Chapter Text
Ancient Reptilian Brain : Oh, Harry-boy, you got your wish now. Feel that cold creeping in? Life leaking out of you at long last. Why are you afraid? You’ve begged for this.
...
Your heart has slowed enough for blood to no longer reach your extremities.
…
It’s still trying to, though..
…
It’s so sluggish.
…
Can you hear it?
…
Thum…
…
…
…
Thum…
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…
…
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Thum…
Limbic System : Ooooh but feel that pressure on your ribcage? It mimics the beats your heart should be taking.
YOU : What?
Limbic System : Against all odds, something is willing your heart to give it another shot, and it’s listening. Oblivion fades away. Open your eyes, Harry-boy. The shit factory is up and running still.
You blink, but cannot see, not really.
Rhetoric : How did we even get here?
Esprit De Corps : The raid.
Logic : Right, the raid.
Inland Empire : The raid on the super shady factory by the docks.
Half Light : Explosives, we had suspected.
Electrochemistry : Well, we weren’t far off. What they piled up was definitely * super* flammable.
Drama : Cut to a sweeping view of a large rectangular building by the water, consumed by flames that lick the bottoms of clouds. The usual bustling sound of the city at night is torn by sirens, near and far, and peppered with small explosions as abandoned cans of kerosene littering the warehouse blow up. The whole scene is reflected into the quiet water of the harbour, painting Revachol in warm oranges and reds…
Logic : We are *so* fucked.
Pain Threshold : Not yet. The weight on your chest is saving us. It’s plugging the hole we were bleeding out of. The exit wound, just above the heart.
YOU : How?
Esprit De Corps: That would be officer Vicquemare. Though you have replaced him with Kitsuragi and he has been *stripped* from the satellite-officer title that defined so much of his life, it is the heels of both of his palms that are holding what’s left of your life inside your body right now.
Conceptualization : Revolving around you, always pulled close.
YOU : Why?
Rhetoric : You know why.
Esprit De Corps : The building will collapse soon. Officer Vicquemare is not following protocol. He went back in when he saw you didn’t get out. No one tried to stop him.
YOU : How come?
Encyclopedia : A million years ago, in a past life, when you were still a *good enough* person, you broke the chain of command for him.
Esprit De Corps : You were told, in fact, in no uncertain terms, to *drop* it.
Savoir Faire : They teach you that in cop school, you know. Don’t be a hero, know your limits.
Volition : You’ve never been really good at doing either.
Esprit De Corps : You saved his life, and he always promised himself he’d return the favour, was the need ever to arise.
Inland Empire : Though he has more than repaid you for this, holding you together as best he could until you pushed him away forever.
Visual Calculus : He found you slumped against a wall, a concrete retainer bar sticking out of your chest. He had no choice but to move you lest you burn alive. Taking you off the metal rod you were impaled on led to intense bleeding. He hastily shoved a handkerchief in the entry wound in your back and carried you to a *safe enough* corner of the room, that is, one not currently *actively* on fire, laid you down, and is pressing hard enough on your torso to plug both holes at once.
Endurance : For now.
YOU : “Jean, leave me, please, just go.”
He seems surprised and delighted to hear your voice, but immediately smothers that obvious relief with a scoff.
Drama : Ah yes, he is so cool and aloof and uncaring. So detached from this situation, not like his face is swollen red from uncontrollable weeping while he was hammering CPR into your chest five minutes ago.
Conceptualization : Old habits die hard.
Physical Instrument : Cops die harder.
Volition : ??? What does that even *mean*.
YOU : “I’m serious, walk away while you still can.”
Jean Vicquemare : “Sure, shitkid, and let you bleed all over the floor?”
Physical Instrument : His fingers are numb from the amount of pressure he has to put on the wound to staunch the bleeding.
Pain Threshold : It’s a bad one.
Authority : Pull rank! Show dominance.
You scrape together what’s left of your *official-and-very-serious* Lieutenant voice and use it on your next line.
YOU : “It’s an order . Get out of here.”
Authority : Excellent steady delivery. The youth will be impressed, apologetic and will leave without further ado.
Drama : Uh huh, yeah, totally. What you said.
