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dear_mun2012-12-28 10:29 pm
order_and_light) wrote in dear_mun2012-12-28 10:29 pm
Entry tags:
Pondering who might play a lady!Javert...
I doubt this Rule 63 is anywhere in the books of law, mademoiselle. I have no interest in what foolish woman might occupy my place in some other universe. I have my duties here and now, and I will attend to those until my death. Leave me. Take your speculations elsewhere.
Occasional sleep does help the writing a bit.
Very well.
[ And he leans forward, forearms resting on the table, the short-lived attempt at looking casual gone already.]
You seem at ease here. Why? If I knew the way back, I would already be gone. This place is godless.
[ He's not the type to see God's infinite imagination in the kaleidoscope of the multiverse. He sees purposeless chaos, like old paintings of hell. ]
((OOC: Yeah, I need a comm where it's like, hey, we only expect one or two tags every three days! Don't worry about speed or keeping up with big events. Such does not seem to exist, sadly.))
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Never mind godlessness. What the devil does that matter? [he murmurs, mostly to himself, in heavy distraction. It is as if he doesn't fully realize he is speaking aloud.] This realm lacks order!
[But whatever it is he searches for in The Other Javert isn't there. He blinks once, reluctantly, and folds his arms across his chest.]
That is simple. I won't be going 'back' anywhere. [A slight, listless shrug of his broad shoulders.] Apparently, you can. And you will, when your mademoiselle chooses. Assumably.
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[The murmured comment, on the other hand... He pulls back, eyebrows raised, startled, though he does still register the other answering his original question.]
Then my best strategy is to fail to be entertaining, if I understand the situation. [ A short laugh, mostly a huff of air through his nose, and a thin smile. ] Unless they drop us where we fall, when their interest wanes.
[He crosses his own arms, leaning back in his chair again, considering. Does he want to ask further, about the differences between them?]
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[Javert reaches for one of the cigarettes first, adding a book of well-worn matches to the small pile on the table. He offers an extra to his younger and more godly self, brow tilted imploringly. The pointed, cold stare seems to speak without audibly saying,
But there is more, isn't there? Don't hold back, now...! I am your mirror in this twisted, godforsaken universe. Treat me as such.]
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[He eyes the matches, but will wait and follow his alternate's lead there. The only matches he knows of are unreliable things, with a tendency to spit sulfur fumes and sparks.]
[One arm on the table, leaning back in his chair, he thinks out loud, watching his alternate as he does.]
Just now...you said 'never mind godlessness.' Has that always been your philosophy?
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Probably not.]
Ah! [he breathes, nostrils flaring again. He strikes a match - it doesn't explode in his face, thank goodness - and he takes his time starting his cigarette, murmuring around that little cancer stick,] Now we are talking philosophies! What a thing to ask me! Yet you would not ask if it did not bother you. That would waste our breath. Where on earth did you pick up piousness, I wonder?
[A pause to allow himself to take a short drag. It is interesting to note that not once throughout this walk and uncomfortable exchange has his posture sagged. It is as if his spine is stapled to a rod, holding him upright in that confident, proud posture.]
I didn't consider God. He was intangible. He had no effect on my actions, my integrity, or my career. Hard work. Honesty. Discipline. Vigilance. These things did. [He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, a plume of smoke billowing from his wide, flat nostrils.] What difference did He make to me? The Law was my guide, and I its servant.
[...Yet he still refers to God with a healthy level of respect in his tone. How contradictory!]
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I've never been called pious. [He strikes a match himself, and 'hm's to himself at the tidy burst of flame—very convenient. He lights the cigarette adeptly and takes the same time his alternate did starting it up. It's not bad. Perhaps a little harsh, but he could see the habit taking hold.] Not to my face. [The dry smile again.] But the word of God has always been behind the law of man. I agree with you—my place, our place [with a nod to the other man, acknowledging the absurdity of the shared identity] was not earned with God's aid. Man's actions are not God's will, but God stands in judgment of those actions. The law stands in God's stead on earth.
[He picks the words as he says them, carefully, but without having to hunt too far. He doesn't often have to articulate these thoughts, but he's worked them out well enough to himself, over the years, that they're not difficult to articulate. His attention is on the other man as he speaks, monitoring how he takes this. Does it sound at all familiar?]
