Welcome, my lovelies, to my newest fic!

It was prompted by my dear beta, Inge (ThinksInWords here, textsfromumbridge on tumblr), for her birthday *coughamonthagocough*...

Anyway, she asked for a "superheroes au." Then this happened. It's going to be my newest chapter fic! It's going to be very dark, and much less romantic than Tides. But hopefully it will be a good follow-up chapter fic to that one (once again, thanks for all of the love for that one, and if we're lucky, this one won't disappoint!)

I've never written anything quite like this before, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. But hopefully I've done it justice - I'm very excited about this one!

Thanks to Inge (and everyone else) for being patient, Kat (frustratedstudent) for letting me bounce ideas off of her towards the beginning and helping me come up with an organized plot, and Christine (seredhiel05 on tumblr) for beta-ing this first chapter and being awesome!

Pairings (eventually): e/é, jetaire, feuilly/azelma, a crapton of brotps, idek what else...

Warnings: Some descriptions of violence/violent scenes (could get more graphic), language, possibly some blood and gore, maaaaaybe some sensuality *wiggles eyebrows*

Disclaimer: This crackiest of crack!fics is probably not what Hugo had in mind, but he'll just have to deal with it! Still, I can only take credit for this crazy use of his brilliant characters. Also, the title comes from the Ben Howard song "Depth Over Distance," and the title of this chapter is from his song "To Be Alone."

Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks

by AliceInSomewhereland

Chapter 1

and in the darkness a shallow poison, it has grown

He's called The Revolutionary. Nothing more, nothing less. No one knows who he truly is; he targets the wealthy, the corrupt, the dregs of society who have dragged this city down, down, down. He champions the people, the poor, the used and the miserable and the wretched. The rich hate him, the poor love him, but all fear him.

The WANTED posters that wallpaper the flat surfaces of the city proclaim him the leader of a group of vigilantes. Accompanying his photograph – a grainy image of a slender young man with a red mask and a shock of curly, golden hair – are the photos of his coconspirators: The Chief, The Guide, The Cynic, The Poet, The Medic... Photo after photo after photo. The nine young men, the two young women. Les Amis.

The police and the government know them as terrorists; to the citizens, they are superheroes.

Sometimes, however, even he is unsure to which group he belongs.

"The robberies are believed to be the most recent work of the woman known only as The Wolf, seen here on the security footage from the museum."

The grainy image of a lithe woman in a dark bodysuit, her long hair wild and her face masked, darts across the screen, dodging a turnstile with stunning acrobatics.

"Chief Inspector Javert maintains, at this time of the investigation, that The Wolf is working alone, and is not connected to the terrorist group known as Les Amis."

The woman smiles triumphantly at the news anchor on the television, delicately investigating the jewels with hands gloved in black cotton.

No fingerprints. No trace.

She cannot be caught.

13 juin

Monsieur le Maire,

I understand your concern for the terrorist group known as Les Amis. My team is working diligently, around the clock, to identify them and to discover their whereabouts. They will see justice before the year is done.

As to your concerns stated during our most recent meeting, Monsieur, I again assure you that my pursuit of the criminal Jean Valjean is most certainly not a vendetta; our intelligence is pointing towards his being a supplier to Les Amis. His crimes, as we both know, are numerous; this is only the most recent on a long list of offenses, though he remains as impossible to track down and indict as always.

But it is only a matter of time until he slips up, or Les Amis slip up, and then we shall have them both. They will not remain at large in your city for long, Monsieur. This, I promise you.

Cordialement,

Inspector Javert

She often fancies herself the female, much more badass Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, trying to subvert the stinking mess of society as a whole – well, perhaps she doesn't actually give to the poor. But the rest is true. Mostly.

There's just too much to pay for, too many people to pay off, and there are people she needs to protect. Her sister, her brother; neither one any more righteous than her, but not for lack of trying.

Her life started with the petty thievery her parents taught her. In turn, she taught both her younger siblings the subtleties and the art of the task. It was her hope that they wouldn't get caught, and that someday, all three could escape this miserable life their parents had cursed them with.

