Jean Crevier's Questionnaire

Toulouse, Occitanie region, southern France. It's relatively small, though it's still a large city housing nearly 500 thousand people - half of Marseille, or a quarter of Paris. The climate is warmer down south, and wine is cheaper due to the large amounts of vineyards producing the drinks locally. It is also just large enough to have decent traffic and plenty people in need of an investigator or bodyguard, while still posessing suburbs with miles of open fields all around. The perfect place place to have your own stash of borderline illegal equipment, where it won't bother anyone.

His own house is simple and unremarkable - a simple stone fence, the same as the one his neighbours have, and a single story house with cold, undecorated walls, sitting on the property that further off from the main road. In his backyard three apple trees grow, taken care of extensively by the man.

After his contract ended, Jean settled down and started a new career as a private detective. No matter how bright the days get, the streets are still cold and grey, and the people are unsafe. Someone, somewhere, will need his help. His protection. He is willing to provide - as long as it's no mutated para-human.

Sometimes the ones who need him are the same people who try to keep the cities safe. Sometimes crime just gets slightly out of hand. To Jean it's all the same - he's doing service to the nation that he pledged to, the one that had taken him in when he was at his lowest. The pay doesn't matter, as long as it's enough to live a few days longer.

A homeless man sits in a dark alleyway at night, wounded, bleeding out. His breathing is chaotic, he is desperately trying to cling to life. A young woman is returning home from work, mere minutes away from, rest. The air is colder than it should be though, and it is eerily quiet. There's not a single living soul nearby on what is normally a scarcely busy street. She will not make it.

Society has always been populated with malicious people and predatory entities. There's always someone out there willing to exploit the rest for their own gain, whether it's a politician, an undisciplined soldier, or a para-person with an innate craving for human flesh. While they're out there, free, unpunished for their deeds, the world isn't safe. In fact, it will never be safe - weeds always come back, no matter how many you pull out. It's an impossible fight, but a fight he will partake in regardless. Even with just small steps, and constant vigilance, he can make his own community a little safer, and a little better.

Jean stood on the bridge of Saint Michel, cold autumn wind biting at his face with every breeze. He held a half smoked cigarette in his hand, his mind carefully going over each known fact on the culprit over and over again. The trail ended here, it seems. As he stood there, the world around him seemed to have gone... quiet. He felt as though the city itself was opening up to him. To the north of here, the streets buzzed with life around the heart of the town. Just a little further stood the basilique - mighty, imposing, comforting. To the south, on an insula splitting the city in two, men compete in various tests of endurance, strength, and speed to see which one of them would be the best. The most respected. To the east, hundreds of thousands of words, recorded in books, statues, vases, jewelry - relics of the past, neatly contained in glass boxes for all to see. To the west - empty parks and warm apartments. A woman stood on the balcony, smoking, pondering, just like him.

And beneath him - tracks. Countless people walk down this bridge every day. He knows that. The city whispered to him. Two hours, thirty six minutes and eight seconds ago, the man he's looking for has passed through here, and turned right, into the prairie. That is where he must look now.

Captain Claude Peltier - chief of the Bagatelle sector precinct, and his superior in most cases. When extra hands are needed, this is the person that contacts Jean. Their relationship is strictly professional, as the two rarely see eye to eye, and both possess a mutual respect for each other. Jean, for never turning down an offer and being reliable, and Claude for staying focused and calm no matter the situation.

Miss Ségolène Bocuse - the old lady that lives just down the road. A 73 year old woman that lives on her own in a small house. Her family comes to visit once a week. She has a flower garden with roses, tulips and narcisse flowers that she takes care of, as well as a an apple and a cherry trees. Jean visits her whenever he's not busy with work, and often helps her with her minuature orchard.

Raphael Auvray - his closest friend and often his partner in government investigations, the two have met together in college, both training to become law officers. Although their paths diverged from there, Jean has always stayed in touch, and would often visit his friend if they weren't working on a case together. Raphael is the only person that has seen his weapons stash, having visited Jean when the latter got sick during the COVID pandemic

Rough, bleak, and full of shitty weather. Dad only cared about clocking in and out of work, drinking and sleeping, mum mostly was apathetic and tried to survive. Jean grew callous and closed off from the youngest age, having a friend or two here and there, but nothing permanent. He spent most of the time with other jocks, focusing on working out and partying with the group. When he heard about the French Legion at the age of 13, Jean did all his best to turn his life around, focusing on his studies in order to pass basic education. Although struggling due to tense relations with teachers and having given almost effort prior, he has managed to just barely pass his exams and finish high school. Still an adolescent and using his last year of legally living with his parents, Jean juggled exercise, work and strained family relations in order to retry his evaluation in France. Once he was accepted, he never bothered to come back, only texting his parents that he won't return to Liverpool.

