“At least you don’t have to worry about anything like that,” Veronique said, observing a butterfly which had landed on her outstretched finger, “Your parents are farmers, right? They mustn't expect much of you.”

  “That was shockingly prejudiced of you, Veronique,” L’Orange was absorbed in painting his newest plein air painting, the subject of which was the forest that sat near their school, “True - but still prejudiced. They’re just happy I’m attending such a prestigious college.”

  She wanted to comment that his brushwork was sloppy, but it would ruin the moment. So instead, she quietly sat and admired the way his arms would contract and expand as he painted, which was itself the better work of art. Eventually though, he finished his amateurish watercolor and left it to dry, joining his friend on the ground and spooking the butterfly in the process.

  “Your art is improving.” The young lady said as the butterfly flew away, “I can tell what it’s supposed to be.”

  “Very funny, at this rate you might make more money as a comedian.” He replied with an annoyed sucking on his teeth.

  Copain returned to them, at that moment, letters in hand, as he had been sent to retrieve them earlier. L’Orange also received a basket of his namesake, as a gift from his family.

  “They’re not for eating,” He chided as his friend reached for one, “They’re for juicing. You can have some later.”

  “Not one?” She asked, pouting and lowering her eyes - something her friend was notoriously unable to resist.

  “Not one, I’m afraid,” He snatched it from her hand, making sure to do so delicately as to not break the skin, “They’re a rare breed, I swear the juice is worth the wait.”

  “May I try some?” Copain asked.

  “You can drink?” The young man asked.

  “Now who’s prejudiced?” Veronique asked, “Of course he can drink - he just doesn’t need to.”

  “Then by all means, he can have some juice.” L’Orange replied, standing up, “Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until Monday. I have some business in the city over the weekend.”

  “Have fun,” His friend replied, waving him off, “I have a party to attend, in any case.”

  —

  “Damn carriage,” Bordeaux, holding a jar of orange juice in one hand, said as he brushed himself off with the other hand, “Two dollars and three hours of the least comfortable seat known to man.”

  He had some business in the city, indeed. Veronique’s father, Jacques, was a minister of some importance within the city. As the chief of staff, he had immense sway with the mayor, and in fact had managed to make room in his schedule for a meeting with a well-respected businessman and professor.

  “Come in.” He said, after hearing L’Orange knocking on the door.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” L’Orange put down his jar, bowing his head in appreciation, “Thank you for your time. A drink?”

  “Sorry,” The man’s voice was a deep, gravelly baritone chorus, almost like multiple judges speaking at once, “But you can understand why I don’t accept drinks from people I don’t know, Mr. de Gaulle.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” He grabbed a glass, and poured himself one, “But you’ll understand if I do?”

  “Go ahead,” And once he saw ‘Mr. De Gaulle’ drink a glass, he realized it was safe and poured himself one as well, “I hear you’re the one who's supposed to look at the bank’s books?”

  Bordeaux smiled and pulled out a forged license of accounting, with a perfect replica of the minister of finance. The chief inspected it twice over on both sides. After determining it was to his satisfaction, he took a drink and handed the license back.

  “It’s quite sweet.” He commented, putting the glass down and grabbing some ice, “Too much for my taste.”

  “My father crossbred these oranges himself,” Bordeaux replied, leaning back, “He’s something of a scientist when it comes to farming.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Montpelier cracked a grin, “My father was a farmer as well.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Suddenly the two had seemed to forget the reason they were meeting, as they both discussed the trials that came with being raised on a farm, and the gratitude they both had for being able to break into politics. As the conversation continued, the Chief felt hotter and hotter, and his words were less and less distinct.

  “What’s wrong sir?” Bordeaux asked, wiping the older man’s brow with his handkerchief.

  “Forgive me, I must have caught some malady or other.” He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and they couldn’t support him. He also suddenly felt his breath leave him, and his body grew heavier and heavier.

  “Oh, my,” Bordeaux said with a feigned worry, “It seems I’ve forgotten the theriac.”

  “How -” The Chief tried to choke out, and the last part of his body with strength, his hands, gripped the younger man’s collar angrily.

  “I’m sorry, but I ate them everyday as a child. I must’ve built some,” Bordeaux ripped the offending hands off of his shirt, “Tolerance, or something. But I must admit - It’s a happy coincidence. You see, sir, I was lying, I’m no professor or economic forecaster. I’m your daughter’s friend - from college. I simply couldn’t accept your refusal of her passions.”

  “You fool - you little upstart -” Were the final words that ever left the Chief’s lips, as he collapsed and slumped on the floor.

  Bordeaux at least had the good sense to hide the cups and throw the bottle of drink out the window before he told the man’s assistants of his heart attack.

  —

  “Clear out!” The Deputy Chief of the Gendamerie shouted. He was standing ahead of his men, who were in turn forming a perimeter around the state house. He was already agitated on account of his cold blood not liking the rain that was pouring, but the Chief had trusted him to hold the line, so he would. The agitation only grew as the rabble-rousers had gotten more and more bold, even going as far as to start lighting fires and exploding bombs.