But it was not to be so. By the time she was a teenager, she was learning how to tap into security systems, how to bypass sensors and break into vaults. She began learning how to fight, how to sneak up on an enemy or a target and disable them before they were even aware of her presence.

She killed her first man when she was sixteen.

It was accidental, of course, but it changed her. She became bitter, and more and more insistent on getting her younger siblings out of this life.

Previously known as the Daughter of the Wolf – the wolf being her father, Thénardier, a big time organized crime lord in the city – she stole away the children in the middle of the night, changed their names, became known solely as the Wolf, and took up her craft within museums and bank vaults.

Eventually, she stopped stealing from the museums and the bank vaults (unless she was paid a healthy sum to fetch something) in favor of the elaborate safes and strongboxes the wealthy hid their most prized possessions in. Apparently, they didn't trust the banks to protect their valuables, and it was more than easy to break into even the most secure safes.

And it was fun.

A few nights ago had seen her breaking into a museum for an employer, but tonight she could be found out on the Strip, the part of the city where the wealthy reside.

It wasn't hard to steal the jewelry and money in the safe. She had broken into this exact model at least four times previously, and each time it got simpler.

She didn't feel bad; she felt quite the opposite, in fact. She would fence the items and pay her debts, and use the little that was left over to buy herself and her siblings something nice. Her victims would either locate their loot in the pawnshops, if it hadn't been melted down, or they would receive hefty sums from their insurance companies to replace the items. So really, no one got hurt.

Lost in her thoughts, she bumped into a man wearing a hoodie. When she looked down at her hand a few moments later, she was rather shocked to find his wallet clutched in her fingers. She had been doing this for so long that pick pocketing was almost reflexive. The realization did not please her.

Still, she had his wallet, and now had to make her escape before he realized it. So she ducked around the corner, disappearing into the dark night.

The voice hissed, "You coming?"

The man had stopped behind his friend, who in turn was stopped in front of a graffiti-covered grate that let into the sewers and the system of tunnels that ran deep into the bowels of the city. The public often hypothesized what nasty things might be down there – long lost treasures, secret government labs or panic shelters, bodies, giant, man-eating animals, the lists went on and on. But all he had ever encountered was his own group, Les Amis, though they were more than happy to help perpetuate the rumors. It kept the adventurers away.

"Yeah, I'm just looking for my–." He trailed off as he realized what must've happened.

That girl. She had bumped into him on the Strip, and must've taken his wallet. He was too busy trying to get through the streets unseen to notice. And petty thieves are hardly expected in that part of town, anyway. It's too swanky.

"Wallet," he finished lamely, sighing. He really hadn't wanted to fight tonight.

Resigned, he turned away from the tunnel, pushing the grate closed behind his friend.

She was almost home when she realized she was being followed, so she turned a corner, speeding up, ready to either bolt away and run through the confusing streets to lose her tail or to turn and fight.

A soft, tenor voice hit her from behind. "I believe you have something of mine," he said, grabbing her and pushing her against a brick wall – hard, but not hard enough to hurt her.

She shrugged, staring up at him through her lashes with wide eyes, doing her best to look a combination of seductive, innocent, and frightened. "Monsieur, I'm just trying to get home, I want no trouble–."

He cut her off by roughly seizing her hands and holding them above her head, against the wall, as he searched her pockets. She did not fight, only smirked lazily, and when he pulled out the wallet, she laughed. "So this is how you like it, pretty boy?" she asked in a singsong voice. He snapped his gaze to meet her own, glaring at her in a way that was supposed to intimidate her.

Then she kicked him away, but he did not fall to the ground, and she was surprised to find him both dodging her next hit and shoving her away with one of his own. She was even more surprised that he was not landing any deliberate hits on her person, just driving her back.

He was good, and it was surprising. If she had known, she never would have pick pocketed him, intentionally or otherwise.

She lunged, throwing a punch at his face. He ducked, but she used her momentum to spin in some impressive acrobatics, and ended up kicking him, knocking him off his feet.

He rolled before she could hit him again, and leapt to his feet.

