AVENIR

Chapter 5: The Oldest Street In Paris

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter as well as Chapter 6, which is the end of Part I!  Can't believe I've pushed past my huge writer's block and made it to the exciting parts!  The best is yet to come!  Thank you to all of my followers who have stuck with me :)

The photo above is a Google Maps street view of the real Café Musain location in Paris!

Vive La France :)

I backed away, involuntarily, from the leader of the Parisian Honor Guard. Staring at Maximillian (or should I call him Javert?) for what now seemed to be the first time, I was astonished at the resemblance. The sharp jaw line, curving eyebrows that seem to be shaped into a permanent scowl, and the spotless uniform – of course he was a Javert!

He wouldn't answer any more questions when I attempted to ask him more about what he had seen. Instead, he remained silent. He did not ask me any questions. Not knowing what to say and trying hard not to stare, I was silent, and it was not long before I heard the blades of the chopper slow in speed as we landed on a rooftop. We stepped outside, and I hurried to the edge of the roof to look at the view. Everything that I had ever heard about Paris – it was all true! A city of light in every regard, Paris was a city of dreams. The sky was still pitch black, as it was now the earliest hours of the morning, but there – right there in the distance – the Eiffel Tower lit up the entire city. I couldn't stop staring.

"Uh...it's 1:30 in the morning. You need your sleep." I jumped. Maximillian was back.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sneak up behind me without me realizing? I always know when someone is at least several feet behind me – we had to, mind you – it was the only way to survive in the society."

A grave, shadowy look passed over Maximillian's face. Ignoring my comment about his sneaky demeanor, he stared at me intently. "What is your name?"

I paused. "Well, Maximillian, I...you see...it's kind of hard to..."

"Call me Max," he blurted, interrupting my ramblings.

"What?"

"I said you can call me Max," he muttered, his face turning the slightest tinge of pink.

"...Oh, okay then, Max, I..."

"And you don't have to tell me anything more," he said, his back turned to me. "From what you have already presented to me, you are," he paused, then resumed, only this time with the slightest tremor of anger in his voice, "an Unnamed."

"I'm sorry...I believe I don't understand what you mean. My brother and I...we...never knew of being called anything other than street rats, outlaws..."

"The Unnamed," continued Max, "is what we Parisians call the outcasts of Marseille. Technically, the leaders in Marseille don't call the outcasts by any name in order to further degrade them, to make them believe that they are no one. It's just another tactic to give the leaders more power," he explained, shaking his head. He turned to me. "I won't pressure you to choose a name; I promise you, a name will find its way to you..."

Silence.

"It did for me," he mumbled, and I started.

"Are you saying that you are an-"

"Now! You have a busy day ahead of you – tomorrow, we are going to take you to governmental questioning. Nothing too scary, and I'll be right there with you, every step of the way." He was speaking in a false tone.

"I - why won't you tell me - ?"

"No need to worry, it's just protocol. We need to make sure that no one from Marseille can ever lay their hands on you again. Think of it less as an interrogation and more of a...conversation." He put on a fake smile. "We have arrived."