ne t'en fais pas, mon chou.

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's second TDM! And welcome to Paris, everybody.
WHEN? Late 1792, Paris.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

IT'LL BE FINE;

Paris, 1792: revolutionary france.

read the France setting infopages

arrival for veterans

For those who broke off from the army that fought at Valmy and returned to Paris, they come to a city bustling with life. Not only that, but they are greeted with nothing short of a hero's welcome. The tricolor is flown from every possible spot that can hold a flag, cockades are everywhere, and people cheer the names of the generals Dumouriez and Kellermann.

Simply saying you fought at Valmy is liable to get someone to buy you a drink, do you a favor, congradulate you, shake your hand. It's a great way to get shopkeepers to lower their prices, to get a low cost room, or just get someone to smile. Children will ask for stories of the fight. Grown men and women will ask to know what the generals were like.

Yes, you are undercover, yes, you are in the wrong time, and possibly the wrong universe, but for today? You are heroes.

arrival for new recruits

If you didn't fight at Valmy, it means you're new to COST. Maybe you agreed to work with them, maybe you don't remember. It doesn't matter. You wake up in a Parisian hotel room with a kind woman standing near the door, waiting for you to awaken.

You have none of your clothing, just black military-issued underwear, and none of your previous possessions beyond the one you chose (if you remember choosing) to bring with you.

The woman by the door speaks French, and if you didn't understand the language before, you do now. If you have questions as to what's going on, she'll answer: you are a member of COST, a paramilitary organization of time travelers fighting against the Regency, a tyrannous kingdom of the future who are trying to stamp out freedom and individuality in the name of peace.

She will provide you with the clothing necessary to fit in at this time, and show you how to use your BCE implant to look up information on this time period and its social and political mores. She won't let you leave until you're properly dressed to fit in, but once you are, she'll wish you luck.



MISSION OBJECTIVE

Unlike the last two missions you may have faced with COST, this one isn't as straight forward as a battle. This is about information-gathering, keeping your ear to the ground, and watching.

Paris during the revolution, even early days like this, is rife with paranoia. Though the heroes of Valmy are treated with huge respect and admiration, that is a huge exception to the rule, one that will fade with time.

As it stands, everyone expects counter-revolutionary spies sent from Prussia and the Holy Roman Empire, or simply French monarchists, to take what freedoms the people of Paris have wrested for themselves. Whispers abound. Suspicions mount.

It's in the midst of this that COST has received information that the Regency has placed its spies within Paris. Their aims are currently unknown, but it's suspected they have some sort of machinations for the King and Queen. Paris has declared itself a republic, free of monarchial control, but the Regency may have other aims. It's imperative that COST operatives keep an eye open for any and all signs of suspicion.

It's just difficult, because so is everyone else in Paris.



CELEBRATE

Paris is in an uproar, excited by the return of some of its great heroes, the fighters at Valmy. Even if you didn't actively participate in the battle, if you were there, if you contributed at all, someone will want to shake your hand.

Of course, there's always rumors, and there's little way to prove one was actually at Valmy in this premodern era. Accusing, or being accused, of lying about this tremendous day is an excellent way to get into a fight. Be careful.

coffee break

At this time, high spirits in Paris are a dangerous thing. So many people on the streets inevitably leads to trouble: a riot breaks out.

You see, the shipment of more coffee from San Domingo is late, and this increases the price of the coffee already on the market. This may not seem like much, but the average citizen in Paris is very poor, and works upwards of twelve hours daily, often doing back-breaking or repetitive labor. Coffee is an essential ingredient to get them through the day, a stimulant to keep them from dropping flat. Price increases are even worse, then, because of certain laws put in place to stop this from happening. In an attempt to aid the poor, the National Convention has put price laws in place, decreeing that goods such as food and coffee cannot rise above a certain price. In view of the shortages, merchants have ignored these laws.

So a riot breaks out. People break shop windows, attack businesses, and fights break out left and right. In the chaos, it's difficult to tell friend from foe, and you may be attacked by someone who, hours ago, was shaking your hand and congratulating you. You may get swept up in the riot without meaning to. Or, hell, maybe you want to cause a little chaos and break some windows yourself.