His hood fell off in the process, and she found herself face to face with a porcelain-skinned, blonde-haired man. She faltered, and he used the spare instant to land a hit of his own, between her shoulder blades, knocking her off balance. She hit the ground and rolled, but when she was up an instant later, he was gone.

There was something familiar about him, she reflected, staring around her, preparing for his second wind.

But none came, and she slowly let both her breathing and her guard down, though the latter only decreased slightly, as she stared after him. Exactly whose wallet had she stolen?

Then she noticed the posters on the wall. Les Amis, led by the blonde-haired, masked Revolutionary.

Had she just fought with the government's biggest dissenter?

She had gotten a good look at him. Damn. He knew he should've suited up. But to do so over a wallet? It had seemed ridiculous.

Who knew that he would end up fighting with a woman who was obviously so much more than a petty thief? She fought as though her life depended on it, and she fought like it was the most fun she had ever had. She was dangerous.

Whatever, he had her fingerprints all over his wallet. She wouldn't remain a stranger to him for long.

"Men and women of this great city," Javert said, standing at the podium with his shoulders back and his chin high and his brow already damp with sweat, "Each day we get closer to finding the hideout of the terrorist group known as Les Amis. Each day, we are discovering more and more about their whereabouts, their plans, and their identities. You will not have to live in fear of their actions for much longer. We are doing everything we can to apprehend these criminals, and to ensure that they will be brought to justice, swiftly, strongly, and definitively. They are not heroes, you see. They are radicals, dangerous to the safety of yourselves and your families and this beautiful city we call home. They will not rescue you from your fears, the will not deliver you from your despair. They are nothing more than selfish children on a mission to stir things up. And they will not succeed.

"If Les Amis happen to be watching this," and with this, Javert turned directly to the camera in front of him, his face even more severe and stern than usual, his dark eyes shadowed by the ghosts that threatened the entire system on which he had built his modest existence. "If you're watching this," he repeated, much quieter and much more dangerously than before, "Know that we are coming. Know that we are closing in. Know that you cannot run, you cannot hide, and soon, you will not even be able to breath." He finished by glaring into the camera.

Later, when he watched the repeat of his short speech on the nightly news, he would be struck not by his thundering voice, nor by his fury, but by how much hate for these self-branded superheroes he had managed to convey in just a simple look. It even chilled his bones a little. But these terrorists could not, would not win.

"Any particular reason you're following me?" she asked, her tone bored and her stance lax. Few people chose to mess with her when she was dressed in her leather body suit, flitting from shadow to shadow in dangerous boots with knives for heels and a black mask hiding her face from identifiers. She could have lost him blocks ago, if her night hadn't been so quiet. Now, at least she might come home with a story.

He emerged from the shadows, and was so much more than the grainy photos on the wanted posters could ever convey. The Revolutionary. He was clothed in all black, presumably leather, though she couldn't tell in the dark, save for the red mask that hid his face and cast his eyes into darkness.

It was striking, how the sharp shadows of the silver moon played upon his features; in this light, light broken by buildings and small trees and street lamps, he looked almost skeletal. His skin was white as bone; his eyes might as well have been empty pits in the shadows, his hair looked like the cottony white residue of all that was left on a corpse's head as it decomposed. And the red mask, well, it was a strike of crimson blood across his skull. In spite of herself and the warm night, she shivered.

"You're an interesting woman, Ms. Jondrette," he replied, equally as lazy.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and looked around for an exit. Of course he was blocking the only one she could make on foot. Luckily, however, she didn't need to escape by a street. Dead ends were only dead ends to the mundane.

"How do you know that name?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice even. But as he opened his mouth to respond, she cut him off, inquiring, "Is it because you ran a background check on my prints from your wallet, or because you've been watching me?"

He just regarded her – or, at least, she thought that's what he was doing – from behind his mask.

