Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis. Or Javert. Or what passes for Valjean in this. However, I am currently working on a machine that shall – ah. Ehm. Never mind.
-sigh- I have the most awful feeling that this is going to be flamed…
Well… my second fan-fiction. It'll probably be awful because, once again, I wrote the first bit at one o' clock in the morning. I know you all think I'm insane! You're perfectly right! However, if you think I'm a sadistic maniac who likes watching things suffer, you're wrong. I'm a sadistic maniac who likes watching Valjean suffer. Because… I don't like him. Yeah. I also like making Javert suffer, because that's fun. That… well, that's just me.
On a more positive note, there is something about this fan-fiction that I believe binds me to it somewhat. When I wrote the first few paragraphs, on the night of my thirteenth birthday, for a split-second I actually felt hot. My eyes stung and I could smell dust. You'll never believe me, but I swear in that split-second I heard a stone crack. It was then that I knew this fan-fiction was going to be very, very alternative. I have an unimaginably strange plot twist waiting for you all at the end, so stay tuned. Although I'm warning you – it is going to deal with a few issues that may not be suitable for little kiddies. There's going to be a little death, probably a lot of gore and a little sprinkling of psychosis.
You have been warned.
Read on if you dare. :K
Dedication: To Girl With The Quill Pen, my wonderful friend, without whom I would not be writing fan-fiction at all. She helped me with my two male OCs, Raphael and Clément (mostly Clé), and has been, in general, a good source of information and a good buddy. 3 Kudos to her.
OoooO
The sound of breaking rocks split the air with spontaneous bursts of strength from the gathered convicts, working beneath the treacherous sun, which beat harshly down upon their backs with more ferocity perhaps than the whips of the guards, lashing out when progress was lax or hindered by preventable accidents. The air was clogged with dust from the breaking stones and heavy with heat, and the rocks baked beneath the sun, making even walking somewhat painful. Prison guards stood like wooden soldiers around the convicts, keeping close eye on their tortured wards. They were steadfast; stony-faced. They felt no pity for the broken souls before them, as was their job. If they did, they did not act on or show it. This was Purgatory, and the wretched worked in sight of the angels, whose word could mean destruction or salvation. They worked, knowing they had little hope of making it back to God. The dust stung their eyes, the sun beat their backs; the guilt ravaged their souls. They'd passed the point of no return.
Among the guards was a man named Javert.
He was taller than average, and an imposing figure although he was not of a high rank as yet, with broad shoulders and skin a little darker than that of a regular Frenchman – a gift, perhaps, from his mother, a gypsy, with whom he had long since severed contact with. He had pale blue, mistrustful eyes – not the mistrust of a frightened animal, but the mistrust of one who has no reason to trust; mistrust toward those in the world who have not earned trust. His hair was a rich, mahogany shade, thought in time it would lighten to grey. He seemed to be always frowning, stood very straight and spoke little or not at all unless it were required.
Javert walked among the convicts, oblivious to the glares and muttered curses they gave him as he passed. Eventually, he stopped behind a man who, unwisely, had chosen that very moment to pause in his work and mutter, "Bastard," as Javert passed. The prison warden turned, glared at him, then halted and moved a step closer.
"Your number?" he asked. Just because he can't keep a civil tongue in his filthy head doesn't mean I should sink to his level. Convicts swore at him all the time, so it wasn't exactly anything unusual, but this particular insult had been singled out for the sole reason that it was true. The con wouldn't have known that, certainly, but it still struck a cord.
The man turned his head slightly then quickly glanced away again. After a brief pause he turned his head to present one side of his sweaty face. "Two-four-six-oh-one."
Javert tilted his head upward a little and turned to move away; but was abruptly halted. "Wait." The convict frowned and turned about fully, facing the guard. He paused, and Javert raised his eyebrows in a way that indicated that he was not interested, but would waste his time listening anyway. The man who had introduced himself with the number 24601 seemed to ignore this, and asked, "Are you the one they call Javert?"
