Chapter Text
And above all, you let life defeat you. All the gifts your parents gave you, all the love and patience of your friends, you drowned in a neurotoxin. You let misery win. And it will keep on winning till you die -- or you overcome it.
-- Rigorous Self-Critique
(UN)FAMILIAR TENEMENT — On the corner of Main and Perdition is a concrete tenement that has seen better days. It rises five-storeys above the busy streets of Jamrock, cold and austere, and can best be described as “square”. Box-like balconies too small to stand in line the outside, perfectly spaced and symmetrical; some hold potted plants, their leaves a shock of vibrant green against an unending gray-scape, and some hold strings of warm lights that twinkle in the dark. Even more are covered in clothes arranged to dry in the cool air. Most have nothing at all.
The front door — a sturdy wooden one with a metal casing to prevent break-ins — has been propped open with a rock.
INLAND EMPIRE — You do not remember this place — but you should.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Apartment 12B, second floor.” Jean Vicquemare leans over the empty passenger seat of the Coupris 40 and closes the door with a sharp thud .
HALF LIGHT — Abandoning you.
INLAND EMPIRE — In hell.
COMPOSURE [Medium: Failure] — You reach for the calming silk of the horrific necktie only to remember that it’s gone. You rub a trembling hand against the back of your neck.
CONCEPTUALIZATION — Technicolor ash mingling with the soot-stained air of Martinaise.
ENCYCLOPEDIA — From Central Jamrock, Martinaise is about a twenty minute drive along the 8/81.
REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Twenty minutes — in a *motor carriage*. You don’t have one of those anymore, do you?
HALF LIGHT — There’s no going back now.
PERCEPTION (SOUND) [Formidable: Success] — Behind you, a window rolls down.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Hey, shitkid.”
YOU — You turn.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — The Satellite-Officer is watching you, eyes hard, one hand resting on the lever of the motor carriage. He hasn’t turned the engine off.
EMPATHY — He still doesn’t know what to think of you.
HALF LIGHT — He does. He *hates* you.
SUGGESTION — Perhaps an apology is in order? Start crossing things off the list of all the stuff he yelled about earlier…
RHETORIC [Easy: Failure] — Yes! Hit him with the good old *I’m sorry* — perhaps with your wettest and most pathetic look for good measure? Few can resist such a combo!
DRAMA — Apply the *puppy-dog eyes*, sire. Make yourself akin to one of those crusty little white dogs.
VOLITION — Don’t do that. It would probably make him even more annoyed at you actually.
AUTHORITY — Fuck apologizing. Do not debase yourself in front of a subordinate.
ESPRIT DE CORPS — He’s not a subordinate. He’s your *partner*.
EMPATHY — Which means he might have some immunity to the puppy-dog eyes…
RHETORIC — Fuck! The eyes *make* the apology! It won’t work otherwise!
JEAN VICQUEMARE — In the ensuing silence, Jean has retrieved something small from the glovebox. The low light provided by the streetlamps makes it difficult to discern what it is — small enough to fit in the palm of a hand at least.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Failure] — Drugs?
JEAN VICQUEMARE — And he’s back to staring at you in silence.
COMPOSURE — His posture is relaxed, but his expression is pinched in annoyance.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Your partner has *always* had a serious case of RBF. It’s his version of The Expression — he can’t turn it off anymore. Probably kills on dates.
PAIN THRESHOLD — It is unnerving to have his focus solely on you.
INLAND EMPIRE — He’s taking you apart with his eyes, searching for something that might confirm your continued existence on Elysium is allowed — pray that he finds it…
YOU — You turn your attention to the dying shrub the city planted in front of your apartment to raise the property value.
YOU —
-
“Uh, hey. Can I ask why —”
-
“What’s going to happ—”
-
“I’m sorry—”
-
[REACTION SPEED: GODLY] Catch it.
-1 Recently shot
-1 Recently shot *twice*
-1 Blood loss makes you slow
-1 Jean hates you
YOU — Wait — catch?? Catch what???
VISUAL CALCULUS — Something being thrown at you.
YOU —
- [REACTION SPEED: GODLY] Catch it.
-1 Recently shot
-1 Recently shot *twice*
-1 Blood loss makes you slow
-1 Jean hates you
REACTION SPEED [Godly: Failure] — You forget that you were shot. On instinct, your arm jerks upwards to shield your face and a searing pain lances through your shoulder. The heel of your ostentatious snakeskin shoe catches on the curb as you step back in a panic — your leg buckles, sending you to the ground. You land on your injured shoulder, hard.
- 1 HEALTH
COMPOSURE [Impossible: Failure] —You are unable to hold back the scream that grinds out of you: “FUCK!”
PAIN THRESHOLD [Impossible: Failure] — Black spots blot out your vision for several seconds. Eventually, your eyes are able to focus on the sidewalk beneath you.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — From inside the motor carriage you hear a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck’s sake! Can you try not to brain yourself on the fucking sidewalk?”
YOU —
- Through tears: “I’m cool. I’m chill. Everything is fine.”
- “What the FUCK was THAT!?”
- Lay on the ground in pained silence.
- [SAVOIR FAIRE: IMPOSSIBLE] Do a cool somersault and get back to your feet.
-10 You were fucking shot. *Twice*.
PERCEPTION (SOUND) — A loud sigh echoes in the cabin of the motor carriage.
ESPRIT DE CORPS — You’ve got to be fucking me, he thinks.