Dear lord my tl;dr
[Firm. Obstinate. Unyielding. It bursts, guttural, from his throat before he is conscious of it. Instantaneously Javert, as he presented himself, withdraws. An unreadable lightning flickers in his eye.
His younger self knows his own habits. He knows how hard they both work to maintain professionalism and proud poise. They are steel statues, they remain calm in the face of mortal danger, they do not bat an eye at the deeds of the worst miscreants of the streets. Yet that one flicker in Javert's eye speaks of some deeply unsettling, revolutionary feeling. A doubt. Something unsavory locked far away where he doesn't have to perceive it on a daily basis.
Well. Until now, with that rude reminder that these outrageous thoughts and considerations have already gripped him. It is but a fraction of his conscience that speaks to him now.
Javert sits back and takes a second drag of the cigarette, smoke unfurling and dissolving in the still air. As quick as he lost it, he has regained his aloof control; nothing could be amiss.
--But when he speaks again, it is through his teeth, his lips forming the words around an immobile jaw.]
That is a mistake. [He knows full well the Inspector he speaks to won't hear this. He knows this can't be grasped. It's unfathomable.
This is utterly excruciating for Javert to experience, for many more reasons than even he could possibly comprehend.]
Men construct the Law, [he enunciates haltingly, steady and grim gaze trained on his counterpart. A tremor runs down the back of his neck.] Only men.
[God's is a different order.]
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[But he'll worry about that later, because his alternate instantly regains control.]
[Javert takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it in one hand while he lets the quick kick of adrenaline run down, taking advantage of it to continue scrutinizing his alternate. Only adrenaline can make details pop quite so well, almost as though pieces of reality had only just sprung into existence. Learning to use that kick productively has been one of his advantages in the field.]
I've hit a nerve. Forgive me.
[Should he be smug about uncovering a vulnerability in someone who's almost him? Perhaps not. But he is, anyway.]
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[Javert knows he flinched when he should not have. More irritating than that, he can tell this younger fool is silently gloating his victory.
He bares his teeth in an unpleasant smile reminiscent of both a smirk and a grimace and... raises his large fists in a long, slow, deliberate clap. He's applauding an old joke.]
Very well! You got me. Good work. It seems we [his canines glint wolfishly, his voice taking on a sharper, more ominous edge,] slip in our older age. Though I will warn you it is ill-advised to continue along that line of questioning. I'm not here to hear, nor will I tell, any sermons.
Coffee, old fellow? No cream or sugar, I'm aware.
Javert would object to all these age jibes. He's in his 40s, man, he's not 12!
[He replaces the cigarette in his mouth, still grinning.] We slip? We've just made it quite clear that I am not you and you are not me. I'll admit, I was concerned for a minute.
Though you're right about the coffee. [From what he's seen so far, this is an establishment where the staff comes to you. He'll put up a hand, see if he can catch the attention of one of the waiters.]
Javert doesn't discriminate; he'd call even a 40 year old man 'boy.'
A fair deduction, [he concedes, eyes half-lidded, concealing whatever-it-is he could possibly be thinking. Doubt? Concurrence? He is a blank slate. He mirrors his counterpart's flagging for a waiter and nimbly orders two hot cups for the both of them. Once they are again alone, he resumes with an aloof shrug,] You're differently similar. It is possible yet.
[Yet he sincerely doubted some things were different. A certain, damnably merciful and saintly convict comes to mind. He searches the other man's eyes for any hint of Valjean's influence.]
Does my existence alarm you? [he asks abruptly after a time. He bends his long, lean body over the table and closer to his conversation partner.] I have given you no great cause for concern. Ah! Unless my godlessness repulses you.
I'm certain this Javert does the same thing to anyone younger than him. Such a hypocrite.
[When his alternate leans across the table toward him, he removes the cigarette from his (own) mouth, puts both hands on the edge of the table, and answers in a low voice.]
I worry less about your godlessness than about your mortality. You're seven years my elder. You tell me I may leave this place, but you cannot. Something has hung over our conversation from the start, and it is not my mystery.
[He notices the waiter approaching with their coffee, and just has time to hiss:] I have met one dead person here already.
[The waiter sits the cups of coffee down on the table's edge, wary of the two men and their confrontation.]
((ooc: I'm guessing you saw the thread upstream with Fantine. It hadn't occurred to me earlier, but that meeting means he does know the dead can appear in dear_mun. Sooooo. Two and two together makes ouch.))