"…Yes." That the convict should know his name surprised him a little, but his voice remained apathetic as ever.
The convict frowned still more. "I thought they said you died."
Javert stared. It was odd – the statement didn't sound like a lie, but Javert knew it wasn't true – he wasn't dead, and if he was, well, he hadn't noticed. It was probably just some stupid rumour or joke, or perhaps –
The convict's face abruptly melted away, along with the rest of Toulon. He now stood on a parapet. A glance around might have told him it was the Pont de Notre-Dame, but he was not able to do so. Although he had not tried moving yet, a terrible, locking sensation gripped his body and as he stood, helpless, he began to realise that whatever force controlled him was forcing him nearer to the edge – nearer to the water.
To those who are confident and in control of their lives, there can be no worse ordeal than suddenly losing control. In Javert's mind, it was a losing battle between him and whichever unseeable force was controlling him. He would not be conquered! He was no-one's slave! He would not let this break him! He was not weak! Maybe once he had been a weak, emotional fool, but those days were over.
Weren't they?
As he stopped struggling, comprehending instead this one question that had risen above the tumult of painful thoughts, Javert inadvertently raised a foot.
Javert's stomach lurched. Against his will, his foot had been raised above the abyss. The feeling of complete helplessness was devastating – the whole situation was a violation, an invasion of his mind, his will.
No! No! You can't make me do anything! No!
Too late – before he could be properly terrified, he found himself leaning forward slightly and tipping off the bridge. Tipping; slowly at first, then faster, until he was falling through the air, water rushing up toward him.
Then, quite simply, he woke up.
OoooO
That dream again, he thought later, striding into the office with his regular composure, a small pile of papers held under his arm.
"Oh! Inspector! Inspector!"
"Ugh…" Javert muttered, shuddering slightly. Just what he needed. He pretended to ignore the cries, hoping that they'd get the message. No such luck.
"Inspector!"
"Oh, for goodness sake, Jeune, when are you going to stop following me?" he said, a little snappishly. The subordinate flinched.
"I'm sorry, Inspector," he said, boyish face crumpling.
Clément Jeune was new to the force. He was about a head shorter than Javert, who stood at about six foot, and had long, lanky limbs. His face was a bright with the innocence of youth despite his twenty-five years and his eyes, pale green, were rounder and wider than usual. He had a button nose and wavy hair of a sandy colour, and rosy cheeks. His teeth were a little crooked, making him look still more childish, and were visible with his boyish smile, which lit up frequently. Open and eager to please, Clément was an optimist; one whose attitude could make almost anyone smile. He was a man still in the midst of his youth, and if anyone loved life it was Clément Jeune.
Something to note of Clément was his unwavering respect for his superiors and his dedication. He'd been bought up and nurtured in a loving family with an older sister and younger brother, and had left home with a clear intention – to protect. To protect his family, his friends and, indeed, all of society. Clément could seem a little too flippant at times, but at heart he was a noble man – and he'd begun idolise Javert almost soon as he'd met him, though for the life of him Javert couldn't understand why.
Clément averted his eyes to the floor for a second, and then returned them to Javert. He stood still, tilting his head at the inspector. "Inspector, is something wrong?" he asked.
Javert stopped. "Nothing's wrong, Jeune."
An icy tone had crept into his voice. Clément faltered. "Inspecto–"
"Jeune, your job is not to be my friend," said Javert, gazing coolly at him, "it is to be my inferior. I don't need you to ask me how I am, because I'm absolutely fine.
"Always," he added hastily. "There is nothing wrong with me. If in doubt, that is what you assume."
Clément nodded slowly, confused as to why someone would get so stressed out over such a little question. "Sorry, Inspector."
"Don't apologise to me, Jeune, just don't do it again." Javert continued walking, passing the subordinate easily.
Clément dipped his head and followed him. Suddenly a laugh reached their ears. "Having fun, Javert?"
Tilting his head upward slightly, Javert observed the speaker. "Rouge, I do not believe that 'fun' is the correct adjective to describe anything I do."
