#yvesdemetz

Olivier stood to attention, azure eyes glancing at the security monitors positioned discreetly around the office. He proceeded to outline the security protocols that he ran through every time he came into this building, detailing the personnel assigned to accompany, the encrypted communication channels, and any potential vulnerabilities that had been addressed.

Another walked beside him, and he listened intently, interjecting with occasional questions or directives. Olivier's responses were precise and calculated, demonstrating his deep understanding of safety requirements and the intricacies of the organization's security apparatus. Things were on high alert, especially after -- he couldn’t bring himself to linger on the thought for their fallen leader, not when he needed to concentrate. 

When he finally splintered off he found himself walking toward Yves office, letting his knuckles rasp against the wooden door. 

BASIC INFORMATION:

NAME: Yves de Metz.  AGE: 38. PLACE OF BIRTH: Paris, France. AFFILIATION: The French Organization. OCCUPATION: Soldier. 11ème Commandant. FACE CLAIM: Oliver Jackson-Cohen. AVAILABILITY: TAKEN.

BIOGRAPHY:

"Are you sure you can handle both?”

The two men, well into their discussion about long needed changes to certain branches of the family they served, already knew the answer. Still, the seriousness of the matter at hand meant it needed to be asked.  

“You didn’t come here to ask me to give up a number. You know me better than that.”

Nobody ever stepped down. They were dragged.  

It was a revelation that surprised no one—the French Organization was having problems in London—and least surprised of all was a man who begrudged every second he’d been forced to endure both the place, and the people who called it home. It truly was the shittiest jewel in the French crown.

Had it been anybody but Varden asking him to switch his attention from the eleventh arrondissement he lorded over, the response might’ve been less forgiving. One did not break their back for two and a half decades, eyes firmly fixated on the golden ring everyone in their line of work sought, to regress back to teenage years spent as an errand boy. Had it been anybody but Delphine St. Clair who he'd been charged with helping, he might’ve considered telling them to fuck off. But as it was, and in spite of his dislike for the city he’d soon be calling home, he respected both parties in question enough to comply.  

It was, after all, his fucking job.

As much as Yves de Metz hated London, however, most of the resentment he felt came from the prospect of having to leave Paris behind. Whilst Varden had vowed he would retain his Commandant status there—it was only an hour trip between the cities, and it was possible to juggle both sets of work for the right person—the place had never just been a job. It was his home. It’d broken his heart when his little brother, Dan, had abandoned it for Launceston all those years ago, because he’d always imagined they’d tackle that fight side-by-side until they were old fucking men. Whilst the younger de Metz was content to do what it took merely to live comfortably, though, Yves had never been the type. Cold, unbridled ambition had pushed him toward more.  

It’d left him wanting.

“Dan’s Camden seat is empty. Give it to Val. You know she deserves it.”

Whilst he might’ve technically been in a superior position to the head of London, demanding something like that of a man like Lefebvre was still worthy of hesitation. But there was little Yves wouldn’t have done for the woman in question; ironically, the only good thing he had ever found whilst venturing outside the confines of the périphérique. It’d been a brief visit to Launceston to check in on his little brother when they’d crossed paths. The French had recruited so many loyalists from Paris that one could’ve been fooled into thinking Anderson Island was just another arrondissement. Like him, Valérie was from back home, and just like his nostalgia for the place, she soon became one of his biggest weaknesses.

Yves had never found particular enjoyment in murder or violence, no matter how much the few years he spent in Launceston facing off with the Russians stoked the flames. The dangerous reputation that loomed over his head had more to do with the fact he had so few boundaries. No matter what it took to get the job done, he would. Bloodying his hands was easy if somebody asked it of him. For Valérie Dautremer, though, he would’ve levelled entire swathes of the city he adored with a smile on his face. Loving somebody like her was an inevitability rather than an accident of the heart; so impossibly witty, blisteringly intelligent, and fucking beautiful she could’ve been a dream. He’d have married her even if she wanted to stay.  

Luckily for him, though, eventually even she missed Paris enough to return with him.  

Life excelled in every possible way after that. Yves found himself with a family he’d never expected, and was on a fast-track to making Commandant in a city where only the best could even hope to be bestowed with the honour. Over the years, he earned the respect of his fellow loyalists with ease; so dedicated to the family, instead of serving them due to a lack of other options or for material gain, that it set an example worthy of following. That was what was expected of potential Commandant candidates. It made sense that they’d end up noticing him for the dedication.

