watch. It would be about five more minutes before the guards would start struggling with the door in a blind panic as smoke finally started to leak out from beneath Gregory's bedroom door.

Christophe properly perched his prisoner atop his motorbike in the front, more so to keep him from leaning off the back and attempting some kind of suicide, and also simply because it was nice to have the blond man between him and the handlebars. Of course in Christophe's world helmets were hardly a thing to be concerned for in the face of a mission with far more dangerous aspects, and they sped away through the dark.

The sac was only removed once they were located within the safely padlocked confines of Christophe's hide away after travelling for possibly an hour or more. Alert sirens had already been going off around the brigades as they had been long ten minutes out of the city, but Christophe didn't glance to see the capital building burning to the ground. He never looked back upon anything. His solid rule to living was 'no regrets'.

Tossing Gregory down on the bed after stripping him of Christophe's luggage in the silence of his 'home', he gently pulled the pillow case from the male's blond head. He seemed to take a moment while checking him over briefly as though for any kind of damage, a cigarette already between his lips. Not untying his hands quiet yet, however, he stripped the primary upper layers of his stolen uniform, hating it of course but not minding it simply for it's co-ordinated look. Regardless, he tossed Gregory's pillow case into the fireplace that had been lit when he'd gotten there in silence, before pulling off the final shirt to the military uniform. About fifteen different weapons dropped from his wardrobe as he stripped that last layer, revealing his body as he sifted his hands through his hair to rid it of it's uncomfortable prim appearance.

Too many scars to count for, all from past wounds, and with some still there as though they had been teenagers just yesterday from occurrences in his childhood that encouraged the marks. A tattoo of a pick axe and a shovel creating a firm 'x' shape rested between his shoulder blades, as well as a memorial for his mother and father on the rise of his right arm. Across the small of his back was neatly written 'Viva La Resistance'. And lastly, in carefully designed calligraphy, the capitalized letters "GAT" were scribed across his left hip.

He seemed to take little notice however as he continued to smoke away at his cigarette, sorting through his things and organizing them, before finally turning back to Gregory with a steady expression as he moved into the kitchen from the den to shut off a whistling kettle. Returning to the bedside a moment after with two cups of tea, he set them down only to undo Gregory's wrists, before sitting on the bedside casually after leaving the binds on the floor for the time being, handing one of the floral cups that were likely his mother's to Gregory, despite there being no sign of the blustery woman.

"Tu est trés stupide," he said flatly at last, before drifting his eyes away begrudgingly as he sipped his tea with care.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 11:59 am

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

"Jus' so long as you do nah' say anyzing zat will corrupt zis escape, I promise, I will nah' hurt you anymore."

It was way too late for that. Gregory, had he been all right, would be giving his life to keep Christophe away from his commanders, from his men, try to save some people… He was not all right. He was nowhere near all right. His heart hurt. It didn’t ache, it wasn’t a dull throb, it literally pained him every time it beat. His chest was tight in agony, his head hurt, his body, which was healthy and fit, was in all sorts of pain. For the first time in his thirty years of life, Gregory wanted to die.

He allowed Christophe to do whatever to him, followed him obediently (as if he had a choice), and found himself on a motorcycle with Christophe pressed against him. Under normal circumstances, he would have been aroused, happy to be in such close contact with the other man. At the moment, though, he felt sick and gross, disgusting and about to vomit. He didn’t want to be this close to the person who had just totally broken his heart.

They showed up at Christophe’s house and he was tossed unceremoniously on the bed. The pillowcase was taken off his head and he watched Christophe, spotting his initials on the other man’s hip. He clenched his jaw and turned his head away; it obviously meant nothing to Christophe. It hurt, so much, that Christophe had seemingly forgotten Gregory’s feelings.

His wrists were untied and he was given a cup of tea, staring at the brown liquid as he clenched the porcelain his hand, watching the ripples. Christophe spoke and Gregory’s blue eyes snapped up, locking on the other man’s face with all the precision the military had taught him. He moved quickly, slamming the teacup against the wall, where it shattered into a million little pieces and went flying everywhere.

Lurching forward, he grabbed the other man’s arms, looking at him with hatred in his eyes. “I abhor you. You have no right to speak to me after what you have done. I have never detested anyone before in my life, and yet I wish you were dead.”

He shoved the other man away from him, eyes flicking momentarily to the shattered teacup and the brown puddle on the floor. He spoke, his voice taut and tense. ”After this, I am never going to speak to you again. These are the last three words you will ever hear me say.”

Gregory leaned forward, his face flushed, looking more emotional and more beautiful than he ever had in the past. He spoke, his voice as intimate as a lover’s but as harsh and cold as a winter’s night. ”I hate you.”

With that said, he rolled on his side, facing away from his former best friend or lover or whatever it was they were. His chest was heaving, although he wasn’t crying. Gregory hadn’t cried since he was a child. He had seen far too much to cry. He was hurting, though, much more than he had been before. He had just told Christophe that he hated him.

It felt as though his heart had been split in two.

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:00 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Christophe barely moved in acknowledgement to Gregory's little tantrum, barely seeming as though he was paying attention at all, two things he was extremely good at. Not even so much as offering a glance to the shattered porcelain on the floor, he sipped his tea quietly and carefully, making a slight face as he burnt his tongue before falling still once more as he absorbed Gregory's words.

After a time, he rose from his spot, still with his teacup in hand as he rustled about. The little burrow he'd made for himself wasn't completely tidy, mostly scattered with papers, plans, things written in cryptic french and other languages, photographs of people, weaponry, all these things jumbled together in a disorganized mess that was just home to Christophe. His disorganization gave him impeccable organization; rifling through and putting things 'in the right place' only confused him and made him lose things. He was happy with his piles of loose leaf and heavy artillery.

Sifting through one of the aforementioned stacks of paper with his toe after kicking off his boots, he spotted his manila envelope quietly, crouching down to pick it up as Gregory continued to snarl away behind him. His exterior was collected and stone-cold with ignorance as per usual, but each word cut into him like the scars that bit his half-bare body as he heard them despite his air of nonchalance. Sighing through his nose as he recrossed the room to sit back down, he rolled his eyes as the other male continued to bite at him stubbornly.

He seemed finally attentive as Gregory announced never speaking to him again, and with his declaration of hatred, Cristophe stopped mid-sip from his tea and peered down at him from over the rim of the cup, silent. Observing the English man as he flipped over, Christophe averted his eyes a moment, before rolling them slightly. This is why he believed in no God. Far too many misunderstandings for there ever to be a higher being up there to keep things in order.

No. If there was a god, there would not be a nation currently annihilating his country, and he would not be the spectator sent to annihilate their authoritative figures right back.

