Chapter Text
It’s 08:00 in Martinaise, and your partner is changing clothes in the street again. He puts on the orange hat he picked up in an alley. He takes it off. Now he’s wearing the hat the girl outside the bookshop gave him. Nope, it’s back to the frog visor. There’s a polo shirt. He’s wearing the mesh tank top he found in an abandoned basem*nt. His pants are off. They’re on again. His plastic bag full of tare is in one hand.
PERCEPTION: He’s doing the thing again.
Harry stops undressing in the street long enough to stare into space with his head co*cked, an abstract expression on his face. You pull out your notebook as the wind picks up.
ENCYCLOPEDIA (FAILURE): It’s important to time seizures, but you don’t know if this is one. He just looks like he is zoning out. Are there different types of seizures?
LOGIC (SUCCESS): It won’t hurt to record the frequency and duration of Harry’s “staring at nothing” episodes.
It is 08:09. You draw a simple table in your notebook and record the time.
Less than a minute has passed when he blinks and looks around again. Perhaps it is a waste of paper and ink, but they’re yours to waste. You record the new time.
“We should explore the fishing village again. There’s more we didn’t see to the west,” he says.
“If you say so, detective.”
He takes off at a jog. You stow your notebook and follow.
It is 21:00 in Martainaise, and you are thinking about punctuality. Specifically, you are thinking about how your partner spent the whole day wandering around Martinaise—with you in tow—in pursuit of knowledge only tangentially related to your case. Yet here he is, outside the apartment building at exactly the time you suggested yesterday.
LOGIC: He has been anticipating this meeting.
EMPATHY: He has been looking forward to it.
The young man from the other day is on his balcony. His shirt is open, and he is leaning against the railing enjoying a cigarette.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Looks good.
VOLITION: We’ll have our cigarette at the end of the day while we review our notes, as is custom.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Not exactly what I meant.
The young man smiles when the two of you approach. His smile is bright but impersonal, his body language relaxed.
“Gendarmerie! You found me,” he says. Harry is looking at him like his relaxation is catching. It’s odd to think, but Harry does still have some defenses against the world. When he looks at the young man, you can see his guard lowering.
“Yes, the cleaning lady let us in,” Harry volunteers.
“Beautiful.” The young man smiles.
PERCEPTION: Harry looks like he got hit in the face with a two-by-four.
EMPATHY: And his smoking friend can see it too.
“So tell me, are you here to make things right again?” the smoker teases.
“I’m not going to make things just ‘right;’ I’m going to make them spectacular,” Harry says. What… what is that?
COMPOSURE (EASY): Don’t react. Remain impassive.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Get popcorn.
AUTHORITY: Tell them to get a room.
“Beautiful,” the young man says again. “I have some good news for you. My Sunday friend is visiting me tonight. I told him about you, and he’d like to say hello. Step in, he’s already waiting.”
Harry’s eyes trace the shadows falling across the man’s face, lingering on his slender cheekbones.
COMPOSURE (EASY): You’ve got this. Impassive. You’re a professional.
“By the way, I’m really digging the view here,” Harry says abruptly. He waves his hand in the direction of the city skyline. You’re honestly surprised he’s even aware enough of his surroundings to do that, at this point. He doesn’t take his eyes off the young man.
“Mmhm, that’s why I chose this place. Martinaise is special, isn’t it?” The young man glances in the direction of the city at night. He looks like a painting, chiaroscuro rendering him at once human and ethereal.
AUTHORITY: Say something.
COMPOSURE: Don’t—
“Wait,” you whisper to your partner, “Suddenly you’re ‘digging’ things?” He almost startles at the sound of your voice.
AUTHORITY: He forgot you were there? The nerve.
You raise an eyebrow at him, and he seems to remember that he is an RCM officer with a job to do. He blinks and turns back to the young man.
“Who exactly is visiting you?”
“My Sunday friend. He’s brilliant, everyone wants to meet my Sunday friend. You’ll see.” That’s not really an answer.
