Part 2: Victory or Defeat? Javert and his first opponent circled the ring, sizing each other up. Both men were now stripped to the waist and ready to begin, goaded on by whistles and hooting. The kid was called Germaine Lavoisier, recalled Javert, and was previously a cadet of a well-known military school, dismissed for an unspecified breach of decorum. Germaine was almost as tall as Javert, with a heavily built torso, and radiated arrogance. /Tsk-tsk, what a nonsense, this barrel of ale on spindle legs,/ thought Javert, squinting in the unsteady light of the flickering lamps. /You'll be an easy one./ Unable to restrain himself much longer, the kid lunged forward, but by that time Javert was ready. The fight has begun... and has ended. Germaine suddenly found his back planted quite firmly to the mat, with Javert's knee gingerly pressing against his trachea. He felt peculiarly nauseous, as if he had been turning cartwheels; his vision was somewhat blurry and his ears were ringing. He lay there, unhurt but quite upset, breathing noisily and regarding the older man with utter astonishment. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Javert had executed a beautiful "downward twist," albeit from a somewhat atypical position. Germaine put his full force into the assault, failed to register that Javert turned his chest slightly to the right, and was brought entirely off balance. He never regained his footing, as Javert extended his left hand, pushed Germaine against the right shoulder, tripped him with his foot, following through with his entire body and dropping him flat on his back. It was over in a second. Upon hearing the Major call out "Match!" Javert relinquished his hold and offered his opponent a hand. Germaine took it in silence, and got to his feet, peering upwards into Javert's face with a mixture of anger and bewilderment. Javert decided to attempt to soothe his wounded pride. "Your technique is not to blame," he murmured softly, as to be unheard by anyone in the room except the rookie in front of him. "It's your bulky physique. Your center of gravity is very high, and you are easy to tip over. Try to spend more time exercising your lower body." Germaine blinked and nodded in glum agreement. "I'll do my best, Monsieur" he responded dourly, and, picking up his smudged towel, skulked off into a dark corner. Javert stepped off the ring after him and was subjected to a barrage of friendly slaps on the back from the senior officers before he was allowed a swallow of water. "See, I told you he was good!" he heard someone whisper excitedly. Javert sighed inwardly. He really hated being singled out, whether for praise or for criticism. /Perhaps signing up for this wasn't a good idea after all. This is prime gossip material./ Finally even the most enthusiastic colleagues had shifted their attention to the ring, and Javert was left in peace. With a towel slung across his bare shoulders, he observed the rest of the first round in silence. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... By the time the second round came to a close, the crowd had a definite favorite. This time, Javert faced another officer, and decided on a more evasive course of action. Still, after three minutes of inconclusive grappling, Javert managed to flip the other man over onto his back, and perform a lock. To Javert's shock, he found himself utterly pleased and even relishing in the look of rage the cop gave him, when they both stepped down from the ring. When the gong sounded again, he shut his eyes and hid his sweat-drenched brow in the rough towel, ashamed and apprehensive. The fiery moment of joy at seeing his opponent powerless still resounded in him. It was all too familiar, that thrill, too alluring. Bloodlust, pure, primordial bloodlust coursed through him like poisoned wine. For this, Javert was unprepared. Reserve, and only reserve, he thought. Or else immediate withdrawal. I need a firm grip on my senses, or else this can turn ugly. At the same time, Javert felt as if twenty years have melted off his shoulders. How sweet it would be, to give in to this desire for blood, to destroy and dominate... It's been so long since he could do this, unleash himself and show himself to the world! No more humiliation, no more defeat. Fire was rising in him, fire he hadn't felt for ages. Covered in sweat, Javert clutched his hair, almost tearing it out. ... .... .... ...... ........................................................ .... ..... ... ... It's Etienne all over again isn't it? Only this time I'm not the smaller and the weaker, and we are both alone. One on one instead of a gang bang. A wrestling arena instead of the dusty school grounds. How old was I when it happened, 13 or 14? He was from the class above mine, and all his cronies as well. I was so short, having to look up to see his eyes. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Seems I have Etienne to thank for how I turned out. He broke my right arm, so I became left-handed. He jeered, so I became impassive. He beat me, so I learned patience. I was weak, and he gave me resolve to become strong: he made me. He tortured me for seven years, and I got my revenge in seven minutes. I was dragged away from that yard, but he had to be carried off. A mass of blood and torn clothing and dusty golden hair. Funny thing, I always loved his hair. I hated him, but loved his hair. How strange. Three days later I was on my way to Toulon, and three weeks later he was dead. I won. Didn't I..? God forbid I'll win again tonight. ... .... .... ...... ........................................................ .... ..... ... ... Javert was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his eyes and discerned in the poor light the concerned face of a friend, a commissaire. "You alright there? You've been awfully quiet." Javert nodded and wiped his neck with the towel. "Is the third round underway?" he asked, trying to sound calm. The commissaire chuckled. "The third round is up," he said. "Your opponent dropped himself from the competition and went on patrol. You're through to the final." Javert felt his stomach drop. [Final already? Oh no...] "Who's my challenger?" he asked nonchalantly. The commissaire gestured towards the opposite corner. Javert looked and saw a fair-haired rookie, and groaned inwardly. The lad, dubbed "Bulldog" by his comrades, had a much-deserved reputation for being stubborn, nasty, and hateful of Gypsies. This would make Javert his prime target for abuse, except that Javert was far older and outranked him. [Looks like he finally found a way to vent himself,] thought Javert and shook his head in disbelief. The man clicked his tongue and said, "I know the fellow is a pain and hates your guts, but don't let him get to you. You'll have him down in no time." With that and a final clap on the back, he left Javert alone. Javert felt cold sweat dry on his temples. [This is not good. Why did I have to be matched with the one man who tests my patience so? I hope he has enough good sense not to be stupid out there. Or else... or else, God forgive me...] The gong sounded the start of the final round. Javert ascended the ring with a bad premonition. The rookie, on the other hand, looked elated, and threw about such murderous glances, that Javert momentarily considered withdrawing from the fight. But then he heard soft words from his opponent: "Fear me, darkie." Something roared inside Javert. He drew closer to the lad, and murmured to him almost gently, looking over his blond hair: "I fear only the Lord, Monsieur. You I pity." << >> Tell me quickly what's the Story...