kill me romantically, fill my soul with vomit

[orestes]

Who: Javert and Enjolras
What: Zombiefied spies, man.
Where: Idk around.
When: Week 3
Warnings/Notes: The general unpleasantness associated with the undead.



Thus far, Enjolras had managed to avoid catching sight of anyone he knew from the Capitol, or from back home in Paris. It was a blessing in some ways, and a nightmare in others. While he wasn't faced with what would become of his supposed, assumed allies in a life and death scenario where they were all, technically, enemies, he also couldn't help but wonder about them. Was Gavroche well? And what of the sister he'd mentioned? The man he'd discussed Robinson Crusoe with, or the boy who had so uncertainly answered his questions the night of the rebels' attack?

These unfortunate thoughts clouding his head, he neglected to alert Little Rock as he stole off into the night. It was reckless and exactly what he'd told her not to do. They needed to be aware of each other's movements, to account for them and no when to look for one another if something felt amiss. Still, he wasn't a child, and he didn't need a child's concern. It was increasingly easy to justify such opinions as the days passed and the stakes, ostensibly, were raised. That was yet another unpleasant thought, he could only hope the night air would clear his head.

Comments

[greatestdetectiveaward]

Javert finds himself keeping to routines as he looks for prey. Other zombies may wander, but Javert considers it more of a patrol, and he covers each road carefully as he stumbles around. He makes sure to check dark corners and alleyways, where he suspects he might find...something. He's looking for something, something more than just a warm body to eat. He's looking to solve something.

But the corners and alleys don't offer him the puzzle pieces he needs, so he lurches around for a long time, well after sunset and into the night. His mind doesn't wander, nor do his feet, and he's impervious to feeling too much concern in this state, but it gets difficult to see. As such, moving quietly through the night, he doesn't see Enjolras until he's so close it surprises him, a good twenty feet. He should have seen him at forty.

I'm sorry, this took me forever. :(

[orestes]

Enjolras sees him. Rather, Enjolras sees an ill-define but nonetheless imposing shape ambling almost listlessly toward him in the night. Were he less exhausted and were his nerves less wearied by the reality of their situation, he might've concocted a more lucid plan of escape. Instead, he holds his ground, waiting for his potential adversary even as he knows he may be outmatched. There's a rational part of his mind that tells him to disappear into the rubble around him before his opponent can see him but it's drowned out by the cries of everything else, too tired from the act of simply existing here to run. And to think, all he'd wanted was a moment in which to contemplate the tragedy of it all. How fitting that such would destroy him.

"I will not fight with you." He offers the stranger as he approaches, his voice burning dryly in his throat. Even though the darkness and the fog of his own head, there's something familiar about the imposing shape, and Enjolras can only hope that he hasn't irreparably miscalculated his actions in the name of weariness and lethargy.

no problem! I love to backtag.

[greatestdetectiveaward]

This gives Javert pause, and for a moment it seems as if he's about to stop. He doesn't like that there won't be a fight, because that leaves nothing but hunger as his purpose. His sense of right and wrong is only in terms of compulsion and satisfaction now.

And he doesn't like that. He can't explain why, or how, but something about this new code of (un)living sits ill at ease within him. He wants there to be a fight because there's a word, something at the tip of his bloated, now-decomposing tongue, for someone who hasn't done anything wrong. And there's something he's supposed to do with those people, and he doubts it's to eat them.

But perhaps it's a good thing, that prey should accept its place in the world, accept its fate. Perhaps it's right.

The smell of Living is intoxicating.

Javert reaches an arm out for Enjolras, which is apparently not a very bright idea, as his balance hasn't totally sorted itself out since he was raised from the dead. He stumbles forward and catches himself on his hands on the ground before getting back up again. He walks as if he's missing joints, as if his ankles and knees are locked, with short, off-kilter steps that are more like coordinated falling than an intentional approach.

"Stay..." His voice is quiet, like a hinge creaking on a door far away.

Re: no problem! I love to backtag.

[orestes]

It's reflexive to help someone falling, and he only hesitates for a moment. This could easily be excused by the darkness, but it's probably more honest to say that it has less to do with a lack of visibility and far more to do with the man's appearance. His stature and frame, while intimidating, were not the obstacle. Rather, on closer inspection, the person listlessly moving toward him, stumbling through the debris, dust, and cold air, now seemed fragile. It was as if he'd died days ago and was only just beginning to give up the fight, although to again be honest that statement made it seem noble when the reality is without a doubt grotesque.

