Disclaimer and Information:

The following characters are my characters. Some traits and aspects of personality were based on Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. I am merely connecting parallels between Czechoslovakia, with the Soviet invasion of August 21, 1968, and Victor Hugo's wonderful tale of France in the 1830s. I thought up these characters, basing them on traits from Hugo's Les Mis or on people I know (usually some combinations). That is all! Enjoy!

Section I: Players

The early morning sun's power, severely dimmed by the ominous, surrounding clouds of rolling gray that rumbled as if they contained the roar of gods, was a reflection of Czechoslovakia's spirit. The red flag of the people billowed from the highest tower in every city. There was a heavy irony to that flag; the people were certainly not conquering armies, nor were they in charge of their own cities. The people were not in charge of much at all.

People walked the streets with the air of the defeated. The citizens lucky enough to be in the upper-class strode quickly, ignoring the grasping hands of the beggars. The bleak gray seemed to leech the very lives of the people. One man sat in the safety of the Café Dubcek, reading from a book on the table while stealing glances at the unsavory scene outside. He was approached.

Torjus Drumen set aside the copy of Les Miserables and glanced up at his visitor. Or rather, visitors would be a more accurate term. He knew both of them, of course. Folded within the recesses of the book hid a list of the student revolutionaries. Torjus didn't need the list, for he had already memorized, not only the names, but the faces of his friends. He pulled the book closer. It was a terribly boring story. Why in the world had Briler been so adamant that Torjus read it? But now that Torjus was nearing the book's revolutionary section, it was beginning to pique his interest. Torjus noted many parallels between the story revolution and the one he was planning. It unnerved him. He closed the still-open book, hiding the list of memorized names from sight.

But since most people were not Torjus, they would have looked at the list. Several names were scrawled across its yellowed pages, but only a few of them are of consequence, and these would be Torjus Drumen, Benjamin Briler, Ney't'for Klausnitz, Illy Svojon, Belle (who had steadfastly refused to write her last name), Wilhelm Johan, Maria Kateel, Aravind Lubomir (the skeptic and drug addict) and Horatio Crawford, this last name belonging to the only non-native Czech (Johan had been born in Czechoslovakia but christened in Nazi Germany.)

Torjus was a charming, polite young man, yet he was a formidable opponent and quite capable of striking fear into his enemies. Bestowed with angelic beauty, his boyish girlish face could be viewed as the angels from above or the Angel of Death, depending upon who was looking. Brilliant light shone from his powerful blue eyes whenever he spoke of revolution, democracy, or the bettering of the world. He had a thick lower lip that could easily turn scornful or disdainful and a high forehead that was seldom hidden by his golden hair (unlike Briler's, which was seldom revealed). He was Antinous with the passionate spirit of Gracchus, Saint-Just, the White Rose, Lady Liberty, and anyone else who had dared to strike against an oppressive regime, but he believed in a God only because the regime did not. Torjus was as a volcano, volatile and ready to throw out bursts of light to vanquish the darkness.

After Torjus, one would have found the name Briler. If Torjus was the passionate desire, the logic of the revolution, Briler was its philosophy and peacemaker. If Torjus's polices led to war, Briler's would lead to peace. While Torjus gave fiery and moving speeches, Briler expanded upon them, added civilization to revolution, added horizon to mountain tops, added leaves to trees. If Torjus was a man, Briler was a human. Both students read, but Briler threw himself into books, theaters, lectures, everything he could get his hands on or go to. Briler held pacifist views, but he was not afraid to fight. Briler did not posses Torjus's angelic beauty, but he maintained a grace of his own. The two boys had the same colored hair, although it could be argued that Briler's was slightly darker. The two boys had the same colored eyes, but while one was an inferno of passionate desire, hidden behind the spectacles of the other was a soft candle glow; steady and bright without consumption. Aside from philosophy, Briler had studied medicine and served as a competent doctor. A gradual approach, gentle like a soft breeze; that was what Briler liked. It was better to bring humanity into harmony with destiny gradually, through the imparting of wisdom, the teaching of axioms.