Setting his teacup down on a randomly placed bookshelf near his bedside, he sighed, curling down beside Greg in the dimly lit room. "I told you, you were stupid." Sliding an arm around his middle and pulling him against him without his consent, and likely to his displeasure, he kissed the man beside him on the shoulder a moment, peering at him with tired eyes as he deposited his envelope back to the floor over his shoulder.

"Eef you want me dead so badly, zen kill me. We can be dead togezzair. I keeled you tonight, you know. Zere are only two left now for me to take down."

He purred quietly against Gregory's ear, gently biting his lobe as he reached with one arm absent-mindedly, clicking on the small television across the room. On the screen was already the news, though the television was on mute. The screen relayed the image of the capital building that they had just reunited in hours earlier, soldiers removing their hats to place them on their hears. Amongst french captions explaining the incident, Gregory's name was also listed on the screen. Cristophe glanced down at the blond briefly to see if he was paying attention, before sitting up abruptly and roughly grabbing him by the shoulder, throwing him to the bed on his back. Placing a palm against his own pillow on either side of Gregory's head, he glared down at him, before running a hand vacantly down the side of his face.

"You are no dog of ze military, mon cher. You are no prisonair of war, nor are you my capteev." Licking his lips like some sort of starved animal, he leaned down, pursuing his earlier affections from back in Gregory's bedroom, sliding his hands up within the other male's shirt as he planted kisses on his neck and shoulders, occasionally swatting away a protesting hand if there were any.

"I may be a loyalist but I am alzo very selfeesh," he murmured against his flesh, finally wrapping his arms around the other male's waist to pull him up towards him in a tight embrace. "Feefty minutes would nevair satisfy what I need to replenish ze zirteen years zat I have been wizout you."

He loosened his grip slightly, pressing his lips against the side of the other male's throat, before stealing a kiss from his lips. "'Ate me all you like. But I will nevair let you get away from me for zo long again."
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:01 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Where the fuck did Christophe get off on torturing Gregory like this? The British man was far too smart to fall for this crap; he had fallen for it before and it had ended up with his virginity gone and his best friend missing for thirteen goddamn years with no reason, no nothing to point to why he had fucking done it. He hated the other man. He truly did, but without love, he couldn’t hate. He was in a juxtaposition, knowing for goddamn sure that he detested Chris more than he had ever hated anyone else but also well aware of the fact that he wanted to shove the other down and kiss his brains out. Okay, maybe more than kiss, but he could start slow.

His former best friend, and Mother England help him, he was staying former if Gregory had anything to say about it, began spouting sweet nothings and planting soft kisses along Gregory’s flesh, hardened by the cruelties of the military and the consistent, incessant exercise. Gregory merely lay there, as limp as a rag doll as he allowed the other man to hug him and kiss him, his face once again showing no emotion.

Once Christophe seemed finished with his little speech or whatever, Gregory shoved him away, slamming his fist straight into the Frenchman’s face. He slid off of the bed, staring down at the dark-haired man and gesturing around the cramped living space. ”You sit there and claim that I am not your captive and yet if I were to ask to leave you would deny me that. I hate you, Christophe, with every piece of my soul. You disappeared without so much as an explanation to me and then turn back up acting as though you never left me! I have hated you for these past thirteen years, waiting for a letter, a call, something showing me that you were still alive, at least, even if you didn’t have feelings for me. Even if you never did love me as I loved you.”

He turned away, running a slim hand through his blonde hair, mussing it up as he watched the television, his name running across the bottom of the screen. He was dead. He could read that much French to know that he was dead, or at least he was to the eyes of the public. In allowing Christophe to take him from that place unharmed, he had sealed the fate of his two higher ups. And for what?

For immunity from the military, of course. Death immediately released one of service. And yet… He was not just a military commander. He was the face of the war, the young, vibrant, gentleman-like military propaganda, sent out on television to use his face, his body, and his attitude to sell the war to the masses watching.

Without him, the war would be doomed. He could care less either way; he had merely been doing his job, acting as though he was all for the Neo-Nazi movement. Gregory’s body tensed up, all the tension resting in his jaw and shoulders, his muscles clenched in both areas. He spoke through gritted teeth, looking over his shoulder at Christophe, eyes cold and darkened with anger. ”I want to leave. I do not want anything to do with scum like you. You claim to not want me to get away again, but I never left. You left. You took my virginity, told me I was your world, and left me. You don’t know the feeling of falling asleep in the warm embrace of the only person you’ve ever cared for, only to wake up cold and alone. It is, by far, the worst feeling a human being can experience.”

He turned his head back to the television and spoke, his voice soft. ”I would rather you kill me now then have to spend another moment with you.”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:02 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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"You are so self-absorbed."

Christophe spoke firmly, though there was an angry tone in his voice as he sat on the edge of his bedspread now, massaging his temple with one hand while the other cupped the stricken side of his face, a bit of blood lingering at his left nostril. He couldn't find the energy in him to look at Gregory anymore. This was wrong; all wrong. This whole mess was stupid and wrong. And sure he was at fault, but where were Gregory's branches to contact him? He'd gone back to America a few times since he left. The house where his best friend once lived for some summers was vacant.

Feeling the knot in his chest as it grew, he turned himself away completely, standing up and kicking the broken porcelain of the teacup into a pile after throwing down a random shirt to soak up the moisture. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he shook his head as his friend continued with his dramatic griping, trying to ignore the bite in the other man's voice that was really convincing Christophe that Gregory felt nothing for him anymore. Staring at him now with his expression still hardened, he chewed the inside of his lip slightly, sighing through his nose with irritation.

"And you stand zere and speet away, making assumptions zat are not true. You want to leave? By all means, zen, leave. If you zink I went zrough all of ze trouble to get you out of zat place for seelly warfare zen you are foking stupid."

The bite in his voice was harsh as he walked over, raising an arm across Gregory's collarbone angrily and slamming him back into the wall standing face to face with him once again, eyes narrowed in a mix of obvious irritation and partial hurt.

"I 'ave been sent to keel you thousands of thousands of times, and I deny zem all, no hesitation. I was sent to keel you tonight. And aftair you, your comrades of war. But no, I weel not keel you. I can not. Would not. Could nevair even dream of it. And you know zat I would nevair hesitate if you had been anyone else, ten guards or a hundred guards or a zouzand guards at your door. I would 'ave sleet your zroat and laughed at zair shocked faces before taking zem all down, too."

He fell silent after a moment, still holding the blond firmly in place against the wall as he leaned against him, straighting up to bring their bodies closer. He withheld as much emotion as possible, but knew that his frustration shone through in his eyes, and felt weak. This was what power Gregory had over him; a decade of silence between them and his barriers were still broken by the petty blond Englishman. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed the tightness in his throat before turning away finally and grabbing a random vase from a shelf, whipping it across the room for it to shatter against the wall. Taking a shuddering breath he shook himself out, shaking his head and then turning back to point at Gregory again.