"So, you know," he responded. He sounded almost bored. It enraged her, but she did not fight when he continued speaking. "Ms. Eponine Jondrette. Twenty-six years old, five-foot-eight, approximately 120 pounds. Suspected to be the thief known only by the name of 'The Wolf.' First arrest at age 12 for stealing from a convenience store, and multiple arrests since, both as a minor and an adult. Most recently, you were arrested on suspect of burglarizing a jewelry store, but the detectives didn't have enough evidence to hold you. Since then, you've been lying low, mostly sticking to secure, private jobs and –" he cleared his throat "– petty theft. Arrested at age sixteen for killing a man, though the evidence suggested that the murder was self-defense of yourself and your family, so the police let you go. Shall I go on?"

The Wolf, Eponine, just glared at him, clenching her hands into fists to try to keep them from shaking. She growled, low, feral, in her throat, and launched herself at him.

But the Revolutionary was expecting it, and her intense anger and fear had overtaken her usual calm demeanor in a fight. Instead of being tactful, instead of using his weight against him and beating him to a pulp with patience and the impeccable timing only years of training can bring, she fought with rage, as fierce as a wolf fighting for its life, throwing everything it had learned about instincts and survival as a pup away.

And she lost because of it. That frustrated her more than anything.

The fight did not last long, and he had her pinned to the ground and struggling incessantly below him. He said nothing, just stared her down from out of those shadowed pockets where his eyes were hiding, until she tired and eventually, resignedly, calmed.

"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly, fighting this time to keep her fear hidden.

"I want you to take me to Lamarque."

She gave him a feral grin in spite of herself. "What will you give me if I do?" she asked, forcing her voice to keep its bored, singsong edge. Don't let him know you fear him.

He smiled back, just as dangerously.

They were walking towards the center of the city, and encountered no one. Few people were out in this city at this time of night.

They walked side by side, the Revolutionary and the Wolf, each aware of exactly how far away their weapons were, and each just as unsure of what to say as the other.

Finally, Eponine asked, "What do you want from Lamarque?" The question came out in a bored tone, but in fact, Eponine's senses were on fire. Whoever the Revolutionary truly was, be it that boy she fought with a few months ago or someone completely different, she didn't trust him.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, looking at her – or at least, she assumed he was looking at her. The shadows still hid his eyes, so she had no real way to tell.

She just glared at him. "Right. The 'People's Politician,' they call him. Makes sense that you'd want to see him."

He chose to remain silent, and Eponine made no further attempts at conversation.

It took them a while to arrive at the row of townhomes where Lamarque was hiding, as they had stuck to the shadows to cross the city.

"Why do you know where he's being kept?" the Revolutionary whispered.

Eponine turned to look at him. He was very close to her, keeping to the shadows and out of the line of sight of a camera pointed back into the alley that stretched into endless darkness behind them. She wished she could see his eyes, but they remained blackened by shadows.

She shrugged, giving him an amused look. "Oh, I broke into some detective's house last week. Among other things, Lamarque's location was written on a notepad on his desk. So of course, I memorized it, in case a bidder came along looking for our Prince."

The Revolutionary yanked her towards him then, his strong grip tight on her arm. Even through the leather, she could feel his gloved fingers biting into her. His face was inches from hers, and she imagined that his concealed eyes would be glaring into her own.

"Who else did you tell?" he hissed dangerously.

Eponine just smirked, and wrenched her arm away. "No one. You were the highest bidder. And the only bidder. No one knows that I know where Lamarque is, besides you and, I'm assuming, your merry band of fools."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. "Besides," she said, "It's not like I needed to see his address on that desk to find him. I would've found him eventually, no matter what."

He was impressed by her, despite his better judgment.

She didn't fear him, for one thing. Perhaps it was because she was a child of the night, as well. She was the Wolf: a thief, a criminal, a woman desperate to claw her way up from the miserable depths that were trying so hard to drown her. She wanted out, that much was obvious, but until then, she would do whatever it took to not only survive, but to remain on top, ahead of the game.

In spite of himself, he admired her for it.

A window had been left open in the back of the house, and a fire escape was an easy leap away. Its ladder was retracted, however, preventing them from climbing directly up.

He reached for a tool to pull it down, but Eponine wordlessly smacked his hand away and pushed past him, easily climbing wooden crates and standing on the dumpster several yards away. He watched from the shadows with a carefully blank expression as she took a few deep breaths, appearing to almost be meditating with closed eyes. When they opened, she ran, light on her feet, the length of the dumpster, and flipped off its end, easily catching a rung of the fire escape in an acrobatic he had only ever seen the likes of in a circus during his childhood.