“Why would I want to meet your friend?” Harry pushes. Good.
“Trust me, you do.” Still not an answer. At least your temporary partner is doing his job—
“Fine, I’ll talk to him. But first, I want to talk to you. I have so many questions.”
COMPOSURE (EASY: SUCCESS): Don’t put your head in your hands.
COMPOSURE (EASY: SUCCESS): And don’t sigh either.
COMPOSURE (MEDIUM: FAILURE): Remain impassive.
The smoker’s eyes flick briefly to yours, and you must be making some sort of face because amusem*nt crinkles his expression for a moment.
“That’s nice, but I don’t have anything to tell you. It’s my friend you’re looking for, not me.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Besides, I’ve got to run.”
“But I just found you again!” Harry almost wails. You are a professional. You do not snort with laughter. You do not make any sort of noise at all. But you want to.
The smoker just smiles and gestures with his cigarette to the distant motorways. “Just look at it… It’s a beautiful night. Who’s going to stay in on a night like this?” Harry co*cks his head as if he’s actually considering the question. Your fingers itch for your notebook, but the odd moment—if there was one—passes in the blink of an eye.
“Only if you promise that we’ll talk again. It’s important.” He sounds so earnest. You are exerting so much effort not bursting into laughter that you might crush an internal organ. You must keep yourself together. You’re a professional. Your partner has lost his memory and needs you to be a professional. He sounds like an adolescent just learning what hormones are. You’re a professional, damn it.
“We’ll talk, just not tonight,” the smoker relents. He brushes a hand through his hair, and the two of you share another look. Is this guy for real? he seems to be asking. Unfortunately, you would tell him. Amazing. Or perhaps he would say, beautiful. He smiles at Harry again. “Take care, alright?” Then he leaves.
It is 21:04 in Martinaise and you are barely keeping yourself together. Harry turns to you, and he still looks like he was smacked in the face with some sort of construction material.
“There’s something so different about him that I just can’t put my finger on…”
“Different. Of course,” you manage. You want to live in this moment forever.
“He smells good. Why on earth does he smell so good?”
“He smells good…” Correction: you want to live in this moment forever. Of all the things you might have guessed Harry would say, an olfactory observation was not one of them. His face is still earnest as he speaks to you.
“That’s weird, right?”
“He… smells good, and… that’s weird…” It is taking heroic reserves of willpower not to laugh in your partner’s face. You have to turn away from him or you’re going to lose it. You’re a professional. You’re a lieutenant in the RCM. If you laugh in his face now, he might actually start filtering his thoughts before they make to his mouth, and then where would you get your entertainment? Also, the memory loss thing is pretty sad and somewhat alarming, and self discovery is a journey, and often not a linear one. You take a deep breath and force yourself to be Lieutenant Kitsuragi again. “Come on, detective. Let’s go—we’ve got a potential witness to interview—his ‘Sunday friend,’ remember?”
Once inside, the interview with the so-called Sunday friend (Charles Villedrouin, from the Institute of Price Stabilité, on assignment from Sur-la-Clef, he says) goes well enough. He makes you uneasy in a way that is difficult to name. You trust the instinct nonetheless. Your attention sharpens as he recounts the night of the mercenary’s death.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You can sense Harry’s attention honing in on the man as well. It’s a good feeling, the two of you working together like this.
You let Harry take the lead. He asks the right questions, follows up as appropriate. It’s nice to work with him when he’s being the detective.
… And then the interview is over. Harry starts walking around the room and touching things.
COMPOSURE (EASY SUCCESS): Don’t sigh. Remain impassive.
PERCEPTION: Take a look around, why don’t you?
The apartment is small, the room dominated by a large bed with a canopy of sheer blue fabric. The same material has been used for curtains, and the walls have been painted a coordinating shade. Clothes are strewn about the room carelessly, and there are dishes here and there. Despite Mr. Villedroun’s assertions about the young man’s artistic ambitions, there is relatively little evidence of such.
