ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: July 2024
NOTES: A gift for Tumblr user glitch-critter as part of palestaticexchange 's Disco Elysium Gift Exchange event!
Coastal winds were much tamer as they rolled through the densely packed buildings of Central Jamrock, only just able to sustain themselves as they lapped around the perimeter of Precinct 41. Harry wouldn't be here, if not for Kim. It was he who'd defended him to Vicquemare. He who'd attested to the idea that Harry could get better, with a little guidance and a lot of patience. He who'd truly believed in him, despite everything they faced. Creeping along his senses was the smell of blood shed by belief and held together by vengeance. Remnants of a decades' long war, and its lasting effects on the human psyche—both those that were in tact, and those that were already fragmented—as the world evolved around them. The stillness of the air was dry, just as was the mouth of the disco detective who'd found himself falling into familiar habit. Eat, sleep, work, party—
[LOGIC] No, not anymore. You've given that up now.
[VOLITION] You are a changed man. Or so you would like to have others believe.
Harry is a changed man, or so he would like others to believe. He would like to believe it.
Yet the familiar dryness that consumed Harry did not feel changed. Nor did the aching that settled into his musculature, drawing the thickened fibers back like that of a bowstring, arming them—arming him—to snap at a moment's notice. His stomach felt a familiar sickness. One that had consumed him during the infancy stages of the Martinaise investigation. A horrific hangover, but this one was different. It was dry. He was dry. And that irritated him. Thick brows knitted as his psyche wandered to the idea, briefly leaning into the comforting embrace of familiarity of outrage. It was easier, after all, to be mad at the circumstance than to navigate it. But… It didn't feel right. No, he wasn't angry about it. Perhaps a part of him was. But Harry? Him? He was uncertain. Afraid. Every time he wet his lips in consideration, he knew he would not be able to stop himself. Not when—
[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] It's a miracle you even lasted this long. It's like something has snapped in you—a nerve ending. You've lost yourself, Harry. Truly, lost yourself. And god knows how long it will take you to come back this time.
The subtle emphasis makes his skin crawl as his head shakes, hands pausing to linger under the chilled water pouring forth into the sink basin. He sighed, looking to the dingy mirror before him.
Through the speckles of old debris and matted dust, and past the droplets of dew that form with the arterial spray of the sink's faucet (a sign that the mechanism, much like the rest of the restroom, is in need of repair; it has been for as long as one can remember), the visage that greets Harry is… healthier. It invokes a sense of pride not too dissimilar to when he'd first whispered his name—the one he had chosen, not the one he was given—and truly seen himself for the first time. Like the waves, it swelled briefly before crashing down. Fell upon the invariable signs of his past habits. Like looking through the bottom of a liquor-filled glass, it was hazy; a deluge of desperation and need encapsulated by bloatedness and swollenness. Sat neatly among the discolored planes. Pallid skin darkened and reddened as the blood vessels beneath the skin remained agape, prepared for consumption.
[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Telangiectasia. Small blood vessels sat near the skin's surface. It is natural for them to sit so high, but normally they remain unseen until there is an increase in blood flow.
[INLAND EMPIRE] Recall how one's features become rosy when hearts begin to flutter, or how the sun's warmth seems to sit upon the apples of one's cheeks like a comforting blanket.
[DRAMA] There is an art to this.
[LOGIC] There is not. This is a different sort of happenstance. The events that have led to your flushed appearance are not a simple point of life, nor something to be proud of.
But it is, a simple point of life. Accentuation of Harry's simple existence. It is not something he can change, especially as that nausea begins to grow in his gut. His mouth feels full of cotton; his body so writhe with tension that he begins to tremble and grow dizzy. His nose feels like a small balloon in the middle of his face. His tongue feels swollen and snail-like, floundering about amidst tainted teeth as trembling hands cusp beneath the faucet and draw splashes of water toward his lips.
[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] Drink, but it will not replace what you need. No, this is nothing, brother. The best cure for a disease like this is indulgence. Morphine, cigarettes, rum… You need them again. You will not survive without them. This? This is—
[COMPOSURE] Embarrassing.
