milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Javert does not know how lucky he was to have avoided both the zombie invasion, and Halloween. So he does not feel any particular gratitude at coming up from the office, and finding the place entirely normal. He just deposits a large box on his corner table, sets a pad of paper next to it, a fountain pen on top, and an inkstand to the side.

That done, a rat brings bread and water, and a napkin that directs him to a package left for him at the bar. He does not notice this at first, because he is preoccupied. He sits, picks a random sheet of paper out of the box, stretches his fingers out and begins to transcribe it to proper paper. In proper handwriting. With proper headings, and a uniformity of style. Because someone knows how to keep account of things, unlike anyone else in the security office.

He came up because it was time to eat, but apparently there is no time to stop for repast. If anyone cares to dispute that, they may go and see the state of the office for themselves.

[OOC: Open until the weekend.
ETA: but for tonight, I must beg slowtime for sleep. Am around to continue all tomorrow. Night, all, and thanks to those who tagged. <333]

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'Ah.'

A friend. Well, people do have them.

'What is your year?'

Yes, Javert. Most people find them good things to have.
"1914. And yours?"

'1832.'

Javert cannot see the use of them, but there it is.

'Aside from the people of my own country that are here, I believe you may be the closest in year that I have met. Most others seem to be from far in the future.'

He sounds annoyed by this, perhaps because they are so greatly frustrating.

"So I've gathered." Even Helena has the advantage of him now, in that regard.
But then, she likely would have found it one way or another.
"Bit odd, that the bar would draw so many people from one time."

'I suppose so,' he says, in the tone of a man who has not given it any consideration.

'These from the future are little different to any I met in life. More arrogant, perhaps. More wealth. But fundamentally the same.'

It is both reassuring, and not.

David shrugs. "I suspect humanity changes little at its core. There will always be great things and terrible things, and those who do them."
Or make them, depending on one's perspective.

'And for the majority, no things at all.'

He states this as a fact, not as a judgement, or a disappointment.

"I would disagree. Everyone does something in their lives. Many people do profound things that garner no attention from the rest of the world simply because of their station, or where they live, or their sex, or some other consideration."
After all, one doesn't need to be famous to create an Artifact.

'Oh?'

His eyebrows go up. Of course, his mind flits immediately to the one accursed man who has certainly done profound things in his life, but he does not wish to dwell on him, of all people.

'I will disagree in turn, monsieur. I know many, myself included, who have done nothing of any profundity. Done something, yes, but of use? That is another matter. Of benefit to any but themselves? Another matter again. Some simply live, and work, and then die. You are an idealist, perhaps.'

David raises an eyebrow. "I'm simply arguing based on my experience. Who said anything had to be of use or of benefit to others in order to be profound? No one exists in a vacuum. I'm sure even you have left your mark on those you've associated with."

'Then how would you define 'profound'?'

He asks, but his tone is not encouraging as to whether he will seriously consider the answer. It is more to make the point that he answered in respect to David's previous comment.

'I was of the police. I assume it was impossible not to have affected people's lives, but that does not make the actions profound. My arrest of criminals was a response to their own actions.'

"If a child lives and dies without doing more than basic schooling, and the loss shapes their parent irrevocably after that, is that not profound?"
He never did find a record of any Artifacts Helena created the old-fashioned way, as opposed to her inventions. But given everything that came of Christina's death, that's actually a great surprise.
"That you did the job, yes, that's simply a response. But how you did the job may make the difference."

His face blanches. He feels it, and hates it, but can do nothing to stop it. All he can do is look away, and try not to consider the question.

'Perhaps,' he says, shortly, and that is all.

'You are changing the parameters of the conversation,' he adds, a moment later.

'From the actions of a person, to their death, and the affect of that on others. I do not dispute that family ties will make a loss feel deeper, nor that these natural occurrences can bring great effects. But you said all people, so I am compelled to point out that I know many parents who have turned their children on to the street without a second thought - or worse, sold them, or used them for profit; I know of people who kill for a few sous; but there, I suppose murder is a profound act in itself. Still. It is the use of all I object to, not the point you make in essence.'

"I wouldn't say I'm changing the parameters of the conversation so much as you're interpreting them differently. And I never said all parents were perfect."
His own believed far too much in his oldest brother.
"No one exists in a vacuum, as I said before. And everything is profound to the person who does it, and to those their actions affect. Everyone leaves their mark on the world, whether the general populace is aware of it or not."

He considers this. Did he consider every action this way? No, he did not. On occasion, perhaps. Managing to catch Valjean on that first chase through Paris - yes, that would have been profound indeed. But it did not come to pass, so is moot.

'I do not think you are correct in every case. I have not left a mark on the world, and rightly so. Perhaps it is true more generally; I am not concerned with it, in truth. Life is what it is, and rarely merits such close diagnosis.'

"Would your countrymen agree that you have left no mark on the world?"

He considers this, too.

'I do not know,' he says, at last.

'You would have to ask them. One might say I did. The others would not.'

He does not seem concerned either way.

'And you, monsieur? What is your profound contribution to life?'

(Suuuuuuure they wouldn't.)
David shrugs. "I attempted to keep a friend from losing herself to grief, and I helped my organisation do its work."
It doesn't sound like much, but he's never been one to underestimate work done on behalf of the Warehouse. ...All right, perhaps he underestimated his own contributions when he started, but that was a good twenty years ago. By now, he knows better.

He waits for his brain to supply a reaction to this first, but none comes. Javert understands little of appeasing the grief of others.

To the second though, he nods at once.

'Yes, that is worthy. Working is important; even more so, to dedicate yourself to the smooth running of the system.'

He falters a little here. It was an automatic response. He has trouble ordering his new knowledge of the system with his ingrained feelings on it.

'As long as it is a worthy system, I suppose.'

That's all right; it's not a topic David cares to discuss with people who aren't already in the know. He failed Helena, but if he had not, things would be profoundly different now.
"It is. Though it seems to have fallen into a rather frustrating lack of transparency, of late."

'Oh? How so?'

Transparency? He is not sure he is understanding the translation of this term correctly.

"It's one thing not to discuss the nature of sensitive work with the general populace. It's quite another to keep useful, potentially life-saving information from the people doing it."
He can't say for sure that Claudia would be a bit less terrified of her future prospects if she'd understood how that works from the beginning, but he suspects that would be the case. And that aside, there's far too much secrecy from agents going on at the moment, from what he gathered last night.

He frowns in confusion.

'It is my understanding that people should follow orders, regardless of what that entails.'

He would never dream of asking why an order was given. That was not his place.

David sighs. "If a lack of knowledge and context could get you killed needlessly, it rather makes a difference. I'm not expecting those doing the work to ask, though I wouldn't be surprised if they did. I'm expecting the supervisors to be more forthcoming."

...no, still confused.

'But superiors are not bound to such a thing. They ask loyalty from their inferiors, and should be granted it. If they make a decision, it is because they are the best informed to make it, and so it should be followed.'

He looks down at the table-top, his brow furrowed still. In thought, of all things. It is most disagreeable.

'At least, that was the way it was in my time.'

This is mutter, sullenly put forth, as if a concession that it may not be the only option for running a system.