inseine | Ryslig IC Inbox

There once was a boy who was a Halloween fanatic. He loved dressing up for Halloween, he loved pulling pranks and watching horror movies, and above everything else... he loved candy. One fateful year, while he went trick-or-treating, he visited a house. This house was creepy as hell! It was big, it was old, it smelled like a grandmother and it was owned by a happy, old rich couple. The boy came here thinking that he would be handed out big chocolate bars, because it was a rich person's house but when he knocked on their door... he was handed a bag of that shitty candy that nobody likes! Tootsie rolls, shitty flavoured dum-dums, those weird... peanut things... needless to say, the boy was heartbroken. He was so heartbroken that he died, right there on their porch and now, every Halloween he goes out and finds people to curse. He wants everyone to suffer the same way he did!

Everybody is already suffering from his curse!! Send this to ten people to break the curse, or to avoid getting cursed, or you'll be stuck looking freakier than usual for the rest of your life!!!!!!!!!!

hey, is this javert?

remember that poacher you said you had captuve? i think i'd like to swing by and have a nice chat withhim

sorry for zny typos i still onlyl have one hand

This is Javert. He remains here on the ranch, well-fed but confined. Are you certain you are cleared for it while thusly indisposed?

yeah i should be fine

i got my leg back and i still can shoot with one hand, after all. so if he tries any funny business i can still deal with him

has he said anything yet? his buddies tty to rescue him?

No one is coming for him. They are too shy for that. They think him good as dead. All he gave up was the location of the East Bavan base, but you are well-aware of how that turned out. Nothing. They got wind of us and ditched the nest.

thn i guess we have to deal with him somehow or another. we can't just keep himthere forever, and we definitely can't just let him loose on the population

could we/? i dont know. you spent more time with him

maybe i hsould just come over

I want to send him to prison, but I am not certain humans would consider the man a criminal. I will see you shortly.

sounds good

[Juno makes his way to the ranch--he's never been there before, and it takes him a bit of time to find it. The wereraccoon carefully makes his way up to the door, peering into the window to try and see if Javert is in. After a moment or two, he knocks.]

Hello? Anyone home?

[Because Javert really loves to be dramatic as hell, a shadow befalls Juno and a deep voice announces himself from behind him.]

Bonsoir, monsieur. [When addressing someone he considers a Superior, Javert does not hesitate in showing proper respect where it is due. When Juno turns around, he will find the broody and melancholy vampire Javert, hat in his hand, a grim expression on his pallid face, administering a perfectly respectful bow.] Were you held up long?

Edited 2019-12-05 22:53 (UTC)

[Juno lets out a small yelp, his tail puffing up a little. He whirls around to look up at the vampire, trying to compose himself.]

Oh, Jesus--hi, uh, Javert. [He clears his throat.] No, no, it's fine. I've just never been here before.

[Time to go into business mode. He's got a job to do, after all.]

Where is he being kept?

[Is there a spark of amusement in Javert's eye, or is it just a trick of the light? No, that must be a trick. His expression is perfectly even and flat. He gives an economical jerk of his head back toward the shadow of a barn at his back, replacing his hat on his head.]

Follow me. He has not been mistreated, but the man is less than chatty. [A thin, humorless grin.] You will understand.

[Javert turns and leads Juno to the heavy barn doors, which are chained from the outside. He draws a key from his pocket for the padlock and quickly dispatches of the chains. He throws open the doors and gestures for Juno to go in.

Inside the place is illuminated by a single flickering heat-lamp, meant to provide both warmth and light during the cold late autumn nights. The poacher in question is bound loosely by the wrists and ankles, and also by a 'leash' to a post. He has a few old blankets to keep him warm, an old mattress, a pitcher of water, and a plate of food, half-touched. There has been some padding added to the binds so he doesn't suffer too much rope burns, and every few hours Javert sends someone to feed, water, and walk him round in a circle under supervision... for exercise. He looks a bit bedraggled, dirty, and bruised, but he is otherwise completely intact and unscathed.

He looks up dully when Javert enters, spots the raccoon-monster with him, and attempts to hide the fleeting fear in his eyes.]

Good evening, Wegener, [Javert greets the man almost amiably. Amiably, if he were anyone but Javert, where it comes off more like a latent threat.] Still refusing your meals, I see.

[Juno follows after Javert silently, shifting his coat sleeve slightly so it covers his missing left hand. If he shows that he's still good as new, maybe the captive might find him more intimidating. After all, Javert seemed to have escaped the poachers' grasp for now, and that is how they managed to capture him.

He carefully walks into the barn, keeping his left arm behind his back as he eyes the poacher with some caution.]

Wegener, huh? So the guy does have a name. Thought all of you guys were just cowards who refused to show their own faces.

[His tone is almost casual, as if he were talking to a friend. Despite this, there seems to be an edge to his voice. Juno pauses for a moment, taking a moment to let his eye flit around the room. The food, the blankets, the water....]

You're lucky, you know. You've spent all this time locked up here, and yet, you've barely been treated like a prisoner. [He kneels down, drawing closer to the poacher and glaring at him.] Of course, that can always be changed, can't it? Especially now that I'm here.

[He doesn't actually intend on hurting the man--at least, not too much. He's hoping that enough goading might tempt the poacher to talk. Even just an insult would do. Once he's got that hook, he knows how to keep pushing.]

[Javert bends his lean self against an old, half-rotted barrel, and silently picks at his teeth with his claws while Juno has a go with this man. He can follow the lead in an interrogation just as well as he can head one; he has no qualms with playing up his frightening manner around a piece of garbage human like Wegener.

Wegener curls his legs to his chest and stares at Juno flatly. His top lip is quivering, his ragged gaze hooded.]

I see what it is. The vampire's just been trying to fatten me for you, isn't that right? Think you're gonna share me???

[He tries to put on a brave face with a twitchy, haggard smile.]

Piss off. I don't got anything for you but what you see.

[Juno can't help it--he lets out a single, harsh laugh, still staring down at the poacher. As he glares at him, all he can think about is the pained screams that echoed through the basement as he sat in the dark, waiting to be the next one, waiting to see what would happen, waiting to see if he could try to break out.

Wegener's retort only causes Juno's anger to flare up even more. His tone becomes more forceful, almost like a low growl.]

You think I'm going to eat you? [He lets out another snort, standing up straight and crossing his arms.] When we're done with you, you'll wish you had been eaten.

[This feels wrong. But he has to keep pushing forward--he can't let them hurt his friends again. He can't.]

I'm not going to be as pleasant as the dear inspector here, so either you fish something out of your big, stupid brain, or you get to deal with me.

[Wegener flinches.]

Will you keep it down? Sheesh, you don't need to yell! My ears need some tender lovin', if you know what I mean.

[Wegener attempts to wriggle to a more comfortable position and just ends up flopping on his side, his back to Juno. He resumes in a very quiet, smug little voice.]

Look. The vampire got the East Bavan place outta me, but that's all I got, and now I'm as good as dead no matter what you wanna do. What do you were-things like to do, tear people apart and pick their guts outta your teeth? Save some of the blood for ol' Fangs over there?

[Javert takes a moment to snort and bend close to Juno's ear for a murmur.]

Have you any thoughts about tying him up for an appeal to the local police? He has become a blathering waste-of-space so far as I can see.

Edited 2019-12-17 23:21 (UTC)

[A snarl forms on Juno's face, but he doesn't speak. He just listens to Wegener speak, his ears twitching in annoyance. Has this man been nothing but a massive waste of time? A dead-end that will never open, regardless of what he does or what trails he follows?

He takes a few steps back, trying to distance himself from the captive and possibly prevent him from overhearing the conversation. In a low mutter, he responds to Javert--]

That's probably the best course of action, as much as I hate to admit it. Put a sack over his head and cart him off to the cops.

[He rubs his eye, looking frustrated. At least Wegner can't see him right now.]

Have you looked into any other connections he has? His family, his friends--beyond the poacher circle, I mean.

[He feels like he's grasping at straws here, and he probably is. This last week has worn his spirit down to the quick, and the blood loss probably hasn't helped.]

There is nothing. I would place my bets on these scoundrels digging up the scum of the streets, gang members, no-names that would not be missed. Likely with promises of grandeur and riches, giving we beasts their what-for.

[He snorts, casting a grimacing side-eye back to Wegener. If the police do not take him, what would he squeal to the greater Poacher organization? Their options were terribly, awfully slim. Javert must find a way to ensure he is properly held.

But what if...]

We may still be in luck. [Javert shifts his piercing stare back to Juno.] Someone may try to collect him from a police holding cell, once word spreads that he is jailed.

[Juno pauses for a moment, thinking over the plan presented to him.]

It's a long shot, but....

[He trails off, glancing towards Wegener. It's not like they have any other options, here--and he's willing to bet Javert is just as unwilling as he is to deal with him in their monstrous manner.

He straightens up a bit more, his ears twitching and his expression settling into something a bit more intimidating.]

Alright. Let me deal with this--I doubt he'll be willing to go if he knows where we're bringing him. Just play along, he'll be fine.

[He turns around, working up a snarl to address the human. With his good hand, he casually pulls his laser gun out of its holster. It's on stun, right now, but he doubts the poachers have seen any technology like this. It's not like he'd know the difference between an unloaded laser pistol and a loaded one. When he speaks, his tone is the equivalent of a confident swagger.]

You're a lucky guy, Wegener! Ol' fang-face over here's decided to let you live another day. [A pause. He lifts the gun a little higher, aiming it towards Wegener.] Of course, I'm not so equally generous. You spill about anything that we've talked to you about so far, and I'll be sure to track you down and make you regret setting foot in this business ever again.

Merry Christmas!

Your Secret Santa is Dio Not Sure If He Has A Last Name. "holydiver" on the network. Price limit is whatever you want it to be, please gift something by December 24.

Ho, ho, ho!

Didn't I tell you NO?

Listen, buddy, if I stopped doing things just because people told me no, life would be a whole lot less interesting.

You were not lacking in willing participants. Who the devil is Dio?

[ What's this? Why, it's a package for Javert, unsigned! Inside is: ]

[ A card that says 'STARTER KIT'
A simple bottle of wine
A dark cloak
A blood pack and straw
A felt puppet
A calendar for the new year ]

Hi there. Are you busy?

[ read: Javert are you like suuuper hung over right now? ]

I am always busy.

[not... precisely true. But when he is not busy he is drowning in a lot of heavy thought. He hasn't forgotten his hivemind 'talk' with Majima, though, and that's precisely where his mind goes now.]

Not too busy for a trip to the public house.

Edited 2019-12-26 23:38 (UTC)

Great. I don't like havin' things hanging over my head. How about The Green Deer?

My afternoon's open with everyone scurrying around for New Year's.

[Well... he's up. Sunset isn't too far off. He has a new coat and cloak (from a 'mysterious Secret Santa'), and all the things necessary to venture out into daylight as a vampire. He can make the brief trip work, and it shall be dark before long.]

That will do. Now, then? I must wrap myself in a fine cocoon first.

Edited 2019-12-27 00:11 (UTC)

Ah, sorry about that. How about after the sun goes down? These days, that's earlier and earlier.

[ Despite being a 'night' monster, Majima still hung around a lot of monsters who were up and about during the day. Early mornings could go fuck themselves, though. ]

That suits just as well. We are of the same mind in sating our mutual curiosities and having this done. I will take care of the bill, do not worry about the money. I owe you a remission for drinks some time ago.

Much obliged. I'll meet ya there.

[ So there he'd be, seated at a booth seat as evening settled over Bavan. There was some chatter about the place, a couple of patrons, enough that two monsters talking over drinks and the like wouldn't attract undue attention.

Majima raised his hand when he saw Javert. ]

Over here. Thanks for comin'.

[How Javert manages to go anywhere in public without commanding the attention of an entire room is a feat.

He enters with a tall, dark, and gloomy flourish, like the inadvertently perfect vampire he is. His entire outfit is designed to cast him entirely in shadow, from the brimmed hat and popped collar all the way down to the skirts of his coat skimming booted feet. He makes his imposing way over to Majima's table and slips elegantly into the seat across from him. He peels a few of the shadows away, starting with folding back his collar and removing his hat with a bow to his.... friend? Can he consider Majima Goro a friend?]

I don't break my appointments. Did you order something? I did not keep you waiting long, I trust.

Edited 2019-12-27 14:03 (UTC)

[ Probably as much as anyone could consider a knife goblin a friend, really. Majima bowed in turn, and slid the spare menu over so Javert could peruse it. ]

No on both counts. Thought it might be a good idea to wait in case you wanted anythin'. Although when the waitress is gonna swing around again, that's up to fate.

So. Wanna get right down to it?

Like I said, it wasn't at the hands of the local P-- police department. I'm from the 20th century; they save that kinda treatment for black sites, off the map.

[At that, there's some strange unreadable spark in Javert's eye. Prisoners aren't flogged? That's... huge, for Javert. He whose entire final letter for suggested reforms heavily hammered on about improving treatment of prisoners. He picks up the menu to give it a quick glance, only his eyes moving to skim the words.]

You are not punished with the lash in your prisons. That is well. [The corner of his thin mouth twitches.] --Not for your position, evidently, getting mixed up with a violent lot. [He sets the menu aside, again fixing to watch Majima. He is careful with what he says, intending to make few assumptions and listen well.]

Go on about your illicit flogging, and don't get excessive. I only ask for the short of it.

[ Wow, Javert. Majima could probably say a lot on the topic of illicit flogging, but he'd keep things short as requested. ]

Okay. I used to be part of a criminal organization. They gave me orders I didn't agree with, and I voiced that disagreement.

So they threw me in a torture pit for a year.

[ Javert had told him to keep in brief. That was pretty brief, wasn't it? The waitress picked just that time to swing back by, and the look on her face suggested that she was sort of regretting it as she skated right on by to wait for another opportune moment. ]

[Look, Javert has never been terribly tactful with his word choice. He doesn't always intend to sound completely terrible. But then comes Majima's revelation, where his face... twitches in a few choice places and then falls utterly, forcefully blank.

Perhaps he is thinking about condemning Majima. Perhaps he is mulling over a few callous words to spit. He hardly even notices when the waitress skates on by without stopping.

Considering what Majima has seen of Javert's way of thinking, he might be surprised by the hard, contemplative question that does come out of his mouth.]

What were the orders you refused?

[ This didn't surprise Majima at all, but only because it was the exact question he would have asked if the turn tabled. ]

They told me and my brother to kill some other guys. Then they told me not to, only they told me not to.

[ Emphasis important, apparently. ]

One guy takin' on eighteen. You do the math on that one.

[ Of course, because Javert had told him to keep things short but this was Yakuza, in which everything had like a billion twists and backstabbings, this explanation was probably like... woefully inadequate. Oops. At least Majima hadn't demanded that Javert face him in a knife fight before he'd dispense any answers, that was a bad habit of his. ]

[Javert looks utterly flummoxed, his lower lip curling like a mastiff's. It takes a minute for him to pick up on Majima's meaning, and when he does, he presses a hand to his temple and beckons the waitress back to them with a sharp flick of his wrist.]

Yes, a bottle of bordeaux or any other modest red of the house. No, nevermind the wine, give me one of these mixed things. An 'old-fashioned,' for my ancien self. That will do.

[He turns on Majima after this.]

So I am clear: You were sent as an assassin. The operation is called off, but word was issued to only yourself, with your unwitting brother bounced off to get himself thoroughly torn to pieces. [He stares at Majima.] Two pitted against eighteen are hardly better odds than one.

You're right. I figure it was a setup from the start.

[ One in which, somehow, Majima had been deemed the pawn less disposable. Or maybe it had been Saejima or his patriarch that had been judged a problem. ]

But there's no way to find out for sure now. And even if there was... what happened, happened. Can't roll back that fallout.

[ No matter how much he might want to. Majima looked up as the waitress came back with two glasses and began to pour. ]

So, did ya find out what ya wanted to know?

[ Was Javert

satisfied? 😉 ]

Edited 2019-12-28 00:53 (UTC)

I learned enough, [he says with his air of authority.] A fair enough trade, to take a peek at your sordid underworld of scoundrels.

[He nonchalantly pulls out that blood pack juice bag from his Secret Santa, uses his claw to clip off a corner and adds it to his drink.

Javert does not ask if Majima would return to that gangster life. That is not a curiosity he wishes to humor. He sips his blood cocktail and drums his claws on the table, his dull, lightless crimson eyes boring a hole directly through Majima's skull.]

Now, why did you want to tell this to an old cogne such as myself? You know me.

Edited 2019-12-28 01:43 (UTC)

[ It was exceedingly difficult, but this was a serious conversation, and so Majima did his absolute best to maintain his gravelly crime man voice and not smile even a little as Javert took out the blood pack. (Which had a tasteful illustration of a smiling blood drop giving a thumb's up on it.)

It was hard, but he did it. Trophy, please. ]

You got your principles, and I got mine. That don't change because we're all doing the monster mash.

[ He was still human, damn it. And even if Majima didn't care about himself, there were still things that he did care about. People, convictions.... things that living as a criminal was supposed to help him protect. ]

I trust ya understand my meaning.

[ It was fairness. More importantly, it was obligation. ]

Yes, of course. But you are wrong.

[Javert rolls the glass in his palm and bends over the table. He speaks with clarity, full of conviction. Every word he says is 100% true, Majima.]

I have long since broken my principles, unpardonably so. I am not your better. I have long since decided I am exactly where I belong, and I am precisely what I deserve to be. You tell me you are a gang member, that you were an assassin, that you scorned the law? Fine. I do not have the ground to stand on to cut you to size for it. I shall not do it.

[He makes an odd hissing sound through his teeth and lifts his chin out of his collar.]

You have been nothing but dependable and decent with me. That would be a bad business, to behave like an ingrate. It would be unjust.

