[Video]

[inseine]

[The man on the video screen has done his best to compose himself to mixed effect. His gaze is alert and provokes attention, and his stature is dignified and determined. But from beneath his carefully buttoned coat and tamed hair creeps a glimpse of tremendous blue-yellow bruises. His clothes, thick as they are, do only so much to hide the swelling, and then there was the small matter of his pallid complexion, and his discolored right jaw.

His voice and lungs have both strengthened with rest and food, but not even a good night's sleep or two is enough to fix everything else. Yet he scrutinizes the screen intently and speaks in a clipped, abrupt tone, carefully void of any strong emotion and calm as a lake on a still day.]

Good day. I am the latest model, a fresh one.

[He grimaces, a twitching spasm in his jaw.]

I need more work. The fellows in the welcome caravan were unhelpful. I have no references, so I will start with odd jobs. I can prove myself. I will take long hours. Simple things, whatever there is for me. [His brow lowers almost imperceptibly.] Hard labor is fine. I am fit.

Second, I seek a clothier. Secondhand will do.

Third, a mapmaker.

[An awkward pause, in which he pierces the monitor with a guarded, hawkish stare. His grim smirk is incongruous. Foolish thing, advertising to no one at all! There are no faces for him to study. What else is there to say? He hastily wraps it up,]

I am called Javert. Send me tips, people, places, instructions. I will come to you.

[He bends into the feed, his steady eye filling the screen, when the video cuts out.]

Comments

[video]

[cowled]

I think I can help you with-- actually, all of that. I own a local company and I'm always looking for people. If you'd like to come down and talk to me, you can find me here [a location ping!] on Mondays and Tuesdays between six in the morning and noon.

As for a clothier - Favrielle is the finest in the city, though her abilities aren't cheap. The Earth Sector is otherwise your best bet, ask for Amevia there.

I do have access to several maps. Locally made, nothing fancy, came across them when I was getting zoning permits. Do you need them for anything in particular?

[video]

[inseine]

[Not cheap? A pinch in his lip. That's discouraging, for a man who made specific mention of secondhand. Javert is not made of money, Bruce. Still, he listens intently, jotting down a mental note to look into this Amevia's rates, and regards the -- polished? wealthy property-owning? man with something resembling proud respect.]

Nothing fancy is wanted, [he admits curtly.] I don't know the lay of the streets. Maps will let me read and learn quickest. Apart from hours of wandering. But then I do not mean to have enough time for that.

[A look at the man's outfit gives him no great insight, so he ventures to ask,]

Your company. What line of business is it?

[video]

[cowled]

[You mean there's people out there that aren't? Perish the thought for this billionaire!]

I'll have some copies made, then.

And, ah. We do all sorts of things. I started in medicine, but I've been branching out lately to things like construction. Some of these buildings are in terrible disrepair. It's difficult to acquire materials to fix them, but not impossible.

video; I will be slow but I could not resist...

[flawedgoods]

[Where there is a mention of a need of clothing, there is Favrielle. Having heard of a call for clothes, she's made her way over to the console to respond. Being mid-work, her hair is a bit of a mess and she's not wearing one of her best gowns, but neither seems to detract from her beauty. At least, no more than the scar on her lip.]

Messire Javert, my name is Favrielle nó Eglantine, a clothier as you seek. May I be of assistance?

video; no problem! also I went to read your app and outrageously excited now

[inseine]

[Apparently word gets out quickly in this city. Javert hadn't expected to hear from this Favrielle so soon.

When Bruce spoke of a fine clothier called Favrielle, a French woman's name, Javert did not picture this young beauty with the accent he can't quite place. He probably imagined something closer to a spent old widow bent over her stitching with a grim scowl. His brow arches high, and he sweeps a dismissive eye over her pretty face, pausing thoughtfully--just for a moment--to take a good look at the scar on her lip. It is with a detective's eye that he scrutinizes her so.]

That depends, Madame. [His sharp gaze snaps to hers. His manner is forthright and abrupt, but he is making a decent effort to keep up some agreeability in good company.] On your rates. I won't waste your time if I am not a suitable client.

video; XD yay!

[flawedgoods]

[Favrielle is not unused to the surprised first looks at her face now. She understands, six months out of Terre d'Ange, how someone of her lineage might come as a surprise to some. The boons of being descended from Elua and his Companions are many.

Not enough to prevent scarring for one not an anguisette, of course. Favrielle catches the look at her scar, but again, so long out from under the scrutiny of her fellow D'Angelines that it doesn't bother her as it once might have.]

There are enough who come here little in the way of funds that I make allowances, and some ready-made clothing for new arrivals. Unless your tastes run toward detailed garments in expensive fabrics, I don't see why we cannot reach some middle ground.

[fotia]

Model of what? Senior Citizens Fight Club Weekly?

[inseine]

[Oh, here's a smart one. A languid tilt of his head.]

Clever! [Javert observes. He folds his arms atop the desk/table/what-have-you in front of his console.] That has a ring to it. Tell me, perhaps my memory is dimming in my senior age: what does that entail? Barrel chested voting coots having a spat over property disputes? Political disputes? Mistress disputes? In a lady's parlor? With several shattered bottles of the finest bourbon whiskey?

[fotia]

[i'm sorry but the image of old men punching each other over mistress disputes etc. makes him laugh

so excuse me he will just laugh for a while

ok ok he's cool now]

Hey, man, remember the two rules of Fight Club: One, you don't talk about Fight Club, and two: you don't talk about Fight Club.

Video

[idealisme]

[When Enjolras had hoped to see new faces from home, this is not one he had expected.