"You are still ze world to me. If I did nah keel you tonight, someone else would 'ave, and zat would be ze end. Your country weel not take France. And my country will not take ze one person 'oo means more zen my life to me," he hissed on. "Jus' because I 'ave not been zere means nuzzing. It eez clear, from you. You proove to me now wiz your angair zat you still love me."

He couldn't help but crack a cheeky smirk at this sentence, though it eased off into a frown a moment later. Flipping the locks on the door, he thrusted it open into a vacant hallway, entirely dead of any other life for what seemed for ages.

"By all means. You want to leave, zen, if I am so meaningless to you now? Zen get ze fok out. If you go, I weel not be in Paris tomorrow. I weel nah destroy ze English army wiz two seemple assassinations while you flee, because I 'ave nuzzing left to safe but a stupid country, and zat is not enough for me."

He slammed his fist against the door again very seriously, staring down the blue eyes that captivated him since he saw them for the first time as a kid. Keeping his chin high, he swallowed again, staring at him narrowly.

"If you 'ate me so mush, zen go. I weel nah stop you, even if you find your way back to keel me. I 'ave no meaning wizzout you."

He turned away then, leaving the door open for Gregory as he kicked the TV off of the chair it had been idling upon only for it to smash to the floor as he strolled to the kitchen to cool off at the table in silence, getting a cold cloth for his still-bleeding nose.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:03 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory swallowed hard, listening to everything the other man said, allowing Christophe to slam him against the wall and merely staring. He fought back the tears that were threatening to fall, blue eyes ghosting over the man before him, drinking in every aspect of his appearance and smelling the faint smell of iron from his nosebleed mixed with the scent that Gregory had spent so long memorizing during their time together as children. It was all he could do to keep from crying.

But the other’s words struck a chord, and once Christophe had gone to fix the nosebleed, Gregory stood there for a long, long time, thinking. He may have been dead in the eyes of the military. But Chris had just relayed the most important information he had said all night. If Gregory left him now, there would be no assassinations of the two men above him the next day. Paris would be taken, and, by extension, France. Greg had been given a free ticket to beginning a new life with Christophe, but he could punch that ticket and leave, guaranteeing the safety of the two men who could expand Mother England’s territory once again.

He closed his eyes, Christophe’s scent lingering in his nostrils for the longest time as he reminisced. He had been friends with the other since they had been eight and they had met in America. That had continued for the next ten years, with both of them bouncing between their mother countries and meeting back in America for the school year. It had fallen apart at seventeen, after that stupid, stupid night where they had fucked for the first and only time. Gregory, whose parents had allowed him to live alone after sixteen so they could continue to reside in England, had run back to London after that, broken-hearted and more than upset.

That had been the last time he had seen Christophe.

How could he choose the love of his life, who, although apparently still loved him, had been out of his life for thirteen years, over his mother country, who he had a duty to? Gregory cursed softly and hit the wall he was leaning against lightly in frustration, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

He looked around the room, sighing and finding the closet. He opened it and stripped, taking a pair of Christophe’s pants and one of his shirts, pausing only slightly to take in the scent before redressing in the clothes of the dark-haired man, which made his blonde hair all the more obvious. Christophe sighed and leaned down, finding a gun and sliding it in his belt before turning. He discovered a pair of boots and slid them on; he had worn Christophe’s clothing in the past and was no stranger to it. After all, they were relatively the same size; Gregory’s hips were, regrettably, a tad more feminine, so Christophe’s pants were somewhat tight on him, but that was not a problem.

He glanced in the mirror momentarily, dead blue eyes looking back at him from a pale, deathly looking reflection. Gregory, though still handsome, looked as though he had given up on life. And he had, in a way. He was making the ultimate sacrifice for Mother England.

The thirty year old made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen, watching Christophe for the longest time before walking over, tilting his best friend’s chin up and kissing him softly on the lips. He looked at him, blue eyes darkened with some unreadable emotion locking with Christophe’s dark ones. Pulling back only the slightest, the blonde spoke, his voice heartfelt. ”You’re right, Christophe. I am still very, very much in love with you.”

He straightened up all the way then, taking a step or two back and smiling at the dark-haired man, although it was a detached, distant smile, one that showed the turmoil currently happening in Gregory’s mind. The blonde looked Christophe over and shrugged, that one small, stoic motion indicating his emotions at the moment. ”But I would be foolish if I thought I could maintain a relationship with you. And I realize now, that my duty to my country is more important than my duty to a man who, had he stayed, would have been my lover. If I leave you now, then my country will continue its march forward with no issues. It is my God-given purpose to do this, Christophe.”

Gregory turned away, the gun he had taken from the other man visible on his belt now. He walked towards the entrance to the kitchen, pausing only to put his hand on the door frame and look over his shoulder at Christophe. That same tight-lipped smile was on his face, showing his frustration. ”But I also know that a life without you is not worth living. Two birds with one stone, this is.” He chuckled, shaking his head, although weariness was visible in his eyes. ”I’m going to kill myself, Christophe. Save my country’s endeavors and keep myself from unhappiness all the same. You already killed me when you left. I’m just taking care of the physical remains.

There was a long pause, the blonde standing in the doorway for a few moments before he gave a brisk, one-syllable laugh, close to breaking down. ”I love you, Christophe. Never forget that.”

With that, he was making his way down the hall, his chin high in some sobering, cruel parody of the arrogance he normally displayed, an arrogance that would follow him to his grave. He left Christophe’s house and continued walking, eyes flicking around at his surroundings. Versailles. He was in goddamn Versailles, about to kill himself.

The blonde sighed and continued walking, only stopping when he came upon a church. He blinked and looked up at it, swallowing hard before entering, his hand going to the gun at his side. The moonlight was falling through the high windows of the church, casting a dim light over everything. He made his way to the front of the church, genuflected before entering the pew, and walked over to the far edge, looking up at the crucifix behind the altar.

He got down on both knees, clasped his hands, and touched his forehead to his knuckles, beginning to pray. ”Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

He finished the prayer, moved back into his seat, and placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth, his blue eyes flickering to the crucifix once again before, around the cold steel, he began to say The Lord’s Prayer, blue eyes squeezing shut as he fought back tears.

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:04 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The kiss had sealed it. He was so sure that he had won. Excitement actually brewed within him as he rose his eyebrows slightly with his cloth still pressed to his nose, eyes locked on the dull blue pools across from them. He had been on the brink of smiling, but any possibility of that happening instantly diminished like a light in the dark as the next words fell from Gregory's lips.

Christophe could feel his expression fall. He felt the slackening of his jaw, and the drop of his innards, and a feeling of anxiety twist within him as his eyes dimmed in total loss. The cloth in his hand slowly lowered, letting the blood to run in full down his face once more without any sign of care as he stared at the blond before him, jaw tightening as his mouth eased shut. There was something strangling him that prevented him from speaking, that held his words back, even as he opened his mouth in horror at Gregory's conclusion.