Duly, we shall return to Klausnitz, but for the present, let us examine Illy Svojon. Svojon was a learned, scholarly student. Like his fellows, he pitied the people and wept for the children, but unlike Torjus and Benjamin, he found earthly love in another. He too read, but his focus was narrowed to poetry, and he learned several languages to examine the dancing words. He drew inspiration from nature and the natural beauty that surrounded him and, like many lovers of poetry, he was an introvert. He would smile vaguely and keep his head down; he would speak softly and blush at nothing. The only time he would speak out was when he was surrounded by his true friends. Unlike his counterparts, he had no beauty to call his own, but nor was he hideous. Svojon was plain, ordinary, and could fade into the background without a trace. If Torjus's voice shattered an iron gate and Briler's persuaded it to open, Svojon's slipped around it like a child sneaking through a forbidden entryway.

"Benjamin, Svojon," Torjus welcomed his two fellow students and friends, both of whom nodded in return. Benjamin Briler sat near Torjus, and blue eyes met blue eyes as the two stared at each other. Torjus then turned to Svojon. The three men formed a triangle as they sat, and they all glanced around to make certain they wouldn't be overheard.

"How is the situation?" Torjus asked.

"Like we expected," Svojon replied.

"The opposite of what we learn in the schools," Briler added. "The perfection the teachers speak of does not exist for the people, at least, not within Czechoslovakia."

"The people are not ready to fight back for their freedoms," Torjus said. It was a statement, not a question, and neither Svojon nor Benjamin challenged it.

"At least they don't believe in Governor Rijon," Svojon commented.

"The Governor is a stumbling man with no idea of what he does," Briler affirmed. "The only Soviet official who is both sympathetic to the downtrodden and capable of doing anything about it is Markov."

"What is Markov doing?" Torjus asked. Briler removed his glasses and wiped them on his beautiful green tailcoat while Svojon answered.

"I hear he's holding demonstrations throughout Eurasia. He's coming here, to Czechoslovakia, in one month's time."

"Will we be ready to go within a month?" Torjus inquired. For the first time, Svojon smiled.

"I believe so, Torjus. The University is almost completely barricaded. You chose the location of our holdout well. Any Soviet forces entering the city will have to pass the University, and the oppressed peoples, when they flock to join us, will be free to do so."

Torjus wasn't looking at Svojon anymore. His gaze was fixed on something outside. He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair.

"Come on," he told Benjamin and Svojon, striding towards the exit. Svojon, noticing the scene outside, hurried after him. Benjamin, a bit more reluctant to use violence, trailed after Torjus and Svojon.

The scene outside had deteriorated further. Sef Kocicka, a disorganized but savage gang under the twin command of Shethor and Angel, had been let loose in the cobbled streets like a pack of wild dogs. They slunk from beggar to beggar, robbing the unfortunate poor of what little they had been given. The food, coins, and flyers that Benjamin and Svojon had given out on their way to the Café were the first goods to go.

The gang remained unaware of the students, plundering their helpless victims, until Torjus knocked one of them to the ground. The effect was as instantaneous as a gunshot; the beggars fled in every direction while the gang reformed, becoming a jeering mass that faced the three students. The one on the stones scrambled away from Torjus before standing and rejoining the mass.

"Well, look what we 'ave 'ere," snarled a short, fat member named Boris.

"It's those thrice-blasted students," Yeltsin jeered. Yeltsin was the only one of the gang members that appeared to be armed. A wicked-looking knife, gripped in his left hand, swung lazy circles through the air.

"You leave them alone!" Torjus commanded. His voice could be quiet and soft, as in the café, but here it was loud and powerful. The gang flinched back, momentarily cowed, but then they remembered that they well outnumbered the students.

