Author's notes on the format of this story

1) Javert and the setting are not mine. Most of the incidental characters are. A few are based loosely on historical figures.

2) This is my first attempt at writing a serial story. In the past, my stories have been complete before I shared them. This one, however, is going to be longer and I find that I am excited about the idea of sharing it as I go along. My chapter breaks will be a logical break points in the story. Some of the chapters will be long. These first two are short - sorry about that to people who like long chapters. The next chapter is mostly written and a lot longer. After that, I guess I will see as I go along.

3) I am trying to stay true to the Brick. Any errors are obviously mine. However, if you notice errors, I would appreciate it if you told me! Reviews and comments, critical or otherwise, are welcomed.

Prologue - February 1825

There was a moment, Javert reflected, when someone knew they were caught. It happened at different times for different people. Sometimes, it was when he walked up to them on the street and he gripped their shoulder, other times it was when the manacles clicked shut around their wrists. In those cases, he could feel it – like a rubber band had snapped in their gut. For others, it was not until later – looking out through the bars of their cell, the judge's gavel coming down, the chains of imprisonment being riveted into place. Once someone was caught, it made an indelible mark on them.

As a young man, by the time he encountered the convicts at Toulon, they were caught. Despite the crushing work, some still had spirit: they tried to escape, they fought back. Spirit or no, when it came down to it, some undefinable part of their being had been altered, forever. It was not until he entered the police force, that he realized that the people he encountered on the street were an entirely different beast. At first, he could not understand why the postures, the attitude, that had served him so well in Toulon were ineffective, even snickered at on the street. He remembered tangibly the first arrest he made when he really understood what it means to catch a criminal. The man had been a cat burglar, sneaking into merchants' houses. As it happened, he had been operating on Javert's beat for several weeks before Javert and his partner caught the guy. Javert grabbed the man and spun him around – and then he saw it. He saw the man's eyes transform and take on something of the expression he had seen in the eyes of the convicts. The man, still holding the stolen tableware, realized what was going to happen to him. Watching this transformation, Javert understood that there was a difference to be studied and exploited.

Over the next few years, Javert made a study of this phenomenon. He studied people in different stages of the criminal justice system – from arrest to closing the door on their cell, to standing as a witness in a criminal trial. He learned he could almost always tell if the person he was dealing with was having their first serious encounter with the law, or not. The recidivist was of particular interest. For some, particularly for the perveyor of small crimes – the pick pockets, the drunks, the petty thefts – they may be arrested time and again and never be truly marked by it. But for those who were caught, Javert found them easy to spot. When he turned his eye on them, his posture held as he had learned in Toulon, they would react – the reaction would be slight, but if you were looking for it, it would be there.

Javert also learned that finding the criminals who had been caught was especially useful for his investigations. Even long after they were released, they knew who held their leash. He knew how to handle them and he could count on them to be effective sources of information about what was really going on. Plus, it did not hurt to keep tabs on them. Wherever he was assigned, he developed such a network of informants.

Seated on the floor of the carriage, Javert leaned his head back against the wall, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Absently, he twisted the manacles on his wrist to attempt to relieve the pain where they rubbed. He had seen it in so many of his collars, he knew himself caught. Honestly, he had been expecting it for days. Habitually scrupulously honest, the strain of the lie he was living was almost beyond bearing. When the knock came on the door of his tiny apartment in small hours before morning, he had almost broken down in relief. Composing himself, he opened the door to see two police officers whom he did not know. What had happened next was professional and quick. Now the adrenalin had flowed from his system and the weariness of the interrupted night was overtaking him. Sitting in the cold, dark of the rocking carriage, he wondered who now held his leash.

Author's note: This scene is inspired by this passage from Part I, Book II, chapter VI Jean Valjean. Quote below from the Denny's translation. "A former turnkey at the prison…recalls the unhappy wretch who was chained at the end of the fourth row on the north corner of the prison yard. He was seated with the rest on the ground and seemed to understand nothing about his situation except that it was hideous...While the heavy hammer-blows riveted the iron collar round his neck, he wept so bitterly…Still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it in stages, as though he were laying it upon seven heads of unequal height, a gesture designed to indicate that what he had done had been for the sake of seven children."