Regardless, a riot is a calamitous thing; be careful. While it doesn't cease all of Paris-- Paris is a big place, after all-- it certainly takes a fair percentage of the streets, especially near markets.

One thing, though. It's very odd. Often, when these shops are broken into and goods are stolen, money is left behind. Generally, it's not the amount the shopkeeper was asking-- often, it's exactly the lower amount decreed by the National Convention's ignored law.

WITNESS A BEHEADING

But neither the riot nor the celebration overtakes all of Paris. There are other things going on. Like a beheading.

Jacques Cazotte is one of the first victims of the Terror that will sweep France in a couple months, though he didn't know it at the time. He is a monarchist, though, the very definition of the feared 'counter-revolutionaries' everyone believes live in secret throughout France, seeking to undermine the Revolution at any cost. (Convenient, considering the definition of what precisely a 'counter-revolutionary' is constantly shifting).

Many gather to watch his death, and cheer when the guillotine falls. The executioner holds up his head for all to see when the act is completed, and some may notice the eyes still blink and roll in their sockets. The crowd gasps and jostles closer to see more, but after that, there isn't much fanfare. The body and its head are shoved into a cart and taken away to be buried. The event is over.

Still, the people discuss with great excitement, happy the filthy monarchist, the counter-revolutionary, is dead and gone, and France is that much safer.

PLANT A LIBERTY TREE

Liberty trees are popping up all over Paris, and everyone wants to plant one (if only to say they have). They're any kind of tree, and people are plopping them down in any bit of soil they can find. It's a symbol of the revolution, of patriotism, of loyalty, of whatever the planter wants it to be. Join in, or you'll inevitably be invited to the activity. It's a great way to get an ear to the ground for gossip, or just an idea of how things are going in the city.

LISTEN TO A SPEECH

France was just recently declared a republic after literally hundreds of years of unbroken absolutist monarchism. People are a little excited. Attend political clubs to listen to the speeches on the subject, all with their own perspective (but nearly all very much in favor of the republic). Or maybe you'll see someone speechifying on a street corner, throwing their ideas out to the masses. People are forthright about their political opinions, because they feel like, for the first time in history, their political opinions actually matter. It's pretty exciting, if you're into that sort of thing.

If not, feel free to let people know. Giving public speeches is an active process, and the speech makers are expected to be able to keep up with the crowd. Heckle, argue back, debate, start a fight, whatever.

The major things being debated are what, exactly, to do with the king and queen now that France is a republic. Should they be executed? Should they be brought down to normal citizenship? Should they serve as figureheads, like in England, making France a constitutional monarchy? Is that a step backward or forward? Everyone has an opinion, and everyone wants to hear it.

However, if you're lucky, you might catch the rare debate on other subjects: women's suffrage (still unheard of), the correct price for bread and coffee, what to do about the slaves in San Domingo, and which countries to invade in the upcoming war. It's all on the table.

read the France setting infopages

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

midnighter | dc | veteran, ota.

[thingpuncher]

a. BATTLE ORDERS WRIT IN RED | celebration.

Holy shit.

Midnighter hasn't seen s city loosing its goddamn mind like this since he fucked around in San Fran with Andrew. And that was all bright colors and floats, this is just people loosing their goddamn minds. People see the pike he has tilted over his shoulder, still brown with rusty blood, and ask him if he was at Valmy. He says yes, and women hug him, a man shakes his hand, some move in to kiss his cheek. It's strange, at first, because it's so unexpected, but with time he gets used to it. It's something he can use to his advantage, a tactical possibility, so he uses it. It's just instinct.

You can find him in a pub telling stories to a bunch of dirty children. "Then the windmill came down," he says, obviously enjoying himself. The children are wide-eyed, hanging on every word. "And we were all on it, shooting down Prussians left and right. The cannonball went right though it."

Anyone at the battle who was actually on the windmill will... not remember Midnighter there. He's not the sharpshooting type, he was in the thick of it on the ground. But a good story is a good story, right?

b. FIVE LONG YEARS OF BULLETS AND SHELLS | riot.

