A/N Okay, no idea where this came from or how well it will turn out. I suppose the setting is sort of canon dystopia AU thing. Now, this is my first attempt at something like this, so bear with me and any constructive criticism is welcome. This is probably going to be a two or three shot, so please follow and favourite if you like it!

Enjoy!

(Un)natural Selection

The dying, burnt orange rays of the setting sun bounced off the hideous steel and glass constructions that made up the accommodation for the inhabitants of the Slums. The shadows that the buildings cast stretched out menacingly, steadily claiming the city inch by inch. The smog created by the never ending stream of smoke from the factories mixed with the shadows, creating an odd half-light that was both oppressive and strangely beautiful.

People scurried in the streets, heads down, shoulders slumped, many on their way home after a long day of work, some in search of an alcohol den or brothel in which to drown their sorrows. As the streets emptied, pairs of National Guard soldiers appeared to patrol the city, their white cross-belts standing out from the encroaching darkness, their weapons gleaming dully in silent threat. Only the brave, or the foolish, traversed the streets at night.

In the shadows of this dictated and dangerous city, a lone man was walking. Actually, walking does not adequately describe the way that he travelled, for the word 'walking' conjures up visions of long, summer strolls in the country, or a leisurely journey down a bustling city street. No, this man was slinking, gliding, flitting effortlessly from the shadow of one building to the other. He blended in well, his mop of inky curls matching the darkness surrounding him, his faded and tatty clothes rendering him nondescript. He was well known to many in this sector of the city, the borderline between the poor and the destitute, the Slums. He was known as an artist who rarely painted, as an eloquent drunk, as a cynic who believed in nothing, as a good for nothing with a big heart. His names are just as numerous; Nicholas, Taire, Capital R, R, but usually Grantaire.

His destination that night was the usual one, a tiny underground café by the name of Le Cafe Musain. Hidden many feet underground, it was a drinking den for people from all walks of life, mechanics like himself mixing with clerks, foremen drinking beside furnace stokers. It was known to many, but was kept as a place of absolute secrecy, one of the lone places that men could be themselves without the fear of being watched or overheard.

"Hey, you!" the words were barked in the crisp tones taught only in the barracks. Grantaire froze, cursing himself as he realised he had been caught by a patrol.

The men looked almost identical, their faces expressionless masks cast into shadow by the heavy black helmets that they wore. Their eyes were concealed behind thick visors, giving them a distinctly sinister appearance.

"Can I help you?" Grantaire went for the polite tactic, hoping they would only ask him a few questions before sending him on his way.

"What are you doing? It's late, curfew time."

Grantaire rolled him eyes and shrugged. "I had a big job to finish at work that meant I had to stay late." He snorted in faked frustration. "If my boss wasn't such a disorganized idiot then I wouldn't be racing the curfew to get home." This was a complete lie of course, but it was one of his strongest excuses and had never failed before.

The men were silent for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to believe him. Finally, one of them nodded, a single, stiff movement. "Don't let it happen again."

Grantaire threw them a mocking two fingered salute and began to move away, filled with the relief of success, when the leather gloved hand of one of the Guardsmen clamped down on his shoulder. The touch was impersonal and hard, making Grantaire want to shudder in discomfort.

"We're going to have to search that bag." Damn. His bag was filled with turpentine and paint, illegal items in a city where art is banned.

"If you insist." He kept his face turned away from them and his voice carefully calm. The hand was removed from his shoulder and in that instant Grantaire bolted.

Darting into the familiar warren of dark, stinking streets he soon lost the two Guards, leaving them to find their own way out of the tangled labyrinth that made up the Slums.

By chance, his unplanned flight had taken him in the direction that he had wanted to go anyway and so it was only a few more minutes before he reached the deeply shadowed stairway that led down to Le Café Musain. The wall was dank and slimy under his fingertips as he slithered and stumbled down the filthy steps. Faced with a chipped and faded door, he rapped out a seemingly random rhythm, cursing when a splinter of wood pierced his already scarred knuckles.

He wiped the blood off on his oil stained trousers, smiling slightly when a sliding panel opened and he was faced with the manageress of the Musain. "Let me in Louison, my darling, for I am in dire need of drink!"

After a moment of good natured grumbling, he heard the sound of bolts being slid back and a moment later the door opened.

"Good evening, my lady." A well placed kiss had the plump, grey-haired woman blushing and telling him to 'push off', which he did.

Weaving effortlessly between the other patrons, he opened another door that led into a lesser known back room. He ensconced himself at his usual table in the corner, his customary drink order clutched loosely in one hand, and began his habitual task of watching a god play at being human, his close call with the law already forgotten.