His one love left him. Chris stood by, ensuring that this was no kind of joke as he listened to the other male steer out the door just as a croak of sorts managed to slip from him. The emptiness was overwhelming as he felt his walls break down, the silence of the world around him pressing in.

And, for the first time in what was probably his entirely life, Christophe cried.

The table caught him as he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, breath catching in painful wheezes in his throat as a sob finally broke loose. Sinking against the wood, blood mingling with tears dripping in salt and copper onto the smooth surface. Bracing his nails against the table, he fought an inner battle for a moment before finally he stood up, and pressed himself to sprint at full speed out the door.

Seconds passed as he jumped onto his bike, jamming the keys into the ignition and speeding out of the garage at speeds that would probably kill him in the situation of a crash as he blew across the terrain. In the distance a church rose, and, with his eyes dancing, he watched the familiar figure of a blond run into it from the far distance as he swallowed hard, careening toward it across grass, pavement, whatever. It didn't matter.

Slowing as he finally pulled to the parking lot, he dropped the bike to it's side without a care as he jumped off of it, leaving it to run as he sprinted into the church, spying his lover as soon as he threw the door open, nearly tearing it off of his hinges as he took off down the isle.

"Gregory! GREGORY! Don't-"

Bang.

Blood sprayed down the isle, splattering the face of the holy virgin with her child at the front of the church beyond the pews. Christophe stared into her face a moment, body twitching in every muscle as he managed to stay standing. A staggering step forward-

Bang.

The second shot put him to the cold tile floor of the Church at the end of the isle as he choked up blood, the fluid dribbling down his chin from his mouth and nose, accompanied by the draining of the two clean bullet wounds through his back.

Fuck. Fuck.

He stared ahead of him for a moment longer as he took in Mary still. Jesus lay pegged to a cross above her behind her statue, smiling with his crown of thorns. Christophe choked again, more blood pouring from his lips as he could have laughed at the irony. To die. In a Church. It was ridiculous. To die in the house of the man he had never believed in for a second of his entire, pitiful life. He felt himself being hauled up from the ground roughly, legs like some kind of pained spaghetti as he was loaded onto a board, and strapped in beyond his control as he stared dazedly around the church, figures spinning around him as he tilted his head to the side hopelessly to let his mouth drain. His eyes focused on Gregory for a moment before his head spun a last time, and he lost consciousness.

"A fine job, Commander Thorne."

The blond man that loomed over the french man's bleeding body nodded to the gentlemen sporting the carrying board, a sad and degrading form of a stretcher as he nodded to them taughtly. "Make sure he lives. His execution will be demonstrated in Paris to show the rest of this shit for a country just what we are planning to do when we are done moving in."

The medics nodded as they dragged Cristophe away, and the tall, overbearing gentleman that spoke in a booming voice with his military uniform in prime tact took the gun from Gregory as he approached, nodding slightly as he withdrew a walkie talkie from his pocket, patting Gregory rewardingly on the head.

"My Leige, Commander Thorne is beside me now. We have determined he is indeed alive. His narrow escape lead The Mole out of his wretched hole. I repeat," he spoke clearly, eyes sliding down onto Gregory with approval.

"We have caught The Mole."
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:05 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory heard the doors to the church burst open. He knew exactly who it was, Christophe’s voice only reaffirming his suspicions. He cocked the gun, murmuring ‘Amen’ and fully intent on pulling the trigger. At least, he was until he heard what sounded like a gunshot. He turned, expecting it to be the door banging back on itself… until he heard the second one. Gregory turned all the way, seeing the blood splattering and screaming Christophe’s name, not caring that his commanding officer was right there.

All the colour drained from his face as he saw the love of his life being strapped to a board and carried off like a piece of meat to a market. He stared in absolute terror, horror, even, with no colour in his face to speak of at all and his blue eyes wide in abject fear. Christophe had just been shot. His blood was all over the church. Christophe’s blood was all over the house of God.

If the dark-haired man hadn’t been on the verge of death, Gregory would have been laughing at the irony of such a situation. His commanding officer spoke, though, and when he took the gun, Gregory forced himself to don his usually mask, standing and saluting Atkins despite the fact that he was in civilian clothes. ”My General, I am pleased to have delivered the insurgent to you. If you will, sir, I need to retire to a room. I am feeling less than well.”

Atkins eyed Gregory momentarily, rather put off and confused as to why his highest commanding officer had a gun in his mouth and had seemed so… concerned of the Mole’s well-being. After all, both he and Gregory had agreed that if the assassin had come after them, they would use Gregory’s past with the brunette as leverage to get him into custody.

Atkins had known where Christophe’s home had been. He and Gregory had spoken about it and decided that, if Christophe were to come after Gregory, he would lure him to this church in the event that he was merely taken hostage and not killed, which had been a very likely possibility. Atkins had not told Greg how they would subdue Christophe, or that the dark-haired man would be harmed. Gregory had hated Chris so much more than he had let on, had lied to the other’s face that evening.

There was no room in his heart for a man who had betrayed him in the past. Gregory was a much better actor than he had let on, and he had carefully disguised his betrayal by smothering it in hatred. This entire evening had been an act to lure Christophe to the church. It felt like revenge had been served. After all, he had lured Christophe into kidnapping him, which was an offense punishable by hanging and only hanging.

However, he had truly been about to go through with the suicide. He wasn’t happy. He could never be happy if he could neither love nor hate Christophe. He was very, very strongly leaning towards the former now, though.

Christophe’s confession had wreaked havoc with the carefully placed barriers Gregory had set up around his mind to ward off any feelings other than love and loyalty to Mother England. He had found himself concerned, close to tears, over Christophe being shot. Upon seeing Atkins face, though, Gregory forced a tight-lipped, half-assed smile, reassuring his commanding officer. ”General, I am fine. Simply… disturbed by the lack of respect The Mole seemed to show people who are clearly of a superior race than him.”

Atkins nodded, sated for the moment, and gently put a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, leading him from the church and out to the grounds, Greg casting a wistful glance towards Christophe’s discarded motorbike. He felt terrible.

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Insomnia had hit yet again, Gregory laying awake for most, well, all of the night with his hand across his eyes and having terrible waking dreams. By terrible, he meant insanely erotic and very, very hallucinatory. He was reliving that night when they had been eighteen, feeling every kiss, every touch on his pale skin, hearing Christophe’s voice murmur ‘I love you’ repeatedly in his ear… It was the very worst kind of Hell.

He had betrayed Christophe.

Christophe was laying somewhere, bandaged and hurt and hooked up to machines, and he was there because Gregory had led people to him, led people to shoot the only person he had ever loved. He had slipped up in the church, had shown Atkins that he was actually still very much in love with the scarred Frenchman, which was a horrible mistake.

