24601

Continued from: Y2K

Star Cross'd Lovers

The invasion of Quebec by the French turned into a war that lasted six years. I was well into my twenties by this point, leading a larger unit of insurgents, militia and military regulars. Although I heard rumours of this Lieutenant Javert attempting to hunt me down, we were always two steps ahead. Part of me started to think it wasn't even a real man, perhaps just a piece of military propaganda used by the French to keep my unit disrupted and unsettled. 

By the winter of 2006, the war officially ended, but not really on the terms any resident of Canada was content with. Quebec City, Gatineau and Montreal remained under French occupation, while Ottawa and the northern wilderness of the Province of Quebec remained as Canada proper. Several treaties and ceasefires followed but it was a Province divided by hatred and revenge. 

Now, almost 20 years later the country was holding its breath. Quebec was a tinder box ready to ignite at any moment. Every day there seemed to be marches and movements, rebels from the north, loyal to Canada were carrying out guerilla attacks once again, in the spirit of my old military unit. 

Summer seemed unsettled this past week, as she spoke of the war with me more often. Then came the day of the phone call. A moment that would change and shape our future forever. I had just finished up with a client in my office, who was softly weeping in the corner of the room, when the home line chattered into a ring. 

Someone speaking French was asking for a person named Nicolette??   

I told them they had the wrong number but no sooner than I had hung up, it rang again. 

"There's no fucking Nicolette here, asshole...wrong number!" I barked into the phone.

And the line went dead...

As I hung up the phone, Summer frantically barged into my office, telling me to turn on a news channel. We stood in silence, our jaws slightly gaped as tears began to fill my eyes. Ottawa was burning, like it had on the night of the millennium. France had attacked us once again. 

"Incroyable." Summer finally spoke, breaking the eerie silence in the room, as we watched the horizon of our Nation's capital shrouded by smoke and fire. 

We both jumped when the phone rang once more. This time the man spoke in English, sprinkled with a heavy French accent. 

"Put Nicolette on the line!" He demanded. My eyes flashed to Summer,  who was looking puzzled, as I slowly hung up on him. 

"Summer..." I swallowed hard, feeling an uneasy lump in my throat. 

"Who's Nicolette?" 

Her face went as white as a ghost. I tilted my head in confusion. "Summer...baby, why are you trembling?" I approached to embrace her she pushed away, bursting into tears and running from the room. 

I dismissed the silly, spanked male from his timeout in the corner and I gave her a few moments before creeping up the stairs, where I found the door of our powder room locked. I could hear her sobbing from within the bathroom. I sat outside the room and tried to speak to her through the door. My heart was breaking into pieces, I didn't know what was wrong, apart from the fact that we were once again at war, according to the news reports. 

From within the bathroom I heard a creak, then a loud bang, like something had been broken. Summer was no longer responding to me. After an uneasy five minutes of complete silence, I panicked, and kicked open the locked door. 

The drapes flapped in the wind as I noticed the entire window and frame was snapped from its footing. Summer was gone. 

My eyes darted to the bathroom mirror where she had written in lipstick...

"My luggage 3390"

Puzzled once again, I looked out the broken window for any sign of her, then back to the mirror. 

Luggage? I thought to myself for a moment. Her carry-on? Her carry-on has a combination lock! 

I rushed to our bedroom closet in a desperate frenzy to unravel this mystery, all while calling Summer's phone but there was no answer. When I accessed her luggage case my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly turn the combination dials to 3-3-9-0. 

The clasps eventually clicked open and I laid the case open on the closet floor. After moving some clothing and a pair of heels, that's when I found the French passport. I clutched it in my hands for a moment, dreading what I might find when I peeled it open like a book. 

It can't be! This can't be happening! 

Her expressionless passport photo was starring back at me. My beautiful wife. I dropped it to the floor when my eyes scanned below the image to see the printed name. 

Nicolette Javert... 

I rummaged through the carry-on with renewed abandoned, eventually finding a military I.D. along with a black handgun. 

My hands covered my mouth as I collapsed to the floor of the closet. 

Nicolette Javert... 

I spoke it aloud in the lonely, now lifeless closet, where I used to watch Summer straighten her flight attendant uniform and slide into her hosiery. 