Edited 2019-12-28 03:11 (UTC)

You're a weird guy, Monsieur Javert.

[ There was a strange sort of affection to the way Majima said those words. ]

But all right, I figure we've covered each other's sob stories. Now we can get to the juicy bits. As ya know, I was tryin' to get a hold of some of that bug mistletoe during that... party.

[ The waitress came by again, and this time asked if they wanted to order anything. So Majima asked for the beef and potato stew. Simple enough fare, right? They both glanced toward Javert. ]

[What even does Javert want besides his blood pack poured over an Old Fashioned? Eh. He does not recognize most of these foods on the menu, but he'll take a risk, he has the coin. He'll have one of the sandwiches since it's on bread and there's cheese involved, and there's nothing more French than bread and cheese. This one also comes with steak (which he specifies as COOKED AS CLOSE TO BLOODY RAW AS POSSIBLE), some sort of caramelized mixed vegetables, greens, and garlic aioli with garlic-rosemary fried potatoes.

If there is a meaningful look from the waitress he blatantly disregards it, and she heads off to drop the orders to the kitchen staff.]

Ah, yes, the party. A rollicking joy, that affair. [Good, Javert is glad to move away from sob stories of limited significance to the present. He cracks his mirthless lupine grin. He actually spent a significant portion of the party's sequestering himself in a closet and wearily snapping at haplessly loud thinkers over the hivemind. Jolly good time, indeed.] What has become of the peculiar mistletoe? They were willing to give you a sprig? That would not surprise me.

Not exactly. They kept insistin' it had to stay in the hive. [ Tunnels. Whatever. ] Long story, it involves Bug Jail.

[ Garlic? Was it okay for Javert to eat garlic? Probably it was, probably Majima was just overthinking it. After all, he was fine eating chocolate and onions, right? ]

Anyway. I ended up havin' the most luck trying to get the bugs under the mistletoe. It was mostly a grab bag, but I did get a secondhand gander at that contraption they use to make those disguises.

That and a lot of weird bug shit.

[Oh... Oh. Javert straightens at that, his chin emerging from his high collar.]

The machine, you know the means to build it? [he asks sharply.] Why didn't you say so sooner? Well! I would be remiss if I did not say I got something from them as well. Likely they thought they were being festive, the nitwits.

Edited 2019-12-29 03:52 (UTC)

No. I saw how to use it. Tim knows how to build it, although I can't say it ain't a little bit concernin'.

So what was it you got from 'em? I assume it was a little tastier than their deep fried batter recipe. Which still needs some work, if ya ask me.

[ And speaking of food, this was about the point at which the waitress came by with their plates, setting each dish in front of them before beaming and telling them to call her if they needed anything else. Yes, even the degenerate vampire with the bloody steak, when everyone knew that steak was to be eaten well done*.

*citation needed ]

[Oh, hey, it's actual food. It smells... Well, Javert's nose twitches like a bull mastiff's as he attempts to discern how he feels about his plate. For now, he does not touch it, instead shooting the waitress's retreating back a tilted-brow glance. Degenerate!

Once the waitress is completely out of earshot again, he bends over the table with a serious, thoughtful look to Majima.]

You got how to use it, your Tim knows how to build it. I saw what must go in for a disguise to pop out. Cooking up lifelike skins does not come without cost.

[Emphasis absolutely intentional.]

[ Completely deadpan. ]

It's people, isn't it. Or monsters.

[ Deadass this was why Majima didn't speak up sooner, because everything in Ryslig had some kind of damn cost and he suspected this was more damned than most. Look Javert, at least tell him no one was grinding up little kids. ]

[ His Tim. He had no idea if Javert meant that the way it sounded, but it had a nice ring to it. ]

[Javert grins thinly and makes a flourishing gesture with his wrist.]

As you say. There was a deer carcass as well. Two bodies were tossed in, only one was human. I cannot be certain that animals alone would be enough to create a fully human or monster skin. [He picks up a fry.] It is worth a try. After the thing is built.

[Yes, after. Because there is no question that they are going to build this damn thing. Tim can do this shit, right? He pops the fry into his mouth.

And immediately regrets it. Stinging blood rims his eyes and he scrambles for his glass to wash the whole burning garlicky mess all the way down his throat. Christ! He splutters and struggles to mop the blood-tears away.]

[ Majima didn't even bother to try and hide his relief at this news; those wolfish ears of his went from slightly laid back to relaxed and alert. Hey. He loved venison, he could sacrifice some deer to the cause. ]

If that's the case, I bet other animals'd do just fine, too. I should call up a few slaughter --

[ Javert.

What the fuck. ]

Javert, what the fuck? Are you...

[ He grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket, probably the nice one Thea had sewn for him, and offered it to the man. ]

Here, use this.

[No, no, Majima, he does not wish to soil your things, for the love of--

Just let him take a breath and steel himself. Right. He's fine. He stubbornly waves the kerchief away.]

Put that away. It is nothing.

[Okay, the initial shock of how, uh, strong garlic tastes to Javert is dying down, and now he just has a bloody damn massacre on his face. Exceptional.

He grabs a wad of those paper napkins they keep at the tables and starts dabbing at his face blindly. They have water glasses, right? He dips a corner of the paper napkins in the water and haphazardly wipes his cheeks.]

Damn, what the devil is in these fried sticks? [he mutters testily, understanding nothing. He wipes at his matted whiskers.] There, I can see.

How fresh off a kill do I look? On the scale of a single thrashing to a mass massacre?

Edited 2019-12-29 13:41 (UTC)

Y'know that movie where the psychic girl gets covered in blood at prom?

[ A beat. Yeah, why would Javert know about Carrie? ]

Okay, forget that. You're lookin' a little bloodshot, but I don't think people outside're gonna notice. Nighttime, and all.

Maybe it was the garlic in those fries. They're supposed to be vampire repellent, ain't they?

[ Majima had always had the impression that vampires simply didn't like garlic, like they hated the smell or something. It wasn't like holy water or crosses, right? They put up their capes and hissed like angry cats, right? ]

Garlic! Of all the ridiculous things, it must be something commonly found in food. What a damn farce. Nothing is sacred.

[Javert's lip curls deeply. He pokes at his food much more cautiously and suspiciously now, tentatively plucking a piece of nearly-raw meat from the bread. He gives it a very tender taste, and graduates to a nibble. If he just braces himself for an heinously overpowering flavor, it cannot be so bad, right?]

Do not look at me so, [he says tightly.] I am incapable of bleeding out. They are just tears. Let us get back on task. You have contacts in the slaughter-houses?

I might. My business is investin' in other businesses. And if this place's anything like Earth, then there're probably slaughterhouses tossing out parts of animals that don't make it into prime cuts.

I bet I could offer to take those off of someone's hands at a fair price, and they'd be happy for the favor.

[ Majima said, as he took a spoonful of beef stew. Delicious, and so tender it fell apart in the mouth. ]

Make it easier on ourselves, right?

Failing that, it is simple for a pack of monsters to hunt a handful of wild beasts. But first, the machine, courtesy of Monsieur Tim. Or should I be calling that clever scamp Monsieur Beau?

[He picks up his entire sandwich, carefully taking small bites and trying to contain any violent responses. It's delicious, certainly, but something about the taste of garlic is both addictive and repellent. He ignores any watering in his eyes.]

Here is another difficulty. [Javert's lips part in a rueful, toothy grin.] Who else got ahold of the machine plans?

Hell, anyone who was at the party could've gotten a hold of them. I think it's safe to say the cat's outta the bag. Bad news for us, considerin' some of the whackjobs around here.

[ How was that for paranoia? ]

What exactly is gonna be our plan with this thing? If we knew what was goin' down, it'd be a lot easier to stop it.

Suppose it's worth avoiding photographs, but we'll spend the advantage of surprise as soon as the first monster in disguise attacks someone.

Edited 2019-12-30 17:55 (UTC)

[Exaaaactly Javert's thoughts. Like we need some of the psychotic monsters on the peninsula building and using a carcass-fed skin-machine.]

We use it to find out what we must stop, [he says blandly.] Don't forget we have a month, a two-numeral date, and a three-numeral address. How better to investigate than with a human skin?

Even if our surprise-advantage is spoilt, they will not know at a glance which of the crowd belongs to us.

Okay, love the optimism. But let's have a plan on the backend so all our dreams come true.

[ He took out a small map of a number of city blocks of Bavan. ]

Ya know anything about building code? Turns out you gotta sort out all kindsa shit -- permits, easements, that kinda thing. No one wants to break ground and find out they hit a power line.

I'm looking into blueprints. We know Bavan's got tunnels under at least part of the city; there might be more. Unfortunately, the poachers probably know more about this place than we do, but that can change.

I am unfamiliar with Bavan city building code, but I am intimate with general building regulations. It was part of my less thrilling duties to inspect permits at construction sites. Is the machine of a scale that it would need one if built by conventional means? Assuming these scoundrels allow themselves to get caught up in the legality of their workings, [he snorts.] Not likely.

[Javert pores over the map. Yes, he knows this -- he used a larger one when he marked poacher attacks and monster reappearances. His mouth is a thin, stubborn line, but something in his gaze sharpens.]

Yet I agree it is worthwhile to assemble a trusted team to scout the underground tunnels, the sewers, whatever we can unearth. Never fewer than two or three of us at a time. We have got plenty of time to do it, a little over a month. Shall I speak to Monsieur Steel and Monsieur Allgood about this?

The original wasn't that big, but I wouldn't rule out anythin'. Who knows what else the bugs got their hands on? That goes for the poachers, too, now that they got all those parts. Anyway, ya know how guys in hard hats like to jaw -- there's a couple of construction sites around, so they might see something even if we come up empty on the rest.

[ They could find some good spots to post a sniper, while they were at it. Eyyyy. ]

Let's do it. They got a vested interest in stopping these clowns, no point turnin' away good help.

[Javert is still looking at the map while he gingerly masticates another bite of his sandwich. It'd be super nice if he could enjoy it without the prospect of a garlic bomb hanging over his head.]

I would not mind plying a few chatterboxes about their favored projects.

[Did you know that Javert recently discovered that he has special vampiric influence over certain weak-willed humans? The bug party helped him figure that out, as well as a chat with Cuthbert. Maybe a few strongly-worded questions and some intense stares will work in his favor. He breaks his reverie, glancing back up to Majima.]

By day I shall keep a watch on the network for any whispers of another machine. The fewer there are, the better. I am not fool enough to think the lot of us will leave our grievances at the door and band together on a singular effort, but I want a pulse on who else is doing it.

Edited 2019-12-31 04:15 (UTC)

Great. Then I'll focus on digging up any info I can on the area, and get a couple balls rolling on sourcing some parts. We can always reach out to the labs, too, if Tim needs any help.

[ You know... debugging the machine? DOHOHOHOHO ]

I don't want what happened last time to happen again, to put it fuckin' mildly. By the way, how're ya coming along in your vampire deal? Learn how to turn into a bat yet?

What I want is their leader and his generals in chains. Off the streets, out of society. If they are murdering humans for the sake of their false skins, I want it exposed and blasted into the ears of the local police with neatly gift-wrapped evidence so that I may drag their vicious selves to the lock-up myself.

[Javert's tone becomes chillier and chillier, his eyes narrowing to some unknown point to the left of Majima's shoulder. There is the hint of a far worse fate for the poacher leaders, if the vampire were inclined to give in completely to his darker urges. He seems to catch himself at the end, and fixes his pupils back on his acquaintance.]

The quicker we do it, the better. To keep the peace, as much as it can be kept in Ryslig.

[Javert chews his food slowly, settling back in his booth-seat.]

Going batty is an old hat. I can do it. Among other discoveries.

[ Majima was party to Javert's change in tone by virtue of like... sitting here, at this table, sure. But if he was bothered by it, or the implied threat, he was a good hand at not letting it show. In reality, maybe he just didn't have a lot of room to talk here, considering the acts of violence sat on his own plate.

There might have also been the small matter of him sharing a lot of past tables with a lot of angry dudes, but look. For now, probably the best policy was to file a little mental note that yeah, probably it was a good idea that Javert was getting people to chaperone him because no, it didn't look like he had the vampire thing on lock yet. ]

Yeah? What about charmin' the pants off people? Figuratively, I mean.

It sure as fuck would come in handy if we can make some of these guys talk.

Edited 2020-01-01 00:51 (UTC)

[Javert's lip curves into a perfect crescent.

Rather than answer Majima directly, he flags down the waitress.]

Ah! There you are, mademoiselle. [He raps a mesmerizing beat on the tabletop with his claws. It is no trouble to get her to look him in the eye when there are still remnants of blood smears rimming them.

The eye contact is her undoing.

That's when a change overcomes her. She relaxes, loosened and dreamy, her body swaying gently forward to expose the bare flesh of her plunging neckline to a completely unfazed and bored-looking Javert. He rolls his wrist in Majima's direction and issues his command.]

Monsieur Goro here is feeling chilled in this wretched weather. Be a good lass and warm him.

[The waitress plops heavily down in the booth beside Majima and drunkenly drapes herself across him in a warm embrace.]

No, don't do that, c'mon --

[ Great, thanks. The last thing Majima needed or wanted, a woman drunk on psychic vampire juice pressing her boobs into his fur, fuck's sake Javert. He did his best to square her off with one arm and peel her fingers from his shoulders. ]

What the hell're you doing?!

[ He demanded of the vampire, trying to keep his voice quiet at the same time. He was also trying not to hook his claws on her clothes, R.I.P. ]

I asked ya if you could get answers from one of those murdering fucks, not get some poor gal to flash the restaurant!

[Javert allows the charade to keep up juuuuust long enough to hammer the point home.]

All right, mademoiselle, that is enough. I shall have another of these. [She blinks, uncharacteristically doe-eyed, and pushes off Majima back to her feet. She looks downright lost until she sees Javert snapping his fingers for her attention. He raises his mostly-empty Old Fashioned glass and gives it a little shake, rattling the ice inside.]

Top off Monsieur's drink while you are at it. Go on!

[She wanders away, her gait sharpening and becoming more sure of herself the further away she walks.

Javert languidly looks back to Majima.]

A demonstration is more telling than words, hideous as it is. [He cocks his head.] Don't raise your hackles for this. I will tip the girl generously for the intrusion.

Edited 2020-01-01 04:49 (UTC)

[ Javert wasn't getting it, and the way he treated the waitress afterwards made things worse. Had he always been like this? True, Majima had never seen the man interact with women before, but -- ]

Ya think that smooths it over? Makes it all like it never happened?

[ Thanks, he hated it. Majima's ears pulled back as he spoke, grimacing with his teeth as he used to back in Japan. ]

She's a person, not a demonstration. And what ya just did was wrong.

[ Not to mention completely unnecessary. Majima had no reason to doubt Javert's word; a simple 'yes' would have sufficed.

The woman started to wobble her way back, but the werewolf shook his head and stood. ]

[Javert is silent and still. If he is surprised by the backlash, he betrays none of it in his stony expression. He does not move when Majima rises, clearly intending to go.]

...No. It changes nothing.

[He made a misstep. That stung, to wrong another; stung worse, since he recognizes it is true. When had he started slipping into this mindset, where people could double as tools? Perhaps it was always there, if he thought ill enough of them. How the once-irreproachable Javert had fallen!]

I am willing to confess to the Mademoiselle. [The corner of his mouth sinks into a lopsided frown. Would that help matters? His gaze wanders down to his claws.]

I am relieved it is you and your Tim with the machine-building knowledge. It is for the best I do not possess such a thing.

Edited 2020-01-01 18:40 (UTC)

[ Majima looked at Javert for a moment, wordlessly -- as if by doing so he could gain insight into what the vampire was thinking. Or maybe it was his own thoughts he was marinating in, because hell if he didn't have plenty of those to contend with. ]

I'm glad.

[ Because whatever the hell Javert had going on, at least he seemed to understand. But if that was true -- ]

Listen, I ain't a vampire, so I don't know exactly what you're goin' through. But even if we're monsters, we've still got a choice. And as long as ya still care about that choice, I'm willing to be there to pull ya back.

[ In his expression, there was only a slight softening about the eyes. A contrast to the release in tension in the rest of Majima's frame. ]

Just don't give up on yourself. All I ask.

[Dare Javert admit he already offered himself up for damnation? That could not be giving up on himself, could it? That was an act of resignation, of keeping to his principles. The principles Majima claims he still has.

He does not say anything about it. He looks up at Majima again, and where the werewolf's eyes softened, his have developed a glassy sheen.]

You say I have a choice. Well, this is mine: If you catch me faltering and not returning to myself, I want to be stopped. By any means necessary. Only right.

[He calmly clasps his hands.]

I don't know the limits of what can be done, and I have not tried to find them. But I will work captives for information when it is needed.

[ No need to hesitate here, no excessive tenderheartedness to get in the way. Majima nodded. ]

I'll take care of it.

[ It was a reasonable request, after all, to be put down before he hurt anyone else. The kind of insurance policy everyone should want. And if anyone would be well-suited to stop a monster about to take a step too far, surely it was one who had spent years contemplating the same?

Majima set some bills on the table. ]

Only one little problem, though -- I was never a cop. So my rules and your rules, they're different. If ya want me to keep ya from crossing a line, you're gonna have to tell me where yours are.

You have sound judgment. [Especially compared to himself. That much is clear.] I have no tolerance for abuses of power, whether it is myself or someone else doing it.

[Javert glances to the bills and frowns. He attempts to push back a sizable portion of it to Majima, slapping down more than his share of coin in its place, including the promised tip for the girl. He owes at least that much.]

Should I start abusing my abilities for no one's benefit but my own--That is when I am lost. Lock me away in solitary if you must.

[ Majima was not going to take back his money. The waitress could just Have Extra, it was fine, and in any case, he had more pressing things now than worry about who was paying. Instead, he seemed to mentally file this aside.