[AUTHORITY] Weak. How do you expect anybody to take you seriously? Nobody would listen to someone so pathetic.
The taunts were met with the sound of the door slamming; a minute signal in the grand scheme of things. It went unnoticed by those in the wing's hallway. To them, it was business as usual. If not Harry, then Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. If not Vicquemare, then Captain Pryce.
[RHETORIC] The police aren't there to mess up; the police are there to preserve the mess.
[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Says the professor of Ecole Normale de Revachol. Someone has been reading in his spare time.
[LOGIC] Or simply observing with a clear mind.
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] This is a dangerous line of thinking to be falling down. Your past airing of grievances with the RCM has earned you several stern talkings to. In his office, Captain Pryce grimaces at the clutched papers in his aging hands.
[RHETORIC] It was addiction that saved you. Easier to blame the abstract than to examine the system.
A shiver. Harry wasn't the only one struggling. He knew that, even before his days of total sobriety. This sort of culture was normalized; expected of its officers. Many of his habits he fell into through the hands of his coworkers, even if they were not his introduction to the idea. Of course, things were different now. After his outburst, and the disaster in Martinaise, the RCM began cracking down on the use of substances among its officers. Many, like Harry, suddenly found themselves thrust into the true responsibility of duty. Conscious and aware to the severity of their workloads. Many quit. Many more fell into old habits and were systemically demoted until the work no longer supported their needs. And those, like Harry, leaned into the work. Buried themselves in mountains of paperwork chasing that adrenaline-fueled high by doing something—anything—to feel alive.
Yet they never did. Harry never did.
Time blurred past and he was, effectively, the same old corpse he always was. A puppet of the RCM's agenda. The failed Dick Mullen. The swaying body strung from the rafters, dancing along to the fluttering shimmer of the disco ball.
Then, there is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. An inordinate amount of time passes, not even measurable by the distant, rhythmic technological beeps.
[PERCEPTION] Hospital monitors? No. Alarms. An alarm.
[LOGIC] It must be morning. We should get up.
[VOLITION] We shouldn't. We can't. It's much too difficult.
The soft rustling of sheets.
[PAIN THRESHOLD] Easy…
Muscles ache and the silence is inevitably broken by a low groan. Sunlight filters in through dusted curtains, particles coming to fill the air as a heavy hand finds itself upon the alarm clock beside him. Equally heavy feet find the floor, though remain unable to hold the body above them. In a quick sequence, Harry finds himself on the floor, slumped and slouched in an all too familiar position. The aches stop, albeit briefly. Like a fly to the ointment, his conscience sticks to it. Chases it as the limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering awakens itself once more. He is on his feet again, cotton cloth sliding across the floor as his body wills itself to the bathroom.
A mirror hangs above a bent, not broken, sink. Languid hands find themselves upon the faucet, though are gentler in the way they manipulate it. Hot water sprays from the stem and steam covers the mirror. Harry cannot see himself, just the outline of a man.
[CONCEPTUALIZATION] There is an irony in seeing the image. It was not always like this.
[VOLITION] Those days are long gone, now.
Cloth falls from the man's frame, though it remains obscured by the apparatus before him. He slowly reaches his hand toward the surface of the mirror…
[INLAND EMPIRE] You're certain you wish to do this? You may not like what you see there.
[HARRY] I don't care.
A deft motion. The condensation on the reflective surface gives under the palm that wipes it, leaving in its path a clear view to the tired visage that stares back. To the naked, pallid flesh that rolls from a slumped frame. Hair highlights various pathways, traveling down between taped and tucked mounds and rolling along the rumbling stomach, and continuing through the fog and beyond the sink's barrier. It traverses the adhesive edges of Harry's binding (he's still thankful he has learned this alternative; not only does it keep his natural form, but it allows him to wear his shirts open with pride) and over his shoulders. Down thick arms to the bruised knuckles that hold the porcelain lip of the sink. It flutters out, then reappears upon his rounded jaw, mutton chops growing thickened around his lips. He's due for a shave, but a part of him enjoys this rugged look. It's… different. He's different.
He's happy.
[COMPOSURE] You're exhausted.