  Meanwhile, inside, the Chief herself sat in a meeting with the Mayor, sipping sweet orange juice with ice, as she said, “They’re prepared to offer you a great sum of money if you step down gracefully and quietly.”

  “How great of a sum do you mean?” Montpelier replied, “I won’t accept anything less than a total of two-thousand dollars and a manor in one of the Northern provinces.”

  “Thirteen-hundred, and a house, in the city where they can find you.” She replied, mimicking her foe’s calm, cool demeanor.

  “You make it sound like you don’t trust me,” The Mayor took a sip of her drink, hiding her scowl, “And perhaps you have good reason.”

  “Good reason?” Toulouse asked, “Do tell.”

  “I’ll be frank, I have a lot of information neither you nor your superiors wish to have revealed,” As though to prove the point, she put a stack of papers on the desk, and chided Toulouse when she reached for them, “Don’t think these are the only copies. If I were to suddenly vanish, what might my allies in parliament think?”

  “Don’t be hasty,” The Chief was glaring openly now, and though she was calm, it was clear she was in no mood for arguing, “There’s no need to escalate things further.”

  “From where I sit,” Montpelier said, “It seems like you’re the one who’s escalating.”

  The Chief gnashed her teeth for a few minutes, thinking the decision over, before she nodded, “Fine. I’ll see to it that your demands are met.” She stood up and left, but not before a final warning, “Still - I’ll say this. If any of those secrets ever find their way to the public, I assure you it will not be received well.”

  As the intimidating woman finally left, Montpelier leaned back in her seat and let out a great sigh of relief. In fact, those secrets were the only copy, and whatever friends she once had in parliament had long since abandoned her. If only it weren’t for that damn diagnosis - She thought, before stuffing it down. Lamenting on her limited time wouldn’t set anything in motion, but she knew how to do so.

  —

  Bordeaux drank down his coffee with gusto, long since accustomed to the loneliness plaguing his heart. As a result, the subtle longing he felt toward his former friend was easy to bury in his heart, and any affection he may have held for her was nothing in the face of his ambition.

  Speaking of, he read the letter on his desk, the most recent update from the Marines. Apparently, their plan was going swimmingly - the Mayor was being blamed for the recent goings-on, and his name was being spoken of as a potential replacement in the eyes of the legislators. No longer would he have to live in the shadows of society, away from view. He knew he had it in him to be a politician, disfiguring burn be damned. Now was the time to simply wait and allow everything to fall into place, starting with -

  “So Mr. Bordeaux,” Allifer, the intimidatingly large man that he was, said, “Why did you want to see me?”

  “You, Mr. Nice, are in quite the unique situation.” He explained, leaning forward and allowing that same burn to come into the light, “You’re well-respected by both immigrants and natives, and it seems as though you have some real ideas to improve this city.”

  An awkward silence fell on the meeting, with Allifer rather stunned, to say the least, “I thank you, and pardon my saying so, but surely you didn’t call me here for counsel?”

  “Better than that,” Bordeaux smiled pleasingly, “You didn’t hear this from me - but rumors have been getting about that I may soon find myself in quite the powerful position within this city, and I’ve been shopping around for a face, so to say.”

  “I’m not quite sure what to say, sir.” Allifer replied, choking down his afternoon ale, “I’m flattered, of course, but this is quite the responsibility.”

  “Of course it is, but you’re quite the man,” Bordeaux pointed at him, and the absurdly large man felt his being start to hum with a vigor, and a newfound zest he’d never quite experienced, “Of course, there will be no shortage of challenges, but their number will be rivaled only by the privileges you will enjoy.”

  And as the meeting dragged on and on, Allifer felt himself unable to completely renege the option.

  —

  “You monster!” Taylor cried, in both senses of the word, as tears poured from her eyes with no abandon, “You killed him! You fucking killed him!”

  “Captain,” Lonceré said, covering her mouth with his hand, “What should we do about them?”

  “We’re not killing them, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Paracelsus said over his shoulder as he tried to comfort the sobbing form of Tariq, “Look at me, Tariq. This is not your fault.” He grabbed the boy’s face and made him look him in the eyes, “You should never have been in this position to begin with, by Paace I’m sorry.”

  “But I was the one who did it.” Tariq’s normally loud, unashamed voice was now quiet and reserved, and his gaze, though fixed on his Captain, was empty and glassy, like he wasn’t really there, “I was the one who killed him.”

  “You were,” He replied, hugging his tighter, “And you’ll unfortunately have to live with that for the rest of your life - but the pain will fade, if you let it. And, if you don’t kill anyone else, you will learn to move on with your life.”

  “How can you do it?” Tariq asked in turn, burying his head into Parcelsus’ chest.

  “It gets easier over time, but get up,” Paracelsus said, raising them both to their feet, “We have to leave and get back to the others. I think it would be best if we accelerated our departure."

  And so, after treating everyone’s wounds, and wishing a farewell to Charlemagne, the three had to leave.