A knock came at his door at around eight in the morning and Gregory sat up, speaking wearily. ”Come in. It’s open.”

Atkins strode in, an unpleasant smirk on his handsome face, and spoke with all the pomp and circumstance of a man who had been raised right. He was very, very full of himself. ”My dear Commander Thorne, I take it you slept well?”

”Like a rock, General. Might I inquire as to the purpose of such an early visit?” Gregory slid off the bed, stretching and showing off his toned body, his muscles standing out prominently.

Atkins smiled, although he had the smile of a fox; cunning and sly, with no emotion behind it excepting his own twisted ones. ”I have been speaking to our leader, and we have both concurred that you shall be the one to read the boy’s rights and reason for sentencing at the gallows today, as well as pull the lever in order to kill him.”

Gregory, who had his back turned to the other man, buttoning up his shirt, let out a choked noise, half a sob and half a snort of incredulity. ”I am to be the executioner? I can’t possibly…”

Atkins was at his side in a second, looking down at the man with a sneer on his face. ”Would you rather have me spill the fact that you were about to take your own life over a wanted French loyalist? Maybe you would like to be hung side-by-side with your French lover. Homosexuality in the military is punishable by death, Commander Thorne, or have you forgotten that?”

Gregory stared at the other, horrified, and shook his head. Atkins nodded, smirking. ”The Mole is in the room next to this one. Go see him if you want to say goodbye.”

He left and Gregory stared before vaulting into the room beside his, dropping into a chair beside the makeshift medical gurney, his face drawn and taut. He spoke, concern lacing his voice. ”Christophe?”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:07 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Overnight, Christophe had become reknownst for not speaking a word during his entire drafting, procedure, interrogation and scripting of his possessions. He watched soullessly as they dragged in papers and papers, not even bothering to hear him conclude whether he admitted to his crimes or not. This had gone over the progression of the night in all of the worst ways, though he said nothing. Not even a concurrence to his own name. He laid and stared, and after a while, people became too uncomfortable to sit and bark at him much longer.

As finally the night passed and the morning cleared, the male stared displacedly out a window with a respirator assisting each of his last breathes. Even if he hadn't been strapped down by the wrists and ankles in a mental patient's binds, there was no energy or will power left in him to fight. His life would end that afternoon at some point following the stroke of tea time and he was far from caring.

Most of his morning had been spent ignoring the invasive fools droning away at him and waving evidence in his face, instead reliving his past in his head via inner theatre in order to pass the time. He was mostly worried, and feeling so many idle mistakes seep from his plans as he reviewed them. This is where he ended up. Even if he had found a means of escape that afternoon, his mother would simply kill him when he returned home to retire for getting himself so deep in such shit anyway. She was probably watching the news now, reviewing the footage of 'The Mole' being obtained, only to figure out after a matter of almost thirty blinded years that it was her own son all along.

Yes, she would definitely kill him, if the fucking English didn't first.

Letting his eyes slide shut for perhaps the first plausible short while of sleep, he felt his body ache deeper than his flesh wounds and skin, like a taxing energy was stealing his life away from him before he even had the opportunity to be hung. It was exhausting, and for the first time in his entire life he was feeling old and useless and incredibly tired.

He could hear his heart beating in his head, but it just wasn't enough to convince him he was still alive, somehow.

Not even glancing at the door as he heard it open, Christophe resumed his empty staring, with little to no desire to see anyone at all anymore. A half hour earlier he had been visited by the same man who had shot him in the first place to inform him of his own set up, and the coy plan that Gregory had entirely been a part of. If his heart hadn't been shattered before then, it certainly had in that moment. He almost wished he had lead a feeble death in the church just to spare himself the knowledge. Hell was sounding very nice right about now.

Hearing his name, however, instead of 'Mole', and in one voice so familiar, he actually slid his eyes back shit again, brows furrowing against his forehead before he eased them open again dully, still not willing himself to look in Gregory's direction. He began muttering to himself in weak and grouchy French, before slowly pausing and lapsing into English.

"Love iz ze worst kind of weapon," he spoke quietly, voice hoarse. He turned his eyes finally to stare hard at Gregory, resting his head against the pillow and letting his fingers rap against the bedspread in silence.

"I 'ope you are 'appy. I 'ope your sleep was satisfying and zat you feel bettair about yourself now." He paused in order to cough, lifting his eyes to stare up at the ceiling a moment before resting his head back on it's side again. An empty smile graced his face as he looked on at Gregory faintly, eyes as hollow as if he'd been dead anyway. "Your country weel be so proud of you, mon cher. Zey will chant your name as you strut about ze world to rule. Everyone will adore you. You weel nevair 'ave to worry about zis kind of petty love again. You can be invincible."

He stared long and hard at his former best friend, sighing weakly through his nose as he shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.

"I 'ope zis was all worz your time."
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:09 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory stared at Christophe, his gut knotting up and making him feel sick. Christophe looked so dead. He looked like a fucking ghost, something gone yet not quite dead. He had done this to him. Those old feelings of love, torn from his mind like a scabbed-over wound bleeding anew, rushed to the surface and made his throat tighten, a lump forming and tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He squeezed them shut for a few long moments before standing, walking over to the door and closing and locking it. The blonde hesitated before coming back over to Christophe, sitting back down and looking at the dark-haired man with pain visible in his eyes. He was sick of pretending. He was sick of acting as though he didn’t care, as if everything he thought about didn’t remind him of Christophe in some way.

He remembered what they had eaten before they had made love the first time. It had been a stupid, poor high school kid dinner, ravioli from a can and nothing else but a can of Diet Coke between them. He wasn’t sure who had said something first, but the next thing Greg knew, they had been kissing, tentatively at first but swiftly growing into something rough, something loving and something that was expressing all those years of love. It had migrated to the bedroom, and Chris had taken him and god, it had hurt but it had been amazing. It had been the most amazing, unique, perfect thing ever. Even the smallest thing brought all those memories flooding back, and they had done so for years.

He had tried to hate Christophe. God, he had tried so hard. He had made it seem like he detested the other when he had been longing for his touch, his kiss, his voice. And he had destroyed everything they had been so thoroughly through this one little action, and he needed to find a way to make up for it, and quickly. If Christophe went to the gallows, then that was it.

If Christophe went to the gallows.

Gregory’s eyes flickered to the window, and then to the weather outside. Frightful. It was pouring out, rain battering the windows as if attempting to break in. Gregory knew they could do it. The church was just down the street. The church with Christophe’s bicycle in front of it, waiting for its owner to come back. Greg made a mental note before directing his attention back to Christophe, biting his lower lip and allowing his gaze to drift over the body of the man in bed before him.

Before he realized what he was doing, Gregory leaned down, putting a hand lightly on Christophe’s chest as he kissed him slowly, blue eyes boring into Christophe’s dark ones as their lips touched, a familiar spark passing between them. Greg pulled back, looking at Christophe steadily. ”You are right. I’m stupid. I’m so, so stupid.”