The other occupants of the room, the Les Amis de la ABC, barely noticed that he was there, apart from a delicate looking young man, dressed in several hideously clashing colours, who paused from scribbling in a notebook long enough to give him a smile and a small wave. The rest of them were all preoccupied doing what Grantaire was doing, only to them the god is no god, but their leader and their friend, Julien Enjolras.

Enjolras was a young man of twenty or so with a fiery halo of golden hair and sharp blue eyes that made Grantaire's secretly artistic hands itch for a pencil or a paintbrush. Enjolras' hands were never still, always gesturing, moving, running through his hair, almost as eloquent as the words that he speaks.

Grantaire took a long drink from his bottle, barely tasting the liquid, focusing on the actions that Enjolras was making, committing them to memory to recreate illicitly on canvas, not really concentrating on what Enjolras was speaking out against until two words caught his attention and he felt his heart freeze.

The Selection.

Simply the sound of those two words churned Grantaire's stomach and made his throat go dry.

Many years before he was born, France had been falling to ruin. Failed wars, bad harvests, and dissention amongst the people had all taken their toll. In a desperate attempt to regain control, The Council had been created; a group of powerful and rich people who would pull France back from the brink of disaster. The Selection was the most feared day of everyone's year, the day that one person was chosen at random to be taken to the High Lands to have their belief and life force absorbed by the Council that resided there. The process was to ensure that the Council never grew old, never lost purpose, but the power had corrupted them, made them greedy and grasping.

The Selection was supposed to be random, but Grantaire was certain it was not. It was why he drank. He knew that the Council went for the inspiring, the passionate, the people who were filled with life. It was what the Council fed off after all, and he found it to be too much of a coincidence that over half of the Selected in the last ten years had all been people who had spoken out against the Council and the practice of the Selection.

Some part of him knew that it was only a matter of time before Enjolras was Selected. His belief was too obvious, too public, too strong to be ignored. This fact scared Grantaire because if there was one thing in his empty, miserable life that he believed in, it was Enjolras. Which was why he there to cut him short, heckle him, try to make him lose his focus, jeer at his beliefs and be an all-around nuisance, because if Enjolras was focused on him, then he wasn't drawing the attention of The Council, with his bright flares of passion and belief and strength.

He tuned back into the conversation (not that he was actually involved in said conversation) just in time to hear Enjolras give a scathing verdict on The Selection, wrapped up in his certainty that luck, or Fate, or Destiny, or whatever rubbish they all believed in, was on their side and that all of them would escape unscathed this year. At this Grantaire could not resist giving a rather unsubtle snort, therefore drawing everyone's attention onto himself.

"I'm sorry, but did you find something I said to be funny, wine cask." Enjolras tone was as icy as his blue eyes, eyes that were fixed on him for the first time that evening and the drunkard couldn't help but drink in the attention being paid to him by his idol, even if it was for all of the wrong reasons.

He winced in mock affront at the insult, even though the words did cut deeper than he liked to admit. "You wound me, Apollo, for I am barely even tipsy this evening! As for your question, yes, I do find something funny. The fact that you still cling to the belief that The Selection is a random event."

"I am actually as sceptical about the process of The Selection as you are," he bit out, "but that is beside the point. We have not done anything to draw attention to ourselves yet, which leads me to believe that our group is safe."

"Belief is the process of someone purposely deluding themselves because they will not see what the world is really like." Grantaire saw Bahorel, his only real friend in the group desperately signalling for him to leave the subject alone, but he ignored him. To see his Apollo in all his majestic and wrathful glory was well worth the cruel words that were bound to follow. He needed to see the brightness of Enjolras' fire, absorb the heat no matter how painful it might be, imbibe of the passion that he himself is incapable of.

"You only scorn those who believe because you are incapable of it yourself." Enjolras snarled the words, moving towards the corner Grantaire occupied, his knee high boots making barely a sound as they touched the floor, his whole posture that of a wolf stalking it's pray, teeth bared for the final, deadly blow. "You are incapable, not only of believing, but of thinking, of willing, of living, even of dying." With those final, bitter words, he whirled on his heel and was gone, the long leather coat he always wore swirling out in a perfect arc behind him. Soon he was followed by his lieutenants, many of whom threw him pitying glances as they passed.

Grantaire thought over the words that Enjolras had thrown at him, twirling the bottle between practiced fingers. "You will see, Apollo." He murmured to the empty café. "You will see."