Jean looks down at you and smirks.
Jean Vicquemare : “I don’t know if you’ve noticed Harry, but you’re not really in a position to be giving those out right now.”
Authority : Pig-headed bastard.
YOU : “You’re gonna die if you stay.”
Perception : His first reply was going to be, I know, I have eyes, but he swallows it back.
Encyclopedia : This would have been the opening of a well rehearsed bout of banter with your past self that he knows will find no purchase with you now. It’s an old inside joke you’ve forgotten along with everything else.
Jean Vicquemare : “Maybe, well, it sure would help if you hauled your ass back on your feet and walked out of the burning building, but if you’re too lazy for it then yes, I guess we both die.”
A shit eating grin.
Electrochemistry : The other half of your insanity.
Drama : Gallows humour, sire. It’s all you two have left.
Empathy : He knows if he drags you, you’ll bleed out before he can get you to safety. He cannot keep the pressure and move you at once.
Visual Calculus : He’s been throwing wild glances around trying to find a way out for you both.
Composure : He has not even considered an option that would entail leaving you. At all.
YOU : “Jean, I don’t deserve this.”
Jean Vicquemare : “You’re right. You don’t.” A beat. “But a version of you did.”
Empathy : Immense sadness.
Volition : He’s ready to lay his life on the line for the person you used to be to him.
Esprit De Corps : Loyal to an echo that has long been silenced.
YOU : “Don’t do this for a ghost.”
He makes a soft noise that is devastatingly close to a sob, but turns into a frustrated scoff at the end.
Perception : He wants you to shut the fuck up.
Physical Instrument : He also knows that every time you speak, you tire yourself out.
Composure : You’re probing at the most tender part of him, careful.
Jean looks away to blink.
Empathy : Tears.
Esprit De Corps : Since you’ve forgotten him, he’s had to up his antidepressant prescription six times. He’s above the maximum dosage and he keeps hoping the placebo will kick in, but it doesn’t.
Rhetoric : You’re verbalizing what he’s been tip-toeing around for weeks, but refuses to admit to himself.
YOU : What?
Conceptualization : That you’re gone for good. Everything you’ve built together - sandcastles washed away with the morning tide. Something that was so fundamental to his existence vanished overnight, and all people did was shrug with a sorry smile. Life went on, and left him behind. An afterthought. Collateral damage.
Esprit De Corps : He mostly spends his days writing parking tickets now, because he automatically got downgraded to his latest individual promotion outside of his satellite status. It’s only a formality until the paperwork to make him Lieutenant in his own right through his service history can be presented to the review board, but all that stuff moves very slowly, especially through the summer months. It’s a guaranteed promotion, but the day to day is grating just the same - proverbial nails on the chalkboard of his soul, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hang on for. He’s filled out a transfer request back to the 23rd, but has not talked himself into submitting it to Pryce yet.
Half Light: Where’s your shiny new partner now, by the way? Was it worth it?
Volition : Don’t do this.
Esprit De Corps : Outside the ball of fire that is now the harbour, officers from the 41st are watching the main structure collapse onto itself.
Officer Minot, who doesn’t smoke, is sucking violently on a cigarette she snatched from Torson, knee bouncing wildly, eyes glued to the remaining back door exit, consumed in flames, but holding valiantly still, clenching the last fire extinguisher in her sweaty hand slipping on the rusted metal handle.
Savoir Faire : The window of opportunity for survival is closing swiftly.
Reaction Speed : He needs to leave. *Now*.
Authority : Maybe we can wrestle his hands off and bleed out like a MAN.
Conceptualization : An act of honor.
Hand/Eye Coordination : On it.
You can barely lift your arms, let alone destabilize Jean’s determined pressure on your lungs. Your fingers find his, and you give a weak push. You may as well be trying to topple a brick house with your little toe.
Endurance : The man is made of spun steel!
He cocks his head at your sad attempt. You have no strength left.
Physical Instrument : Sorry chief, it’s hopeless.
Jean Vicquemare : “You’re a hundred years old and lost half your blood, what are you even trying to do here?”
Authority : This little shit is lucky we are *temporarily* incapacitated.
