Post by LÉON JAVERT on Sept 2, 2015 0:34:55 GMT
JAVERT
LÉON JAVERT
FIFTY-TWO
FRENCH GOVERNMENT
From birth, Javert had a black name. On both sides. Javert he received from a father he never met— because he was in the galleys. A convict. The other, Kalo, came from his mother and was equally, literally black, doubly so because it marked him as an outsider while also bearing that meaning. This should give some idea too of his position in the world. Born in prison, an unfortunate arrival at best, unwanted nuisance at worst, his first years were not blessed. Though baptized with the French name Léon, he had very little instruction in the faith; what little he had, he did not want. He soon had his eyes set on a more earthbound authority.
Growing up in a prison as he did, Javert’s first lesson in life was that there were two possibilities for his future: either he could follow his parents’ path, or else he could rise above them and guard society from their ilk. From an early age he knew which one he wanted. This was encouraged by a guard at the prison, a man named Bonfils, who taught him how to read and when the time came, gave the young man a glowing recommendation. Though a mere guard, Bonfils had a lengthy and faultless career behind him, and it was enough for him to land a position as guard himself.
His background was an open secret; quiet, too-serious and awkward, his superiors thought well of him but his peers did not. He did not go looking for trouble, but every time it seemed to find him and he was forced to transfer to another prison. Finally when he was sent to Toulon he was able to leave all that behind. That prison was large enough that no one particularly cared one way or the other. And here, the commissaire took a shine to him and once he was promoted to adjutant-guard, no one dared make too much of a fuss.
Javert had once been on track to end up exactly where his charges were now. As a result, he did see them as individuals, but after being faced with such scoundrels and nothing but, it began to calcify in his personal code: these men were irredeemable. The state was right; the state must always be right. It was as much a defense mechanism as a credo, for it was difficult for the young Javert to watch men whipped even believing wholeheartedly that they’d earned it.
But young Javert matured; he became hard, like stone, like ebony. He no longer flinched at seeing punishments. He did not give them out himself now, a lot that fell to his subordinates, but he watched without feeling. He grew in other ways too, his frame coming to tower over most people, giving him an imposing appearance that he would supplement with his stare. And when at last he was brought into the ranks of the police, he added a lead-topped cane to these. His first assignment was to a town in the north, Montreuil-sur-Mer, which had recently begun its renaissance even amid the chaos plaguing the country.
From the beginning Javert was suspicious of this. It seemed too fast; and then there was the man at the center of it. He had been unknown to the region until a few years ago. No one knew very much about him, and he had no papers— supposedly burned up when he saved the children of the chief of gendarmes, which of course led to everyone forgetting all about it. But not Javert. He began to make inquiries, especially after witnessing the man’s incredible strength. However, what ultimately caused him to act on his suspicions was anger. His authority, the little he had, was usurped by this very man, who had since been appointed mayor. Javert sent a letter denouncing the man as a former convict to the prefecture at Paris.
The reply was not quite as he hoped. This man could not be the convict Jean Valjean, because that man had been retaken already. Debased by what he had done, he went immediately to the mayor and asked to be dismissed. He was refused, because he was right and because this Madeleine really did put the ex in ex-convict. Later at the trial of the man accused of being Jean Valjean (but after Javert had already given his testimony and left) the mayor revealed the truth. He was the real Jean Valjean. Javert came to collect his prize, and despite a tense situation, eventually was allowed to do so. He thought that was an end to it, for between all the man’s offenses it would be life in prison at least. Death at the hands of the state, fast or slow, it made no difference to Javert.
He was reassigned to Paris after this success under the patronage of the secretary of police. There was a brief flurry of excitement for him when he caught traces of Jean Valjean again— supposed to have died in prison, a tragic accident; then how could he end up in Paris? But the trail went cold and after a month or so Javert gave up. In the meantime his career was thriving, along with his reputation among the lowest classes; that is, the criminals. They knew him and soon enough he knew them, so well that he could greet them by name behind masks. He kept track of the shifting alliances, the swirling eddies of the gangs, how they intersected and broke apart. He was an excellent spy, skilled at disguising even down to the language. He could speak argot as well as any petty crook.
He took pride in his work— and not much else. Possessing a sharp, mordant wit and an abrasive manner, beyond his professional life lay a gaping abyss. He had few friends and no confidantes. His one vice was, when he was of the opinion that he’d earned it, to take a pinch of snuff. For all that, he was not unhappy; he was not happy either. He simply existed, a hound at the beck and call of his master. Wherever the préfet desired him to go, there he would be. With unrest brewing in the city and rumored elsewhere, Javert could sense what his next assignment might be. He was ready.