His blue eyes flickered towards the window as he removed the fleur-de-lis necklace, moving his hands as, idly, he began undoing the other’s bonds with the small object. He drew no attention to what he was doing and instead let his gaze go back to the dark-haired man splayed on the bed before him. ”I was chosen as your executioner. I cannot do it. I would not do it. I don’t want to be on the gallows unless it is because I am being hung with you by my side. So we’re leaving, Christophe. I’m sorry for my actions and I’m sure we can both agree that in the past thirteen years, we have both made terrible mistakes regarding our relationship.”

He flicked his wrist and the first bond came undone. Gregory leaned over idly and continued speaking in the same manner, his tone unchanging. ”We are going to leave through that window. I will carry you, if need be, and we’ll go to your bike. From there, we’ll go to Nice. I have a house on an island in the Mediterranean that no one knows about. I bought it under Stanley Marsh’s name. We’ll go there, Christophe, and no one with bother us.”

He got the second bond loose and moved to Christophe’s left ankle. “I love you, Chris. More than anything. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You can explain why you left me when it comes time, and I’ll explain why I did what I did.”

Gregory got the third bond undone and worked on the fourth, falling silent. He got Christophe free and moved across the other to open the window, pushing it outward as the noise of rain hitting glass continued. He offered his arms to Christophe, the rain sweeping in and plastering Gregory’s blonde hair to his pale face and neck. ”Come with me, Christophe. I need you.”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:09 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Cristophe stared at the other male dully, obviously expecting some kind of shitty punch line as Gregory started talking to him. He gave him a pointed look as Thorne proved Chris' earlier statements on him being an idiot, half-glaring at him as he turned his eyes away dully, appearing to zone out entirely as Gregory spoke to him. He barely responded to the lips against his own, only picking up slowly from the simple need toward the end before he pulled away, leaving Chris with the faint taste of the other male idling behind on his lips.

He dampened them slowly with his tongue for good measure as he stared over as Gregory crossly, watching him pull at the binds in the most candid way possible. He lifted his eyes casually toward the ceiling as his friend babbled away about an escape. How the shit did Greg expect Christophe to be able to trust him now? The day's events had been so draining on his emotional energy that the Mole had little will in him to even look at his love, nevermind get out of bed for him just to be ambushed or shot back down again.

Feeling his limbs loosen more and more, however, his eyes slid back onto his bedspread a moment, staring at the red rings around his ankles and wrists from the previous night's discomfort. He eyed Gregory with a hint of suspicion still as his tired eyes gazed at him in mention of the summer house... under the name of Stan Marsh. Still, with this opportunity, even, he supposed he didn't have much to lose. An attempt at a scape that would be purposely foiled would be no different than simply being hung anyway. If this little escapade turned out to be honest, for once, then he might question Gregory on it later.

At this moment, however, in the situation of betrayal, in the end, he would still die. There weren't really many positive options.

At last, he seemed to oblige, though he ignored Gregory's outstretched arm of offering as he sat up slowly, a gruff groan rumbling in the back of his throat as he felt his wounds ache. At least they had been courteous enough to remove the blasted bullets from his body. Keenly the advancement in medicine in the later years had also improved most healing rates in people, and the same could be said for him, though it still bit into him with draining power like any severe wound would anyone.

He stood on his own thought, and, using Gregory for a moment as a brief second of suppose, he straightened up slightly and grabbed each side of his face, kissing him passionately for a long moment. At least a good few seconds passed before he withdrew from his lover's lips a moment, before holding onto his chest and letting a low noise rumble in the back of his throat as he moved around Greg carefully.

"Not yet," he murmured, wandering across the room and to the door of his holding room, where he unlocked the door, and snapped his hand outside with the speed of a scorpion. The gun that he withdrew was obviously that of the guards outside, who didn't even get a change to yell as Christophe beat him violently into the room with the butt of the gun, knocking him unconscious. Locking the door carefully after, he took a pillow from the bed and sighed as he pressed it over the man's face to silence the gun a bit as he finished him off, before aiming for a hard metal cabinet and it's padlock holding it closed. The padlock flew off in one shot and a tidal wave of stuff poured out of it, all being Christophe's belongings. Walking awkwardly over to the pile with a hand on his ribs from his bandages, he winced slightly as he bent down to rifle through the pile, before finally standing up victoriously, shovel in hand.

Strolling back to Gregory a moment after, the French man took one last satisfying breath before nodding, seeming to be alright as he clicked the dead shells from his gun and flipped on the safety, climbing out of the window with care and his two weapons safely secure under one arm.

"Now, I am ready," he muttered, before nodding toward the outside with a hand outstretched to Gregory with a small spark of hope back in his dark eyes.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:10 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory watched Christophe putter about, hoping with all of his heart that maybe, if he was lucky, Christophe could trust him, despite the fact that he had betrayed the other terribly. He loved Christophe more than anything, and he had been so entirely stupid to act as though he did, because in all actuality, Chris was his everything. The Frenchman had always been his everything, even when they had been apart. Gregory wasn’t ready to admit it, but somewhere in his subconscious, he had agreed to help bust Chris not because of his desire to put the infamous Mole behind bars or hanging from the gallows, but because he so desperately wanted to see the other again.

He leaned into the kiss, opening his mouth slightly into the liplock as he closed his eyes, the rain sweeping over him still and chilling him to the bone. He waited for his lover to finish getting his things before grabbing the offered hand, blue eyes watching Christophe, noting the returned spark of hope and realizing that it might be some time before the dark-haired man fully trusted him again. He slid out onto the roof beside his lover, tugging on his hand and sliding down the shingles until he could safely jump the last ten or so feet to hit the ground.

Once there, he took off running, his fingers entwined with his lover’s as he tugged him towards the church, intent on getting there before anyone caught on to what was happening. They reached the church and Gregory pulled the keys he had taken the night before from his pocket, setting Christophe on the bike and reversing the way they had been driving yesterday evening, Christophe snugly in his arms. He started the motorcycle, heading down the street slowly at first but picking up the pace, if only to evade the military that was sure to be after them.

Pressed this close to Christophe was heaven, despite the shitty weather, the sky gray and dark even though the sun was doubtless rising behind the thick throw of clouds. He knew Paris, at least, like the back of his hand, and he had driven to Nice before, back when he had actually bought the beach house under the name of a childhood friend.

It was an eight hour drive to the seaside city of Nice; Gregory already had a plane there for no reason other than the fact that watching the ocean pass by underneath was one of the few things in the world that could calm him. Christophe and fine dining were the other two, but he would never admit to those. They drove through the city, the wind having dried them as soon as they had made their way out of the storm that had engulfed most of the northern parts of France. The first hour of the trip had been very, very wet and uncomfortable but had gotten much, much better as soon as they passed into the gorgeous French countryside.