More reason to keep an eye on Javert, look after the man... vampire. Even if he claimed to have left those principles of his behind, he was still trying to hold on to something. ]

All right. I'm about ready to get back to work, but don't think twice to call if ya need it.

[Javert bows his head in a nod. As Majima turns his back to go, he draws out a notebook and one of these newfangled ball-point pens from one of his deep coat pockets, opens it up, and begins to write. He soberly calls out to Majima before he disappears out the door entirely.]

Thank you, and good night.

[It seems he owes Majima an awful lot. Javert will have to track his debt, and the best way he knows how to repay such a beast is to keep to his promises and grant him just favors.

Javert will stay at the pub long enough to engage the waitress in a distressing private conversation, along with the super-generous tip. This may or may not result in him getting kicked out of the pub indefinitely, depending on how pliant and generous the waitress in question felt. Ah, well, Café Guro from here on out, it is.]

Merry Christmas Javert! Virgil is delivering fresh, warm bread and he'll deliver Javert a loaf of well-made crusty French bread, which feels right

hey javert!
(this is javert right? i think i typed your number right)

i saw you talking on dyme's post the other day, and i ended up with a question that i couldn't really ask since i was using someone else's laptop at the time
but now that i've got my own back i thought it wouldn't hurt to ask so

do you even know what jazz *is*?
this is important, i promise

You typed the number correctly. It is me. Monsieur 'jiaheng' informed me it was excitement. What am I missing?

it is in THAT sense, yeah, but there's more to it
it's a kind of music :)
i don't know how it came to mean excited, too, but the music thing's a way bigger deal

and jazz isn't really my forte but you know, i feel like it's something you'd get a kick out of?
it REALLY feels like something you'd be into.
which is half the reason i felt like i just REALLY had to ask

[That, and she's a giant music nerd. ... And also a Simulacrum with the bonus Simulacrum curiosity, but shhhh.]

How do you expect me to hear 'jazz music'? I know a little about these radio-broadcasts where voices are recorded and amplified through a machine. It is useful for current news. I do not use it to listen to music.

this place has tons of record shops!
oh wait
did you have records in your time? big, round discs that you use on record players and stuff?
i've been trying to build a new collection of them here, so i've got a couple of jazz albums i could share!

Would it give you better insight to know that I am from the year 1832? You may as well speak a foreign language with these devices.

oh man
that's at least 400 years in the past from me?? at least
jeez
okay, got it, don't know what records are
but that means i'll just have to show you, right?

i could show you how to listen to music on the radio too, if you want!

[There's a bit of a disconcerted paaaaause. Longer than his typical slow typing.]

If you wish to. It is not necessary.

Edited 2020-01-24 22:41 (UTC)

[The pause is a LITTLE strange... but she figures it's just the whole "let's hang out" thing that's bugging him.
He's always come off kind of crotchety, but that won't deter her!!]

man i wouldn't be offering if i didn't want to
i like music after all! jazz isn't my favorite, but i figure it's a great place to start if you're that far behind
not too hard, but not soft, either

though i guess there are some kinds of jazz that are? smooth jazz and stuff can get kind of soft
but anyway
want me to bring over my stuff?

[She figures he wouldn't want to come and hang out in her awful little shack and listen to jazz, so.
Welcome to your musical education, Javert.]

Here? Now, in daylight? I suppose you may. I am not accustomed to taking visitors. You will find me at the Delgado Ranch, just outside Bavan city bounds. Should you choose to wait, I can receive you tonight at Juno Steel Investigations.

oh yeah, i forgot you can't do sunlight
uh
would night time be better for you? like do windows cause problems?

Window shades do the trick. I am able to go out during the day, but I must wrap myself head to toe in shrouds like a widow in mourning.

[It's around ten o'clock when Doppio makes it to this Juno Steel's office. He would have been there sooner, but despite having gotten directions ahead of time, he definitely had to stop and ask again on his way there. At least it's helped him notice he's more comfortable seeing in the dark now; for some reason, in the last couple of days, even the winter's sunlight has seemed uncomfortably bright.]

Uh... I'm here to talk to a Mr. Javert?

[He looked young before, with a boyish face and generally poor posture, and his new antlers only sell the look further.]

[The man who gazes back at Doppio -- if you could call him a man, still -- regards him with that sort of ransacking, invasive look of the most skeptical of detectives. His red eyes gleam in a heavily-lined, square face, framed by thick black-and-gray whiskers. Everything about him, from his rigid, soldierly posture down to his discerning pupils, speaks of observing and assessing, and right now, he carefully assesses Doppio's build and physiognomy.

There is little in his expression to betray exactly what he thinks: He is slightly haughty, cuttingly frigid, and does not shy away from direct eye contact. It is easy to imagine his subordinates and enemies cowering beneath his lofty presence.

All of this sententious gravity is entirely at odds with some of the chosen office decor. At his back hangs a calendar full of shirtless, buff men. Atop a filing cabinet is a small purple vampire puppet, rather cute. Files are assembled in scattered piles on his desk, atop shelves, on the cabinets, and it looks like there is not quite enough space for all the paperwork mounded about.]

Doppio, alias purplepiper. I see. Your chosen name suits. Have you come to sell me your skills?

Edited 2020-01-29 01:00 (UTC)

[That's... kind of intense, huh? Something about the way Javert looks at Doppio reminds him of Risotto Nero, which is frankly impressive because he had a hard enough time remembering Risotto Nero when he was supposed to be on the lookout for him.

In any case, he mumbles something about how he didn't pick his username before getting to the point:]

Um, well, I don't know about selling my skills... I-I can't really do anything out of the ordinary. But I can follow instructions, like I said! Did you talk to the doctor?

I did. You will find I do not fail in follow-through.

[A grimace sours Javert's stony face. A mumbler! He never did warm to mumblers. If Doppio does it again, Javert will not miss an opportunity to sharply admonish him. He folds his arms across his chest.

Doppio won't sell his skills. Javert must work at drawing them out of him. This better not be a waste of time.]

There is always space for able men who take instruction. Even ordinary ones, though I fail to notice what is ordinary about an undead beast with a pair of antlers sprouting from his head, [he says dismissively.] What else have you done, aside from play assistant to Pierce? Speak up.

Edited 2020-01-29 21:13 (UTC)

I-I mean, it's not like I had the antlers back home! Or the undeath. [He's a little startled by the bluntness, but any tension soon seems to give way to a slouched posture once again.

Speaking of home, though... How can he outline his qualifications in a way that won't make a cop's alarms, of all people, go off?]

Well... I ran a lot of errands! Sometimes I talked to people, sometimes I kept watch over places, sometimes I delivered things...

[The grimace twitches ever-so-slightly, then flattens to a neutral line. He draws his square chin into his collar, lids lowering to the desk in time with a thoughtful hum.]

You were a messenger-boy, like those gamins who ran letters for coin. [That's where Javert got his start, when he was a lad. It strikes a chord at least. He raises his eyes back to Doppio, studying his build, and props his cheek in an upturned palm.] Were you under the employ of anyone in particular? Or was it scattered errands?

[At face value, the most unusual things about Doppio are probably his hair and his sense of fashion (undead deer parts notwithstanding). He's only a boy, slim and awkward, likely not even in his twenties yet, and it may be very easy to picture his freckled face carrying out simple errands for spare change.]

Nope! I just worked for one person. He relied on me to do a lot of things, actually.

[But under intense scrutiny, or intense pressure, or circumstances of the sort, some things don't add up. Wouldn't he seem taller if he just stood up straight? What is it about his face that makes him look simultaneously boyish and twice the age he ought to be?

He seems a little tense under Javert's appraising eye, yes. The reasons for that just happen to be tangled and messy.]

[The 'boy' does slouch quite a bit, something better, more disciplined posture would certainly fix. And the prematurely aged air on Doppio's face is not lost on Javert, though it is a look he has seen and worn often in his encounters with street urchins. Even his own deeply-lined face and gray-streaked whiskers are more aged than his years.]

So you were an assistant. That is good, respectable work. To whom, what did your superior do?

[And that's the tricky part, because Doppio keeps a lot of secrets about his Boss - some, without even meaning to.]

He, um, ran a business.

[Javert stares in silence, as if expecting Doppio to elaborate. When he doesn't, his jaw twitches, brow climbing his forehead.]

Hm. A business. Well, go on. I want to know what your expectations and intents in working against an underworld of poachers. You must be made to understand the risks. So tell me, what was his trade?

[Yeaaaah, there's the trouble. And it's got to be a straight-laced cop he's having this conversation with, on top of everything...

Doppio's eyes dart around.]

I-I know it's dangerous. But even if I've never done anything like it, I... I really want to help! Maybe I could serve as a distraction or something, or... or I could sneak in wherever they're hiding!

[Hey, where's the answer to the question?]

[Oh, there is no way he would send a rookie on a death mission into the Poachers' stronghold without knowing what he can do, first. Javert purses his lips.]

All well and good, lad. You are eager, you don't lack in courage. But that is not where you start.

[Javert's eyes narrow. He opens up a top drawer of the desk and pulls out a folded map. He tosses it on the desk over to Doppio.]

We are looking for a three-digit address on a Barrio or a Barrow Street. It is in Bavan. I want you to scout it out and plot on the map the areas we must focus. Will you do that?

[Not a lot of people use the word "courage" in association with Doppio. In all fairness, that may be because those who realise he has it underneath a layer of deep and unmistakably real fear tend to end up in no state to speak of it.]

Yes!

[He takes the map and unfolds it, examines it. He still isn't very familiar with the streets of Bavan, but that's okay. His memory wasn't even good enough to help him get around Italy, half the time, so it doesn't make much of a difference.]

Be inconspicuous, stay on the lookout for anything unusual, and figure out where we should be looking. Right?

Correct.

[Javert nods sharply. There is a reason why Javert is leaving himself open to trying out Doppio so readily: Hawkeye gave him a good recommendation. Despite Doppio's shiftiness and Javert's distaste for his lack of forthrightness, he wants to see what he can Do. If he won't talk, try him out.

His eyes sweeping again to the younger man's garish frocks, a coldly amused little flick at the corner of his mouth.]

Start with wearing -- something else. Black or other dark shades will do. If you find yourself found out, the operation compromised, get out immediately and contact me. It is not the proper time to strike them. Ah, and one other thing.

[Javert draws out an Official Application for the Records, so that Doppio can earn some pay while he does these tasks, and slides it over to the boy.]

Fill that out before you go. Full name, current address, network contact number, and the rest.

[Is he pouting? He may be pouting a little when Javert tells him to wear something else. There's absolutely nothing wrong with purple, or magenta, or occasionally green. But he won't argue; he nods, instead, and gets to filling out the form.

Vinegar is what he writes down for his first name; his address corresponds to Hestia's Place, even though it takes him a moment to remember the door number. The network number comes slowly, too, but...

"Age" takes him longer to even begin filling out, his pen hovering over the blank field for what's probably a full minute before he finally writes 19 and hands back the form.]

[Javert accepts the form back. He had watched Doppio closely as he write, his expression flat and neutral when he hesitates on the age. He does not remark on it, though his eyebrow pops up at what he does write. 19? He pegged the man as boyish, but 19 seems a bit young even for that babyface. Hm.

After a quick glance to ensure everything else is in order, he tucks it away in his files. There must be some organization to them, because he chooses one of the lower drawers and thumbs his way through to place it quite particularly.]

That is well, Doppio. Don't forget, Barrio or Barrow Street, any of the three-digit city blocks. Watch yourself when you are out.

Yes! [And he does a salute, very proper and very straight.] I'll report back as soon as I can!

[Javert gives Doppio an abrupt nod, like an official acknowledging his subordinate. It seems like Doppio may do well with them, after all! He makes a note to bring up his name with Majima later.]

Bonne chance, and we shall meet again shortly.

[Either the day before or after the holiday - Lup has a rep for being late for a reason - Javert will find this abomination waiting for him. somewhere. maybe his mailbox. maybe on his doorstep. maybe in his bed.

there's no signature, but there's a lipstick kiss left on the corner.]

[Shortly after Javert revives, he'll find a small, immaculately wrapped gift on his doorstep. Whoever could have sent it?

(The wrapping paper is completely white.)

There's a pristine, golden pocket watch inside of it. The sign for 'Jupiter' has been perfectly carved into its back. Underneath the watch, there's a note card written in calligraphy.

For your selfless sacrifice.

- A ]

Edited 2020-02-17 18:07 (UTC)

[Javert staggers to his doorstep with his third cigarette just about spent. He is heavily marked, with a thick band around his neck where the poachers sawed off his head, and two ragged star-shaped marks on his breast where he was staked. The white-wrapped parcel is a surprise: it looks to him like it was freshly-dropped off, the timing planned meticulously so it would not have to wait for its recipient long.

It looks so fresh, in fact, that Javert feels compelled to glance around through the fog, in case a certain someone lurks nearby. Because there is only one he knows that is so fond of pristine, unblemished white.

When he is satisfied he is alone, he carefully scoops up the parcel and lets himself inside. He opens the gift in solitude after he contacts his closest allies for a status update.

Javert doesn't say a word about it to Aunamee. Nothing he can think of to say seems sufficient or appropriate, and he cannot settle his feelings on the matter. But next they meet in the flesh, his 'friend' may notice a glinting gold watch chain sparkling out of the top of his coat pocket. Time is important for him to track, and it is a gift that will see much use.]

You should stay away from Black Hat, Monsieur.

Lest you want another death on your hands.

I am beyond fearing death. Rest easy. We are not friendly.

And your sanity? What value do you place in your ability to think clearly?

Black Hat does not merely kill, Monsieur. He obliterates. Friendly or not, it's important you're aware of the risk.

[Aunamee assumes Javert still has his sanity. Well, Javert still mostly believes he does, though he is aware many would call him mad for the things he's said, done, and thought. He thumbs the watch in his pocket while he mulls over Aunamee's message. This creature...

What is it he wants? What is his aim in extending an open hand to him?]

Then I will ensure he does not have an easy time with my brains. It is well. I shall not forget the warning.

Edited 2020-02-24 02:28 (UTC)

Good, Monsieur. Good. I knew you were a wise man.

Did you receive my gift?

Do you mean the trinket you left for me? Yes, I have it. It is a needlessly rich gift for doing nothing more than what I meant to do under the circumstance.

That's exactly the kind of answer I expected from you. Pragmatic. Devoid of sentimentality.

Take care of it. It's not a gift I give lightly.

Is that so. What makes me worthy, I wonder?

"I will return, and return, and return again until every last one of you lie a pale husk beneath my heel."

Anger suits you. Consider it a reward for a job well done, and encouragement for whatever comes next.

[Javert meant what he said, every vicious word.]

You may congratulate me when I do as I say, no sooner. Until next we meet.

Until then.

In light of recent developments, I wonder if I might ask one last favor of you.

[What an odd coincidence. Javert frowns at the private message on his screen. He had logged on to reach out to the very same person... He shakes off the prickling in his neck.]

What do you wish?

I would like you to keep something for me. A small drawing.

[ It would have been easier to simply leave it on his doorstep. Hannibal allows a second to regret this, then makes himself continue. ]

When I die, my memories will be lost and they are all that is left of my family. I would like one small memory of them to remain after I am gone and I trust no one else with it.

[A long pause, long enough for Hannibal to question whether Javert is still at his network computer. Then at last,]

There is no guarantee that this shall be permanent. Ryslig has a poor record of that when it comes to Monster-kind.

[He is abundantly aware it rings hollow, and he cannot promise that he will find a way to deny the God, so this is the best he will offer. There is always a dash of the unexpected in this realm. Always.]

Why me and not your flat-mate?

[ The caution speaks to Hannibal's one concern about the whole mess. He's counting on it being permanent. ]

I must treat it as if it is permanent. Otherwise I will not be properly prepared.

A number of reasons. You are an honorable man. You helped me when I had need of aid. Had they the opportunity to have met you, I believe they would have liked you. I know you can be trusted.

[ How he knows this isn't entirely clear to him. Observation of Javert's actions and inferences from what he knows of him, certainly, but there's a visceral certainty that he's only experienced once. Not the same way, of course, but he hadn't been wrong in Jack's office five years ago. He can't imagine he's wrong now. ]

There is nothing in this world or any other I value as much as my memory of them. I cannot leave it in unsteady hands.

Very well. I will keep it until the occasion comes that you may collect it yourself.

[Javert won't argue in writing the extent to which he can or cannot be trusted. He supposes it is natural for a man to leave behind his memory, even if Javert wholly expects himself to be swiftly forgotten when he is at last granted release.

This entire affair sits ill with him. He feels queer -- unsettled -- when he silently repeats the list of sacrifices in his head. It bothers him, and it all feels deeply wrong.

This would all be simpler if the tree-God selected himself as one of her morsels.]

Name the time and place for our meeting. No sooner than the night, either this one or the next. There are others I must speak with.

You needn't alter your plans to accommodate me. See to the others first. I've a few days left to me.

[ And quite frankly, he thinks he's asked Javert for enough. Every time he turns around, it seems like he asking for something else. ]

Or I can simply place it in an envelope and slip it safely under your door. That would be the least disruptive method of delivery.

Do not be absurd. I meant to see to you along with the rest, and I shall.

[Won't name a place? Fine. Javert chooses an idea.]

You told me you wished to share a meal. That is what we will do, pluck up a couple of delectable O types. Have you practiced?

[ He wants to ask why Javert meant to see him and almost does, though in the interest of not wasting his time any more than he already has and will be, he decides against it. ]

Oh yes. My impending demise has at least been good for encouraging indulgence. Would you like to catch them with me or shall I have them ready for you?

[Something about someone else choosing his dinner for him discomfits him. Javert is a man who prefers to have control over his faculties and his eating habits.]