Once, in high school. There was one girl he kept an eye on, not the prettiest, not the most popular, but a kind and quiet one. Diane. They spent some months together - she was comforting, he was protective. On graduation night, after everyone got drunk and tired, they slept together. Waking up with her by his side was one of the best memories Jean had of that decaying city. Even as the chill sea breeze rustled the fresh spring leaves and pierced skin like needles flying in the air, they were together, comforted, warmed by each other. Momentary solace in a chaotic hurricane.

Past graduation, once he entered the Legion, he inevitably lost contact with her. Regulations were strict, and he arrived on field, cellular data became much harder to obtain.

Losing touch with yourself. Becoming a despot. Abusing your powers for your own gain. Jean's greatest fear is to become the thing that he despises - a greedy and selfish abhuman that no longer cares for the regular folk, for the little guys - the ones who have to go through all the same struggles, but with no supernatural abilities to give them the edge.

In his youth he always dreamed to change the world for the better, no matter the cost, no matter the consequences to himself. The contracts have given him that opportunity - at the cost of his own humanity, he can further hone his gifts to become someone who can help the folks around him. Every day he struggles with accepting who he is, either denying himself to be like the rest, or simply accepting it and slumping into a period of self-loathing. Some of his pwoers he can't even control - it's almost like something that naturally occurs, allowing him to track and kill better, while leaving less tracks of his own.

It's miserable, but it's the road he has already stepped on. All he can do now is hope to never fully succumb to his inner ambitions. Remember the people around you - your coworkers, neighbours, friends. Stay the course, if not for yourself, then for them.

The Hermès ceramic armour. The piece of unique combat technology that he named himself, found in northern Mali, on the edge of the Saharan dunes. This one peculiar set of plating has saved his life on multiple occasions now. It blocked the bullets and the devastating blow from the vampire in Fresno, California. It stopped the natives that tried ripping him apart. It blocked their poisoned blowdarts and spears later on as well. He would not be here right now, had he not worn it to these special missions. It has become like second skin to him by now. And it's a daily reminder of the man he was, back in the army days - younger, more cheerful, but regardless of everything - still the same Jean. It's a reminder of all the people he met. Of the strange abhumans that have saved his life. Of the people which he tried to push away, yet still haven't abandoned him, and instead shown kindness.

It's a statement to himself - do better. Be more kind. Stop projecting your hatred on marginalised groups.

I don't even know how many people I have gunned down by now. Innocent people - not dangerous criminals who would rather kill a man than get arrested, not corrupt politicians embezzling government funds and lying to the masses, not even para people abusing their gifts to get a bigger cut out of what society has to offer. I'm not sure how much longer my conscience can take before it breaks. It could happen anytime now - even in the middle of work.

I have nobody to vent my frustrations to - if I sign up to therapy they'll likely put me in a mental asylum, or a prison, or both. I have no friend who could listen to my troubles, and give me a word of advice on how to proceed. Or perhaps I do, yet never tried to look for one. The legion taught me that my problems are my own to solve, not someone else's. Maybe I'm not looking for a problem solver, though...

It starts at 6am, sometimes a little later on weekends. I wake up and drink a glass of water, left before going to bed on the end table. I head to the bathroom, relieving myself, showering, brushing my teeth and making sure I don't look like shit. Afterwards, I head into the kitchen, turning the radio sitting by the wall, below the drawers stocked with dry ingredients. I put some coffee ground up last weekend into the pot, fill it up and leave it to boil, taking the time to prepare something to eat. Most of the time it's a simple omelette with cheese, a croque, or some cottage cheese with jam.

While eating I usually check the news, answer texts or just watch silly cat videos (as a treat). I always check my emails right after, and if I don't have to go to into the city right away I take a bit of time to clean my pistols. I usually leave no later than by 11am and continue to work outside of home.