Eponine swung for a second, then, all with impressive core- and upper body strength, bent herself in half, easily catching her knees around the railing, and sitting up as easily as though she had been laying back on a bed.

Then she gave him a smug look.

"Try that, pretty boy," she cooed, releasing the ladder to him with a careless kick and an infuriating smirk.

"My way would've been quicker," he countered, meeting her on the first level of the fire escape.

Eponine's smile only widened. "But my way was more fun." She sauntered away, swinging her hips, and as she climbed the stairs to the next level, she leaned down towards his masked face. "Plus, you got to watch."

The Revolutionary did not dignify her with a response, only followed her up to the level that was even with the open window. He went first, thinking he was being chivalrous. She just rolled her eyes.

It was a quick leap, and the building was brick, so he did not make too much noise. He slithered through the window, into a dark hallway with closed doors on both sides. He waited a moment to make sure no one was coming, then beckoned Eponine through. She made the leap easily and in total silence, and when he held out his hand to her, politely and without a second thought, she grasped it tightly and pulled herself gracefully through the window.

He dropped his hand, replacing its presence with a stun gun. Holding a finger to his lips – again, she rolled her eyes – he began to creep down the hall. They stuck to the shadows, melting into them together, watching for the guards both knew would be there.

When they came upon the first one, exiting a room and pulling the door softly closed behind him, Eponine took the initiative. The Revolutionary tried to grab her arm, but she slid from his grasp as easily as if she were a shadow, a plume of smoke, twisting and falling idly through his fingers. She stalked silently behind the oblivious guard, turning and flashing the Revolutionary that feral grin.

When she was only inches behind the guard, she tapped his shoulder; he turned in surprise, pointing his gun at her, but she lazily kicked it out of his grasp. He threw a punch in response, grunting, but she caught his fist, using it as leverage to twist her body, throwing herself into the air and locking her thighs tight around his neck, using her moment to bring him to the ground. He tore at her leather-clad legs, but it did no good, and she squeezed until he was unconscious.

When she stood, the Revolutionary was further up the hallway, another guard unconscious at his feet. He turned to her, eying the man at her feet, then jerked his head. She hurried after him.

The next guard, and all the others they encountered after, they took out together. Eponine would walk behind one, get his attention, and the Revolutionary would take him down. It was simple, quick work; they made a good team. It was a realization that made them both rather uncomfortable, but neither had time to reflect.

Two guards– now unconscious and slumped against one another on the floor – stationed on either side of a heavy door had given away Lamarque's location to the young man and woman.

The Revolutionary grabbed on to Eponine's arm, giving her a cautioning look (she responded with a dramatic eye roll behind her mask) before carefully opening the door.

He slipped inside first. The room was comfortably furnished and warmed by a roaring fire that cast about dancing shadows. Candles, rather than lamps, provided the light that the fire did not. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the soft orange glow before they fell on Lamarque.

The Revolutionary heard the door click shut and lock behind him, and felt, rather than saw, Eponine stop and observe at his right elbow. He ignored her, instead staring hard at this man, this people's politician, measuring him up in person for the first time.

Lamarque cut an imposing, severe figure, regarding the intruders with a serious countenance. He was tall, and wearing his Dress Blues, the medals of honor glinting in the glow of the candles on the desk before him. His hair was dark brown, and impressive sideburns framed his cheeks. His expression was unreadable; his heavily-lidded eyes betrayed neither his opinion of the intruders nor any surprise at their presence.

He stood completely still, and the Revolutionary stared back, until Lamarque reached forward, suddenly, and pressed his hand under his desk.

Eponine was there, stalking towards him like the wolf she was, closing in on her prey and pulling a weapon from her belt, but Lamarque turned his carefully blank face to her and raised his arms in surrender.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice deep and flat. "You have incapacitated my guards. It was necessary that I call for backup."

Eponine stood unflinchingly with the gun poised a mere foot from his face, glaring at him.