The other man snorted. "Really? Because from the way you carry on, one might be led to believe that you enjoy torturing the subordinates."
"Just remember, Rouge, that you, too, are a subordinate to my eyes – and I am not torturing Jeune," said Javert, voice lowering to a dangerous growl. "I am teaching him discipline."
"Could you do it any more harshly?"
"Why, yes I could," Javert replied, casting a furtive, dangerous glance at Clément, who was standing behind him. "I could tie him to a post and dictate the Code to him."
Clément looked startled and Rouge abruptly shut up.
After standing there smiling peaceably at Rouge for a while, Javert calmly strode off again, Clément scuttling after him a few seconds later.
Raphael Rouge shook his head. He's wasting his time, that boy. Javert's never going to like him.
OoooO
"Inspector, do we have any new cases?"
"No, but I have a headache."
Clément sighed. He respected Javert, but sometimes the older man could be so… well… difficult. He sung his own song, that was for sure – Javert was probably obsessed with the law, but in his own, special way.
Javert, on the other hand, was having his own issues. He wasn't usually one to pay attention to his dreams, but this one just kept coming back, and the problem was that he first off had no idea what it meant, and was in the second place concerned about the convict in the first part of the dream.
24601.
Well, it struck something.
Ignoring Clément, he took a pen from his desk and began filling out some documents; it calmed his nerves – the thought of leaving things half-finished disturbed him and besides, these were due soon.
"Inspector?"
The addressed paused in the middle of a sentence. "Yes, Jeune?" he asked, taking his pen from the paper and gazing wearily at the minor.
"When am I going to get to do some field work?" He sounded hopeful.
"Oh, eventually. In the meantime you'll just have to continue pestering me, won't you?" he said dryly. He stood, gathered the documents he'd been working on into a neat pile, and stepped away from his desk a little. Then, suddenly, something occurred to him, and he stared at the younger man. "Clément – why are you in my office?"
Clément shrugged and seemed to disintegrate a little, as if embarrassed. Javert narrowed his eyes at him. "Go away."
Lowering his eyes and murmuring, "Yes, monsieur", Clément left the room. Javert watched him go. Then he sat back down at his desk, pondering his own thoughts.
24601.
Alright, the dream had been in Toulon quarry, so theoretically, whoever the man was, he would be in the Toulon records. He probably wasn't in Toulon now – Javert had a feeling that the dream had been set a decade or so back, when he had been a prison warden. He didn't know what told him this, but it was something.
He placed his hand on the desk and suddenly noticed something under the pile of papers he'd straightened earlier. It was a small, black book – almost like a notebook. He tilted his head at it and finally lifted the papers, pulling it out. He blinked. This couldn't have possibly got here by itself – somebody must have bought it to him… but who?
The title, written on the front in plain, black lettering, was Dossiers de 24601.
It couldn't be true. This was absolutely ridiculous. Javert made a firm point of not believing in magic, but this was just plain unusual.
Opening the book, he smoothed the pages and began to read the profile before him.
OoooO
Well… it sucks a little bit, but for a first chapter written in the erm… earlier hours of the morning, I'm pretty pleased with it. Be gentle with the critique, please, or I'll die.
Because I like to maintain a sense of order in everything I do, this story shall have a weekly update basis. The update day shall be Monday, but if I write slowly you'll doubtless get a pathetic excuse if I miss an update (and will probably get the actual chapter up a couple of days later unless I have a good excuse).
Plot ideas would be appreciated, although I have the basic bones of the storyline laid out in my mind. If I'm in a good mood I might give someone a cameo, though probably not. I don't plan to use many of the canons in this fic except for Javert and Valjean, but if you want to see someone else, PM me or leave a review and I'll see how I feel about it.
Another thing…
If you absolutely hate this, please keep it to yourself. To be entirely honest, I actually dislike most of my writing, so flames will likely be taken entirely seriously and will probably result in my getting upset and stopping the story (at least for a while). The thing is that I barely ever flame fan-fictions because I don't like hurting feelings. I'd thank you to do the same.