My tastes can be particular. I will choose my own meal.

A sentiment I share. Tonight then? I can meet you in the center of the city, unless there are other hunting grounds you prefer.

That will do. The events at the Cube are not to my taste. I will be there at ten o'clock tonight, at the corner of Spelahund and Hammarby.

I will see you then.

Thank you.

Save your thanks, Doctor. Farewell until tonight.

You were right. It wasn't permanent.

[Javert is absolutely stunned to see this name pop up on his screen. At first he wonders if it is some sort of crude joke, but no, one would have had to break and enter into Hannibal's things, and only the paranoid Daniel has that sort of access. It is out-of-character for Daniel to do such a thing.

After the shock comes a flood that resembles... relief. Relief, followed by crass and dreary resignation.]

Of course not. That is unfortunate.

[He no longer envies Lecter. It's a wretched thing, to die repeatedly.]

I should like to return what belongs to you.

[ It isn't until he's about to hit send that he realizes that all he's written is a distinctly petulant Fine. Which might be an honest expression of the way he's feeling but he knows he can do better than that. ]

I will be here.

[ For the foreseeable forever, slumped lifelessly—figuratively and literally—in this chair. ]

You can come in.

It will be a quarter-of-an-hour.

[Javert quickly shuts down his machinery and bounds to action, gathering his spring coat, his cane, and his hat to go. He never stored Lecter's drawings anywhere else but his breast pocket, over where his heart used to beat. They are safe, if wrinkled from repeated use.

It is about fifteen minutes later that a sharp rap sounds at Lecter's door, the sort a man of authority would use to summon a man with a court order. If Hannibal is at all paying close attention, he would have heard two sets of heavy footfalls, not one... and one strong, steady heartbeat.]

[ The apartment is as silent as a tomb. Appropriate, really, for something that is dead but cannot truly die. Hannibal hears the footsteps, too many to be his expected company, and dismisses them. Until they come closer and he hears a heart beating.

One heart. Two sets of footsteps.

Hunger twists through Hannibal's body, nearly making his teeth ache, but he only leans his head back against the chair and stares vaguely in the direction of the ceiling. Does it matter if he eats? He cannot truly die?

The knock makes him glance over. He's dressed casually today: trousers, a button-up shirt, and loose, unstyled hair. Not quite guest appropriate, but he can't be bothered. ]

Come in, Javert. You are welcome here.

[ Is it necessary to make the invitation formal when he's dead too? He just doesn't know. ]

[Javert sweeps into the room. At his heels follows a spectacled man dressed in a dapper suit-and-tie with a pair of gloves. He is blond, his dirty blond hair parted and combed, and he seems to bear the weight of his sins in the furrow between his brows. He appraises the apartment blandly, a signature empty look in his eyes betraying that he was most certainly lured there by the statuesque inspector.

The vampire swings the door shut behind them. He raises his head to Hannibal, and makes a curt assessment of his déshabille with a pinched, exhausted frown. Javert is hardly more composed than Lecter: His whiskers are in utter disarray, a patchy forest coating both of his cheeks and his entire neck. His assistant has been gone for well over a week and his personal grooming has fallen off a precipice because of it.

Javert gives the human a firm push in Hannibal's direction.]

Drink, [he instructs roughly.] I will wait until you are finished.

[ One glimpse of the person with Javert draws Hannibal out of his morose stupor. He sits up, eyes momentarily wide in surprise. It's not Mason. It can't be. He doesn't reek of swine. But the resemblance is uncanny and it's enough to briefly draw Hannibal's upper lip back in a silent snarl.

Oh, yes. He will devour this man. Javert shoves him forward and Hannibal snaps his fingers at him, an imperious command that he continue over to the chair. The man comes, eyes blank. When he reaches the chair, Hannibal starts to gesture him to lean down and then pauses.

It isn't polite to drink alone and the best gifts are shared.

Taking the man's wrist, Hannibal slices across his forearm, deep enough to bleed freely, and offers it to Javert. ]

Drink with me, Javert. [ His hand is at the man's neck, ready to haul him down to be bitten, but still Hannibal waits. ] To days gone by and the lives that used to be.

[Javert grins doggishly, both his lips and teeth parted broadly. He shudders with his unsettling, silent laugh. Neither the grin nor the laughter abolishes the weariness from his eyes. He looks like he has not slept in a month.]

On your mark. You must take the brunt of it, [he drawls. He palms the offered wrist, pausing to watch the crimson blood flow and drip from the exposed veins.] Death has a way of draining our vigor. I know the feeling well. You could use the refreshment more than I.

[His eyes glimmer, and he poises with the bleeding wrist near his mouth. Bite first, Hannibal. You must eat.]

Very well.

[ Hannibal yanks the man down none too gently, hunger and this man's bad luck to be the doppelganger for someone so despised making it impossible to care about his comfort. He'll be dead anyway. Yet for all of that, Hannibal is still neat. He bites into the man's neck carefully, without tearing or making a bloody mess of it. And he doesn't suck the blood down in great, impolite gulps.

He drinks with measured calm, slaking his thirst as if it were not as bad as it is. As the edge of it dulls, so does at least some of his ennui. Whether it's proximity or happenstance or something else, he watches Javert throughout the process. Not with malice or aggression, but a mixture of curiosity, acceptance, and interest.

It seems that the time he's been dead has not been particularly kind to Javert. Has something happened? Has Javert lost someone for whom he cares? Hannibal doesn't know. But in thanks for the meal, he thinks perhaps he can do a little to improve matters. ]

[Javert is not greedy. He does not feel that aching hunger when he veers dangerously close to losing his wits. For all the things he has neglected during the mourning period (and not for lack of want, but for lack of someone to tend to him), he did remember to feed, taking no pleasure in it, simply picking whomever happened to wander too near to him when he felt the urge. And he did it with all the passion and artistry of a lump of coal. He takes a modest draw from the victim, a small lapping of his tongue, and lets the bulk of it go to his progeny.

He does not return Lecter's stare until their man is good and dead. When the blood stills and the heart stops, Javert drops the wrist and daubs at his mouth and mussed beard with a pocket-kerchief. Some of the intensity of his eyes returns to him the longer he looks, and he raises his heavy head and squares his shoulders with as much smugness as he can muster. His mouth settles into an inelegant, tired line, somewhere between a grimace and a smirk.]

Y'Doethe is dead.

[No preamble. No pomp and circumstance. Just a tart, dry fact.]

She made a decadent bonfire.

[ Once the man's heart has stopped and the blood no longer flows from the vein, Hannibal sits back, licking his lips clean of blood, and pushes the body onto the floor. It isn't proper to leave the remains of one's meal lying around, but he doesn't feel like dealing with it at the moment. Later.

Javert's declaration provokes a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smile. ]

I don't suppose you could hear her screams when you burned her alive?

[ He gives Javert credit for the god's death without hesitation. ]

I do regret that I was not able to poison her as I'd hoped but a bonfire seems a fitting end for the false promises. [ A brief pause. ] I am pleased you did not have to experience it.

I am not pleased, [Javert grunts, his lids dropping proudly to the body on the floor. He plucks off his hat almost reverently and folds his arms in his habitual, forbidding Napoleonic stance.

He considers the tree's death. His mouth curves.]

Ah, it was a spectacle, [he snorts, a reflection of roaring flame and snapped branches in his irises. He grows distant, losing himself in plumes of black smoke and crackling wood.] The lot of us self-fashioned grenadiers for the occasion. Nothing but rotted black sap in her guts--conveniently combustible, with the aid of gunpowder, oil, and... [His smile twists, and his eyes hollow and retreat opaquely. Godly matters, he can be heard to murmur absently through his teeth. He raises his eyes.]

It is done. I am sorry your toll has climbed to three.

[ It's a pity he missed the death of the creature. Having never killed anything that styled itself a god, he would have liked to have participated. Still, he appreciates hearing of her demise.

The sympathy he waves away with a flick of his fingers. ]

It's difficult to care when it does not last. The discomfort is temporary and pain has never affected me the way that it does others.

[ He looks briefly over Javert's face, takes in the state of his beard again. ]

May I ask how you've fared in the days that followed Y'Doethe's demise?

[Javert visibly clams up, his face carefully bland and blank. He flicks the prized envelope out of his pocket, and surely Hannibal can see at a glance that it has been referenced, and referenced, and referenced again.]

This belongs to you.

[His jaw twitches and tenses.]

Don't concern yourself about me. You see plainly that I live. [A rueful smile slides onto his lips.] In a manner of speaking.

Edited 2020-04-03 18:24 (UTC)

[ He accepts the envelope without comment about its well-worn state, though of course he notices. Sparing a moment to consider how that makes him feel, he decides that he approves. It means that neither Will nor Mischa has been forgotten. He is not alone in remembering what they look like. ]

I'm afraid I've never been particularly adept at thoroughly minding my business.

[ Setting the envelope aside, Hannibal rises from the chair, kicks the body further out of the way, and gestures toward it. ]

Please. Sit. You've done me a favor. [ A slight tip of his head toward the body. ] I can only return it. Make yourself comfortable while I collect a few things.

[Javert stares.

He had not meant to say, and his face seems to say plainly that he does not wish to intrude for long, that he does not want to make a concession. Yet he glides forward and assumes the seat anyway, looking quite rigid and still. He does not recline against the back of the chair, but he does spread the skirt of his coat and arranges himself as neatly as he can manage in his haggardness.]

You owe me nothing, [he grumbles, discontent. It is he who ought to make amends.] I forced your mark on myself when it was unwanted. Among other beastly actions.

[ Beastly actions? Hannibal's eyebrows rise. ]

In the five years prior to my arrival here, I've been stabbed, shot, beaten, tortured, hanged, and on one rather memorable occasion, branded by a man who wished to eat me alive and looked remarkably like the fellow we just killed. [ He smiles then, friendly and not the least bit disturbed by anything that he's saying. ] I assure you, taking a pin from my jacket was a nice change of pace. Now please, relax. I'll only be a moment.

[ He steps away and it truly only does take a minute to gather the necessary supplies. When he returns, he's carrying a bowl of warm water, a small jar of shaving cream, a brush to apply it, and a straight razor. A towel hangs over his forearm. ]

Unless you've a reasonable objection, I'm going to do something about that beard that's trying to conquer your face.

[Javert is struck silent, humbled, his pupils darting over an invisible manuscript. What manner of dreadful place did Hannibal come from? All he does is slowly lean against the backrest and tilt his chin up, his lids lowering again to the body on the floor in contemplation. He smiles thinly.]

Send my beard out to sea, Monsieur. Lord in Heaven above knows I am overdue for a shave.

[ Usually, he does this for himself in the bathroom, fresh out of the bath when the heat of the water has opened his pores. With someone else, it's a bit more of a process. He wets the towel and applies it carefully to Javert's face with a quiet murmur to leave it there for a moment. Then he goes to get another towel for later, more water, and a cup to mix the shaving cream. Once it's mixed into an appropriately fluffy lather, he takes the towel off of Javert's face and starts applying the cream.

Neither the positioning nor the shape of the chair is conducive to this. Hannibal has to lean into Javert's personable space extensively to get his beard sufficiently lathered and once, has to nudge his legs out of the way so that he can step in and lean close enough to brush the cream thoroughly over the underside of his chin and his throat. ]

How close a shave do you usually prefer?

[Any ordinary man might have politely closed their eyes and allowed Hannibal Lecter to work. Javert is far from typical. He watches Lecter unblinkingly in total silence, eyes following him as he leans in and moves about the room to prepare the necessary tools. He curls his hands in the armrests and remains perfectly still, tilting and shifting this way and that only upon explicit instruction.

He drops his lids at last with a contemplative little frown.]

Take it all off, [he says curtly.] Make it neat.

Edited 2020-04-05 22:44 (UTC)

[ It doesn't discomfort him to be watched as he works. Death may not be permanent here, but the habits of a lifetime do not fade so easily. Were their positions reversed, Hannibal would watch every move Javert made.

At the decision, he tips his head in acknowledgement. ]

I am always neat.

[ Replacing the brush with the razor, he gets to work. His movements are sure and swift, his comfort with the blade clear in how steady his hand is and how quickly he slices away the hair. Brief touches to Javert's face—a nudge with a knuckle here, faint pressure there—serve as direction so that Hannibal can keep the blade at a perfect 30 degree angle to his skin.

When the left side of his face is smooth, Hannibal moves around to the other side of the chair and starts on the right. He doesn't speak. To do so might invite Javert to talk as well and for the closest, most precise shave, he must be still. When all that is left is his throat, Hannibal moves back to the front of the chair, steps in between his legs, and leans in, one hand braced on the arm of the chair. It isn't quite the same position as when Javert drained him of his blood, but it's as close to it as can be without getting onto the chair with him.

A few passes of the razor and Javert's throat too is bare. Hannibal turns his chin this way and that, double-checking for any errant hairs, before judging the work complete. Stepping back, he sets the razor aside, wets the fresh towel and passes it to Javert. ]

Here you are. To remove the rest of the shaving cream.

[Javert watches. He watches every movement, lather, and stroke. He assists only as much as he needs to, loosening his collar to keep it out of the way. It strikes him, quite odd and uncomfortably out-of-place, that compared to Peace's work, this is an almost intimate engagement. It is downright sensous, with Hannibal's dignified murmurs and precise touches. There is nothing for him to do but marvel in repose and bask in the elegance in spite of his dark, traitorous thoughts.

None of that, none of that. He locks those inclinations up nice and tight, returning to himself as sharp as the strike of flint to steel.

After the last decisive stroke, when the last of his whiskers are floating downstream down the washbasin, he wordlessly accepts the towel. He presses it to his face and neck, scrupulously rubbing off the last vestiges of lather from himself, and allows his gaze to drop.

It's been decades since Javert last went clean-shaven. Even with the lack of proper barber's chair, Hannibal did an exceptional job. He runs his fingers along his clean, cool, itchy throat and cheeks, and it is strange to feel nothing but a bare fleshy smoothness and the wrinkles of his skin. It's new. It emphasizes how tired he looks and feels, an even greater pallor glued to his skin where his beard once grew.

No time like the present to start afresh, when he has lost and lost and lost so much.

Javert crisply folds the towel in thirds.]

Thank you, [he says reservedly, the beginnings of a frown on his face. He despises that he can no longer groom himself on his own, and there's a faint note of irritation at himself in his tone.] Your offer was unexpected. I ought to keep appointments with Madame Lust's establishment next time.

[ Lust? The name is familiar. Hannibal's spoken with her once over the network and during that conversation, she told him of her establishment: a theater wherein she performs burlesque. Which is not to say that he is necessarily surprised that Javert frequents such a place. There's certainly nothing wrong with watching provocative dancing. It's only that he did not expect that giving him a shave would lead Javert's mind in such a direction.

The thought brings with it intriguing possibilities and certainly not anything to which Hannibal is averse. Javert's a handsome man. More importantly, Hannibal actually likes him, which isn't something he can say about the majority of people.

Leaning over to take the towel, Hannibal dips his head, bringing his lips to Javert's ear. ]

If there's something the experience lacks, Javert, you've only to tell me. I'm certain I can perform at least as well as Madame Lust.

[ Straightening, he drops the towel onto the little table where the razor rests and moves across the room to retrieve the ottoman. He pushes it over to the chair, leaving enough space to move around it. The signs of exhaustion have not gone unnoticed, especially now that Javert no longer has a beard to hide behind. Hannibal can't do anything about that, only sleep and rest can erase Javert's weariness, but perhaps he can help him relax. That ought to be a start. ]

In any case, we aren't done. [ He points to the ottoman. ] Unless you'd rather I sit in your lap for this, please relocate here.

Edited 2020-04-06 20:33 (UTC)

[The haze parts sluggishly, and Javert is left confused.

He does not recognize himself, feeling something akin to shame sparking within his lifeless viscera. Outwardly he has fixed Hannibal Lecter with rapt, unreadable attention, his frown lopsided, brows knitted into a deep trench. Inwardly he churns. Javert is a man who knows his tastes, who realized long ago that his bent was toward men; he only lacked the inclination to pursue one for himself.

This is something else, an open-ended question. One he would not dare to pose to himself just yet.

His eyes contract and narrow, and he tilts his head.]

Your services could rival the best attendants in her bath-house, I think. What do you mean to do now? [he asks with a self-deprecating, dry lilt. He hasn't yet moved from the chair.] Oil-and-cologne me?

[ Bathhouse has two distinctly different meanings and Javert's use of the term here does not make it easy to choose which version he means. Discreet establishments for men of a certain inclination existed in his time, as did the less lascivious variety. ]

If that's what you'd like me to do, of course I will. You'll need to take off your shirt, though.

[ And the rest of it, if Javert's bathhouse attendants are particularly thorough. ]

What I mean to do is help you relax. You look to be carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and I know how difficult it can be to rest while your body is beset with such tension. I thought a massage might do you some good.

[Javert makes a sound halfway between a hooooo? and a snort. This is a different sort of game, and rather than bristle and shrink, his eyes shimmer with niggling interest. He grins wolfishly, all of his pointed teeth and his gums glinting in the light.]

You assume a massage would do better for me than a pinch of snuff, a cigarette, and a draught of brandy. [Which is to say, judging by his gloomy air, that none of these things do much for him. Still, with a daring, proud glance, he assumes a seat on the ottoman instead, just as stiff and challenging as his nature commands.] I always declined those services from Madame Lust's menu after a decent grooming, but it has been a spell. There was no need for the indulgence after retaining my... late assistant.

[Javert's face thins and drops. Unlike Hannibal Lecter revival, Peace has not returned, has not answered any calls or knocks. He swung by the Graveyard on the way to Lecter's flat, and there is not even a courtesy memorial dedicated to her.

He stews into a silent reverie.]