They hadn’t spoken much, although not from lack of want, at least on Gregory’s side. Instead, speaking seemed to land one with a shitload of bugs in one’s mouth. He kept his mouth closed, wishing Christophe wasn’t such a loose cannon that he had helmets to keep the fucking bugs out, if nothing else.

Gregory pulled into the hanger of the private plane he had purchased, once again under Stan Marsh’s name, and slid off, pulling Christophe to the side as a small crew, consisting only of the captain and a steward, loaded the bike onto the aircraft. They boarded the plane soon after, and by four o’clock in the afternoon, the two men were well on their way to Carbonia, Italy, on the island of Sardinia, a destination they should reach by eight in the evening.

Gregory’s private summer house was there, and no one knew of it aside from him and Stan, not even the military. The house was about half an hour by car from Carbonia, and was a large, regal affair near the beach. Gregory was quite proud of it.

Once the plane was well off the ground and flying, Gregory looked towards Christophe, speaking in a soft, apologetic tone. ”Christophe… I am so sorry. If you would like, you… you can leave me once we reach Carbonia. This plane will take you to Italy’s mainland and you never have to see me again. But I still love you, Christophe. So much. I don’t want… you to stay with me and be unhappy.”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:13 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The trip had been a good time to relax. Sure the drive had been somewhat of an ache but with his lack of responsibility for driving he honestly didn't care, really just glad for the moment of rest... that moment that would probably not last for too long, but he didn't care. The rain was pounding down on him as he stared forward, acute eyesight keeping an extra scout on any movement around them aside from the heavy rainfall in case of pursuit. Letting his breath fall in pained sighs, he coughed slightly, reflecting the last two days and becoming kind of mystified by the events that had taken place in such a short time.

The arrival at the airport lead to some serious energy raising on his end as he chirped gruffly at the people loading his bike onto the plane to ensure it's optimal safety. Being that it was one of his more prized possessions next to his shovel he saw no issue in making a scene about it. One broken side view mirror and someone would be paying dearly. Such care had been taken in the two-minute bicker they had had before Christophe had finally consented to letting Gregory drive the damned thing in the first place, with many threats resting over the Brit's head if they got into a crash and lived for Christophe to kill him for it.

As the plane took off, Christophe gazed out of the window in silence, watching the world vanish below him with a blank expression that actually was a sign of captivation as he stared off below. So many times back and forth between his home and America by plane and taking off never ceased to amaze him. Being one to prefer ground-level dwelling, it was still a bit of an interesting feat to fly. Taking off was his favourite part... watching his worries sink away with the earth behind him.

Turning slightly as Gregory finally spoke, he tilted his head toward him slightly, harbouring a thoughtful look to his eyes as he listened to him with his usual unreadable expression. He'd been considering his reasoning over the course of their long journey, trying to sort out his thoughts and story to explain to Gregory why he left. He'd not disappeared for any reason in smote of the other male, it had just been how things turned out. Necessities followed up his evening. He'd kissed Gregory before he left.

He known they'd meet up again someday.

Reaching a hand across the armrest of the plane's seat, he laced his fingers in Gregory's in answer, leaning his head back against his seat and closing his eyes afterward as he held his hand calmly for some time, before raising his lover's hand to his lips and kissing the top of his fingers gently, opening his eyes to look at him.

It had been that. That exactly gesture, he was sure, that had brought them together so long ago. He recalled it like only a day had passed since then, or maybe a few moments. A simple spill of hot pasta on his friend's hand and Christophe had taken it upon himself to kiss it better in play. They'd looked at eachother, and gravitated like opposing magnets almost instantly. It was the most horrendously cheesy thing that Christophe had likely ever imagined, but it had worked that way, and he'd loved every moment of it. Their I-love-yous hung from their lips for the entire evening, and had stayed with Christophe as time rolled onward. He felt more at peace to know that things might be like that once again.

"You always act like you 'ave ze power to get reed of me so easily," he murmured teasingly against the other's fingers. His opposite hand rested against his chest over his bandages as he tried to ignore the persistent ache in his entire body. The mild painkillers from the military base had worn off so long ago. Not that they'd made much of an attempt to kill his pain, what with his lynching having supposed to have been that day. He didn't express any of his misery however, far too content with his position as he opened his eyes half of the way, gazing at the blur of the world through his eyelashes. He let his hand drop gently but didn't release Gregory's as he rested his arm against the chair again.

"I told you I would nah 'urt you anymore, when I took you away." Opening his eyes fully finally, he tilted his head to gaze at his lover soundly, leaning carefully over to kiss him tenderly at the corner of the mouth and ignoring the pull to his wounds. "I am a man of my word and you know zis. Stop looking for peety already. I love you. I 'ave always loved you. You are ze only one for me."
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:15 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory was, for the first time in thirteen years, completely and utterly content with his lot in life. He was sitting on a plane, far away from the people currently invading France and from the oppressive life of the military, a position he had never wanted in the first place. Had he not run when he had, even single death in Paris would have been on his head. His hands would have been stained with the blood of innocents. Gregory had only ever killed once, and he regretted that incident terribly, especially since that one murder had landed him the esteemed title of Commander of Her Majesties’ Troops.

But sitting here, hand entwined with Christophe’s, the other man speaking in that voice that Gregory had missed more than anything… he could almost forget. He could almost shove the last thirteen years of heartbreak to the side and focus on nothing but the moment at hand. He offered Christophe a smile, leaning over and pressing their lips together softly, running a hand through the other’s mess of dark hair and looking him over. ”I love you, Christophe.”

Gregory moved the armrest, pushing it up into the seat and moving the slightest bit closer, letting go of Christophe’s hand in favour of resting his head against the other man’s chest, his blonde hair falling over his face as he drank in Christophe’s scent. He had laid like this God only knew how many times, his arm wrapped around Chris’ abdomen, the other’s arm around his shoulders… When they had been fifteen, and had skipped Homecoming, Greg ditching Wendy Testaburger to head to Stark’s Pond with Christophe, laying on a blanket in the snow and watching the night sky for the ‘visitors’ that always seemed to materialize over the kind of creepy pond. He had fallen asleep on Chris’ shoulder, and although at the time he hadn’t really thought of the emotions for his best friend as being love, he knew that that night he had felt so secure with the Frenchman, more than he had ever felt before.