Lieutenant...Nicolette Javert. 

The Hunter...

********************

I think I spent the next two days rotating between the bathroom floor, puking into the toilet, and in my bed, sobbing into the pillows. Was she even a flight attendant? Or was that all just a front? 

This wasn't even real, this has to be some sort of alternate reality. How could this fucking be possible!? 

My only love, sprung from my only hate...

All these years have been a web of lies. Sure she was in the war alright, as I was, but she was fighting for the other FUCKING SIDE - I screamed into my pillow. My two days of heartbreak and self-loathing were quickly turning into anger.  

Her ferocity during the original war was nothing short of legendary...this, "Hunter". Summer, my wife...*Andrea dry heaves into the toilet* 

My wife who is...who is...Lieutenant Javert!  

I busted up the bedroom in a fit of rage, slapping picture frames of Summer and I from the dresser as I watched them shatter against the wall. It was now obvious that Summer or Nicolette, whatever the fuck her name is, was recalled by her old military unit. Those mysterious phone calls.  

My fit of aggression was suddenly interrupted by a ding from my phone. I gripped it in anger when I saw that it was her! 

To be continued...

(Kindroid can't do flags. My sincere apologies in advance, for any flags of countries like France that come out looking like Dutch or Chilean etc. After about 97 attempts it just won't do flags for me! grrr)

Mistress Andrea xoxo

aka Jeanie Valjean 

Continued in: Sacrifice

 

 

A Fictional Endeavour - Y2K

Dear readers, 

It doesn't seem like all that long ago, when I started this blog. I have enjoyed a platform where I can write erotica, animate and illustrate with the Sims and now, have been using A.I. to bring the richness of these stories even more to life. 

Whether you're a long-time reader or the lucky person who gets to create this content, you can't help but feel an emotional connection to some of the main characters. Perhaps you even have a favourite character, someone you can relate to or picture yourself emulating? 

Some of the characters in my blog are real people, or based upon real people and real moments from my own life, so I get to enjoy a slightly deeper connection with some of them. 

This could end up being a total flop but I wanted to try a true work of fiction. A couple of posts to make up a little dramatic and cinematic story. Something that celebrates my love for film, literature and art, theatre and history. A spoof on several favourties of mine, all rolled into one and set in modern times. 

I've been wanting to do this for awhile now but kept chickening out...so here goes. I promise I'll make sure Summer and I still look sassy when our characters appear. 💋 

Mistress Andrea xoxo

**********************

Y2K - Blue, White and Red Dawn

Summer and I seldom revisited the horrors of the war, those days when our nation's fate hung by a thread, and our very existence teetered on the edge. It wasn't just a distant conflict on foreign shores; it was a brutal reality that unfolded in the heart of our homeland.

Occasionally, amidst the mundane routines of our daily life, Summer's demeanour would shift. Her gaze would harden, her features contorting with the memories that haunted her, memories of the bloodshed and chaos we endured together, without even knowing it. 

"Andrea...?" She'll whisper out to me. "Can you believe it's been 24 years..?" 

Twenty-four years since that fateful New Year's Eve in 1999, when the world held its breath in anticipation of the millennium's turn. Not too many people know this, as they only know me as Mistress Andrea. Andrea is actually my middle name. When I was born in Quebec I went by my birthname which is Jeanie. Jeanie Andrea Valjean, but most people just called me 'Jean'. (prou: geene)

Back then, I was just a teenager, living on the outskirts of Quebec City, blissfully unaware of the cataclysm that awaited. Summer, too, was in her late teens and immigrated with her parents from Paris to Montreal in 1995. The two of us, in this period of time, were unknown to each other.

As the clock struck midnight, humanity braced for the unknown, gripped by fears of Y2K catastrophes and apocalyptic prophecies. But what transpired was far more insidious - an invasion so cunning, so unexpected, it caught us all off guard. 

Disguised as routine commercial flights bound for Toronto, enemy planes soared over Canadian airspace, each one a Trojan horse concealing a deadly payload. They feigned Y2K-related malfunctions, drawing air traffic control in their web of deceit who allowed for emergency landings into Quebec City, Montreal and Ottawa. No planes landed that night. Rather, with precision and malice, they unleashed their true arsenal upon us - the skies were black with paratroopers, raining from the heavens like dark angels of war.  