"You shouldn't have interfered, Torjus," Shethor smirked. "These are our streets!" Shethor had an extremely annoying voice. It was the kind of voice that even Ursula would have swum away from, screaming. Unfortunately, Shethor liked to hear his own voice. One would never expect so handsome a man to have so hideous a voice. It was whispered that Shethor's voice was a warning about his true personality. Torjus, on the other hand, was an angelic figure with a voice to match. His golden blonde hair lay proudly upon his head like a crown.

Torjus stepped closer to Shethor, who stepped back. They were roughly the same height, but while Shethor's face gleamed with greed, Torjus's eyes burned with the passion of righteousness.

"Your streets, Shethor? These roads belong to the people!" Boris began to move forward, but Shethor threw out an arm. Yeltsin drew his knife across his throat and winked at Briler.

Shethor moved closer to Torjus until the two men were nose to nose.

"You do everything for the people," Shethor spat, "but you're a great fool. These people don't care about you. You think you can stop greed? And hunger? And poverty, and famine, and cruelty? No, you may be a clever boy, but you couldn't do anything like that. The world is a bitter place, and men like me," he shrugged, "just make an honest living. But men like you," Shethor smiled, "will die. You'll all die; you and all your friends, and no one will even remember what you died for."

Torjus punched Shethor. The gang leader toppled over backwards and sprang up hissing. "You'll regret that, boy!" The gang edged forward, leers of anticipation on their faces.

Just as things were about to get ugly, a Soviet officer appeared on the scene. The gang stopped advancing, watching the officer warily.

"You'll rue this day, mark my words," Shethor hissed. Then, with an almost graceful movement, he slid around Torjus and walked away. The rest of the gang followed. Torjus was as an island in the sea; not one member dared to touch him. Briler felt someone crash into his right, and he turned to see Yeltsin smile broadly at him before dashing after the rest of the gang.

"Torjus, what were you thinking?" Svojon rounded on his friend. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"I'm sorry," Torjus said, casting his eyes downward. "My temper got the best of me."

"I'll say," Svojon rolled his eyes. "Torjus, you know we need to be more careful than that!"

"Undue anger won't help our cause," Briler stated philosophically. "We need the people to be on our side."

"There's no reason for them to not join us," Torjus replied. "Come on. We should go find the others." The three students strode off, tailcoats flapping in the gusting wind. The officer watched them go with narrowed eyes but did nothing to impede their progress. Whatever they were doing, he decided, it surely didn't concern him.

Chapter 2

Patrick Shepard was waved through the security checkpoint by a balding man with an indecently long moustache.

"Welcome to Czechoslovakia, comrade!" the man had said, after stamping the papers. His nails were long and greasy, Patrick had noted. Nevertheless, Patrick had accepted his papers graciously. Now, looking around at the bleak city, he felt disappointed.

"I knew the news stations were lying about the glamour here," he muttered to no one in particular. "Not that my slum in New York was much better. In fact, it was worse. At least there's room here."

Patrick took a few steps away from the checkpoint and was immediately assailed by a swarm of grasping hands. He extricated himself delicately from the beggars, for he had nothing to give them. Despite the years of seeing similar conditions in New York, his heart still went out to the poor, the desperate.

Patrick walked along the cobbled path. Ramshackle houses lined the road. There were no trees or plants in sight. The whole image looked like a poor sixteenth century settlement in America. But this was the later twentieth century, for crying out loud! Surely it didn't take this long for people to evolve and develop?

A chill wind swept through Patrick's clothing and assailed his skin. Yet despite the poor quality of his threadbare clothes, he could only imagine how the beggars felt as they stumbled around. Tucking his arms in close, he proceeded to continue a little faster.

Rounding the corner, Patrick happened upon a large square. Tortuous roads wound off from it in every direction. All of the houses overlooking the open space had the same haggard look as the ones by the checkpoint. The only building that dared to deviate from this rule was the Café, which fit in about as well as an apple in a basket of oranges.

