Javert ✍ 018
Who: Agent Gerald Javert and Naomi Hunter
Where: Gerald's Bachelor Pad in Somni. It is a very old building.
Style: Thirfirst
Status: Closed unless you live in Gerald's closet.
The shrill ding of an old-fashioned bell alarm jolted Agent Gerald Javert from fitful slumber. Dawn filtered through cheap and ragged gossamer curtains. He felt around his bedstand, hand groping through a half-full ashtray, and snatched the rusted, shrieking clock. A violent knock silenced the alarm, and the worn agent peered at its face through bleary, tired eyes.
Javert promptly expelled a violent cuss, running a large, rough hand down his face. He threw the covers off and clambered out of bed, exposing the shapely, smooth, bare back of an exotic young woman beside him. Without a glance to her, and muttering low piecemeal reminders to himself under his breath, he padded to the yellowing tile of his humble washroom for five-minute morning ablutions, half-naked and sporting an unsightly five o'clock shadow.
Agent Gerald Javert was, perhaps, five minutes slower to emerge from bed than usual, sticky and clammy and reeking of stale tobacco. In the grand scheme of a twenty-four hour day, five minutes was a menial amount of time to lose. But to an insanely busy man known for drifting from place to place with the grace and speed of a silver bullet, five minutes would start quite the irrevocable ripple, not to mention a considerable annoyance to the start of a new day.
The washroom door swung shut, the paper-thin walls quaking under the creaking hinges, and the sound of pressurized water burst from imperfect piping like a flash flood. Soon, the pungent stench of a fresh cigarette billowed through the cracks with the steam, his unceasing muttering echoing through the walls...
Where: Gerald's Bachelor Pad in Somni. It is a very old building.
Style: Thirfirst
Status: Closed unless you live in Gerald's closet.
The shrill ding of an old-fashioned bell alarm jolted Agent Gerald Javert from fitful slumber. Dawn filtered through cheap and ragged gossamer curtains. He felt around his bedstand, hand groping through a half-full ashtray, and snatched the rusted, shrieking clock. A violent knock silenced the alarm, and the worn agent peered at its face through bleary, tired eyes.
Javert promptly expelled a violent cuss, running a large, rough hand down his face. He threw the covers off and clambered out of bed, exposing the shapely, smooth, bare back of an exotic young woman beside him. Without a glance to her, and muttering low piecemeal reminders to himself under his breath, he padded to the yellowing tile of his humble washroom for five-minute morning ablutions, half-naked and sporting an unsightly five o'clock shadow.
Agent Gerald Javert was, perhaps, five minutes slower to emerge from bed than usual, sticky and clammy and reeking of stale tobacco. In the grand scheme of a twenty-four hour day, five minutes was a menial amount of time to lose. But to an insanely busy man known for drifting from place to place with the grace and speed of a silver bullet, five minutes would start quite the irrevocable ripple, not to mention a considerable annoyance to the start of a new day.
The washroom door swung shut, the paper-thin walls quaking under the creaking hinges, and the sound of pressurized water burst from imperfect piping like a flash flood. Soon, the pungent stench of a fresh cigarette billowed through the cracks with the steam, his unceasing muttering echoing through the walls...