C'est la vie - Café aboard the "La Vie en rose"

[Char Aznable]

The café's music was supplemented by the constant, calming hum that the engine a deck lower produced. Combined with the occasional "pling" that the glasses produced while being polished by Acel, the café did not appear to be really occupied, even if the room it was in was almost ridiculously small for a place to meet and drink in - one of the drawbacks of living aboard a modified transport.

The only guests in this "bar" of sorts were also the inhabitants of the ship. They had just left the EVA suits, and most of them still looked pretty sweaty - it had been a long patrol, and getting in and out of your ship in open space was never a pleasant experience. The meeting was silent, at least at the beginning. Nobody had the drive to talk without at least having drunk their second drink.

A few minutes later, the tallest man began to speak. His voice was deep, gravelly, but not in an unpleasant way. Pushing his glasses up his nose a bit while putting down his coffee, he nodded at one of the men sitting around the table.

"I think it is high time introducing our newest addition to our rules aboard the Vie, don't you think, mes enfants?"

---

#notmyfrankfurt

[Zephyranthes]

The man Acel looked at was busy contemplating a cup of dark coffee with a degree of apathy and absence of mind. The beans used to make the beverage had been imported from Sirius at a somewhat considerable expense, as even after developing such a prestigious cafe culture, Gallia had yet to actually produce any high quality coffee worthy of mention. Indeed, the true blends that danced across the palate were more plentiful in the far reaches of Sirius, and the blend which graced this particular mixture was of a Libertonian origin. It mattered little however; the man still drowned the scalding drink in cream and sugar as many of his compatriots were wont to do, though this was a habit he had no desire to keep.

Looking up from the beverage, the man known as Emile Roux regarded Acel's creased and weathered countenance with a half-awake stare. This young, wild-haired individual was uncharacteristically silent for the occasion. Normally he would be walking up to any of the various female, or possibly even male patrons within the café and attempt to court them with his charm or lack thereof. If not attempting to woo a prospective match for the night, he would be in the midst of revelry, storytelling, debate, or any kind of external activity that engaged the mind and heart. But the air of the café was tinged by an oddly informal atmosphere of pomp and circumstance. The champagne glasses had already been set up along the counter, and a bottle of that golden nectar lay in wait nearby, freshly popped. The time to truly become La Fraternité had come.

"Merci, mon amis. I shall commence our little ceremony then," Emile said, wiping a bit of sweat of his brow and shaking up his hair. He stood up with a flourish of his bright red coat and began to pour champagne into each glass, carefully making sure each flute was filled equally. After some pouring, he went to every patron in the café, each wearing the distinctive gold, white, and blue cockade pin of La Fraternité on their clothes, and gave them a glass. Once such a task was completed, he stood on top of the counter, clinking a pocket knife against his own glass and observing the small crowd of a dozen or so people, now silently waiting on his speech.

"Mes amis, we have all come here from different walks of life. Guided by the invisible hand of fate which binds us all, we have gathered together for one purpose and one purpose alone: The freedom of Gallia and her people. To a human being, freedom is the most righteous and sweetest state that can be aspired to. Once a man or woman is free, they are able to attain true happiness and security versus the misery and fear of oppression. We all recognize this freedom to be absent in the Kingdom of Gallia. As the fat pig who sits on his golden throne in Ile-de-France likes to remind every single man, woman, and child that lives in his so-called government's territory, we are merely subjects and pawns in his eyes. To him, we are as human as the dirt beneath his boots. In his system and in the society of Gallia as a whole, the only people who can ever make a difference are those born with a specific set of parents or genetic relation to some incestuous tradition carried on for generations to prevent any hardworking citizen from obtaining their just dues. And the clergy, those priests who say we are all equal in the eyes of God, support this vile practice of social stratification via a factor outside of personal control.

"We are not slaves to these monarchists! We are not toys for the nobility to play with! There is no price too high, no deed too dark, no goal too far that may keep us from fighting our war against the Kingdom! We shall combat the king and his slaves with all at our disposal, whatever the cost may be. Today we resolve that we shall no longer be kept in bondage by King Charles. Today we become freedom fighters, Maquis. And every single coward who dares to look favorably upon the monarchy shall soon rue and fear the name of La Fraternité! Vive la Gallia! Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, ou la Mort!" he orated, looking at the crowd with wild eyes as he raised his glass in the air. The sound of cheers and banging on tables had indicated that the speech resonated well with his audience.

"With this drink, citoyens, we shake off any moral inhibitions we had before as regular civilians under Royalist rule. We become soldiers in a war in which the enemy does not know good, only evil. And to defeat this monster, we must rid ourselves of any qualms that could prevent us from achieving victory. Just as the champagne dulls our physical senses, so too must we dull our emotional senses for the greater good. History will vindicate our actions by the righteousness and justice of our cause. A toast... to a free Gallia, and to La Fraternité," he concluded, tipping the glass into his mouth and savoring each and every drop of the fine alcohol. With one last gulp, he raised the glass back into the air and slammed it into the ground, shattering it dramatically, as if to encourage others to follow suit. The breaking of the glasses would signify that there was no turning back at this point. The only way one could go was forward.