It's not a real riot if Midnighter isn't there.

He's not sure when it starts. Someone shouts something about greedy bourgeois, about how this isn't the law, about how they'd hiding the coffee and food to keep up the prices, and all hell breaks loose. It doesn't take a genius to see things are going from bad to worse when sans-culottes begin kicking in shop windows, old women begin breaking down doors, children being climbing over carts and throwing rocks in every direction.

Someone, somewhere, is singing The Marseillaise.

This isn't Midnighter's fight, and it's not the kind of fight he takes up for fun, either. It's time to get the fuck out of here. When he sees someone looking similarly confused, lost in the sea of rioting bodies, he reaches out to them.

"C'mon," he says. "Time to split."

c. WE LEFT TEN MILLION DEAD | beheading.

Midnighter comes from a time when this isn't... done anymore. Something about the spectacle of it all gets under his skin. The condemned man, being pushed down onto his belly, the cheer of the crowd--

Midnighter doesn't cringe, doesn't flinch, but he doesn't look happy, either.

It's not exactly great for his cover, looking so obviously pissed at the execution of a counter-revolutionary.

He doesn't seem to care. If looks could kill, the cheering crowd would be dead. When a gaggle of spectators break into patriotic song, he swears under his breath and mutters, "I'm all for killing, but that was fucking sick." He's not sure why. It just was.

d. THE WORLD WAS BUSY REBUILDING ITSELF | some boarding house somewhere.

Midnighter has slept rough before; he's not eager to do it again. He can, if he has to, but sleeping in trees and park benches doesn't seem like a great fucking idea in a city constantly on the verge of a major uproar. He finds the nearest, cheapest looking place advertising rooms, and begins to barter with the management.

"You know, I was at Valmy," he says, glad he's still got that rusted over pike, hasn't cleaned it off yet. "Protecting France from the bad guys," his grasp of politics has never been great. "I think a discount is the least you can do."

The owner of the boarding house, an old woman with a face like a battering ram, just glares at him.

"You do talk, right?"

No answer.

He turns to the nearest civilian he can find. "You try," he says, grinning. It's a bit too sharp to be charming. "Maybe she'll like you better-- hey. Need a roommate?"

e. THE ARCHITECTS COULD NOT CARE | political clubbing.

If nothing else, Midnighter will join a club so he can beat someone with it.

He gets it, he gets it. He's read the briefings. Talking about shit is important right now. Real important. He doesn't personally get it-- he's more action, less planning-- but he understands it's a big deal. So he might as well see what's going on.

He ends up in a church, listening to two men tear each other to shreds-- with words-- over the king and queen. One argues that they must be killed, that they must water France with their blood, for monarchism is a crime in a republic. The other argues that France, as a nation, should be above such petty things as executions, that the royal family should be disinherited and relocated.

Midnighter turns who whoever's in the pew next to him. "You following any of this?"

f1. BUT HOW COULD WE KNOW WHEN I WAS YOUNG | life's a riot with spy vs spy.

Look, Midnighter's not great with this cloak and dagger shit, but he thinks he can kind of get it. When he sees someone acting as weird and out of place as him, he starts to tail the bastard. There's a chance their another COST weirdo he hasn't met yet, but he's met most of them; there aren't that many. He doesn't recognize this weirdo.

He eventually reaches out to grab them, getting his target in a headlock and diving into an alleyway. They're alone, and the maybe spy is compromised. Midnighter's strength is considerable, far more than one would expect of a man his size. "Quick question," he says, gruffly casual, "where were we before France?"

It's the best anti-spy question he can think of.

f2. ALL THE CHANGES THAT WERE TO COME | spy v spy 2.0

Or maybe the person he's tailing isn't, you know, you. He sees someone wandering through the chaotic mess of Paris, and tails them. You might notice somebody tailing someone else intently-- that in itself is strange, especially considering Midnighter isn't... especially subtle about it. He was made for breaking skulls, not black ops.

What do you do? Tail him back? Try to help?

g. THROUGH STRIKES AND FAMINE AND WAR AND PEACE | wildcard.