PERCEPTION: Look again.
Ah. You correct yourself. There is a modest collection of art supplies; they are in a neat cluster on the floor. It looks like the young man paints. For lack of anything better to do, you made a note in your notebook.
While your partner is looking around, Mr. Villedroun nods to you and slips out the door. You feel a twinge of unease; you hope that you got everything you needed from him. You suspect that it will be difficult to locate him again.
PERCEPTION: He’s doing it again.
You turn your head, already opening your notebook to record the time—
Oh. You see. You put the notebook away.
Harry is holding up a… garment. It is a silky-looking robe in a bright blue. It has gold trim along the hems and sleeves, and there is an “Oriental” dragon on it. It looks like part of a costume.
Harry lifts the robe to the light, admiring the way the light shines off of it.
REACTION SPEED: Did he just—?
PERCEPTION: Yep.
He brings it to his nose and smells it. His eyes flutter shut. This is weird.
AUTHORITY: Tell him to knock it off. Make him. It would be easy.
He looks at the robe with a slight moue of dissatisfaction.
EMPATHY: Didn’t find what he was looking for?
RHETORIC: Sniffing for?
Then he starts taking off his shirt. Of course he does.
Bare to the waist, he pulls the robe over his head.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He could just leave the shirt off, at that.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Whatever you think about the room’s décor, it was probably selected to flatter the human form. The soft light of the lamps and rippling of the curtains in the night breeze are supposed to create an atmosphere at once sensual and slightly unreal, like a waking dream.
He puts the robe on and looks at himself. You see him rub his fingers over the thin material, apparently enjoying the sensation of the fabric.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hey, that’s a good idea—
VOLITION: No. Don’t even start.
Quick as a wink, the robe is off again. He pulls on his terrible mesh tank top, then puts the robe back on over it, fastening it with the red belt.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: You hate to admit it, but the combination somehow… works. Both garments together are terrible, but combined… they’re still a mess, but an oddly compelling.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah, they are!
PERCEPTION: You can see his broad chest and the top of his stomach, plus a generous dusting of body hair.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is not even remotely approaching appropriate attire for an investigation, even taking into account the more permissive dress standards for officers above the rank of—
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: BEAR ALERT!
VOLITION: Stop. Keep it together. He’s about to say something.
“Kim, you gotta tell me: do I smell nice?”
VOLITION: Don’t—
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Get in there and find out!
COMPOSURE: But actually don’t.
“Do… you…?” you manage. Harry, unfortunately, just nods. His face is open and trusting.
“Yeah, do I smell nice?”
AUTHORITY: Tell him that you smell better.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: In fact, show him.
COMPOSURE: Don’t.
AUTHORITY: Show him that you smell better than some random artiste.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kitsuragi. Do not.
Harry walks towards you, arms out like some kind of saint. He could be the patron saint of bad ideas.
“I… uh…” Your brain is noisy with contradictory impulses, and you’re at a loss.
RHETORIC: I’ve got this.
“You would probably smell better if you washed up. And visited a laundromat.” You take a small step backwards, but it proves unnecessary. He stops in his tracks.
EMPATHY: Ouch.
LOGIC: He can’t. You’ve seen the state of his bathroom.
EMPATHY: f*ck.
VOLITION: It wasn’t untrue…
COMPOSURE (success): Impassive.
While you try to figure out what to say next, if anything, Harry also takes a step back and co*cks his head to the side like he’s listening to something.
“… That’s fair. I don’t know where—do you think Lena knows somewhere I can wash up? Maybe she’ll let me use the bathroom in her friend’s place. Or…” he looks around. “There is a bathroom here.”
“Officer, you must be joking.”
At least he smells better. You’re not actively trying to smell anyone, but you’re also not getting whiffs of alcohol, sweat, traces of vomit, and cadaverous fluids. It might even help in the long run.
COMPOSURE (SUCCESS): Don’t sigh.