The issues plaguing their organisation across the channel were obvious, though. Personal. Yves loved his brother more than anything, and even though he should’ve been thrilled the turmoil eventually returned him home to Paris with his wife, the fact he and Noa had been forced out infuriated him. The Rutherfords thought themselves untouchable. They’d even been bold enough—or perhaps just desperate—to bring those same Russians who marred his memories of the States over to help. Whilst Yves liked to think he would’ve accepted Varden’s proposition based on the importance of their friendship alone, he had to admit, much of the reason he accepted was pride.

The St. Clair family was the fucking pinnacle of the underworld.  

It sounded like some people needed to learn their place.  

Having spent much of his limited time as a Parisian Commandant creating and refining a crew of men to uphold the standards Nicolas St. Clair himself had set for the family, Yves has high expectations of those working in London. Given what he’d heard, however, he’s also prepared to be bitterly disappointed. As much as his focus will be centred on Delphine and her safety as a priority, there’s no doubt that he’ll make sure every fucker who dares associate with the French Organization’s name is up to standard. Whether it requires violence or not.  

Because playing soldiers doesn’t win you a war.

SOCIAL CONNECTIONS:

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Valérie Dautremer (wife) FAMILY: Isaac, Noam, Aurélien de Metz (sons, unplayable), Daniel de Metz (brother, unplayable), Noa Halévy (sister-in-law) CONNECTIONS:

Varden Lefebvre: Good friend. Though Varden is certainly closer with his brother, Daniel, because of that relationship, they almost became friends by association. He harbours a lot of respect for him, and even though his status as a Parisian Commandant means he could technically get away with doing what he wants, he’s made it clear that he’d more than happy to take orders from him.

Delphine St. Clair: Boss. Even though it’s a stark transition from his position of power in Paris, now that he’s in London, he’ll become a part of her crew in Lambeth. Having known her personally back home, he already knows that she’s exactly the kind of person the city needs more of. The fact she’s a St. Clair, and the fact Varden asked him specifically to watch her back, though, means that he’ll be as much her shadow as a go-to for any work she needs done. 

Elaina Halévy: Friend. It seems like a loose term when they’re more like family. When his brother married Elaina’s twin, the two girls became as much a part of the de Metz circle as their actual blood. Even though his priority is going to be Delphine, he also made a promise to Noa back in Paris that he would keep her sister safe; particularly now that the Rutherfords seem to have a particular bone to pick with the twins. 

"I'd value their oppinion about as much as I value a white fuckin' crayon." Olivier murmured as he watched two Rutherford's walk away, their backs now to them. Once out of sight, his shoulders visibly relaxed. Thank fuck for that.

Olivier was here to learn. That was exactly what he'd been hoping the moment he'd propositioned Yves, and while nothing was yet set in stone...he was eager. He needed something. Anything, really. He still felt it everywhere he went, the utter disappointment in what he'd become. While loyal to the French, he'd dipped his wick into the other side. Cringable, yes. Even as he straightened upon spotting Yves. The respect that Olivier regarded Yves with was bar none, dropping his head into a low nod in way of greeting. He wouldn't speak first, not until spoken to.

His old lessons with Év came to the forefront of her mind.

Silently, he followed behind.

"Better me than one of those fuckers." Olivier said, offering his hand out to Yves. In all honesty, it could've been a lot worse and for that, he was grateful. On top of that, it was, in Olivier's hopes, a way to get into Yves good graces. Especially with upcoming work opportunities. "I'll look after her. It's what I'm paid to do."

Olivier: I've not been able to track anything down for Elaina's whereabouts. Want me to pick the lock on her door and go into her place? Curtains are open and everything looked quiet as fuck, but I can't see upstairs.

Olivier: I've called some hackers to see if we can get into her phone and see what the last thing she sent was and calls, etc.

Where: French Headquarters. 

When: 17/11/2022

‘‘I was told you might be able to help me get some experience in other fields of this establishment.’‘ Olivier explained, hands delved within pockets while standing tall in front of Yves. There was no room for failure in front of a man like this. And he wasn’t in the game of fucking up anymore. The approach had to be just right. 

Olivier had been hovering. 

Maybe it was because there was real fear running through his veins, burning while it coursed through with vicious intent. The kind that told him there was no going back once his knuckles rasped against this door.

This was a different kind of fear to what he felt for Varden or Delphine. Yves was a certain kind of man, the kind that wouldn’t take kindly to turning up at this time of night, waiting and wanting a conversation. He sucked in a deep breath that burned his lungs, that told him fear was still real. Even in the profession he’d came here to talk about.

Would he listen?

With a sigh, he finally knocked, and held his breath in time. There was a slight pause and no sound came after a few moments passed. He couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t. He wanted to talk about this before he talked himself out of it.

He wanted to change. He wanted to be apart of this.

‘‘Yves? Are you in there?’‘