[SAVOIR FAIRE] You've dropped the toothbrush. Again. Your hands feel foreign to your own body.
His eyes follow dirt-stained grout lines down to the floor, only to find that sad little toothbrush dried beside the trash bin. He's exhausted. Creaking and groaning, Harry bends to discard the brush; opts to simply swish some mouthwash and try not to think of the burning sensation that draws his nose to scrunch and his eyes to water. He does it twice. Perhaps to mask the fact he has not properly brushed and will have to save that act for after his shift. Perhaps because he feels he deserves the ache; it invigorates him. Begins to bring him back to life and pull him from the vice grip weariness holds on him.
But it isn't enough.
Not as he washes himself in the shower, nearly tripping over the tub's lip as he climbs out afterward. Nor as he finds himself slumped against the wardrobe door, idly flipping through his clothing options and looking for his RCM jacket.
[PERCEPTION] It… should be here. Why isn't it here? Don't tell me we've lost it again.
[LOGIC] Nonsense. We brought it home. It is here, just not put away.
It's not enough as he waits for the toast to pop from its apparatus, where the sudden click and ding nearly makes him crawl out of his skin. Coffee spills on his shirt, bringing him back to the wardrobe once more, digging around for a new shirt and tie. Back to the kitchen. New coffee in his cup. Butter and jam on cooling bread. Crumbs dust his facial hair, only unsettled from their rest when he reaches to scratch a persistent itch. It is then when the realization clicks.
He's exhausted. He is unmoving. Those early morning aches have not been shaken, and have in fact only worsened with his moving through the morning routine. His mind has been quieter; nearly absent. He can barely recall what he's done and what he hasn't, with the only clues being the visible changes in his appearance that signify—at the very least—that he's done the basics and cleaned himself. But that's just it. If he can't even recall this, how in the world could he find himself responsible for the safety of others. How could he find himself amidst the greater world around him, with dozens of eyes on him—some pleading, some scrutinizing?
He'd done it before, under worse circumstances… but he wasn't that kind of animal anymore. He didn't want to be that kind of animal anymore.
Which is why, with a swaying physique and a hoarseness in his voice, he found himself on the phone with whichever unfortunate soul would find themselves on the other end of the line. Unfortunate, not for taking in his call-in, but for having to present it to Vicquemare and Pryce.
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Early morning ire. Slender knuckles knock on the door to ask permission to enter; it is granted. From his throne, Pryce sneers at the individual before him. His brow twitches, his posture stiffens.
[CAPTAIN PRYCE] What the hell do you mean he called out?
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] A pregnant pause. The avoidance of eye contact.
[UNKNOWN] He just did… Said something about feeling under the weather.
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] The response was faint. Nearly whispered as the other end of the reigning duo entered with a stack of papers.
[JEAN VICQUEMARE] Who called out?
[CAPTAIN PRYCE] Your star pupil.
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Jean's posture slackens and he sneers. It's evident the sarcastic jab was more than enough to clue him in. Yet there is a subtleness in his eyes that almost suggests concern. He sets the papers on Pryce's desk then walks out without another word. Shoulders slump and a ragged sigh escapes as Harry undoes his tie and discards it, absentmindedly tossing it to the coffee table. His shirt follows as he sinks into the comfortable contour of the couch. Tired eyes slip shut, coaxing the surrounding musculature to relax and begin a rippling effect. He melts, and for once he can feel the day passing. And for once, he does not care. He deserves this rest, and nothing can convince him otherwise.
[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Jean's posture slackens and he sneers. It's evident the sarcastic jab was more than enough to clue him in. Yet there is a subtleness in his eyes that almost suggests concern. He sets the papers on Pryce's desk then walks out without another word.
Shoulders slump and a ragged sigh escapes as Harry undoes his tie and discards it, absentmindedly tossing it to the coffee table. His shirt follows as he sinks into the comfortable contour of the couch. Tired eyes slip shut, coaxing the surrounding musculature to relax and begin a rippling effect. He melts, and for once he can feel the day passing.
And for once, he does not care. He deserves this rest, and nothing can convince him otherwise.