Enjolras breathes deeply. The smell of death is more potent now than it had been at the barricade, practically emanating from the figure. When he speaks, it's in a gruffly familiar voice that he can't quite place. It compels him to stay all the same. By the time Javert is on his way back up Enjolras has a hand extended toward him, offering support. It's all he can do to mask his disgust for the decaying flesh barely visible on the other man's hand as he does. "I will stay."

[greatestdetectiveaward]

Time seems to reorganize, the present mottled with fantasies of feasting. In Javert's mind, the image of sinking his teeth into Enjolras' flesh is like an oasis in the desert. It's vivid, and in this moment he can picture it with all his senses: the sprays of blood, chewing through muscle and fat, teeth scraping on bone, blood coagulating as the body grows cold. It's such a compelling reverie that Javert nearly can't tell that it hasn't happened yet.

Black goo starts to drip from his mouth, pumping from what glands, in life, produced saliva. It dribbles down his chin and down his esophagus, spilling from the slit across his neck that's still caked with blood, despite Javert's attempts to tidy it up.

But he pauses still, something solid inside his soul pushing against the temptation of hunger. He pauses for a full five seconds as his cold hand takes Enjolras' before the wave of impulse rules him, and he snaps his head forward to try and bite Enjolras' wrist.

[orestes]

If it's a knee-jerk reaction to help someone in need, it's an equally powerful and base reaction to pull away when he senses Javert leaning toward him. Their proximity allows Enjolras to get a better look at him, however, even caked in the bizarre fluid and decaying as the inspector is now. That's when he makes the connection. It isn't the vague familiarity of someone he might've seen in the Capitol, or elsewhere in this world. Rather, he does know this man. In a sense, Enjolras has already killed him.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur." He stares openly now, mouth slightly ajar. It's a lot to take in, now that he's beginning to grasp their relationship to one another. It's not enough to throw him off the defensive, however. If anything, the recognition actually makes him recoil more. "How have you come to be in such a state?"

[greatestdetectiveaward]

There's something in Javert that still likes to answer questions - or, rather, that likes having the answer to questions, to being able to condense something complex down to a simple brick. As such, he resists his hunger long enough to gesture at the gash in his throat, the slit that goes across his jugular, the blackish stain that goes down the front of his clothes.

And then he lunges forward again, this time with more fervor towards the irresistible call of a feast.

[orestes]

This time, Enjolras' guard is up and he's ready for such an attack. He might feel for their spy, (even after his actions against the Republic, no one deserved this) but he wouldn't let that compassion mislead him again. He jumps back as Javert surges forward, quickly assessing that despite his jerky movements and stature, he's still sluggish and demonstrating a notable lack of control. He also appears to have lost the ability to speak, even if some reasoning skills remain, and that would make attempts at communication difficult. It almost made him wish they were back at the barricade and the hindrances their were merely that of conflicting rhetoric. In fact, it did make him wish that. Certain death at the hands of the National Guard, was undoubtedly better than whatever Javert was experiencing now.

"Monsieur Inspector, there must be some way I can ease your pain." Without, of course, allowing whatever it was Javert wanted, was the unspoken conclusion to that sentence. He pulled further away as the limited light caught more dramatically on the burbling grey and black of the wound. "The mentors from my District told us about medicines the Capitol can send..."

[greatestdetectiveaward]

Enjolras' words are like birds or insects flitting around, just beyond Javert's reach. He hears them and yet he can't make sense of them, can't remember what this story about the Capitol and Districts all is. It's irritating. It's distracting him from what he really wants, which is to feast. Enjolras is making this a challenge by moving away.

Javert tips over again. Stiff, rigor mortis-y zombie musculature is difficult to work with, and while he's been adjusting to it actually pursuing someone rather than just walking back and forth is a bit complicated. He lands on his side.

'Inspector'. The word means something to him. It's something he wants away from him - no. It's something he wants to push away from, because he knows he wants it and he knows he's not supposed to have it. Not in this state. Whatever this state is.

He struggles on his side a bit, like a turtle upended. "Meeeeh...dicines..."

[orestes]

His reactions to the teetering, decaying man are purely visceral by now. The desire to help conflicts with repulsion at Javert's unnaturally stiff, disjointed motions and the sickly sweet smell of death and rot that pervades the air around them. Slowly, unsure of what to do, or what to say, what will reach through the haze that seems to have overtaken the once alert policeman, Enjolras steps toward him, wary of being attacked again but not willing to stand idly by as his former captive suffers.

"Medicines, yes." He chews on the words, searching for Javert's eyes, and ignoring as best he can the black liquid oozing disturbingly from him. "I don't know what plagues you, sir, but there must be something to be done for it."