Edited 2020-04-07 01:51 (UTC)

[ Judging from the way Javert's expression changes, this assistant means something to him. How important, precisely, he cannot tell, but at least he knows to tread carefully around whatever wounds the absence has left. ]

There are a number of therapies we can try if this fails. Some find it helpful. Others do not. Like with anything else, it's a matter of finding what works for you.

[ In regular practice, Hannibal made referrals to massage therapists but his familiarity with the muscle groups involved and the techniques of the practice mean that he can perform the task. Flexing his fingers, he steps behind Javert once he's settled, sets his hands on his shoulders, and curves his fingers down, digging his thumbs into his trapezius, and gets started working the knots out. It's tight, but Hannibal is strong even without his augmented strength. ]

You'll need to tell me if I'm using enough pressure. Or conversely, not enough.

[Javert has never been touched this way before. Never let anyone, never had any intimate relations, close friends, or back-alley trysts.

At first his taut muscles push back, tensing under the hard and sure touch. His crimson eyes dart across the room like a cornered animal taking stock of the hastiest exists. The turning point comes when Lecter's thumbs plunge into a hollow between his shoulders, a grunt slipping free from his clenched jaw. Each knead and rub coaxes a further slide and bend into the touch, a subtle sloping of of shoulders, a small slump in his back.

It's nice. Nicer than he would dare admit, with the curl of his lower lip and the rhythmic clenching of his jaw. His nostrils flare. The only thing that would make this nicer would be that damn cigarette.]

What other therapies do you mean? [Javert murmurs sedately at last, his eyelids half-shut. The corner of his mouth twitches.] --There, firmer at that spot. I will not break.

[ Standing behind him as he is, Hannibal can allow himself the tiny smile that comes when Javert not only relaxes into the massage, but takes an interest in directing it in a way that feels better. If there's one thing he's coming to learn about him, it's that Javert doesn't indulge much in things that might bring him pleasure. Because he isn't accustomed to seeing to his own needs? Or because he doesn't believe he deserves to have them met?

From some of the comments he's made, Hannibal suspects the latter. ]

Medicine is often used for those who have difficulty relaxing, though I doubt its efficacy on our kind. [ He digs his thumbs harder into the stubborn muscle, forcing it to give instead of coaxing. ] Plus, medicine only treats physical symptoms. Sometimes it is mental or emotional trauma that pains us and those injuries require other treatment. Conversations that target a particular area can be useful. Light therapy. Sometimes hypnosis. It all depends on the person and the injury.

[ Perhaps he can demonstrate. Neither the pressure nor the movement of his hands falter as he continues. ]

Do you experience physical discomfort? Tight muscles? Restless limbs? Pain anywhere in your body? Regularly or when you lay down to sleep.

Sleep! [Again the rictus of a grin flicks onto Javert's face, stifling the brief chuckle that bubbled forth with that strange term, light therapy.] I do not sleep much, but it is not my body which bothers me. What physical pains should a dead man care about? You know how it is.

[A knot in his back loosens with a palpable crack, and his sedate slur chokes into a throaty grunt.

He fights against melting further into the touch, his head held erect and a sigh slipping out of his lungs by virtue of habit before he can stop the breath. Damn! He's lost enough dignity today. But it's clear that Javert is satisfied with this experience.]

I will tell you drugs work on our sort to an extent, [he murmurs, shifting slightly to subtly move the focus of the touch.] I don't much care for most of them. Laudanum leaves me in a ridiculous, over-chatty fog. Too much drink is sloppy.

[ Although he's paying attention to the conversation, Hannibal is focused on Javert's body. The tension in his muscles, the way he movies—all useful in helping him determine which muscles need work and how much pressure to use. The subtle shift is a clear enough signal and he adjusts his hands accordingly. ]

That is good to know. I'd wondered how much impact, if anything, drugs and intoxicating substances would have on us.

[ It is certainly more expedient than experimentation, whether on himself or on some other unsuspecting monster. ]

What would you say keeps you from sleep more often? Memories or an inability to stop your thoughts from racing? [ Careful to keep this sounding purely like a casual conversation, Hannibal offers his own perspective. ] I find memories more troublesome than anything else.

[Javert is silent for a time, brows knitted into deep trenches. Even in relative relaxation, he cannot smooth the permanent frown lines in his face. An appreciative rumble resembling a growl or a purr slips out of him with another troublesome knot eased, and he finds his tongue to answer around glinting teeth.]

Thinking does not rest, [he admits bitterly.] Memories are tossed in with the mix, whether they are accurate to reality or twisted to suit the thread of thought. What difference does it make if it is one or the other? They are the same to me.

[His thoughts, his nightmares, his memories... are they not all at war with each other? Sleep rarely gives him reprieve from that, when it does come for him. His thoughts drift briefly to Hannibal's lovingly-rendered sketches of his family. Is it those faces that lurk in Hannibal Lecter's memories every morning, when the sun rises? Is it them he longs for in his mind? Javert can say with certainty that he does not have an equivalent issue to that.

Or is it the memory of his deaths? Javert can understand that a little better.

Javert bends his head back.]

Why do you pamper me? You endured the latest ordeal. Not I.

I disagree. You fought for those of us who were to be sacrificed and were left behind when we were taken. It's often an easy thing to die. It is not always an easy thing to live after everyone else is dead.

[ The weight of experience briefly shades his tone. Outliving his sister. Outliving Will. Though it cost him nothing emotionally, life had certainly been made difficult with the death of his parents. His voice quickly clears. ]

We both endured the ordeal. There is nothing shameful in finding some measure of peace afterward.

[ There's a knot of muscle under his thumb. Hannibal concentrates on it, digs into it with force to work it out. ]

And as for your earlier question, the distinction between thought and memory is important. The answer determines the best course of treatment to solve the problem.

[The smile freezes on Javert's face. It is not an easy thing to live. He cannot catch Hannibal's face, but he could swear he detects a rough detachment in tone, an intimate understanding with such matters. One realization leads to another, and Javert all but presses his palms into his eyes.

What a fool he's been. A pang of guilt plucks at Javert's soul. It was selfish of him to grasp at a chance at permanent death, to steal it away when Hannibal Lecter evidently longs to join his dead family. Terribly selfish. It dawns on him now.

What in hell is he doing, lounging here like this? What right has he to enjoy this comforting, tender touch from a man who ought to be furious with him? His chest heaves as if he were releasing a long, frustrated sigh, but no air comes out.]

It is perfectly shameful to grant myself leisure when there is work to be done.

[Javert's tone has hardened, resolved itself. He snatches Hannibal by the wrist, eyes gazing up at him intently.]

I have overstayed my welcome. You are returned, and there are others I must take account of before the night is done.

[The other names on the sacrifice list, namely. Who is come back? Who is not? His glance flicks briefly to the pale wrist, and a bizarre compulsion springs to mind with his glance; he chooses not to give in to it, dropping it and sharply rising to his feet. He busies himself with reassembling his cravat and collar, gathering himself together and buttoning back up.]

[ It isn't often that he is caught off-guard, but he is now. The hardness of Javert's tone surprises him. Has he insulted him? Given offense? He runs what he's just said through his mind, examining it for clues, but he can find none.

When Javert catches his wrist, he immediately goes still with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. There's been nothing untoward in his touch that he's aware of. But he doesn't ask and he doesn't press. He lets him remove his hand and once Javert releases him, he goes so far as to take a respectful step back to give him a bit more space.

He hasn't overstayed his welcome at all, but Hannibal isn't rude enough to argue when it's clear he wants to leave. ]

Of course. I wish you well on your night's work.

[Javert slams his hat back on his head, disguising his fluster with brusqueness. He bows to Hannibal, not one of his shallow and perfunctory bows but a deeper, proper one, with the respect and silent apology he ought to have shown him earlier.]

Thank you for the shave.

[And the massage. His back aches and hums from the residual pleasure. He sets his jaw, scooping up the bloodless body on the floor. He pauses at the door before he and the corpse dissolve into the night.]

Should you need anything else, you know where you will find me. Rebuild your strength and take care, Monsieur Lecter. À la prochaine fois.

boss, be honest with me a moment. because it looks like you're condoning their actions. are you?

I am honest. No. They committed abuses, but on a technicality, no physical assaults. There is nothing to convince me that the best course of action is to take up the torches in a damn fool crusade and burn down their homes.

[Which does not mean he is doing nothing... but that part isn't visible to the public eye.]

idk, call me crazy, but kidnapping and torturing people is considered against the law where i'm from. they sound culty, and i know culty.

They did not kidnap and they did not torture anyone at all. It was a dream. That leaves no evidence and trumped-up charges. Do not mistake this for complacency. There will be a proper time for something to be done. Now is not the time.

fine. now's not the time. but try, and emphasis here on try because i know there are extenuating circumstances sometimes, to not make it sound like you're signing off on things like this.

I don't care what people think of me. All that matters are what I know my intentions and aims to be. It is better to conduct work discreetly and beyond their notice than to bellow it off the rooftops.

[Is he throwing shade to Bethan? He is definitely throwing shade to Bethan.]

There is plenty of time. We cannot die.

counterpoint: we definitely can die, we just don't stay that way. and encouraging people to listen to their lesser selves

ugh, that sounds so puritanical. gross.

anyway, what i'm saying is that people shouldn't be super dicks because we're all stuck here anyway, and WOW i am real damn salt-coated today, boss. idk, maybe all the "being murdered against my will is making me hangry. i'm going to go buy a snack.

That is natural. Death is beastly for the appetite. When did you last eat, Mademoiselle? I do not recall you taking any meals when I am present.

Well, I usually eat before I come see you. And I ate beef and barley vegetable soup that I made today. Why?

Human. I meant a human. When did you last eat properly?

oh. uh.

yeah, about that... uh... i haven't?

[At her screen, Peace grimaces, as if she knows a yelling is about to start.]

[The screen-yelling does not come, but there is a lengthy, wearisome pause.]

Trolls are flesh-eaters. I can send a man to a reliable butcher by early evening. Or would you prefer to consume him live? What does your stomach tell you?

[There is at least 30 minutes before the next response.]

i guess not-alive is fine? i really don't know. my stomach just says it's hungry, i guess.

It will bide your appetite for a time, but you must learn to hunt. If you are squeamish, I shall provide a willing sacrifice. You know Jack, yes?

i just can't fathom doing it. they're still people... so long as the person you pick is a bad person, i think i can deal with it. they just can't be good people.

and yes, that's my other boss; the one i clean for in the mornings.

[Perhaps telling her that it is simpler in the long run to start thinking of humans as cattle is not the most sensitive course of action.]

I will guarantee you meat, and I will guarantee that it shall not be a child or a mother of young children.

[But that's the most of his promises.]

Jack is a butcher. I shall tell him to prepare something for you.

i guess that's all i can really hope for, until i..figure it out on my own.

You must. It is much more pleasant to do it under your own power than to lose your wits with hunger.

[As promised, he does ensure Jack has some meat to butcher for the evening.]

Edited 2020-04-25 18:54 (UTC)

The project is complete and ready for distribution.

That is much quicker than expected! You are quite efficient, Monsieur. Are there different formulations for each breed, or have you concocted a universal drug?

One formula in tablet form. One must be taken to counter the effects of the de-powering drug. Two must be taken to counter the effects of the immortality drug. It will take approximately 10-15 minutes for the antidote to work.

Simple and straightforward. I will come around to collect them shortly. I also have something else to speak of which you may find interesting. It is a project of a different nature. I shall not be long.

Take your time. I'll be here all day.

I've something else for you as well. Less of a project and more of an opportunity to improve both your current situation and your investigative capabilities. I'll have refreshments ready for when you arrive.

[Javert shows up less than an hour later to collect the materials, wondering the entire time what Hannibal Lecter has tucked up his smartly-pressed sleeves this time. Improve his situation? Javert did not think his situation merited much improving, unless it involved gussying up the prison or obliterating the souls of every last poacher in one fell swoop.

Upon entering the relatively modest flat (with difficulty -- his massive frame has been quite a trip to manage) he immediately presents Lecter with two folders of papers. The first is a report and catalog of all the evidence obtained from the blown-out laboratory. The second... is a plan. A long-term plan for a place called the Nightgod Moon Prison "La Forteresse."

As always, Javert is conscious of wasting time. He comes right down to business.]

Good day, Monsieur le Docteur. [He bows his head, a proud, triumphant smirk playing at his lips.] Here is the relevant literature. The first set should not be a surprise. I am more interested in hearing your thoughts about the second.

[ As promised, there are refreshments on hand: whiskeys laced with blood and a small selection of finger foods, sweet and savory. The former are small cakes and doughy shells filled with delicate cream. The latter are bits of meat wrapped in other kinds of meat, all of it human.

Hannibal accepts the folders, opening the first and looking briefly through it until he recognizes what he's seeing. Nodding, he sets it aside to peruse later. He examines the contents of the second more thoroughly. Though he's barely begun before a frown turns down his mouth. ]

I think it wise to refer to this place solely as La Forteresse from now on. Nightgod Moon Prison sounds like either a very confused brothel or one catering to a rather particular clientele.

[ He continues to read as he speaks, mind already fast at work. A prison for humans is of no consequence to him. One that might hold monsters, on the other hand... He doesn't want to go back into a cage. ]

Is this to house humans? [ He glances up from the papers to Javert, one eyebrow rising with curiosity ] Or is it strong enough to contain those among us who refuse to behave in a civilized fashion?

Edited 2020-05-20 11:25 (UTC)

[Javert barks a laugh around the room of his whiskey glass. He is inclined to agree with Lecter, that Nightgod Moon Prison is hardly a suitable name for an establishment meant to be a stalwart of order and fear in Ryslig. La Forteresse is just similar enough to La Force to feel suitably intimidating and differentiate it from its predecessors.

He helps himself to a meat morsel while Hannibal peruses the sheafs.]

Both. The Poachers already have a home carved out of a cell-block for them. And there are certain mechanisms in place that sap the strengths of Monsters within its walls. I am not naive enough to think we shall not make use of that feature.

[He captures Hannibal Lecter with his intent, rapt attention, and intones slowly, his implications heavy on the tongue,]

The wild beast who held the keys before me is none too pleased about my proposals, you understand. I have sated him for the time being by placing him in directorship of punitive measures for monsters and men, and I shall have to feed and water him now and again to keep him that way.

[Javert bends almost imperceptibly closer to Lecter, his eyes unblinking.]

You are an expert with the criminal mind. [A beat.] We could use your expertise on his team.

[ Mechanisms to sap the strength of the inhuman population. Hannibal considers taking the word at face value, which suggests that it's something other than a pilfered supply of the humans' drugs. Otherwise why make the antidote? No, this must be something else. Something it will be to his advantage to investigate.

And there is his opening, as neatly wrapped and offered as a present. Yet another unintended side-effect of Jack Crawford's machinations: giving him the experience that appeals to Javert in this venture.

Hannibal smiles in gracious acceptance of the suggestion. ]

I'd be happy to join the team. From what you've described of this other fellow, it doesn't seem wise to leave prisoners solely in his charge. Not if the aim of the venture is rehabilitation of the incarcerated so that they can better function in our unique society.

[ And he's simply curious about this wild beast whose ire can be so easily assuaged by the promise of doling out punishment. ]

Do you think your new associate will object to my presence?

Oh, he will, [Javert confesses tersely, a flicker of triumph in his curling smirk.] But he won't touch you. Especially if you point the blame to me, where it belongs. Let him brew his hate for the right person.

[The Nephilim appears cool and satisfied with Lecter's response. He pops the meat morsel in his mouth, relishing the flavor with a sip of his blood-whiskey. His lids lull shut. Once a vampire, always a vampire; he did not quite lose his taste for blood, even in angelic form.

His eyes crack open to a narrow slit after he swallows, and he asks gravely,]

Is it possible to rehabilitate? I don't think so. Not for the extreme crimes that would call for a heavy hand.

[ Hannibal sniffs, haughty and disdainful. There is neither man nor beast that he fears. Whoever Javert is working with is no threat to him. ]

I have no fear of him. I simply mean to be ready for uncooperative behavior.

[ And as for Javert's question, well, no. Hannibal doesn't truly believe in rehabilitation. There are strategies one can be taught to better fit into society, but one's true nature cannot be so easily swept away. ]

The world from which I come believes quite strongly in rehabilitation. In our situation, it would be in everyone's best interest if the worst threats were simply removed from the equation. As for the rest, there are methods by which the mind can be reconditioned. Those marked for release back into the world can be taught to choose more acceptable paths.

Humans will be removed decisively, [he says coolly, nose wrinkling with a measure of distaste.] Monsters involve politics. Unfortunately. Our lot is designed to endure.

[In truth, Javert prefers not to claim authority over monsters, but there is a point where institutions must step in to keep the 'peace' in any society. Monster society is no exception, though the expression of peace is much difference than for mankind. Just wait until Aunamee and Amanda spring up another one of their fun-and-games and the city clamors to the prison, shrieking for retribution.

If their minds and bodies are probed and twisted by them again, he might be inclined to agree with the crowds. But the Fog God is interested in freedom for all of her creations, so what is to be done about those who insist on dominating and crushing their kind beneath their heels in Her stead? Lecter may have suggested a compelling solution. Javert bends against a chair, swirling his glass in an even, slow loop.]

The only acceptable path that concerns me is to lay off damaging our kind. Aiding the poachers on the sly would merit punishment, perhaps. Acts against monsters en masse with the evidence for a condemnation are another possibility. In what way would you recondition these sorts?

[ Hannibal takes a moment to consider how best to answer the question. He could lay out the mechanics quite easily, but he suspects that Javert would have at least some concern about it and possibly questions about how he applied it previously. As effective as it is, he can't outright detail the lengths he went to with Miriam Lass or even with Will Graham. ]

There are therapeutic techniques used in the treatment of the mind that can also be used in situations like this. A combination of hypnosis and light therapy has been successfully used to train the mind away from destructive or unwanted behaviors.

