Near the edge of the crowd
There was a flash. Nina's first thought was that someone had forgotten to tell her what was happening at the club that night, but the gleeful voice in her head told her differently. Familiar, rough French whirled in to join the jumble of Spanish and English, temporarily stunning her.
Eponine recognized Paris from the smell and the sound and the feel. Palpable tension mixed with the dry dust on the street and swirled around her ankles, uncomfortably hot, but refreshingly familiar.
Revolution. Eponine rejoiced at it while Nina tensed, eyes darting around the crowd, wondering how long she had until a riot broke out. Riots were dangerous, even for someone as experienced as she was. Every muscle in her body was completely tensed as she attempted to slip her small form through the crowd.
The dull roar of the crowd didn't help, as Nina pushed through and Eponine slowly realized that it was different than what she knew. Louis, not Charles. She was still grappling with that when the words of the crowd finally became understandable underneath the general shouting. Donne-nous la Bastille.
Merde.
Eponine was speaking rapidly in French, growling at the few men who were still sufficiently separated from the mob to leer at her short club attire. She felt for her gun and checked her pockets for knives, then, finding all accounted for, pushed harder to get through the crowd. First order of business would be clothes.