[got an idea that isn't on here? there is a 98.9% chance im ok with it. do whatever, mix and match, have fun, I don't care. if you've got questions, you can find me at wehwalt or pel#5780@disco. see u on the flip side.]

f1.

[maximstress]

Among the chaos, turmoil, and confusion happening around him...and quite honestly, playing an internal role in his own responses, David makes an effort to maintain a sense of understatement. He's not entirely certain if what is happening is a nightmare or the result of something improperly digested and he's now in the thralls of a very vivid hallucination. Incredibly vivid. He's not familiar with revolutionary France outside of history books and he's never been to the country, granted the only country he's been to outside of America is India for reasons obvious to himself alone. It's difficult keeping himself in check and as subtle as absolutely possible when you're on the verge of cultural and situational shock, but it was inevitable that his visibility expectations would be compromised.

The suit he wore resembled neither courtly or commonly clothing of this time period, he wasn't cleanly shaven (not a requirement), but more than anything else he did not look French in any physical regard. So whether he wanted to or not he stood out, despite his efforts to be an unassuming presence on the margins of the street, he still drew looks that he did his level best to ignore. He could understand the looks, what he didn't think would happen was a tailing, David simply wasn't that interesting as far as he was concerned...and he wasn't trying to be. So he was taken off guard when he felt himself being dragged off of the main street and into a subsidiary street--dark, disgusting, abandoned.

The assault was too quick to even form an awareness of otherwise he would have reacted sooner, but instinct did drive David's response. He turned his head towards his assailant's chest, tucking his chin and grabbing at his arm to relieve some of the pressure and protect his face. He also made an effort to keep his base as stable as possible, body low, and the stance of his legs wide...if he could find an opening to defend himself or drag the stranger down with him he needed some leverage. He was so busy trying to keep his head clear and his options open (because the man was abnormally sturdy, normally David could at least handle something like this, but he couldn't budge this person) that comprehending the question was not the most important thing on the agenda.

"Where were...what?...We weren't anywhere," it came out like a choked growl as he wondered what that had to do with anything?

[thingpuncher]

Well, that's... not what he was expecting. Is this guy native? Yeah, he doesn't as pale as all the other Frenchmen, but immigration exists in this era, right? Who fucking knows.

Time for a better question.

"What're the words to the, uh, anthem they keep singing?"

Yeah, he's really not good at this spycraft shit. Even when he worked with spyral, they literally just shot him out of a canon to murder people in space. He's a battering ram, not a delicate instrument. Still, he tries, even though his grip on his captive slackens just slightly, either out of guilt or concern.

[maximstress]

Okay, well, the only takeaway from this predicament is that this man isn't trying to kill him...yet...just questioning him. Questioning him ridiculously, because David has no answers for any of it and he makes an effort to try and move the stranger again, but trying to slide a foot between his legs to trip him up is the furthest thing from working right now.

What the hell made him so damned sturdy?

"I don't speak French," struggling a bit more doesn't hurt, it doesn't help either, in fact it does absolutely nothing, "listen, kid, as much as I enjoy the smell of your armpit, can we try this a different way? Where I'm standing upright and I can think clearly, I might be able to help you then...you can't be too afraid I'm about to run away. You snatched me off of the street without me noticing you."

David is tying to appeal to reason here...or something, hes just so damned confused.

[thingpuncher]

Okay, so this guy is definitely a... COSTer? A time traveler? They gotta come up with names for that shit. He lets the other man go, anyway, because he's brave and obviously not a threat and those are two things that Midnighter likes in people.

He keeps leaning back against the wall, his pike, the tip still rusted over with blood, poking out from over his shoulder.

"Sorry, thought you were somebody else." From his tone, it's not... quite an apology. It's just too cocky to be sincere.

[maximstress]

"Well then I must have a very unfortunate face," it's okay, David's tone is somewhat dismissive, he doesn't seem like much of a reactionist, in fact he seems like me might just be very serious. He's not as concerned with the apology as he is with his tie being skewed and his shirt being wrinkled, both things he's carefully trying to straighten out, though perhaps it's just a ruse and he's using his time to attempt to sort out who or what he's gotten himself into.