His tone is neutral, but his eyes are hard.] Welcome to Tu Vishan, Inspector Javert. It has not been so long since our last meeting.

Video

[inseine]

[... Oh. That boy.

Use of his former title wrenches a peculiar reaction from this strange, beaten man, a man who lost none of his brains to pistol shot. It presents as a subtle darkening in his eye and a tremor in his his lower lip, which protrudes very much like a bulldog's underbite. Yes, he recently discovered evidence that Les Amis d'ABC, the student rebels, also joined him in Tu Vishan, that a number of them arrived before himself. He was prepared for their eventual contact. Javert expected no less than a cold greeting from their dangerous leader but, well, here that very leader stands, letting the cat out of the bag, spitting l'inspecteur's profession back in his unworthy face. It is the first time he heard the word 'Inspector' applied to himself since...

Hmph. Discretion, apparently, is not Enjolras's strong suit.

His ramrod-straight posture stiffens, and the protruding lower lip twists into a terrible, icy rictus. What caused it? Desperation? Contempt? Impossible to say.]

Didn't I tell you we would meet again shortly?

Video

[idealisme]

[Enjolras for his part, cares little for the dilemma of profession facing Javert.]

You did. But even you will not claim that this is the situation you had in mind when you spoke those words.

[philosophe]

[Combeferre's eyes flash a little at this new arrival, but his voice is not as hard as, perhaps, Enjolras'. He would much rather have completed the trade of hostages, but that matters little now.]

Monsieur Inspector. This is a surprise.

video;

[inseine]

[Again with the blasted Inspector. To Combeferre, Javert's lip curls into a perturbed grimace.]

Oh, is it? I don't think so. We are all dead men. Same result.

video;

[philosophe]

We are. [There is a sharp look, there -- Combeferre knows more than most what death looks like, along with the state of bodies after death (no matter that they yet live, the point remains the same); Javert does not look in the least like a man who has died by way of a bullet to the head. So, two conclusions -- the second volunteer lied, Javert died in some other manner. Things to note, but not to discuss at the moment.]

However, they say this is no afterlife.

video;

[dominare]

[ 'fit', the man says. It'd almost be laughable if Javert didn't appear so wholly like death warmed over.

Normally Haytham would make a comment along the lines of Javert's definition of 'fit' being off the mark, but there's something about his demeanor that keeps the dry wit at bay. This man could be a potential ally. ]

Have you found one? A suitable mapmaker, I mean.

video;

[inseine]

[Whether 'fit' is off the mark or not, Javert intends it in earnest. He could still lift, move, and breathe, so nothing would prevent him from getting back to work if he can help it. The less time spent rotting in his own head with his self-destructive thoughts, the more healthy it is for him. He is a dutiful and honest sort of man that must be kept busy in order to attain any semblance of ease or satisfaction.

Javert's falcon eye examines this new fellow's face closely. He is a polished gentleman, much more refined than himself... in an old-fashioned sort of way, the first time the thought has ever occurred to Javert in this city. British aristocrat, if he were to venture a guess.]

I have. For a simple street map, including landmarks, political buildings, large factories. If that is what interests you.

video;

[dominare]

I have little interest in such things, but I can provide further detail for your maps, if you'd like. Intricacies such as gathering spots, cafes, shops— all sorts of small trifles you wouldn't find otherwise.

[ Haytham keeps his tone courteous, if slightly detached. ]

We both benefit from this exchange; I receive a copy of your map— which I'll gladly chart by hand, and you gain details that may have slipped your notice otherwise.

video;

[trainwrecked]

[For clarification!]

Tips?

video;

[inseine]

[Yet another man pinned by Javert's unyielding and vaguely proud stare. This time, his glance is rather pointed, as if to say, Well, here's a thick one.]

To a mapmaker. Or a reasonable clothier. Or a bulletin for job vacancy advertisements, what have you. The last concerns me most.

video;

[trainwrecked]

Yeaaah, just not the word I'd have used, I guess. Hints, directions... tips sounds like you've been getting lots of your information from sources working on the other side of whatever you're doing.

[People might tip the Germans about a spy, for example...]

[video]

[poeticverses]

[Combeferre had told Jehan that they were going to trade Javert for him before he was shot and that a volunteer had shot him later.

Javert does not look shot.

Well, no need to dwell on that or focus on being too polite. Jehan's voice is a little cold]

I would not have expected to meet you here, Monsieur le Mouchard.

[The spy. Not the inspector. The spy. That's what he was]

[video]

[inseine]

[By now, Javert is losing his patience with this parade d'amis.]

Why the devil does it shock you so? [he snorts.] You expected me to drop into a private hell, didn't you? The fire and brimstone for me! Never to resurface again!

[More like that's what Javert, himself, partly expected. He bends into the monitor, his large, cold, unsettling eyes filling a hefty portion of the screen.]

Listen here: I am as pleased with this as you are.

[cynisme]

[Grantaire has been listening in, with nothing of note to say to their dear mouchard. Eventually though, he does chime in.]

Bonsoir monsieur, it's a shame that you won't be able to put us behind bars here, is it not?

[inseine]

[And the 'fourth' young man presents himself. Javert appraises him with a rueful curl of his lip. He was correct, after all, in suspecting it was the drunkard. It figured; the old Inspector was not blind to how he clung to Enjolras like a fly to the light.]

Didn't you notice? Well! Let's make it unquestionable, [he says thinly, an unpleasant little smirk alighting his face.] I am lately retired.

[And, well... the student rebels did not survive the affair. Law had already exacted its justice.]