THIS IS AN APPROPRIATE TURN OF CONVERSATION :-)
Indeed, [he says blandly.] That logic follows. You don't require my confirmation for that.
[He wraps his hand around his steaming mug and draws it close, the single source of warmth on a chilly day. He certainly did provide plenty of hints that he was essentially the walking dead, and he had no intention of hiding that much. The question is whether or not his counterpart would dare to probe further.
He, himself, would have great difficulty resisting his morbid curiosity. But he also would not have believed it could happen to him. Not until the very night it occurred.
Javert plucks his cigarette from his mouth, smacking his lips together, and takes a tentative sip of his hot brew.]
But I tell you it's barely a mystery. I did not conceal it. Besides that--
Death doesn't scare you. So what does it matter if it comes?
I did not realize how well all the pieces were fitting together until I started that tag.
It matters because this is not Paradise. [He jabs one finger down toward the table, emphasizing the point, his voice still almost the hiss of his previous words, though louder. He's losing patience. That this isn't a dream—fine. That the dead walk here—fine again. But to find someone here who knows him, who mirrors him just closely enough to unsettle him, to ask questions with that air of knowing full well what the answers are—that's enough.] Nor Purgatory. Nor Hell!
[The last word is nearly a shout, as he rises in his chair as though to leave, though he's still facing his alternate. Before, he was relating to the man across from him as a potential information source, a puzzle, someone to take as seriously as he's taking anything here but not quite real. Not quite an individual. Now he's about ready to dismiss the other man's reality entirely, to lump everything around him together as just part of some ploy, some massive, manipulative lie.]
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Let the man come up with an explanation himself. He would have resented aid, just as this man would resent it.
At the conclusion of the younger man's emotive revelation, he gives the barest of nods, lower lip slowly slipping up toward the bottom of his nose. He contemplates.]
Then call me a ghost. Your shadow. A product of your own imagination. Dismiss me. It makes no difference to me! I certainly won't continue to haunt you when you wake in your flat on the Quartier Mouffetard. Damn uncomfortable place that was, but it suit. Your duties continue. Come up with a conclusion; you are an intelligent gentleman. I don't have these answers.
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[He gets all the way to his feet, chair scraping against the floor as he shoves it back.] Whatever you are, I've had enough. [He drops his cigarette into his abandoned mug of coffee. His next words are as much to himself as to the other man.] I'll take my chances with the hallucinations and the whores. [Creatures out of a madman's dreams and dead prostitutes. He's looking so forward to going back out and wading through all of that, but better there than wasting his time here.]
[He heads for the door. Unless he's stopped, he'll leave and stalk off into the crowds as though he actually has some clue where he's going. Which he doesn't.]
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A whisper of a smirk appears at the corner of his mouth, and he watches the back of his doppleganger's head dissolve into the crowds. To himself, he murmurs a count - one, two, three, four, five... at the count of thirty, he places a pocket watch on the table and observes the seconds ticking by.
At the five minute mark, the waiter returns to clear away the extra mug. Javert halts him with an abrupt grasp of his wrist.]
Refresh it. [He raises his own empty mug.] Mine, too.
[And he tosses the waiter a handful of coin - meaningless as it might be in this vortex-nexus-limbo-purgatory what-have-you - and resumes his silent vigil over his watch.]
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[As he walks, he takes a few minutes here and there to ask the least outlandish-looking passersby if they know anything about a way out. Someone must. All of them give answers similar to the doppelganger's. No one has control over when and how they come and go. Half of them look amused by his questions. One of them calls him a "nubie," whatever that might be, and tries to throw his arm around his shoulders and buy him a drink.]
[The first time he finds himself in front of the cafe again, 15 minutes later, he assumes he's doubled back on his path somehow. The second time he passes it, 10 minutes later, he's certain he hasn't. The third time, five minutes later, three of which are spent glaring at the cafe from across the way and then pointedly walking off in the opposite direction, he admits temporary defeat.
[He stalks back into the cafe just as he stalked out and drops back into the same seat, supremely unamused.]
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Thirty minutes. Was it illuminating?
[He calmly pushes the second mug of coffee toward his younger self while he sips his own. His pupils dance over the rim of his half-emptied cup.]