[ He chooses something harmless at random. ]

For example, someone who smokes cigarettes may wish to stop yet the addictive properties of the nicotine make it difficult both physically and psychologically. But the therapies I mentioned can decrease the mind's reliance on familiar routines and teach it to seek other outlets when cravings strike. In this case, behaviors that are destructive and harmful to the community can be firmly encouraged to find more beneficial expressions.

[Javert bends his eyes to the whiskey glass, listening closely to Hannibal's example. It is compelling. Javert is thoroughly familiar with hypnosis, and he wonders if repeated exposure to suggestion would cull out undesirable behavior and drive them, instead, against humans exclusively. It reads to him like a filthy and messy manner of handling Monster deviants, but there are few options when the Fog demands all her creatures to have their freedoms.

And they will. Once they direct their freedom of expression to the proper outlets.]

To humans instead of other monsters, then, [he muses.] AM will be a barrier. He is content to rely on pain as his tool. But your methods are perfectly suitable, and worth a try. At worst they become recidivists and endure harsher punishments with each offense. That would not surprise me.

[He helps himself to another sip.]

You shall take a salary this time, of course.

[ From the sounds of it, AM either detests criminals, detests humans, or simply enjoys violence. It will be interesting to watch him and see what his behavior reveals. ]

If you wish, so I shall.

[ He isn't going to fight about money this time. Although he's been steadily increasing what meager wealth he's managed to accrue, it's nothing like what he had in his prior life. And this does sound like actual work, instead of an amusing diversion. ]

And if we are insisting, then I have a proposition for you which I insist you consider.

[ From his jacket pocket he pulls an envelope of thick paper. In it, written in his customary calligraphic hand, is an address outside of Bavan on the shore of Lake Dala and an invitation for Javert to move there. It promises an estate with ample living and office space, as well as a forensics lab with what passes for state-of-art technology here. ]

I was going to send this to you, but since you're here, I might as just give it to you. [ He holds out the envelope. ] You deserve better than what you have and I've the opportunity to provide it.

[Javert's tight composure slips with surprise. He hesitates, regarding the envelope warily. What has Lecter gone and done for him now? Could it be a bank note, a loan far larger than he could ever hope to settle? How many more debts can his conscience bear? It shall take him a lifetime or two to repay Hannibal Lecter for all he has done.

At least he isn't refusing the salary this time. His forehead-eyes crease, and he accepts the envelope with grimacing trepidation.]

I can't fathom what you mean, [Javert says steadily.] I already have exactly what I deserve.

[He takes care in opening the elegant stationary, peeling the flap open and drawing out the invitation. His grimace deepens to a feral, silent snarl when he reads the first few lines and skims the rest. But then the promise of office space, a crime lab with people he can employ, and its precise address catch his eye, and he settles, reading it over a second and a third time to ensure he is processing it correctly. This estate is well within a hop and a skip from the prison gates, and it would be a simple and speedy commute to retire from one work place (the home offices) to the prison. The snarl gives way to a disquieted, crooked frown.

The offer is tailor-made to his needs, and it is tempting. Not to mention that indeed, he is touched by this gesture, that this elegant man whom he calls friend would give this infuriatingly perfect arrangement to a creature like him. His nostrils flare, and his sigh melds into a dry bout of laughter.]

Oh, good, [is what he finally says at last.] It's only my choice of flat. Here I was thunderstruck by the guess that you got it in your head to issue me a massive bank-note.

[ Hannibal smiles, an expression that flirts with being a smirk. ]

If you'd like money to go with it...

[ But his tone is light, almost playful. He's not seriously offering money to go with his invitation of a home. Though, if Javert needs a bit of cash to sweeten the deal, he won't object. ]

I noticed strange coins accruing in my bedroom and when I spoke the magic word, one of the god-creatures of this world granted me a wish in exchange for a number of them. [ There's humor in his voice now. Magical coins, granting wishes. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale. ] I wanted a better residence than this. Something closer to the home I had in my previous life. What I received, however, is extraordinarily large. Closer to the castle of my birth than a respectable house.

[ And he could live in that huge place alone. He could fill it with things and not be terribly lonely. But he doesn't have to be. ]

Plenty of room for two people of similar habits. [ A faint frown contorts his mouth. ] Possibly three, if I can manage to locate Daniel long enough to make the invitation.

[Javert had supposed Hannibal Lecter came from extraordinary wealth, but to know that his birthright property was an entire castle extends significantly beyond what he imagined. He stands in the presence of near-royalty. Humbling, indeed! Ought he bow? He lowers his head instead and tucks the invitation into an inner coat pocket with a soft hiss through his teeth. Just beneath his shirtsleeves, Lecter might glimpse the novel outline of a chain and heavy leaden key dangling directly over his heart.

The topic-switch to one of the peskier god-creatures of Ryslig is a welcome break from his inward self-deprecation. He nods along with the description of Mana, a wince in his eye.]

Mademoiselle Mana. Of course, [he huffs. His lower lip bulges in a bulldoggish pout.] Check the property from bottom to top for hidden snares, if you haven't already done so. I'll inspect it with you. Mana is untoward in fulfilling her end of the bargain. There is always a hitch hidden about.

[Much to his chagrin and irritation, both of his deals with Mana ended with a surprise, no matter how carefully he worded his request. Javert buttons the breast of his coat back to the top, canting his head in abstracted thought.]

Does Monsieur Daniel often make himself scarce?

Edited 2020-05-25 19:36 (UTC)

[ Hannibal's sharp eyes detect only a passing impression of something beneath Javert's shirt. Jewelry, he thinks. Another gift, perhaps? Something else? ]

Perhaps. I've not seen him since yesterday. [ And the apartment has felt empty. No extra scents. No heartbeats. No muffled sounds of every day life. As if only the dead reside there. ] It may be nothing, but given the anti-monster sentiment so many humans have, I can't completely dismiss it either.

[ He shakes his head, uncertain. Though he's no more certain about the safety of the house now, either. ]

And as for the house, I've examined it but I certainly won't turn down a second pair of eyes. I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with both her and her tricks.

[Javert's mouth tightens to a grim line. He has an idea where he should start his search before he wastes his time hunting the back-alley hives. To the graveyard he must go, and if Daniel's grave is prison, there will be no more doubts about whether or not he is among them. He polishes off his blood cocktail and sets the glass aside with a soft clink.]

I've dealt with Mana twice. For my first attempt, I received what I wished for, plus an unwanted extra. For my second...

[There is a soft wheeze through his nose, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. His mouth splits into a mischievous, feral grin.]

You were present for what happened with that one. Choose your words and provisions carefully.

[It occurs to Javert that he has neglected the sweet dish. He selects one bite and briskly tells Lecter, without finalizing whether he accepts the invitation or not,]

We can go directly once we're through here, and after our inspection, I will search for Monsieur Daniel myself. The employment contract and your permanent prison key can wait until you are ready to take the post.

That would quite helpful, thank you. [ A faint smile, sly and just slightly teasing, flickers briefly across his mouth. ] I can give you a tour of the premises. Let you measure your current quarters against what the estate has to offer.

[ Hannibal's seen the place Javert calls home. Unless he enjoys living without luxury, there isn't much contest. Throw in the space practically suited for his investigative needs it should be irresistible. ]

And I appreciate your help locating Daniel.

[ From a desk drawer, he pulls a container of pills and hands them over to Javert. ]

Do you think this will suit the population? I thought an oral medication would be more expedient, and in the case of some of the monsters, more useful than an injection.

[A tour is exactly what Javert wants, to see just how unsuitable this new home could be. Even with his sneaking suspicion that Lecter will not let him walk away without saying 'yes' to his invitation.

Javert peers at the pill container, eyes skimming over the instructions and possible listed side-effects. His grin flattens to a concentrated flat line.]

Are these intended for chewing? That would be simplest for monsters with thicker skin that cannot take those injections, [he murmurs, and he pops open the cap to take a look at them and give them a generous, deep sniff. There is not much of a detectable scent, but the chalkiness that tickles his nose is not particularly pleasant. Likely it would taste metallic and coat the tongue unpleasantly. His lip twitches. He re-caps the container.]

Ten minutes to take effect. That would leave us the element of surprise, lull the scamps into thinking we are at their mercy. It is a calculated risk, but it will work. Very clever!

[ That is precisely what Hannibal intended with the activation time and he smiles openly, pleased with both Javert's perceptiveness and that Javert knows him well enough to attribute it to him as a deliberate choice instead of happy accident. ]

I've been apprehended by those who meant me harm often enough to know that sometimes the appearance of vulnerability is all the opening one needs to escape.

[ He tips his head toward the pill container. ]

You swallow them, actually. They don't taste very nice and the chemicals are formulated to release slowly. Chewing them will make them release immediately and that could have unintended side-effects.

[ An overdose, possibly. A failure to work properly. He hasn't had the opportunity to test them as thoroughly as would necessary to be certain. ]

I've made a large batch of the things. I can make more as required.

Haven't we all faced apprehension, [Javert grinds through his teeth. Swallow them whole. He turns the bottle in his palm. They are small bits, that should be simple enough. He raises his head out of his collar.]

I will track who takes their share. Simple enough to log names. If there are any gaps or shortages in distribution, I'll be in touch. [Quite easily, if they are to live in the same damn castle. He tips the bottle in Hannibal's direction.] May I take this one? The rest will be distributed from the office and Crowe Clinic.

Of course. Please.

[ He makes an expansive gesture of permission, then tips his head back to indicate the drawer behind him. ]

If you'd like more you're welcome to them.

[ Does he also make the directions for their construction readily available? Or is it more prudent to keep it to himself? A bit of insurance to keep him useful should something unforeseen occur. At the moment, he thinks the latter best. ]

And if you need anything else, simply let me know. I'll go over the paperwork you've brought me. Construct a more detailed plan for you to review and ensure that it matches your vision.

With particular heed to your segment of the duties, yes, go on and do it. [Javert drops the bottle into his pocket. That shall be his emergency rations.] Your employment contract and your key will be delivered to you tomorrow.

[In his reading, Hannibal Lecter ought to notice his work will have the most latitude against humans. Monster sentencing has a bit more constraints involved, and anything involving "rehabilitation" is directed toward channeling violent impulses to humans, and not one's own kind.

Javert leaves the drawer of drugs to Hannibal's own personal store, and indicates as much with a curt shake of his head. Keep those in an event of an emergency. He instead helps himself to hoisting the boxes marked for distribution into his arms.]

Shall we go? If the property is as big as you say, it will be the better part of the afternoon to examine it properly.

Of course.

[ There will be plenty of time to complete the necessary paperwork tomorrow. Without the work on the antidote, Hannibal will have plenty of free time. More than he really wants.

Javert may be larger than him now, but waldgeists are hardly frail, useless things. Hannibal moves over to him and takes a few of the boxes himself. Javert isn't a pack mule. And boxes of pills are hardly a strain. ]

Yes. Let's go. We can drop these off on the way.

Yes, [agrees Javert bluntly.] Small detour. Then you show me the place.

[He's ready for an afternoon of childlike trick-hunting. Whether Javert will be disappointed or envious that Lecter got away with only an overly-large property and nothing more remains to be seen.

He snatches up another sweet treat before they go. With the cases of meds, they bow out back into the city together: a black, lithe, slim shadow of horns swallowing up the radiant glow of the dark-winged angel beside him.]

[Someone has been obsessing on a certain incident....]

You know, Javert, I found it rather odd that you would say something like this to Amanda:

What I am telling you is to stay out of my mind. Place me in whatever death traps you please, I do not care. But I will become considerably less generous with you and Monsieur if I discover you displaced my head again.

Interesting, don't you think?

If you wish to chat with me, I am but a few flights of stairs away. My office is just over your head. Crawl out of your dungeon and speak to my face. What do you want?

[Literally he just wants to yell at you over the internet.]

We can have a perfectly reasonable chat over the network. You adapted to it rather quickly, haven't you? A far cry from hotfor24601 or whatever it was.

But really, I just wanted to comment how interesting I find your hypocrisy.

And what hypocrisy is that? A man has a right to make personal requests when he is not serving in an official capacity, as I had done.

[Ignore ignore ignore the hottfor24601 because he cannot deny that part at all. No defense.]

Edited 2020-05-25 03:58 (UTC)

You enjoy playing obtuse, don't you?

Nearly as fond as you are of wasting my time with aimless network messages.

Edited 2020-05-25 12:33 (UTC)

I suppose you see nothing wrong with Amanda corrupting your mind then. After all, you would have easily thrown her in jail if you did.

It is a far leap from a personal quarrel to an arrestable offense. Come up with something more provocative to tell me, or I shall delight in increasing your workload, if you've the time to waste here. Good day to you.

Enough with the idle threats about work: I know you masturbate regularly to the thought of having power over me and constantly need to remind me of it.

Indeed, I knew you had no issues with her corrupting your mind then. A shame you had to contradict yourself then when telling her not to affect your mind, when you gleefully do it to others.

No wonder you don't see it as an arrestable offense.

I'm so glad to know where you stand.

Don't underestimate my capacity to encumber you with a veritable mountain of paperwork. Mind your arm, by the way. Reach any further and you'll suffer a strain. I shall be down momentarily with your assignments.

Is that your grand plan? To subdue me with paperwork? Oh dear.

My arm may be strained, but not nearly as much as your genitals.

[Good thing he streamlines the paperwork pretty efficiently with technology and has idle time to send shitposts to Javert.]

[Javert is no longer answering. And soon enough his blinding glow hovers just outside AM's office door.

Without warning or fanfare, he barges on in, skewers AM with a withering stare, and drops a stack of paperwork down at least a foot tall. His is the face of a man who has discovered a rather nasty infestation of termites beneath his feet.]

I'll have more at the ready.

[He pivots on his heels like an old solder and marches right back out. Nope, he won't stay and listen. Goodbye.]

[AM notices the glow and is not even slightly surprised. In fact, Javert's expression is more of a reward for him. Fine, give him paperwork. He always gets it done in very quick time.]

Of course. I'm sure you'll be very content tonight.

[And he's not referring to the paperwork. If he could smirk in this lich body, he would - but surely it's evident in his tone of voice.]

Edited 2020-05-26 01:06 (UTC)

You really must work on your creativity. A man has more pleasures than his loins.

[He doesn't even bother to look over his shoulder for that one. He simply tosses the door shut at his back, and AM can watch the flickering, colorful glow of his aura recede with his brisk footsteps down the hall.]

[When Javert gets back to his office, he'll find another message from AM.]

I know humans. All they think of is sex and war. You're hardly different.

[Javert has turned off his laptop and won't dignify this with a reply.]

Why, my dear Javert. I happened upon a funny fellow this past day.

A proper beast of a man, though not nearly as brutish as you led me to believe.

[Oh, Javert saw this message. And when he saw this message he very nearly felt compelled to throw the entire machine into the ocean, like he once suggested Polnareff ought to do with his own useless laptop.

He doesn't, though. And he comes back to return a few words. Eventually.]

Well, is that all you have for me? Why not take it further? Go on. Tell me more about this beast you found.

[On Black Hat's end, it takes some time to reply as well - though in his case it is due to his current overly-large size and less-than-dextrous claws. Typing is a bit of a chore.]

But of course.

An older man, he was. Worn and dying. But the size of him!

If not for all the sand, he would have made a delightful morsel.

Now, that is more like it! But you say he would make a delightful morsel -- no. Old oxes are tough and gamey, never mind the sand. It is good you passed him over.

On the contrary, I've always found this particular breed of cattle to produce a fine veal, regardless of age.

He wouldn't have put up a struggle at all. I wouldn't even have had to kill him before I started.

Come now, I knew you were slothful, but now you pluck off ill old oxes? What a lazy creature you are! Babes-in-arms must be next on your menu.

Particularly when I tear them from their mothers.

But I digress - sand seasoning doesn't appeal to me. Instead, I let him be to die out there, on strange shores.

[There's a pause.]

Jean Valjean, that was his name.

Fuck off. This is a waste of time.

How rude of you, when I'm simply delivering news to you. Whether it's good or not, that is up to you. No need for such language.

Then think me ill-mannered, for I owe you no respect. News received and disregarded. It is worthless to me, I already knew Monsieur was here. You never laid a claw on him. Good day.

Edited 2020-06-07 02:11 (UTC)

So he lives yet. I shall keep that in mind.

[Black Hat knows perfectly well that even if death takes Valjean -- and it has-- he'll be back with the next Fog, as they all are. Javert knows this, too.

He has never loathed death's meaninglessness more, nor has he resented a man for dying quite so much as he does now.

Javert does not respond again today.]

My dear Javert.

Are you well?

I am working. What do you want, Monseigneur?

[Let it be known that it is mid-afternoon. The sun is high in the sky. Javert is a vampire... and he has not slept, and hasn't slept since before he became a Nephilim.

Yet he claims he is working.]

[He doesn't soften the words. He doesn't even hesitate.]

I wanted to make sure you hadn't thrown yourself off a bridge.

[It stings bitterly, but Aunamee's directness is far preferable to any gentle tiptoeing. On his end of the conversation, he barks a dry, hollow laugh.]

No point! I no longer breathe. The sun or a knife of silver would be better.

You know what I mean.

Are you going to kill yourself?

I considered it. And then I considered against it. The work will continue to mount while I take an unexpected leave of absence.

Very good, Javert. It doesn't matter why you stay here, so long as you do.

You will not squander the Fog God's gift.

All is well. I am Madame's servant, and I shall not renege on my allegiance.

[Apparently, this answer has him satisfied. ]

Is your companion still breathing?

He is dead.

[Dead and buried. Javert saw to it by himself, in a secret place, though he would call himself a fool if he really believed this would be the end of it, not when he assumed Valjean was destined to join their ranks.]