RP SAMPLE
New to the area. Javert noted this with interest that remained hidden except perhaps a bright momentary flash of the eyes, which could be put down to only a trick of the light. The beadle would not know a newcomer, it was true, but however much he looked the part, this was not the beadle. Spy had been exchanged for spy, just for one night. After this, Javert did not expect to need the disguise again. One way or another he would have his answer.
He needed an answer. Doubt was one of the few things that could play the thorn in his side. Scathing words, teasing, so-called humor from the men he arrested and similar classes of people, they were annoyances, mere fleas. But doubt must be settled or it would fester, a parasite eating away at him until there was nothing but skeleton left. Javert did not suffer doubt. He conquered it, put things in the cold light of day and examined them until their edges became clear. In the rare instances where he could not, he was left with a dull bothersome ache in his chest.
That might not be his future this time. Everything was still in flux, chaos but a necessary one. He followed the man as soon as he was able. Before that he observed his pace. It was the swift, silent tread of someone who wishes to escape notice. Perhaps that would be successful with some. Javert was too well-trained a bloodhound to miss it. He smelled something in the wind, and he would follow the trail wherever it led.
For now, it ended in a deserted street. Again, not inherently suspicious on its own, but each of these things added its voice to the chorus, creating a cacophonous disharmony that rang in his ears as he settled in to his new room. He listened, he even peered discreetly through the keyhole, but he could see nothing. Through the night he waited, a marble statue placed against the wall, his ear attuned to the least sound. Yes, there was something that might be the restless murmurings of a young girl.
The man made no sound, none at all. It was an absence that struck Javert unfavorably, or in favor of his suspicion, however one looked at it. An innocent man might snore, scrape a chair across the floor. Here there was nothing. It might be meaningful, it might not. The inspector continued to withhold judgment and waited for the dawn. There was no purpose in doing anything else. Even if this was Jean Valjean, he could not clamber out of the window, not with the child. He would stay put, or if he tried to flee, Javert would see him pass by.
Your Alias: Levi
Age: 29
Gender: genderqueer, they/them pronouns would be fab but not required =)
Time Zone: Pacific (GMT -8? 7?)
FIFTY-TWO
FRENCH GOVERNMENT
From birth, Javert had a black name. On both sides. Javert he received from a father he never met— because he was in the galleys. A convict. The other, Kalo, came from his mother and was equally, literally black, doubly so because it marked him as an outsider while also bearing that meaning. This should give some idea too of his position in the world. Born in prison, an unfortunate arrival at best, unwanted nuisance at worst, his first years were not blessed. Though baptized with the French name Léon, he had very little instruction in the faith; what little he had, he did not want. He soon had his eyes set on a more earthbound authority.
Growing up in a prison as he did, Javert’s first lesson in life was that there were two possibilities for his future: either he could follow his parents’ path, or else he could rise above them and guard society from their ilk. From an early age he knew which one he wanted. This was encouraged by a guard at the prison, a man named Bonfils, who taught him how to read and when the time came, gave the young man a glowing recommendation. Though a mere guard, Bonfils had a lengthy and faultless career behind him, and it was enough for him to land a position as guard himself.
His background was an open secret; quiet, too-serious and awkward, his superiors thought well of him but his peers did not. He did not go looking for trouble, but every time it seemed to find him and he was forced to transfer to another prison. Finally when he was sent to Toulon he was able to leave all that behind. That prison was large enough that no one particularly cared one way or the other. And here, the commissaire took a shine to him and once he was promoted to adjutant-guard, no one dared make too much of a fuss.
Javert had once been on track to end up exactly where his charges were now. As a result, he did see them as individuals, but after being faced with such scoundrels and nothing but, it began to calcify in his personal code: these men were irredeemable. The state was right; the state must always be right. It was as much a defense mechanism as a credo, for it was difficult for the young Javert to watch men whipped even believing wholeheartedly that they’d earned it.
But young Javert matured; he became hard, like stone, like ebony. He no longer flinched at seeing punishments. He did not give them out himself now, a lot that fell to his subordinates, but he watched without feeling. He grew in other ways too, his frame coming to tower over most people, giving him an imposing appearance that he would supplement with his stare. And when at last he was brought into the ranks of the police, he added a lead-topped cane to these. His first assignment was to a town in the north, Montreuil-sur-Mer, which had recently begun its renaissance even amid the chaos plaguing the country.