Four figures immediately caught his attention, for they stood out in stark contrast to the beggars. One of them was a police officer surveying the square with cold eyes. The other three appeared to be students, little more than teenagers. They were richly dressed but not lavishly so, and Patrick watched them dispense bread, coins, and what looked like flyers of some sort. The police officer curled his lips scornfully but said nothing.

A hand descended upon Patrick's shoulder, and he turned to see a girl standing there. Her clothing was also rich, like the students, but it seemed more sinister somehow. Her chocolate-colored hair streamed out behind her before nestling between her shoulder blades. She smiled wryly at Patrick. He supposed she was beautiful, but her charms were to no avail upon him.

"I don't believe I've seen you before," she said melodically. Her voice seemed to shimmer in the air. Patrick blinked.

"I just came here from America," he replied. The girl slung her arms around him, holding him close. Patrick doubted that this was normal Czech hospitality.

"America?" she whispered. Patrick noticed how her ruby lips parted as she named his country, and, despite himself, he felt slight discomfort at her closeness. There was just something about her that seemed wrong. "You'd have to be pretty desperate to come here. Perhaps I could help you? They call me Angel," she finished, inclining her head slightly. Patrick wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the glint of greed in her dark eyes.

"Thanks," Patrick said, putting on a false grin, "but I think I'll be alright." He moved his head slightly, seeking a way to escape this awkward situation. Angel kept her arms by his waist, moving one hand slightly. Patrick stepped away, unintentionally preventing it from entering his pocket.

"What's you name, cutie?" Angel asked, advancing a step.

"Er," Patrick looked around again. The three students were glancing in his direction. So was the police officer. Why didn't one of them just do something?

Angel wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Don't be shy. You can tell Angel." Oh geez! What can I do? What do I do? Patrick thought furiously. Come on, Patrick, do something! Angel maneuvered him another step backwards. Patrick took a casual look over his shoulder, noticing how they were slowly but steadily nearing an alleyway.

"I'm Patrick," he said.

"Patrick. Mm. A nice name for a nice guy," Angel winked. Despite the chilly air, Patrick felt himself perspiring slightly. He didn't know why, but he knew that he did not want to be in that alleyway.

"Is there a problem here?" another voice asked. Angel recoiled as if she'd been stung. Patrick turned gratefully to his savior.

A Soviet officer stood authoritatively, hands clasped behind his back. A second officer stood on his right, watching Angel and Patrick with distrustful hazel eyes.

"No, no problem, Officer," Angel said, coining an American phrase. She winked at Patrick again. "I'll see you around, cutie." She sauntered off without a backward glance.

"Thanks," Patrick told the officer. The man smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. They were cold, steel-like eyes. One was an icy blue while the other was a fierce brown.

"You need to keep your guard up around people like her," the officer with the mismatched eyes said.

"Do you know her? Is she dangerous?"

"Perhaps, but the men in that alleyway certainly were," the officer responded. "I'm Captain Shanta, commander of the National Guard. This here is my right-hand man, Agent Eto." The captain pronounced his name like Santa, although Patrick was certain that the spelling was different.

"Charmed," Patrick said to Agent Eto, extending a hand. Eto stared coolly at it before shaking it once. "I'm Patrick Shepard," Patrick said, returning his attention to Captain Shanta. "Thanks for your help back there."

"You're an American, Patrick," Shanta kept the smile plastered on his face. "We can't afford to have anything happen to you unless, of course, you disturb the peace." The smile dropped off his face as he stepped closer and whispered, in a menacing tone, "and all Americans disturb the peace. I'll see you again, Patrick."

Eto and Shanta marched off, leaving Patrick shivering in the street. The police officer followed the pair without a backward glance. Patrick peered over to where the students had been, but they were no longer there. Apart from himself and groups of beggars trickling around, the square was deserted. Patrick moved into the nearest building, an old bookshop, more to get out of the cold than anything else. He barely noticed the girl standing by the window as he entered.

Patrick had come here because he believed life would be better here. Now, he wasn't sure what he was getting in to.