Then you both know what it feels it.

There's a satisfying sort of symmetry to it, don't you think?

[Javert's blood is still, yet he feels an icy prick in his veins nonetheless. This is not a line to cross, Aunamee.]

Symmetry would have led to a long and happy old age for him. That man owes me nothing.

You should feel fortunate that the Fog God deigned him worthy of survival. If She hadn't, he would've wasted away back home.

He'll be back.

Edited 2020-06-08 19:33 (UTC)

Of course he will. I know this.

[Fortunate? Javert is not so certain that this is fortunate. Fortune would have delivered Valjean up to the pearly gates with his God and loved ones.]

This is Her will and Her intent; it is not my place to question it.

Good.

Keep yourself alive, Javert. I don't want to know you'd look like with holes in your mind.

Don't be so sure. You might find me more palatable with less brain. As it is, there is no telling how much I have already lost. Too bad! :) Please don't send your eyes after me, I will find them. I have no plans to die again soon.

Edited 2020-06-08 20:42 (UTC)

Oh Javert. That almost sounds like an invitation.

:)

Take it as you will. My office is open.

( A human woman comes to Javert's office at 10pm. She's in her mid-forties, likely from the middle class, and distraught though she's trying to hide it. She's heard that he's an investigator and she needs to report a crime. If asked why she didn't go to the human police, she will just shake her head and ask him to come with her.

She will take him to a secluded corner of a tiny park in a lower middle-class Bavan neighborhood. A guillotine has been set up and there is a headless body of a human man: mid-to-late thirties, casually dressed, no outstanding features or distinguishing marks. The guillotine's blade is smeared with dried blood. There is dried blood splashed across the paving stones beneath the corpse's neck. The man was obviously killed here.

An examine of the corpse will reveal that all of the bones in his limbs have been broken. As if he'd been put on a breaking wheel. The misalignment of the bones and no evidence in the surrounding area of the method of breaking means that the damage was done prior to his execution.

Javert will find his head adorning that of a statue in the park. The statue's head is nowhere to be found.

Extensive interviews of the neighborhood as to the identity of the man will eventually reveal that his name is Martin Fisk. He was a known criminal: he broke into peoples' homes and would rob passersby. (Strange coincidence, surely, that the punishment for brigandage under the Ancien Régime was breaking on the wheel.) But because his brother is on the police force, no charges were ever made. No one can provide a name of anyone with a motive to kill him. )

Edited 2020-06-12 13:39 (UTC)

[ An elderly man comes to Javert's office near midnight, ashen-faced. He's simply dressed, his clothing that of a laborer. He asks for Javert to come quickly. There's been a murder. If asked for further elaboration, he'll shake his head, a little wide-eyed, and request that Javert accompany him. "You have to see it, sir," he'll say. "You just have to see it."

It's to Bavan's warehouse district that the man takes him, to a large courtyard between two warehouses, dark at this time of night. He'd been on his way to work, the man says, and running late, took a shortcut through here and found this.

This is an intricate tableau of bodies, carefully arranged as if to form a story. To the right, eleven naked men—sheer swathes of colorful fabric loosely woven through their stiff limbs—set in a circle around the body of another man, large and muscular and clothed in a white robe. He has long white hair and a thick white beard. His left arm is curled around the body of a naked woman. His right is outstretched, reaching toward the body of another man, young and lean and blond, sprawled naked and reaching back toward him with his left hand. Their fingertips mere centimeters from touching.

Perhaps Javert recognizes it as a painstaking recreation of Michelangelo Buonarroti's Creation of Adam?

Although perfectly preserved, further examination will reveal that these individuals were not killed at the same time. Some died more than a week ago. One was killed earlier that night. They all appear to have been suffocated to death.

It will take some effort to uncover the names of all the victims: Gus Humphrey, Roger Daly, Tomas Weeks, Charley Moreno, Horace Foreman, Saim Wiggins, Wilson Murray, Aydin Aldred, Jack Talbot, McCauley Pace, Ajay Gibson, Cassidy Dawson, Cormac Neale, and Hallie Kirk. None of them are related. They don't seem to know each other. Further investigation will reveal histories of theft, murder, assault, robbery, selling illegal substances, and arson. Rumor has it that Cormac Neale may have even run in more dangerous circles.

Should Neale's apartment be searched, he will find the lower left-hand drawer of his bureau has a false bottom. Inside, one large pristine feather, white shading to black at the tip. Perhaps Javert recognizes it. It once belonged to him. ]

Javert, you seen your boy lately? I missed him at his new job.

[Javert has been Very Frustrated. And Very Upset. You know why? Because he'd been attempting to keep a tail on Valjean ever since he let him out into the city. Of course his attempts were foiled. Of course the old convict managed to slide under his eyes and ears and disappear into the ether. Of course he escapes manages to escape Javert, and yet somehow the fates see to it that Javert can never fully escape Valjean.]

The damn fool gave me the slip. No reason to hide, and here he is, off to his old habits! What has he done?

Just didn't show up. Which in itself ain't that unusual, but...

Maya says she hasn't heard from Dandy, either. I'm wondering if this isn't some new bullshit.

[Annnnnd there it is. A plummeting in Javert's guts.]

Did he give you his address?

...

His real address?

He gave me an address. But if what ya told me's still true, he's probably got something else lined up, too.

Give it here. I will go myself.

Wouldn't that be, say

a giant honking breach of confidentiality?

The address, please. Or I shall spend the rest of my day interviewing every man, woman, and child where he was last spotted, and sniff him out without you.

We'll both go. Meet me, and please don't sniff people in the meantime.

[ there's your address, Javert. ]

I know this address. I am leaving now. Don't delay yourself.

Don't worry, I'm the fastest wolf in the west.

[ Majima would show up as promised, arriving by dark-colored car just outside. When he shut the door, the vehicle drove off, leaving him sampling the air for the sort of scents and sounds that might provide some clue as to Valjean's whereabouts. ]

[Javert is already in an animated conversation with the portress (read: receptionist lady) of the apartment complex, questioning her gruffly about the presence of a white-haired old bear and when she had last seen him. The results of the interview are not optimistic, judging by the fierce look of misery and frustration on Javert's face. He dismisses her the instant he sees Majima, and approaches him briskly.

Perhaps the man is different than the last time they met. He is a vampire and not an angel, for instance. The familiar air of reservation, abruptness, and melancholy lingers about his head. He holds his head just a touch lower than the Nephilim, he clasps his hands at his back rather than across his chest, and wrinkles of exhaustion line his terse face.]

No one has seen him in over 24 hours. [He looks to the entrance. His fists tighten at his back, his mouth curving into a hollow smirk. He nearly laughs.]

I do not have a standing invitation to his flat.

Oh? Did ya insult his tea?

[ He tilted his head in the direction of the retreating woman. ]

And does that mean you can't get into the buildin', or just the apartment? I don't know how all the invitations work.

[ Could one hypnotize someone into giving permission? Surely if it was possible, Javert would have already done it. ]

The building is no trouble. His flat is less simple.

[Javert sniffs, his head bending to the ground. His glance fixates on a spot just beyond the tip of his nose.]

You must go in for me. I would not demand an invitation from him. It is his right to shut me out.

[ Really Javert

REALLY JAVERT ]

...so under normal circumstances, ya wouldn't be asking someone else to rummage through his apartment, right?

[ Not that this was, apparently, going to stop the werewolf from doing it. ]

Did you finagle a key off of the receptionist?

[ Majima was heading up and into the apartment building's foyer, but look, this was important. He needed to know if he was going to have to add B&E to this whole sketchy wellness check. ]

[Javert shoots Majima a look -- we all know that look. Who do you think he is? A common thief? A burglar? He draws the key out of his pocket and tosses it to Majima to catch.

Don't ask him how he finagled it. Better that Majima doesn't know.]

It is a wellness check, not a burglary. [He adds dryly,] You might try knocking first. I will follow and stay at the door.

[ That was not an answer. At least, not a satisfactory one. Go figure. ]

I will. But let's not kid ourselves.

[ They wouldn't be here if odds favored Valjean and a sudden urge to play hooky. Once they were at the door, Majima raised his hand to rap neatly at the door. He listened.

And then he unlocked the door, swinging it silently open. ]

[Javert isn't kidding himself, judging by the careful, tight, blank expression on his face. What he wants is confirmation of his anxieties: That someone interfered, that perhaps one of his enemies discovered Valjean before he could pick up his scent again... or something worse. He waits just outside the threshold when Majima makes his way in.

Inside, the basement apartment is a wreck. Furniture is overturned, a chair lies on its side, leg broken. Shelves are in disarray. There are obvious signs of quite a struggle by the 'harmless old man.' And amongst the wreckage, Majima will be able to find the one solid clue the culprits left behind:

A syringe cap, just like the syringes the poachers used against monsters during their coordinated kidnappings and attacks in mid-November.]

[ Impressive, really. A fight without the savaging of every piece of liftable furniture in the room could not truly be said to be a fight at all. The smell of fear and sweat, the splintering of wood. What he saw that was outside of Javert's field of vision, he called out.

And then, carefully, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the syringe cap, returning to the door. ]

Here.

[ SORRY ABOUT YOUR OLD MAN, OLD MAN ]

[Javert regards Majima without a speck of emotion in his eyes. He takes the handkerchief and carefully unwraps it. There is a moment of silence; he raises the cap beneath his nose and gives it a quick sniff, like a bloodhound.

The expression on his face drops indescribably. In truth, it is a subtle thing: a faint slackening of his lips here, a hollowing of the cheeks there, the emergence of deep dark rings beneath his eyes and the smoothing of all but the deepest of lines in his brow. His eyes are dull enough to swallow, rather than reflect the light.

All at once, he springs out of stillness, hurriedly wrapping the cap back up and burying it in his deepest pocket. His lower lip curls into a bulldoggish pout, fangs glinting hungrily. He readjusts his hat, drawing the brim low over his face. Apparently he is making ready to go.]

Thank you, Majima. That is all.

[ That was weird? But pretty much par for the course for Javert, so Majima simply shut and locked the door, giving the key an absentminded toss before catching it. ]

Uh huh. I'll give the key back.

[Javert glances to Majima absently, not a flicker of emotion on his face.]

See that you do. [Toneless. Dull. Dead.] There is work to be done. I'll send word if I discover more. Good night to you.

[He heads for the exit. Then heads past the exit toward the nearest hall-window, where he instead melts into his batty shape and flaps off into the night.]

Javert. Are you in?

I have some rather interesting news.

Javert.

Would you guess whom I saw in town?

No, really, guess.

I'm sure you're dying to know.

I am already dead, but I'll acknowledge your attempt. What do you want? Out with it.

A certain individual is here. A certain special someone.

[If only AM could see the horrendous face Javert is pulling right now.]

You give whoever-it-is too much credit. I would not call anyone in Ryslig singularly special.

All right. I'll use a different word.

A certain target of your obsession is here.

Well, don't be thick. Share the target's name.

I told you to guess, didn't I?

Is it Wegener's head on a platter? Don't disappoint me with such news.

[Oh my god Javert stop playing dumb!!!!!]

Well... I'll give you another hint.

He's more of an angel than you ever could have hoped to be.

I see. Where in town did you see this purported angel?

Oh, you think I would tell you? I don't want you abusing your warden privileges on him again.

Abuse of privileges is a grave disorder. You had better have proof of such if you ever accuse me again.

And yet you even admitted yourself that it was a mistake.

I have the very picture framed on my wall. I'm so glad I get to see him in the flesh now.

Yet it was no abuse, and I will remind you that I have committed no abuses with my position here. He is an old man. Certainly that is not enough to captivate you.

I'm not captivated at all.

I just thought you would like to know that your precious Valjean is here in Ryslig.

This is a poor method for a taunt. Get back to work, and I'll see to mine.

I'm not taunting you. I thought it would be a great courtesy to inform you that your obsession is in the same city as you.

Leave off with the 'obsession.' There is nothing of the sort.

Isn't lying an offense under your silly laws now?

It is a preoccupation, and rightly so. It is not an obsession.

Edited 2020-07-01 02:06 (UTC)

Denial: A psychological defense mechanism involving a refusal to accept reality.

It is no denial! And besides, you are late for the celebration. I knew he was here.

Oh good. I should have figured you would have sniffed him out the moment he arrived.

After all, that's what obsession is.

Fuck off and get back to work.

I never thought you to be so crass.

But I have done both of these things today.

I am plenty crass if I put my head to it. Off with you. I shall not humor this nonsense.

Oh I'm sure you are. And yet you played dumb when I first informed you of Valjean's presence, so obviously you are humoring my "nonsense."

[There is no further answer from Javert.

Instead, he is bent over a case file regarding an unusual series of murders. These have been consuming his time lately, along with the poacher miscreants and an ex-convict-that-shall-not-be-named, among other personal affairs. Yet even though the file is spread open on his desk, with polaroids of the crime scene to go with his notes, he is instead staring blankly at a spot just in front of his nose. His lip is curved in a deeply unsettled, inverted U, and his capped pen twists uselessly between his claws.]

[AM awaits a response from Javert, but of course it doesn't come. No surprise. After all, the man has more important things to do. And AM... would rather be at the labs right now. Having finished his paperwork and having no one to punish, he has nothing useful to do. So why not pester Javert?

After about twenty minutes, AM appears in Javert's office. As a vampire, he's far less imposing than he was as a nephilim, and frankly AM prefers it that way. But it doesn't matter; it's still the same person. The same man he frequently fantasizes about torturing.]

Well, well... What have we here?

[AM doesn't even try to be polite to Javert. Why should he when his hatred is so obvious?

He certainly notices the polaroids of the murders, at least, as he casually floats over to Javert's desk, leaning in.]

[Javert flips the folder shut with a sharp, sudden flick of his wrist. He does not raise his head. Only his intent red eyes swivel up to AM, thick with displeasure.]

Work. Something you ought to be doing, [he emphasizes haltingly, as if he were addressing a creature with the brain-equivalent of a tot.] Come for more?

[Indeed, the vampire is preferable. Those red eyes do nothing to frighten AM as he comes right up to the desk.]

In case you didn't notice, Javert, I am always quite diligent with my work.

[With the folder of photos closed, AM can't make out any more of the details, so he reaches his rotting hand down to open it back up, fully expecting Javert to stop him.]

What's this? Surely it has nothing to do with how Amanda and Aunamee imprisoned us, does it?

[Javert snatches up AM by the wrist and shoves him away.]

No. You're not an investigator, you are a punitive director. It isn't your concern.

[He laces his hands atop the closed folder and regards AM full in the face, icy and calm.]

Well! There are a score of paper stacks in the cabinet and a man thrown into cell block five. Surely you do not require me to hold your hand through these tasks.

Edited 2020-07-07 22:41 (UTC)

[The funny thing is, AM is positive he could run circles around Javert's investigative skill if he wanted, but he has no need. Let him play the chase game if he wants. But nonetheless, Javert easily shoves AM's wrist away.

He's half tempted to just sit on the desk like some seductress and mess up Javert's organized work, but that would be a bit too obvious.]

No, Javert. I don't require anything from you except...

[He places his hands on the table, leaning in closer, as close as Javert will let him. (Thankfully, AM's phylactery is not on his possession at this moment.)]

...To tell me again why we're not pursuing Aunamee and Amanda.

[He had seen Javert's close relationship with Aunamee when he examined his mind in the dreams, though the details were limited. It was more that he saw almost a soft spot.]

I have refreshed that thick skull of yours a thousand times, [Javert says dismissively. He does not shrink away when AM moves into his personal space. Let him posture; he will take it in stride, impassive and cold.] There is no physical evidence to condemn them. It is a simple matter. I shall not break principle for them nor anyone else.

[Exactly what he wanted to hear. If he could grin in his lich form, he would, but otherwise there is a distinct squint of his eyes as he backs off from the table.]

Good. I'm glad to hear it, Inspector.

[It's entirely possible Javert doesn't even remember the affair. Dreams are a strange thing, after all. But AM certainly does, and he will treasure it.]

[Javert allows the pregnant silence to hover between them, still and unmoving. He neither quavers in his impassivity, but nor does he relax.]

The answer you want is No.

[He doesn't move, letting Javert process the information. His unseen smile is still very much there, remembering all of the absolutely delicious torture he inflicted.]

I'm not sure what you mean. No to what?

[Say it. He wants to hear the details of that delicious suffering. He wants to know that he had all of that power over Javert and there is nothing he can do about it.]

No, you did not commit a crime. I have no intention of punishing you.

[Javert's brow arches high. He does not care for AM's gloating, but it is not enough for him to budge from his scruples.]

Is that all?

[AM knows. He knows that Javert knows. And Javert probably knows that AM knows - and on and on - that Javert knows that AM wants Javert to react, therefore he's putting on the same sour demeanor he always puts on.

It's disappointing in a way, but hardly surprising. It's Javert, after all. But AM will have those memories to savor, those memories of him in utter misery, begging for death.

So the best thing AM can do is either goad him for more, or accept it without making a scene himself. In fact, he looks even more pleased if possible, eyes squinting more with that invisible grin.]

Good.

[It's not relief in his voice, but delight. A purr of recognition, of the superiority that he thinks he holds over the inspector.]

That is all, Inspector.

Edited 2020-07-14 20:34 (UTC)

[ Directly after this ]

Did you just return home only to leave again when you heard Will shouting at me?

[Some time passes before Javert returns to his laptop for a reply. It's closer to dawn by the time he makes it back, and appraises this startling message with an arched brow and a pinched frown.

He considered it a courtesy to leave them to their privacy.]

I had no want to interfere. Your business is yours.

This is your home, Javert. Spending time in it is not an interference. No matter what anyone else in it might be doing.

In this case, your presence would have actually helped the situation. I told him about the gods. And Y'doethe.

And did he accept your account, then, of their role? Never mind the wretched Y'Doethe. Smear that one's name all you please.

Edited 2020-06-28 12:26 (UTC)

He had some difficulty with the lot of it. I can't blame him. Such creatures do not exist in our world. Perhaps you could speak with him too. Let him hear it from someone with whom he does not have such a complicated history.

Very well. Let him come to me with questions. In truth, it is a straightforward matter.

I believe it is too. But I've had time to adjust to life here. He has not. It's possible he doesn't fully believe this is real yet.

If he is the man you say he is, he will come around.

Might it be possible that he's not?

[This is interesting, and it reminds Javert of his thoughts about a certain ex-con who arrived on the same day as Will. Is Valjean the man he thought he was?]

You have my attention.

You have been here longer than me. If there are whispers of people who are not as they seem, I thought perhaps you might have heard them.

The poachers wear our faces when it suits them. That is the only verified case.

[Perhaps Lecter can read between the lines: that the only verified case does not discount the existence of other instances, and that there has been no credible reason to deny people who they say they are or who they choose to be when they enter Ryslig. It is the aim of the Fog God for them to be as they are, after all.]

I know for certain that he is not a poacher wearing a false face. I would smell the truth.

[ That doesn't address the implication of what Javert's said. And hasn't said. But at least it's one possibility off the table. ]

Then the rest is for you to figure. I don't know the man as you did. He shall hear from me shortly about God matters.

I appreciate it. Thank you for taking the time.

I owe you plenty more debts than this. It is nothing.

You don't owe me any damn debt, Javert. Banish the thought from your mind.

[What's that? It's the sound of Javert closing his laptop for now. Good morning to you, Monsieur.]

[ Maybe it's a stupid fucking decision to go get shit-faced when he's pretty sure some undead horror is creeping into his bedroom at night and stalking him wherever he goes, but so far staying awake all night to try to kill the thing hasn't produced the vampire in question. And the marks, initially hoped to be a figment of his overactive imagination, haven't disappeared. Roman has no choice but accept that they're real. Which means the vampire trying to kill him is real.

He's seen Dracula. He's seen half a dozen other vampire movies. He knows how this shit ends.

Four hours and so many shots of tequila that he's lost count later, Roman staggers out of the bar and onto the dark street. It's late. He doesn't know how late because he still doesn't have a new watch, but the streets are pretty empty. If the bastard whose after him approaches, he ought to see him coming. And if he gets too close, Roman's got a knife in his pocket. He can handle it.

He hopes.

Halfway back to his shitty apartment, he takes a shortcut through an alley, buoyed by the absence of monsters and alcohol-induced confidence into believing that he's just being paranoid. He's engaged in some pretty intense mental self-congratulation when he bumps into someone coming the other way. ]

Hey. [ There's a noticeable slur to his voice. ] Watch where you're going, huh?

[Javert halts in his tracks and tests the air, eyes sliding shut. Inhale. Exhale, slow and steady, let the flavor of the scent wash over his tongue.

This one's marinated, but in what? Not wine. Not whiskey. The corner of his mouth curls. Whatever courses through the man's veins, it is not quite the flavor Javert was craving that night--but it is awfully opportune. Besides, sometimes a dash of liquor imparts a little extra something, enriches the taste of the drink and masks any potential deficiencies in the stock. And no one ever misses the lushes. Anyone out getting soused alone on a week-end is hardly anyone worth a second glance for anybody except a lonely pissant looking for an easy fight.

Or a thirsty vampire. Yes, dinner-with-a-drink can suit Javert well enough for a meal.

Tapping his cane against a booted toe, he bends his head over his shoulder. He is a featureless shadow, the Fog and the shade of his hat-brim casting him as a tall, indistinct mount of a man. The polished head of his cane catches the light and glints like the blade of a knife.

He again sniffs and rumbles, a doggish growl set deep in his throat.]

You're good and steeped, [he barks.] What have you drunk?

Edited 2020-07-05 02:37 (UTC)

[ What? Roman's too drunk for this. Then again, he's too drunk for a lot of things. He looks at the guy, blinking slowly, trying to get the words lined up in a way that makes sense. Something something—Is he asking what he's been drinking?

None of your fucking business is Roman's first belligerent thought, but the words don't spill out of his mouth. He isn't feeling disagreeable enough for it. ]

Tequila. From... [ He waves a hand vaguely in the direction he's come from, the name of the bar swimming unhelpfully out of reach. If he ever knew it in the first place. He can't remember. ] Top shelf. Not bad.

[ Not what he's used to drinking, but nothing here is what he's used to. ]

You looking for a drink or what?

[The shadow-man scoffs, his head tottering blandly. Roman can't be certain, but it looks like a pair of red orbs twinkle in the dark. Maybe it's only a trick of the light. The fog is soupy-thick that evening, and the liquor pickling his brains wouldn't help with clarity.]

I am, as it were, [says Javert coldly.] Clever guess.

[Quick as whip-crack, Javert is there in Roman's face, the length of his cane pinning the drunk to the backside of a seedy diner. He wraps his knobby, icy fingers around Roman's jaw, forces his head this way and that to examine him from all angles. This is a fresh cut of meat, prepped and wrapped for inspection and processing. His lopsided frown reveals a pair of shimmering fangs curling over his kinked lower lip.]

I know your face, [he mutters, intent. The grip on Roman's jaw is tight enough to bruise.] Where have I seen you?

Edited 2020-07-06 13:30 (UTC)

[ It happens too fast for Roman to react. One second he's standing there. The next his back's hitting the wall and this fucker's pinning him there, manhandling his face. His head spins, the shadows and lights a nauseating blur for a moment.

With his thoughts still sloshing around in his head like unmoored boats lost at sea, he assumes it's the alcohol that's allowed this to happen. He's usually faster, more agile, than this. ]

Yeah? [ The guy's fingers bite into his skin but Roman doesn't struggle. He just rotates his wrist, his arm hanging limply at his side. ] Why don't you tell me?

[ Since he's glaring into the guy's face, he can't see what he's doing. He just jerks his hand upward, driving the knife that's dropped out of his sleeve to his hand into the guy's side. ]

[Javert's gaunt, pale face sharpens with a deep wince. His hold doesn't loosen; if anything, he squeezes tighter, the cool palm of his hand throttling Roman to the wall. Perhaps Roman might realize, now, the dreadful mistake he's made to put up a fight against an vampire. Perhaps he will understand, that this is not a mere pickpocket he's bumped into in a back-alley, but a grey-faced living death, all fearsome tooth, ravenous spittle, and blood-soaked eyes.

Galled, Javert wrenches both the hand and the knife out of his side, and appraises it with little more than a passing glance. The jab is like a pinprick to him, irritating and no more debilitating than a damn paper cut.]

A knife! [he scoffs. He throws the bloodied thing over his shoulder, where it zings and sticks a landing in a propped pallet behind him.] Left your respect at the pub, then? You annoy me. All the more suitable for a meal!

[The eyes light up with a brilliant ruby glow, lips curling back in a feral snarl. He chases all thoughts of familiarity out of mind and doesn't waste time with ritual or niceties any longer. With a crude hiss, he plunges his fangs into Roman's throat.]

[ Should've brought a bigger knife is Roman's last distinct, coherent thought. It's dark, he's drunk, and the whole situation has taken on a surreal tone that he doesn't know how to process properly. Living in a place supposedly full of movie monsters is one thing. Experiencing it is another.

It hurts. That makes it through the haze of confusion and intoxication right away. It's the what that gets a little muddled. The guy's cutting his throat? Biting him? Stabbing him?

Roman struggles then, fights against the guy's hold on him because whatever else he is, he isn't some meek little pussy who's going to die without even trying to fight back. He just can't get any leverage and the guy is too strong. But he scratches at what he can reach, tries to hit his attacker and kick his legs, snarling curses all the while.

Maybe he's going to die tonight. But he's not going to make it easy on his killer. ]

[All of Roman's fight will prove to be fruitless. No mere human is a match for a monster without the proper tools -- silver, Poacher's drugs, a fine, sharp stake of sturdy hardwood. Javert drinks of him freely, jaws clamping deeper, until there is nothing left to give, the man's flailing falling limp beneath his hands.

It isn't until the beating of the heart gives out its final dying flutter that Javert drops him. He takes a solitary moment for himself, lips parted in a satisfied sigh and the fresh blood coursing a warmth through his cold body. Pink rises to his cheeks like a porcelain doll, the liquor imparting its mellowing magic.

Fluidly Javert crouches over the dead man and takes a proper look at his face. Already his eyes are clouded and askew in death, unfocused, scattered. Where has he seen him? The face, the expression, the bone structure all pluck an eerie chord, familiar yet wrong. He rifles through the man's pockets, brow creased, searching for any sign of identification.

Nothing. It figures that this crude fellow would be a nameless thing. In all likelihood, he was too drunk to remember he forgot his wallet at the pub. This one's name-entry in his journal will amount to nothing more than a physical description: male, mid-forties, average height, lithe build, short-cropped hair and a comely oval face.

Javert throws the man over his back and sets off to drop the body at the morgue. It shall not be until he makes it back to the house that morning, when it occurs to him where he's seen that pale, dead face before:

Aunamee. Monseigneur Aunamee.

It is with great discomfort and a lopsided, crumpled expression that he drops Aunamee a well check before retiring for the day. He would rather not spend the day tuttering over whether he has gone entirely mad.]

A clarification, if you will.

You scolded me for the mere suggestion that I might kill monsters, habitually or otherwise. Yet it seems that you're quite permissive of our kinsmen violating each other in other ways. Do you mean to tell me that, so long as there's no body, you see no reason to intervene?

[ It's half genuine curiosity, and half the need to needle. But much was said where anyone might see it, and Lucius has a nose for this sort of trouble. ]

That would be a grave mistake, Monsieur Lucius-the-Eternal. Killing fellow monsters is a disruption of natural order. No good is to come of it, only an endless cycle of bloody revenge and petty arguments. That does not suit our purpose here. The complaints from the busybodies you read about on the network are speaking about a shared hallucination, in which none of us were harmed at the end of it. There are no concrete laws or guidelines about such incidents, and therefore there is no fair and just way to condemn such actions as our society stands. M. Edgeworth and the lawyers studying the law tracts of Ryslig mean to change this. That is their area to manage, not mine. I know my place.

If you wish to show me respect, you will address me by my title and my title alone.

[ And if not—well, now his intent is clear. ]

So, which is it, then? Was there no provocation, and no harm done? Or is this simply a matter of laws yet to be penned?

One is understandable, at least to those who believe it a virtue to follow someone else's rules. The other is laughable to everyone alike. Take it from me: Insisting on it will do nothing but harm your authority in the eyes of those you wish to herd.

It is no offense without physical harm, and the lot of them are wrong. Better to lie in wait for an egregious, concrete error than rabbit on about a muddy line. If others wish to pen a rule on psychic crimes, so be it, but I do not condone it. It is unenforceable. I made this abundantly clear time and again, and it has yet to penetrate their thick heads.

By your own word, then, there is no reason for you to act on my killing a monster.

After all, it may hurt, and you may feel fear, but in the end, won't you just awake again, as unharmed as ever? As if it were all a dream, there will be no lasting damage done to your body. You won't even suffer the painful world beyond as your soul seeks to find its way back to your flesh. Why, your time as one of the dead may be even more peaceful than sleep!

The only damage done is the damage done to your mind. Unenforceable, isn't it?

Not at all. There are bodies left behind, there is evidence, there are marks on ourselves and holes in our minds we carry with us after each death. There are reports filed and a clear line in the sand between murder, assault, and orderly, decent monster-to-monster behavior. We awake from death starved and mad. That produces more waste, more damage, less reason. This is the only psychic crime which concerns me: stripping others of memories against their will and rolling off on an endless wheel of revenge and violence until the entire pot of you are empty numbskulls. Conversely, let's talk Monseigneur Aunamee's incident. What is a dream beyond a dream? Nothing at all. There is no substance. Come to me again after your first several deaths, and we can speak plainly on even terms. For you will die. All of us do. See how peaceful and restful it is, then!

Edited 2020-07-18 00:58 (UTC)

You continue to speak as though only murder brings retribution. My mistake, then! The reason we're conversing at all must have been a figment of my imagination.

[ And the way Javert speaks to him about death, as though Lucius has never experienced it, is so plainly ridiculous that he can't even muster the venom to correct him. It isn't his fault if he misunderstood the nature of his Eternity! ]

Let me state myself clearly, then! If that is what you truly believe, you are a fool - and no one wants to follow a fool's authority.

If a man within my warhost turned to one of his brothers and picked his mind open like a carrion bird with a corpse, I wouldn't suffer him. More than that, if I tried to tell his victim what you have me, I'd have a mutiny on my hands. A violation of the mind is the same as any other, and one carried out by only the worst manner of scum.

Then I invite you to contact Miles Edgeworth about refining the rule. Until you draw out the terms, define what constitutes a mind-crime and what does not, and what punishment that ought to merit, it is no more than a misdemeanor and a sharp scolding. Personal disputes, not legal ones. Take it to the Cube for a duel, or sock and collar each other like a pair of wild animals. I do not care about that!

No. If I had my hand in writing an actual lawbook, I think I'd burst into flame on the spot. I just couldn't stand the sight of you mangling your own good standing so thoroughly.

[ That, and the claim that no harm is done in one case and not the other reeks of hypocrisy to him. He just can't help himself. ]

That is why I came to you - to offer you my humble advice, as a man who regrettably must impose some semblance of order onto hundreds of killers. I'm quite qualified, wouldn't you say?

How many times do I have to say that I am an enforcer of natural order, not a writer of laws? I am perfectly plain about my authority and its reach. I don't claim more than my station. That would be an abuse of position.

Then it's good that the advice I intend to give is in how to make them think your enforcement is something to accept, not in what to enforce, isn't it? No, I may call you an idiot who doesn't understand what part of a man makes him what he is, but I only care to argue that point so far.

You assume I do not have abundant experience with unpopularity, newcomer. My work is unpleasant and unloved, Monsieur, but that does not make it unnecessary. I know my place. May you find yours in this society quickly.

Oh, no, I would never assume you don't know what it's like to be widely disliked. What I do assume is that you've never had to invent authority out of whole cloth before. You were always a dog to some greater machine, never an agent of your own conscience - I'm right, aren't I?

Come on. You aren't even a little curious about what I have to say?

Ah, there is more? Here I thought you were finished. Out with it, then, and say what you have come to me to say.

You'll find that I am finished very rarely.

I've already told you that I am God-touched. Within my warband, every man offers his devotion to the same Lord as I - or, at least, the form His face takes within their mind. You must think that makes it easy for me, when I speak as the most beloved of Slaanesh's most beloved.

It doesn't. I tell those men not to kill each other like beasts when they're bored, and they grumble at me for taking away their fun. I tell them they may slip their leashes and indulge, and then they whine about it when they've turned things to shit with their own mistakes. The authority of God, even when the lot of you agree its authority is true, means nothing in the face of what the heart desires.

Living souls only respond to two things: force, and their own self-interest. Either you need to find an example to make, or you need to learn how to cater to the latter.

Practical advice. Unneeded, but practical. I allow my work to speak for itself, Lucius the Eternal. Judge by my actions once you have had the time to observe them. Anything short of that is rumor and gossip. Good day to you, Monsieur! May we meet soon.

Hey there. Head's up, you're gonna have to find someone else to look after Valjean for ya.

[To be melodramatic, another piece of him dulls and withers when he sees this message, though comprehension has not yet dawned on him.]

What is this about, Majima?

You gonna make me say it? He got kidnapped on my watch. I can't live out here and keep an eye on him at the same time.

[ and also he wasn't entirely sure agreeing to watch a man who clearly didn't want tabs kept on him had been the right thing from the start. ]

You should talk to him. Cards on the table.

Valjean has a way of slipping through the cracks. The damn ox cannot help but run, even when it benefits no one. Old habits, old dog, all that nonsense.

[There's a little bit of his old self, there.]

I do not believe that I am welcome to speak with him.

You mentioned that before, but ya still ought to try. If you care what happens to him, and I think you do.

Unless you already tried it and he told ya to get lost. In which case forget everything I just said.

He would be right to turn me out, you realize. Which inevitably means he would not do it. Of course not.

Pardon? If he's the kind of guy to listen to what ya have to say, why all the tiptoing around? Because ya might come to an understanding?

Wouldn't that be the best case scenario?

Are you mocking me? If I wished to understand him at all, I would ask him directly!

Then why are you avoidin' him? If it's to keep danger off his trail, I think that train's left the station.

[Because he doesn't think Valjean ought to spare him the time? Because he doesn't think he's worthy?

Javert doesn't have a satisfactory answer to this question. Every answer he repeats to himself is weak. He, in fact, has no intention of answering, until--]

'poasidjfhausdaqqqq.QQQ

Are you fakin' a heart attack

I'm insulted.

A cat. It was a cat. Those creatures are taken to these devices, aren't they?

Nice try. I know a subject change when I see one.

Anyway, consider this advance notice.

You are a good man, Majima. An insufferable one, but a good man. But I am not. If Monsieur Valjean requests an audience, I will give him one. I will not say more on that subject.

Edited 2020-07-21 23:59 (UTC)

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, PasUnPolicier. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 246.01.094.30 * PasUnPolicier has joined 246.01.094.30 <PasUnPolicier> This mail centre belongs to Javert. <PasUnPolicier> Be accurate and brief. <PasUnPolicier> I suggest you not test my patience with practical jokes and clowning around. <PasUnPolicier>** I will return your notice shortly.

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<juno> -> action

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ooooof and here I come crawling back from the holidays

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<kyouken> Sometime after Christmas

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CW: References to Suicide

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wanna wrap this one?

Finite!

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<jack> 1/23; surprise contact after her own post, but sadly not about swords

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