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[alchemistake]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, VARIAN. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 018.07.154.55 *** CHARACTER NAME/ALIAS has joined 018.07.154.55 <thealchemist>This thing is SO COOL okay- hey, hi, Varian here! If you're seeing this then you've reached my channel for messages. Leave me one if you need something!

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CW: imminent execution

[inseine]

[Javert is silent for a time. He pants and braces against the sting in his face, pupils grazing the young man from the tip of his horns all the way down to his toes. His attentions stop over those damning hollowed-out spikes, and he watches the arcs of power dance and spark before his dimming, dull eyes. Anger, resentment, hatred bubbles to the surface: anger, that these upstarts think Elias gives a care about them; resentment, that they fail to see the truth of the damage they reap in siding with the Fourth on the feeble wish that they'll be sent home and return to a life they left behind; hatred and revulsion, for rebellion, disorder, and willful insubordination to one's Heavenly (or Hellish?) Condemner and Creator.

A twitching, ugly smile spreads his lips, forced and shallow. This is his chance to make a statement against insurgency, disorder, indecent chaos against the Fog's sovereignty. This is his chance to deliver upon his threat that he has always been working, always been arranging his game-pieces behind the scenes, always been lying in wait to demonstrate his role as enforcer of Natural Order.

In the name of the Fog. For the Good of their kind, for the smooth functioning of the Fog's plan for them to live their wicked ways and keep men underfoot.

The dry smile falls. There is nothing but somber, grave death in the deep, dark pools of his pupils, eating what was left of his heart alive. His face is hard enough to be carved from stone.]

People don't lie to me. I see your marks, Traitor. No respect for your betters!

[Roughly and with little regard for personal comfort, Javert hauls up Varian by the collar and slings him over his shoulder. He mops up some ooze from the burn-wound at his jaw, lips grimacing in disgust. And he begins to lope and drag along, with purpose, back toward the looming shadow of La Forteresse prison.

His guts roil.

This is just. This is right. No mercy for False God insurgents, no forgiveness for anarchists and men who insult Her reign. Javert's mind is abuzz with his self-assurance and his whispering, dimming doubts, his prayers arcing high from his bowed head. He considers with a sententious solemnity the sentence he will deliver upon the boy, understanding quite well the gravity of his role.

And he makes his choice, his voice low and hoarse and tickling the hairs of Varian's ear.]

You have the night in the jug. Come morning, you will be shot to the death in Madame Fog's name.

[alchemistake]

[Varian is honestly amazed at himself that he's still awake right now. Perhaps some sort of side effect due to having been injected with this drug so many times in the past. He's not immune to it by any stretch of the imagination, but he definitely is able to fight off the initial blow. The first couple times it was administered, he remembered falling unconscious pretty much immediately. Still, that doesn't mean he has the strength to stop this from happening. He's like a limp doll in Javert's arms as he throws him roughly over his shoulder, leaving him with a wavering view of the city street below as he's carted off to prison.

What will happen now is left up to Javert, he thinks as they go. He has no doubts that his garage is currently being torn apart as they speak, but at least the stuff left behind there is replaceable. He never expected to be able to get the same materials given to him by Mirage again, so he'll just remake things on his own terms. His arm is definitely priceless though, so he'll just have to hope it was left behind and forgotten due to not being involved in the case. As for Solsikke...he's confident that Cassandra, Elsa, and Anna aren't just going to let someone barge in on them without due reason. And even if there's a reason...

Well. It's out of his hands at this point.

Of course, what he isn't expecting is what Javert tells him next. Words that turn his blood to ice. He's certain his already frantically hammering heart actually stopped for a moment.

Despite being pushed to the brink multiple times, he never died at the hands of the Poachers. He's never experienced the way Ryslig handles death. Frankly, he never wanted to. Nobody wants to die, right? Not even if it isn't permanent...too bad he lacks the strength to struggle as the words ring hollow in his mind.]

Y...you're going to kill me.

[Why tell him this now, instead of waiting until before it's slated to happen? So he can sit in the suffering of knowing that in the morning he'd die?]

[inseine]

You heard me! Be thankful I am generous enough to leave it at a swift death, and the demon AM won't get a swing at you, [he utters tonelessly. Javert's self-controlled, resolute, commanding voice resumes through his winces and sharp, pained noises. Later, in the quiet of his office, he would further rationalize his decision as the just one, one that is severe enough to serve as a warning and to please the Fog, but spares him from the cruelty Varian would have suffered beneath AM's lash.] You will be free to walk when you wake up with the coming of the Fog. I won't be so gentle for recidivists.

[They are bold words concerning death, of course, from one who is absolutely revolted by harm done against fellow Monsters. Bold words, indeed, from one who has suffered five deaths of his own.

Perhaps he is numbed to it, now. Perhaps his mind has melted fractionally from all the horrors he, himself, endured.

It speaks to the significance of Varian's case that he is choosing to condemn in such a way. One lousy death shall never return to Monsters the week they lost to madness; one lousy death will not make up for his treasonous intent.

Javert's body aches from his injury, but he presses onward, his square jaw tucked stubbornly into the collar of his coat. Soon, they will make it. Vampires move quickly, even when they are battered, burnt, and bruised.]

Don't cross Her will again. Were it Her plan to knock us down to our damned, wicked selves, She would do it Herself.