I told them to hold it until five minutes ago. You should find it warm enough.
[Javert's head cocks to one side like a curious spaniel. He coyly cups his square jaw in a massive, upturned hand.]
About how large is the loop? I glimpsed you doubling round after the first fifteen.
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[It's as though he's a thought in his own mind, following fruitless pathways before returning back to the original problem.]
[He opens his eyes again. The thoughts are dangerous and not customary. Let them be.]
Before we start again, I'll have another cigarette. [He sips from his mug of coffee, brows drawn down, glowering at nothing. His breathing's a little too short, too high in the chest—not audible or unless someone has a very good eye for posture and body language, observable—but it's an early sign of panic developing.]
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Spare me one more. For the conclusion of this farce. Keep the rest.
[Small comforts. Inspector Javert was never a soft, understanding man, and he possessed quite possibly the worst bedside manner imaginable. But it was the best he could deliver, stony-faced and face cragged with a grimace and a small roll of his eyes.]
Don't lose your head, now. Mental collapse is always a nasty business, and you know good as me that I am not a qualified physician. You will flounder on your own, like you've always done. Let's chat like gentleman.
Though should you succumb to panic, [he adds dryly,] know this: the secret of Inspector Javert's cracked nerves is safe with me. Indisputably.
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[He tastes the smoke, focuses on it, breathes out. There. The clear edge of attention, the dangerous sort that can shift to fear if let go. Grab that, hold it, use it.]
[He meets the other man's eyes again, gaze sharp and brittle-precise, like his movements.]
Let's begin with the facts.
You claim that your name is Javert, and that you are an inspector in Paris, aged 52 years old.
My name is Javert, and I am employed as an inspector in Paris at the age of 45.
You claim to be dead. I contend I am alive.
We differ in age, appearance, and belief.
No one comes to this place voluntarily, nor leaves it voluntarily.
This is not a dream, but it has the geography of a nightmare.
Your additions?
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[The severe grimace relaxes to a flat line.]
Not a dream. Not a nightmare, devil have it. I would recognize a nightmare, ugly things.
[Now he is getting comfortable and loquacious. He arches what might be called a jaunty eyebrow, rapping off each point with a tap of his index finger.]
I possess two opposable thumbs, ten toes, four limbs, and one tongue, but I will not waste your time demanding you prove the same. Evidently you shave quite a bit more whiskers from your cheeks than me. Though with a duller blade, it seems. There is less precision. It begs to wonder how many of my acquaintances I might hoodwink by shearing my face clean. My Christian name does exist and contrary to public belief it is not 'Inspector' or 'that copper fiend.'
[Javert straightens, chin lulling impassively.]
--In short, your summary is sufficient. Mostly.
[Now where will you take it? The Javert which meets the doppleganger's gaze has nothing to gain and nothing to lose with this exchange. It is up to the younger man to determine what he is willing to examine to wrench himself away from this nonsense-plane.
Javert focuses solely on his match. His watch ticks. He considers.]
Let us confirm your timeline.
[His attention shifts. Wandering eyes drift into the middle distance, reading some invisible manuscript illuminated in his mind alone. His voice drips like rainwater from his lips, in a low, even tremor, hardly a stop between phrases.]
The last year I recall is '32. Seven years before then... [His eyes narrow. He mentally grasps for the correct memories, muttering with abandon. Irises glaze to some invisible scene.] Ah! Your transfer was recent, all 'main events' assumed similar. It must be winter. Winter of '25 for you? Spring of '25? Not the summer. Certainly not autumn!...
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Spring of '25. April 18th, if we're dealing in dates, and if we are, I'll hear the story of your life before I share mine. [A clever man could easily react to the details of another man's life in a way that suggested familiarity. Besides, sharing his history would seem too much like some sort of final rite.] Start at the beginning. Earn my trust.
[He sips from his coffee. If the other man's as similar in thought as he keeps proving himself, he'll see the reasons for leaving whatever revelation is in those unshared years to the end. Build evidence on which to judge whatever it is first. Give the thing some context and weight to hold it down.]
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Finally got to Javert's first chapter. I like the image of the "dog-wolf."
Give this dog son of a wolf a human face...
Javert is now concluding Valjean kills him. Close, fella, close.
In a manner of speaking... ?? If you stretch it?
The musical makes it pretty explicit. "This man has killed me even so..."
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