Gregory moved closer, laying his arm lightly across Christophe’s abdomen as he tilted his head a little bit, pressing a soft, tender kiss to the other’s neck. He was so happy, just sitting there with his entire body relaxed for the first time in a long time. Christophe had that unique power over him; Gregory was always relaxed when the brunette was there. The British man spoke, his voice soft, loving as he drew a small pattern on Chris’ abdomen, his index finger moving in small circles. ”No one will know we’re here, Chris. We could spend the rest of our lives here and no one would find us except for Stan. Even then, he’d leave us alone…”

He fell quiet for a long moment, his lower lip caught with his front teeth as he thought. Christophe was going to be Christophe, and that meant there was no way in hell that he was going to be tethered in one place for long. Gregory didn’t mind moving, just so long as they could stay together and Greg could stay away from the fucking military. He sighed slightly, his hand moving from Christophe’s stomach to his upper thigh, gripping his lover even as he tilted his head up, crushing his lips to Chris’ as he half-sat up, hand gripping in Christophe’s shirt as he pulled him forward the slightest bit.

Gregory’s eyes slid closed and he made a soft noise of content, his tongue slipping out to force Chris’ mouth open, tangling their tongues together for a few tantalizing seconds. He finally pulled back, a small string of saliva connecting their lips before Greg smiled, his voice coming out as little more than a whisper. ”I’ve been waiting for tonight for thirteen years, Christophe. I promise I’ve improved since last time.”

Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:16 pm

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Christophe welcomed the other male under his arm with care, glancing down at him with casual indifference as he watched his lover get comfortable. Abruptly, he felt young again. His teen years caught up with him as he let his memories wash back to him from when they still spent their live long summers in South Park, Colorado.

Even then, they still fought constantly like children, with these pleasing moments in between.

His hand teased the pale blond feathers of the other's hair as he sat with him comfortably, welcoming the familiar scent of the other's clothes as he leaned his cheek against the other male's forehead, spine tingling with the familiar electricity felt from the blond's kisses and touches. His constant mockery of Gregory only rendered his love for the British man stronger and stronger with each passing word. A cruel way perhaps of showing his affections, but it was a matter of how he had been raised, and how his conflicted childhood had taught him to go about things.

Christophe let his eyes wander back out the window, watching wisps of cloud float on by with his lover's hands drawing soothing patterns over his front. He glanced down slightly as Gregory spoke, before letting his eyes slide away again as he thought things over.

Settling down was always something that had never worked well for Christophe, not only for the course of his work but also simply because even as a child he had grown accustomed to being constantly on the move. He'd make faces in kindergarten when it was suggested that he settle down with a nice wife one day, simply because staying in one spot forever seemed like such a stupid idea. He turned games of house into games of airplane and the girls in his glass would be outraged as he brought them to Antartica instead of their weddings every time.

Even then, though, the girls had trouble not trekking with him on break time out into the snow at the snowy valleys bordering the alps due to petty crushes on the spunky brunette for his high-strung personality. No one ever grabbed his attention though; few people were rendered good enough to travel with Christophe, even on his make-believe expeditions. Eventually others would grow dishevelled by the complexity or just be too stupid to take amends to his little self-animated journeys and give up, drifting away from him and leaving him to his own devices, where he was totally content in his solitude.

Then along came stupid old Gregory Thorne, and Christophe's whole adventurous surreality crumbled as a whole new life of law and organization was pressed upon him with the bratty little charismatic English boy that would end up being his closest friend for the next ten or some odd years of his life.

He settled comfortably with Gregory in his grasp though, sighing. As the days slid onward the idea of staying in one place for more than a week at best was appealing if only for the fact that that aspect of 'the rest of his life' would be spent with the blond whom he loved so much.

"Stanley Marsh can stay een America wair 'e belongs," he murmured, looping his arms around his lover possessively and leaning his face down into the mess of the other's thin blond hair. He tilted his head down slightly as Gregory engaged him in the kiss, pulling the other male upward and straight across to join him in his lap. His lips parted willingly, hands exploring the other's body above his clothing in a way that he'd been meaning to for the past while, only breaking away from his lover in order to allow him to speak.

"Tch," he murmured, moving his lips downward to nip the other male's neck faintly, a hand resting on his stomach. "I love you. And when we get 'ome, I'm going to fock you so 'ard, Stan Marsh will 'ear you calling my name from ze USA," he muttered against his throat gruffly, letting his teeth rake against the sensitive flesh there lovingly, looping his hand between his legs and brushing his fingertips carefully along the Brit's inner thighs.
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Subject: Re: Viva La Resistance! Mon Nov 30, 2009 12:17 pm

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

”Mm…” Gregory gave a soft noise of content as Christophe kissed and bit at too-pale flesh, turning his body so his legs were on either side of the other man’s thighs, straddling his waist as he rested his head against Christophe’s, allowing the other man access to all the flesh he wanted, his tongue flicking out ever so slightly to lick his lips, taking in the taste of Christophe buried beneath the strong flavor of tobacco.

He listened to the other’s words and smirked slightly, putting his hands gently on the other man’s cheeks. Gregory tilted Christophe’s head up, looking at him and running his thumb over the other man’s lower lip, a gentle, loving smile playing across his own mouth. “My, you’re so jealous, Christophe… You know… I kissed Stan once…”

The blonde leaned down the littlest bit, pressing his lips to Christophe’s before continuing, his voice soft, lusty. ”It was after a football game… in the snow… and I was in the parking lot waiting for you to come and pick me up because you had my car…”

He smirked, kissing his cheek now, still holding his head steady. ”Anyway, I was sitting on the curb, and Stan came out, and he was with Kyle and Kenny, but they were already dating and left together… and Stan came over to wait for his sister to pick him up and sat with me and we fell to talking…” His smirk grew as he pressed his lips to Christophe’s other cheek softly. “I looked over to congratulate him on his game and he leaned over and kissed me. I was not happy, as you might guess, and slapped him. Then you pulled up.”

He wriggled around in the other’s lap a little, seductively, and then smiled again, looking pleased with himself, like a cat who had drank too much warm milk. Gregory kissed Christophe again, smiling still. ”That’s when I realized I loved you. So you should be thanking Stan for his awkward, teenage boy kisses. Because I knew that I would like kissing you more, simply because you aren’t a pussy.”

Brashly, the Brit took the other’s hands, sliding them down and placing them firmly on his ass. He tilted the other’s head up yet again, capturing Christophe in another intoxicating liplock, one hand tangling in that dark hair and tugging the slightest bit. ”We have four hours of foreplay before us, my love… I’m afraid I have no intention of joining the Mile-High Club, especially not for reunion sex.”

Gregory sighed and nestled his face in the crook of Christophe’s neck, wiggling around the littlest bit and stroking his hair softly. ”When we get home, though, Koala, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he had called his lover ‘Koala’. It had been a stupid, childish insult when they had been eight, and Gregory had no idea what its origin was. He knew that it was far more accurate than he had noticed as a child, and he knew that his lover knew that as well. Gregory brushed a small bit of lint from Christophe’s shirt and kissed the other’s neck before murmuring, ”I want to see your scars when we get in bed, Chris… I want to kiss them and lick them…”

He slid his hand up the other’s shirt, running his fingers over a scar there softly. ”I want you to know that everything about you is perfect, as it is with me.”