You want to sass back, but instead you start coughing, and a quake of fear rakes through Jean.
Jean Vicquemare : “Stay with me partner, it’s not over til it's over.”
Logic : Partner, is it?
Empathy : He heard himself too late, shame is burning his nose like horseradish, but he’s hoping you’re too hurt to notice.
Suggestion : WE SEE ALL!
Pain Threshold : He feels pathetic for holding on, but he can’t help himself.
Conceptualization : Partner… Partners... Partners… Partners…
Volition : You always liked the way he said that word, insistent on all the consonants.
You clear your throat, all you taste is iron.
YOU : “You can’t… seriously believe that.”
He flashes you a toothy smile.
Jean Vicquemare : “Learned from the best damn delusional cop in the business .”
Savoir Faire : He’s still hoping someone will come for you two.
Encyclopedia : There was always an unexpected twist when you resolved things together. Something improbable, saving both your asses at the last second. Part of him still thinks it *might* happen.
Empathy : But if it doesn’t, he’s okay with it too.
Perception : All he asks is for the fumes to get you both before the flames. He’s more scared than he wants to admit about burning alive, that shit looks painful.
Pain Threshold : It *is*.
He grabs your hands and places them over your wound, pressing down hard with only one, freeing the other.
With his renewed mobility he takes a cigarette pack out of his breast pocket and drops it on your hip to rummage through.
Electrochemistry : The mad man is about to light one up!
Indeed, officer Vicquemare is placing a classic white stick of tobacco, now marbled with your blood, between his lips, then takes another, which he holds up in front of your face.
Jean Vicquemare : “This one has your name on it for when we get out of this shithole, alright?”
Rhetoric : He says *when* for your sake. What he means is *if*, and he’s not optimistic about that at the moment, hence the smoking.
Jean Vicquemare : “I won’t tell Kitsuragi, I promise.”
Drama : Did he just * wink* at us??
He slides * your* cigarette into his breast pocket, tries to fit the pack in his back pocket, fumbles, frowns and finally throws it to the floor, frustrated. A small giggle bubbles up from your throat, and the sound softens his features.
You feel a pang of intense nostalgia for a past you know nothing about.
He fishes out his lighter and has to click it four times before it produces a flame.
Conceptualization : Somehow ironic.
YOU : “I’m sorry I never remembered you…”
Jean scoffs, and takes a long, pensive drag.
Electrochemistry : Rolling the smoke in his mouth, enjoying it like it’s his last.
He pockets the lighter and gently pushes your limbs away to put his hands back in position.
His eyes lock to yours.
It’s the first time you’re truly staring at each other since Martinaise. In the back of your brain somewhere, the light of knowledge hits the water of your subconscious just right for a memory to be briefly visible, like a shimmering oil spill.
You’re swatting his socked feet out of your face, trying to fall asleep, sharing a train-car bed, destination unknown. You’re both laughing hysterically. By morning, you’ve shifted enough that Jean’s head is on your chest. When he stirs awake, he holds your gaze for a long time in silence.
A little like now.
You realize a lot of the conversations you two had were devoid of words.
Jean Vicquemare : “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth, which is nothing at all.” He turns his head to blow the smoke away from your face. Something burns in the middle of your heart. “Maybe it wasn’t fair that I didn’t try to remind you, maybe it would have helped, who knows? It just felt too tragic to try.” A sad smile. “You know, if a guy can’t remember G-Bevy there ain’t much to do for him.”
Time seems to still, but maybe it’s just a side effect of the blood loss.
Shivers : IN EIGHT MINUTES, THE LOAD BEARING BEAM ABOVE BOTH OF YOU WILL COME DOWN AND CRUSH OFFICER VICQUEMARE’S SKULL. HIS PRESSURE ON YOUR WOUND WILL THEN BE RELEASED, AND LIFE WILL SEEP AWAY FROM YOU. IT WILL BE QUICK, I PROMISE. HE WON’T FEEL A THING. AND YOU… WELL, YOU ARE ALREADY GOING NUMB AREN’T YOU?
YOU : …
Shivers : REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU BACK THEN?
YOU : …
Shivers : REMEMBER ?