First entrance

[withahumanface]

Inspector Javert is deep in thought as he opens the door to his rented room. He has long been suspicious of Monsieur Madeleine, who triggers the deeply rooted instinct that makes Javert the successful policeman that he is, but the incident of the runaway cart is troubling him on a brand-new level. The man's remarkable display of strength in

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[mycursedface]

Sitting on a table is a dark, lovely woman with large feathered wings. Said wings are gold, and may detract from the fact that her short dress (she's wearing jeans underneath) leave her arms bare.

The woman is also having trouble with a kitten. To be exact, a dark tortoiseshell kitten who has managed to tangle himself up in red wool.

And if it appears that the woman is hissing, and some of those black braids are moving, well.

Sometimes, senses can be deceiving.

[withahumanface]

Details never escape Javert. He sees the indecent dress and the men's trousers as clearly as he sees the wings, the kittens, and - Javert's eyesight is excellent - the snakes.

He has never been one to doubt the evidence of his eyes; people lie, but the senses do not. And, objectively, the woman is no stranger than the presence of a tavern where his room is meant to be located.

It could be a fever dream. It would be the most logical explanation. Illness can call forth remarkable visions. But he does not recall falling ill.

[mycursedface]

"Shreddie, would you just-"

Her voice isn't human, either - it's far too clear, far too much like a flute. It is also full of exasperation as the wool-incased kitten leaps to freedom off the table and starts waddling over to Javert's direction.

Medusa's hand hits her forehead.

[withahumanface]

Javert notes the cat, which is - judging from the bits visible around the wool - cleaner and more healthy-looking than the strays he usually encounters. Domesticated cats aren't common in Montreuil-sur-mer.

He remains where he is, taking in the details of his surroundings before he decides how to proceed. It would be wisest to assume that this place and its inhabitants are real. He doesn't feel delirious, and those caught in dreams rarely think to question what is happening.

[street_sparrow]

Gavroche doesn't often forget a face, and this man's he very definitely remembers.

He looks up from his seat by the fire when the door opens, and his eyes narrow when he sees who it is.

(He's never quite got over his old dislike of the police. Mostly, but not quite.)

[withahumanface]

Javert is being stared at. He can feel it immediately, with that sixth sense any officer of the law must develop to rise any higher than the lowest levels of policing.

He pinpoints the source of the stare almost instantly; a boy seated near an open fireplace. The boy is not from Montreuil-sur-mer. In fact, Javert does not recognize him at all, even though the boy clearly knows him. This would ordinarily be a cause for concern, and under the not-at-all-ordinary circumstances, merits a certain measure of alarm.

Javert meets his gaze directly, angling his chin slightly to indicate that he is waiting for identification and explanation, the sooner the wiser. It's a look he is very good at.

[street_sparrow]

He gets a cool gaze back, then Gavroche gets up to meet him.

"M'sieur. J'suis Gavroche Riddle, autrefois de Paris."

I'm Gavroche Riddle, once of Paris.

[withahumanface]

The name is as unfamiliar as the face, and the surname decidedly not French. The rest of it is likewise unhelpful; Javert has not worked in Paris. The boy could have been responding to a recognition of the air of authority that any policeman worth his salt projects, but Javert knows the difference between that and a more personal recognition.

"[Then where do you know me from, Gavroche Riddle?]" There are perhaps more pressing questions at hand, but he would like to sort out this particular matter before he admits to any disorientation about his surroundings.

He does not bother giving his name.