(Fic you auditioned for.) This is the story of an ex-convict turned mayor. This is the story of a woman forced into prostitution. This is the story of her child. This is the story of a revolution. ...
Anyway, here’s a few things you may want to know going into the story:
-In my headcanon, BLI takes over in 2018. The story (as it says in the little italicized bit below) starts out in 2041.
-Gerard is Jean Valjean, Lyn-Z (spelled Lindsey in the story) is Fantine, and Bandit is Cosette. The rest of the characters are OCs.
-The Les Amis are Killjoys rebelling against BL/ind.
-BLI City is so big that it’s split up into districts. Each district has its own mayor. (This doesn’t seem important now, but it will make sense fairly soon.)
So, with that settled, enjoy the story, and don’t forget to rate and review!
Prologue: BLI City, 2041; twenty-three years after the BL/ind Revolution.
It was a matter of survival, that was all.
If Gerard had been given another option, he wouldn’t have turned to thievery. But as he had learned, life seldom worked that way. No, this was the only choice he had. It was either steal or his brother Mikey’s two children would starve, and there was no way he was going to allow the latter to happen. And besides, it wasn’t like the baker was going to miss one measly loaf of bread. That was all he needed.
The most difficult part of his operation, or at least, what he expected to be the most difficult part, was over. He had already gotten into the shop with drawing any attention to himself. All that was left now was to get the bread and leave.
Quiet as a mouse, Gerard crept across the threshold of the bakery. The shelves were laden with breads and rolls, among other goods. Tentatively, he reached out and pulled a loaf off of the shelf. The bread was an artisan kind, full of raisins and nuts. He thought idly for a moment about how the girls would like it.
Clutching the prize to his chest, he started to make his way back to the door, whose lock he had picked with only minor difficulties. Just as his hand grasped the handle, the lights were switched on, and a cry of “You there! Stop!” was uttered. Gerard froze, paralyzed by fear and shock. How had he been caught? He’d spent countless hours planning, making sure that no one would be there at the time of his intrusion.
“I j-just need one loaf, sir. That’s all. My nieces-”
“You can tell your story to the police. They should be here any minute.”
“Please! There’s got to be another way! I’ll do anything you want, I swear.”
But the man showed no signs of letting Gerard go. In his mind, a thief was a thief, and doing hard time was the only thing that could possibly fix that.
The police arrived soon enough. Begging for mercy, Gerard had tried to explain his reason for trying to steal the bread. But of course, they were as unforgiving as the baker had been. Their response to his plea was to simply throw him in the back of the squad car and drive off into the pitch black night.
The trial was swift. Gerard was, as you may have guessed, found guilty, and sentenced to five years in prison. With the baker as a witness, there was no argument he could make for himself, save for the fact that Mikey and his children were starving. It is needless to say that the jury had no sympathy for him.
That evening, he was taken to the District B Prison, where he was stripped of his clothes and given a dreadful blue and black uniform. The guards then proceeded to unceremoniously shove him into a cell whose other inhabitants were an old man with what might have been the longest beard Gerard had ever seen and a big, hulking beast of a human who looked to be close to his own age. His bed was a slab of wood with a few blankets thrown over it. Gerard slept miserably that night; he only managed to obtain a few hours, and even then, they were restless ones.
But that was not the worst of it. Those running the institution had gone so far as to strip him of his own name. He was no longer Gerard Arthur Way, the artist, or the loving uncle. Instead, he answered to a number that would follow him for the rest of his days: