Right so obviously i own NOTHING. It's all inspired from the genius of Les Miserables. Erm R&R would be appreciated ;)


He never got used to the smell . The smell of rot, faeces, and despair. The smell of death. Yet that was what greeted him every morning when he patrolled the cells. For the hour of patrol he would walk past the cells, glaring at each prisoner, and bathe in the satisfaction of his job. The thieves, murderers, and rapists were behind bars; in the prisons care. In his care. Those deemed unworthy to roam the streets looked at him with hatred as he walked by. He thrived on that hatred.

Inspector Javert left his office at ten am every day to walk the length and breadth of the rectangle prison. He inspected every prisoner. He had seen it all. Some wailed, some screeched and cursed him, whilst others glowered at him. It was those prisoners, the ones with murder on their minds and lips, that he would take time to stare down.

It was late Autumn. It was not warm. Some prisoners died in the night whilst other caught pneumonia or hypothermia. Javert did not feel an ounce of guilt however. It was warmer in the jail than it was on the Parisian streets where he found them.

He left his immaculate office, straightened his collar and started his patrol.

The only thing she could focus on was the cold. Leaning against the back wall of her cell she pulled her shawl tighter around her. Nicolette didn't know how she had ended up here. Nor why. Yet here she was. She had never broken a law in her life, and she didn't intend to. She remembered falling asleep in her usual spot; under the big Oak tree in the park. Then she woke up here. At first she had been terrified. Everyone in Paris knew what happened to woman in jail. Some returned to the street disfigured, beaten, emotionally broken. Most didn't return at all.

But so far her visit had been uneventful. She had the sense to count four hours passing since she had woken. It felt like four years. But undoubtedly the worst thing was the woman next to her. Weeping and snivelling in the corner without even a pause for breathe. That and the smell of course.

Her hand were shackled together but her bare feet were free. She shivered again and blew warm air into her hands. She was waiting; for quite what she did not know. But she was waiting.

The woman next door had been reduced to a simpering when she heard it. It was faint at first, but it was gradually becoming louder. A slow and steady thud, like a heartbeat, or a drum. Echoing round the prison. Eventually it dawned on her that it was in fact footsteps. But she did not bother moving, content to just listen curiously. As the footsteps came to the cell next to her the simpering woman burst to life. She cried and wailed and threw herself at the bars.

"Be quiet little rat" A gravelly voice flooded in from the dark. It was deep and menacing. And it worked. The woman scurried to the back of her cell and coward in the corner.

Nicolette stood, out of curiosity and pure relief. She silently shifted to the front of her cell, but not to the bars/ One footsteps, two, three. One more and she came face to face with the man every criminal in Paris; and perhaps France, feared. He was the tallest man she had ever stood this close to. She could tell he was broad and muscular beneath his uniform. He had a square jaw and auburn hair that was greying at the side. His mouth was set in a grim line. But what struck her most was his eyes. Piercing green and framed with thick lashes, glaring at her in the gloom.