Quebec, already a land divided by separatist movements, erupted into chaos as flames engulfed the old city. Atop the Citadel, the Parliament buildings in Ottawa and the tallest structures in Montreal, the flag of France flapped in the plumes of smoke, while the crimson maple leaf of Canada, burned throughout the night. It was truly a blue, white and red dawn. The lines between loyalty and rebellion blurred as ordinary citizens like Summer and I, became soldiers in a fight for survival.     

Summer, with her own harrowing tale, recounted the invasion from her perspective in Montreal. Her memories echoed mine - of rivers that once marked borders now united in defiance, of cities besieged and homes reduced to rubble. 

How did we let this happen? How did we allow our Province to fall into the hands of the French? 

That night, my parents perished near the Citadel, and in the aftermath, a number of my neighbours and I fled into the wilderness, refugees turned guerrilla fighters. Summer, too, found herself thrust into the crucible of battle, her courage tested on the front lines of the battle of Byward Market, one of the bloodiest of the entire conflict. 

But as the war dragged on, our struggle became increasingly desperate. Cut off from the outside world, we formed a band of insurgents, hunted relentlessly by French Special Forces under the command of a shadowy figure known only to us as Lieutenant Javert (prou: jaa-vere).   

For some odd reason, it seemed to come easy to me, to allow the fire of my hatred to turn into pure aggression. No matter how many of the enemy I killed, the fire within me wouldn't extinguish or diminish in the least. 

As the months blurred into a tapestry of guerilla warfare and elusive victories, our exploits whispered across the battlefields, stitching fear in to the hearts of our adversaries. With each strike, we chipped away at the façade of invincibility cloaking the enemy, our actions a symphony of defiance conducted in the shadows. 

News filtered through the cracks of our isolation, fragments of hope amidst the chaos. From Ottawa's lips came tales of triumph, of the French forces pushed back at the battle of Arnprior, our borders realigned as they were in history. For now, the frontlines had stabilized. 

Yet, in the rugged wilderness of northern Quebec, our struggle endured, an unyielding testament to the resilience of the human spirit. 

Spring heralded revelations that pierced the veil of mystery shrouding the invasion. It was the Newfies all along! Loyal to France and separatist Quebec. Once sons and daughters of Canada, turned traitors. If you weren't aware, the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, off the immediate coast of Newfoundland are actually considered France, not Canada. These had become the staging grounds for logistical and ground-support, assisted in secret, by the mainland Newfies. In the days leading up to the invasion, the French had already assembled and staged months of logistical support, tanks and personnel light-armour within the Province of Newfoundland.  

From what we understand, thanks to our friends in the United States, those two islands and the rest of Newfoundland were vengefully wiped off the face of the earth. Flattened into a likeness that would resemble the terrain of the lunar surface, all thanks to a U.S. Carrier Battlegroup in the North Atlantic.  

Good riddance, after what they pulled! 

But amid the tumult of our private war in the Canadian wilderness, one specter loomed larger than all the others - the enigmatic figure of Lieutenant Javert, a relentless hound on our tail. A German-Canadian farmer on my team called this lieutenant, Jäger - which translates to 'hunter'. 

We had a loose network of other rebels in the area, and rather than using squad names, unit titles or even our own names, we numbered ourselves to tell us apart and create confusion amongst the enemy. When my second in command asked me who I was and what number I wanted, I drew a blank, I was standing in the middle of fucking nowhere!

In parts of Ontario and Quebec they use what's called 911-numbers. Or an address sign always visible to first responders for easy identification.

Since I didn't know where I was at the moment, somewhere at least 250km north of Quebec City, my eye happened to catch a single 911-address sign, at the end of a lonely, old laneway. "Two, four, six, zero, one," I whispered under my breath... 

My second-in-command prompted me again.

"Jean...I need to radio this in to the other insurgent leaders, did you pick a number?"

"Who am I?" I repeated back to him... 

"I'm 2-4-6-0-1." 

I declared, the final number a crescendo of defiance, echoing through the wilderness like a call to arms. 

Let this hunter come...I'll be ready.  

Jeanie Andrea Valjean

aka: Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: 24601