All while trying not to be overly concerned about the blood-decorated pike he's carrying around, granted he might be a little concerned. He doesn't consider himself out of the woods yet even though he has been released.

"So, kid, did you intend to use that on the unfortunate somebody else you were talking about?" He gestures to the pike...needing to know, obviously, because well enough cannot be left alone. That and he's still curious about intentions here and whether or not his life is still in any danger.

c

[handsomefoil]

Most would consider anyone within Henry's line of profession as an executioner of sorts. He takes their life after stalking them and cornering them when they least expect him, and the deed is done. In some ways, this display is really no different in essence from what he does. This scene doesn't turn his stomach in any way, but for some reason he can't find any enjoyment in this either. How excited the people are around him is definitely baffling. Perhaps it's just the brazen act of treating it like a show for all the see?

That being said, he isn't as frowny as that guy over there. A familiar face, actually. Hasn't he seen this guy around before? He sticks out from the crowd, unfortunately for him (maybe), so it wasn't hard to pick him out from the crowd at a short distance. As the crowd starts to disperse, chattering loudly in a language he is actually familiar with, he weaves his way through them to see if memory still serves or if something weird happens to people's memories every time he jumps from his timeline to this one.

Look, he's watched enough sci-fi to expect the unexpected.

"A gruesome spectacle, no?"

In his time-appropriate wear, plain face, and ease with the French language, he could easily pass off as a local should Midnighter not remember him.

[thingpuncher]

Oh, it's that shithead. What was his name... the computer won't let him forget. Henry.

"It's sick," Midnighter repeats himself. He's never seen a public execution before, he's pretty sure. "Some people need to die, I get it, but the cheering's fucked up."

[handsomefoil]

That makes it easier to drop any attempt at a charade. So his shoulders relax when he shrugs.

"It is," he says, then lets a pause hang in the air. "Reminds me of home, I guess. They all just think it's a crazy game."

[thingpuncher]

"You get a lot of public executions back home?" Midnighter asks. "Where the fuck are you from, Modora?"

Because they've gotten to the 'getting to know you' stage of the relationship, clearly.

[handsomefoil]

"California."

It's never too early to start learning about people that keep popping up whenever shit starts to go down, right? Henry would agree.

"Wouldn't exactly call them executions. Quite literally a game."

He sighs at the memory. Not all of it was absolutely terrible but in hindsight, but they certainly were rather sick.

A

[horsepowered]

Chiron found himself fascinated by how the events of Valmy have already become stories. Legends. The things that become a part of a collectively history regardless of truth. It is his nature to find interest in it, given what he is, but there is also just a genuine appreciation of telling a good story mixed in there.

So it goes with what he hears from Midnighter's lips. Coming in halfway through is hardly an issue, and Chiron listens intently as he continues. There's no reason to interupt, or to say anything at all until all is done and those listening have dispersed.

"You've an impressive way with retelling events," he says. It's a compliment.

c. beheading

[excelsus]

"Delightfully barbaric, isn't it?" Comes a voice in Midnighter's left ear, all velvety smooth and filled with a sardonic kind of amusement as he watches on, equally disgusted, but much better at hiding it. Lowering his voice and leaning a little closer to his fellow dissenter in the manner of a conspirator, "your mutiny is showing, by the way."

Just something the mage thought he should helpfully point out, he's four square for self-preservation after all and it would be a shame if anyone took notice of his surly response to the beheading and decided to add another head to the chopping block.

"I do not understand exactly how you feel of course," again, his voice is low and his expression pleasant, undermining his feelings, "but there is nothing to be done for it at the moment...unless you intend to do something...unwise?"

Not that Dorian was in the position to stop the man if he were thinking something unwise, he certainly looked murderous, like he might try something if left to his own devices. Or maybe not? Either way he could try to talk him out of whatever was going on in his head or distract him from the unpleasantness, momentarily. Dorian isn't a pacifist, by any means, but he does avoid killing needlessly...unless of course someone deserves it. Spectacles like this are familiar to him, in some form or other, but he's used to maintaining himself in the face of it.

Ah, how the Grand Game makes all of those who play it suffer...it seems to be a constant between worlds.