The Revolutionary made his move.

He pulled a small object from his belt. It was long, rectangular, and black; he pressed a button on it, which activated a small red light.

"If anyone is listening in," he told Lamarque, "this will jam the signal. Are we being watched?"

Lamarque shook his head, eyeing Eponine over the barrel of her gun. The Revolutionary reached over, slowly forcing her arm down. She turned her glare on him, then replaced the gun and stalked away.

"Forgive me," Lamarque repeated, "This is one of Louis-Philippe's safehouses, and those are his men outside. He is protecting me from his own corrupt allies, but is also using this opportunity to spy on me. My own people swept the place, and inform me that there are no cameras in here. However, they are listening in and tracking my phone and internet activities, undoubtedly waiting for me to slip up so they can make my campaign illegitimate. Had I not called for help immediately, that would have been enough – being an ally of the Revolutionary and les Amis is enough of an offense to ostracize me, and unquestionably land me in jail."

The Revolutionary nodded his head. "I understand, General. Still, it is an honor to meet you."

"You as well, Revolutionary. I wondered when you would be paying me a visit. You and les Amis have caused quite a commotion in this city," Lamarque responded.

The Revolutionary was unable to prevent the feral grin that spread across his face.

Then Lamarque eyed Eponine, who appeared to be looking for an escape route, her long, lean figure silhouetted from the lights outside and casting shadows across the room to lay over the Revolutionary's person.. "Although," he said pensively, almost smirking, "I thought you would travel in different circles than with a master thief like the Wolf. Unless she's your girlfriend?" he asked curiously.

Eponine turned, rolling her eyes yet again, and snapped, "In his dreams."

Lamarque chuckled.

The Revolutionary frowned and cleared his throat. "We don't have much time, General. I need to know if you can win this election."

Lamarque regarded him seriously once more, and told him, a little sadly, "Alas, no. I cannot win. Louis-Philippe is in the pocket of too many of the powerful and wealthy in this city, and so many others are in his pocket in turn. They can use blackmail and coercion and fear and propaganda to win the election. No, I'm hardly a threat."

"The people will vote for you," the Revolutionary insisted.

Lamarque gave him a harsh look. "It is the people who are the most at risk. They are the ones being blackmailed. They are the ones being intimidated. They are the ones who are fearful. I may be the better option, but it is far safer for many of them and their families if they vote for Louis-Philippe. It is a vicious, vicious cycle, boy, and even someone who champions the absolution of their misery cannot hope to win against someone so ingrained into the minds and actions of the powerful."

Anger bubbled in the younger man. "So you're saying that nothing can be done?" he asked the old general tightly.

Lamarque raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that why you're here, boy?" he asked.

When he did not answer, Lamarque approached him from around the side of his desk. "Louis-Philippe and his gang have vilified you and les Amis. They have presented you as terrorists to the public, as the enemies of the people."

Something in the hall creaked. Lamarque' looked towards the door, then grasped the Revolutionary by the shoulders, shaking him lightly.

"Prove to the people that you mean them no harm, that you are their champions, that you are standing up for their rights and to protect them. Don't just go after the corrupt politicians – watch and listen and wait and save people from these corrupt men and women. If you save them, they will idolize you, and fear Louis-Philippe and his thugs less."

Shouts sounded in the hallway. Eponine hissed at him from the window, gesturing for him to come, but Lamarque held him fast.

"I cannot publicly give you my support, boy, you or any of les Amis, or support your actions. Not right now. But if you do this right, and if you support me, I can win, and we can fix this broken city together."

The shouts were outside of the door now, and fists were banging and shouting for the general.

"I'm inside!" shouted Lamarque. Then he turned back the Revolutionary, handing him the signal jam. "Think about what I said. And never, never return here."

Then he pushed the Revolutionary towards the window, which Eponine was already halfway through, and the young man slipped into the long shadows of the night just as the door was broken down.

Hope it's off to a good start!

Thanks for reading, reviewing, and favoriting!

P.S. Happy (very) belated birthday, Inge. Hope this was everything you wanted it to be (and that it will continue to be so)!