Chapter Text
April 17, ‘52: 10:01
A clean shot rang through the bank in Central Jamrock. The scattering was just after; people holding bags over their heads, hunched, screaming.
“Everybody on the ground, now!”
The request is punctuated with a few more rips of gunfire. Two people dressed in bulky brown rushed into the bank, pulling canvas bags out and slamming them onto the counter.
“You know what to do!”
The accent is heavily Revacholian, but their face is obscured by a wrapped mask; all that can be seen is their eyes, dark and wide with direction and panic.
It was meant to be an in and out job, as they always are. Something fucking goes wrong, as it always does. By the time the escape MC screeches to a halt at the side door, there are twelve million reál missing from the coffers and two dead victims.
April 17, ‘52: 10:43
“Arms up.”
Harry lifted his arms up awkwardly, waiting for the next direction as the lazarus pressed a cold pen tip to the lymph nodes under his armpits.
“Cough.”
The sponge of his lungs kicked free a few cigarette butts lodged deep. Gottlieb shook his head, but continued, two words at a time until his list had been exhausted.
“Last year I could have sworn you’d be dead by now.” The man breathes plainly. “Your lungs are full of tar, but you’re almost human now. Guess I owe Pryce forty reál.”
Harry couldn’t bother to be offended. One year since his fairly spectacular—and, frankly, infamous—Martinaise breakdown. It was never congratulations on your sobriety! Or you’ve worked so hard and given up so much for your health! Or even you’re much, much more interesting and attractive now, Harry .
No, it was always never would have guessed you’d live to see this side of the new year . He buttoned up his shirt, quiet in this particular kind of indignation.
“Am I okay, then? Annual Physical passed?”
“Physical passed, Monsieur Du Bois. Bloodwork looks normal, Drug and Alcohol tests clean. Miraculously.” There was a but, here. “How has your memory been?”
Harry pretended to think for a moment. “Good. Better.”
“Has it fully returned?”
“Since July.”
“Good, good.” It’s a bittersweet solace that no one ever thinks to ask, is that good?
“Last year you were having trouble with…” Gottlieb flipped back in his charts, squinting at his own handwriting. Everything. “Well. Let’s focus on the main things. The dreams? How have your dreams been.”
“Fine. They’re not a problem anymore.” It’s easy to lie, because Gottlieb doesn’t give a shit about anything other than filling the boxes on the form.
“Your anger? I haven’t seen many reports come up, it sounds like you’ve got your temper under control?”
“Yes.”
“Last year, your partner made a formal request that you begin seeing a psychiatrist—were you able to find one?”
“On my salary?” Harry scoffed out a laugh. “No. I haven’t.”
“Well, here’s a list of RCM-affiliated doctors in case you change your mind.” he idly handed him the same dusty leaflet that he did last year. The date on the front says it’s from ‘46.
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time they change my salary,” Harry remarked, earning him a long stare before Gottlieb stood with finality, letting the leaves of his report fall back onto the clipboard with a soft sound.
“Well, Du Bois, I’ll see you next year.”
“Yep.”
Neither man sounds particularly convinced.
April 17, ‘52 10:55
Harrier Du Bois’ cigarette was lit before he stepped out of the lobby of the precinct and into the cool spring air. He passed a red sign that said NO SMOKING WITHIN 8M OF ENTRY screwed into the grey brick, and a scrawled note underneath that says THAT MEANS YOU, DB. He had no idea how long it had been there, because each time he stood out to smoke, six or eight or twelve times a day, in this very spot, neither sign registered as more than a blur in his side vision.
He had a meeting in five minutes: He’s supposed to be attending a debrief of a case that Kim and Jude closed yesterday. They really knocked it out of the park. It’s taken a year of work, but the Major Crimes Unit has started to gain recognition.
—It’s taken a lot of Jean and Kim’s work, you mean.
—No, that’s not true. I’ve busted my balls this year. I worked harder than a fucking mule to improve the reputation of this unit.
—You can’t get that over the grime of your own reputation.
Harry puffed an annoyed exhale.
Sure, It’s possible that he had not expressed the true state of his brain to Gottlieb. It could be that there was nothing that he could possibly do short of total and complete lobotomy that could give him the chance of fixing his reputation , and the behaviours that continue to validate it.
Extremely possible that he’d spent most of this year trying to make any sense of the kaleidoscope of memories that flit in and out of his mind. Like he couldn’t hold them all at the same time. Fish in a pool, darting from surface back down to shelter.
—Don’t you want to join them?
—No. There was nothing down there for me last time.
—No. I have work to do.
—God, you have no idea how much I want to join them.