From the beginning Javert was suspicious of this. It seemed too fast; and then there was the man at the center of it. He had been unknown to the region until a few years ago. No one knew very much about him, and he had no papers— supposedly burned up when he saved the children of the chief of gendarmes, which of course led to everyone forgetting all about it. But not Javert. He began to make inquiries, especially after witnessing the man’s incredible strength. However, what ultimately caused him to act on his suspicions was anger. His authority, the little he had, was usurped by this very man, who had since been appointed mayor. Javert sent a letter denouncing the man as a former convict to the prefecture at Paris.
The reply was not quite as he hoped. This man could not be the convict Jean Valjean, because that man had been retaken already. Debased by what he had done, he went immediately to the mayor and asked to be dismissed. He was refused, because he was right and because this Madeleine really did put the ex in ex-convict. Later at the trial of the man accused of being Jean Valjean (but after Javert had already given his testimony and left) the mayor revealed the truth. He was the real Jean Valjean. Javert came to collect his prize, and despite a tense situation, eventually was allowed to do so. He thought that was an end to it, for between all the man’s offenses it would be life in prison at least. Death at the hands of the state, fast or slow, it made no difference to Javert.
He was reassigned to Paris after this success under the patronage of the secretary of police. There was a brief flurry of excitement for him when he caught traces of Jean Valjean again— supposed to have died in prison, a tragic accident; then how could he end up in Paris? But the trail went cold and after a month or so Javert gave up. In the meantime his career was thriving, along with his reputation among the lowest classes; that is, the criminals. They knew him and soon enough he knew them, so well that he could greet them by name behind masks. He kept track of the shifting alliances, the swirling eddies of the gangs, how they intersected and broke apart. He was an excellent spy, skilled at disguising even down to the language. He could speak argot as well as any petty crook.
He took pride in his work— and not much else. Possessing a sharp, mordant wit and an abrasive manner, beyond his professional life lay a gaping abyss. He had few friends and no confidantes. His one vice was, when he was of the opinion that he’d earned it, to take a pinch of snuff. For all that, he was not unhappy; he was not happy either. He simply existed, a hound at the beck and call of his master. Wherever the préfet desired him to go, there he would be. With unrest brewing in the city and rumored elsewhere, Javert could sense what his next assignment might be. He was ready.
RP SAMPLE
New to the area. Javert noted this with interest that remained hidden except perhaps a bright momentary flash of the eyes, which could be put down to only a trick of the light. The beadle would not know a newcomer, it was true, but however much he looked the part, this was not the beadle. Spy had been exchanged for spy, just for one night. After this, Javert did not expect to need the disguise again. One way or another he would have his answer.
He needed an answer. Doubt was one of the few things that could play the thorn in his side. Scathing words, teasing, so-called humor from the men he arrested and similar classes of people, they were annoyances, mere fleas. But doubt must be settled or it would fester, a parasite eating away at him until there was nothing but skeleton left. Javert did not suffer doubt. He conquered it, put things in the cold light of day and examined them until their edges became clear. In the rare instances where he could not, he was left with a dull bothersome ache in his chest.
That might not be his future this time. Everything was still in flux, chaos but a necessary one. He followed the man as soon as he was able. Before that he observed his pace. It was the swift, silent tread of someone who wishes to escape notice. Perhaps that would be successful with some. Javert was too well-trained a bloodhound to miss it. He smelled something in the wind, and he would follow the trail wherever it led.
For now, it ended in a deserted street. Again, not inherently suspicious on its own, but each of these things added its voice to the chorus, creating a cacophonous disharmony that rang in his ears as he settled in to his new room. He listened, he even peered discreetly through the keyhole, but he could see nothing. Through the night he waited, a marble statue placed against the wall, his ear attuned to the least sound. Yes, there was something that might be the restless murmurings of a young girl.
The man made no sound, none at all. It was an absence that struck Javert unfavorably, or in favor of his suspicion, however one looked at it. An innocent man might snore, scrape a chair across the floor. Here there was nothing. It might be meaningful, it might not. The inspector continued to withhold judgment and waited for the dawn. There was no purpose in doing anything else. Even if this was Jean Valjean, he could not clamber out of the window, not with the child. He would stay put, or if he tried to flee, Javert would see him pass by.
Your Alias: Levi
Age: 29
Gender: genderqueer, they/them pronouns would be fab but not required =)
Time Zone: Pacific (GMT -8? 7?)