YOU — The rumble of the Coupris 40 fades. For one hysterical moment you think that Jean has finally decided you aren’t worth the trouble, but then your view is obscured by a pair of scuffed wingtips. You look up.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean stands over you with a surprisingly bland look on his face, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “You good down there?”
YOU —
- “What the fuck did you throw at me?”
- “If I said yes, would you leave me here?”
- “I’d like to get up now.” (Proceed)
JEAN VICQUEMARE — He lights his cigarette in lieu of responding. His plastic lighter is dark purple and covered in painted pineapples. It is in stark contrast to just about everything else about him.
EMPATHY — He’s not going to answer that.
HALF LIGHT — Because *he would*.
SUGGESTION — Best to change the subject.
YOU —
- “What the fuck did you throw at me?”
- “If I said yes, would you leave me here?”
- “I’d like to get up now.” (Proceed)
JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean leans down and reaches for something beside your head. When he straightens, he’s holding a keychain with a single key on it. Through a puff of smoke he says, “The key. To your apartment.”
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Challenging: Success] — A standard apartment key with a piece of painter’s tape stuck to the head. H-12B has been scrawled across in large black letters.
REACTION SPEED — H for Harry. 12B for… well, you know.
INTERFACING [Easy: Success] — It isn’t your handwriting.
LOGIC — Could he not have handed them to you through the window??? Like a normal person???
YOU —
- “What the fuck did you throw at me?”
- “Why did you *throw* it at me?”
- “If I said yes, would you leave me here?”
- “I’d like to get up now.” (Proceed)
JEAN VICQUEMARE — “I was hoping to hit you in the face.” He takes a deep drag, the cherry of his cigarette burning brighter in the dark.
DRAMA [Medium: Success] — He is being sincere, my liege.
ENDURANCE — Asshole! That fall could’ve burst your stitches!
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Formidable: Success] — His eyes are drawn to your injured shoulder.
REACTION SPEED — Checking for blood.
EMPATHY — He feels bad about making you trip, although watching you flail was a little satisfying.
YOU —
- "What the fuck did you throw at me?"
- "Why did you *throw* it at me?"
- "If I said yes, would you leave me here?"
- Damn, does he really hate me *that* much?
- "I'd like to get up now." (Proceed)
DRAMA [Formidable: Failure] — ‘Tis an act, sire. His actions speak otherwise.
LOGIC — …Right. Like him throwing something at your face.
DRAMA — It could have easily been a show of camaraderie if not for your unfortunate physical comedy routine.
RHETORIC — He’s helping you up. That means *something* surely.
LOGIC — Of course he is! You were *shot* three days ago! What’s he going to do, leave you on the ground like a jackass?
HALF LIGHT — He wants to. It’s only because of your success in Martinaise that he isn’t — you’re still *useful*.
YOU — So I’m getting the sense that the answer could go either way?
EMPATHY — You can confidently check the Yes box next to the category of Jean Being Angry. Hatred? Up in the air.
LOGIC [Easy: Failure] — Even if he does hate you now, he can’t forever!
EMPATHY — Are we sure about that? I feel like this guy can hold a grudge.
INLAND EMPIRE [???: ???] — A cup clinking against a table. Someone rummaging through office supplies. He won’t be able to find a working pen for the rest of his fucking life if I have anything to say about it.
YOU — Blink.
PAIN THRESHOLD — Wouldn’t *you* after hearing all you did? Emotionally abusive, I think you were described.
- 1 MORALE
ENCYCLOPEDIA — Partners for, at minimum, two years. It’s been six since *the incident*...
PAIN THRESHOLD — Plenty of time for him to have even *more* reasons to hate you.
- 1 MORALE
YOU — But I don’t remember that shit!
VOLITION [Legendary: Success] — No, you don’t. But he does.
TASK GAINED: Does Jean really hate you that much?
JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Alright, shitkid, stop wearing my fucking patience. I don’t want to stand here all night.” He kneels down, a hand coming to grip your elbow. “Let’s go.”
YOU —
- Shake Jean off and stand up by yourself. (Proceed)
- “Yeah.” (Proceed)
JEAN VICQUEMARE — He pulls you to your feet and allows you to regain your balance before stepping away. “Second floor, 12B.” He holds the key out to you, watching your face intently.
EMPATHY — Waiting for your acknowledgement.
AUTHORITY — Treating you like an invalid. Remind him you aren’t a fucking idiot.
VOLITION — No. He’s doing you a favor — just let it pass.
YOU — You take the key, swallowing down the annoyance that bubbles up inside you. “Right, yeah. Second floor.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE — He nods once. “Good,” he says, and adds absent-mindedly, “Now try not to do anything stupid.”
EMPATHY — He doesn’t even realize he’s saying it, it’s so ingrained in him.
YOU — You look down at the key. It’s easier to stare at it than to make eye contact. “Well. Thanks, Jean,” you say.
PERCEPTION (SOUND) [Godly: Success] — Under his breath, barely audible, you hear Jean grunt out a “Yeah”.
JEAN VICQUEMARE — Silence. Then, footsteps on rough asphalt as Jean walks back to the Coupris 40 and gets inside. The engine fires up, another low growl added to the ambient noise of Perdition and Main, and the car is pulling away and leaving you. Further and further, a dot against the horizon. It makes an illegal turn two streets down and vanishes.
YOU — You stare down the street for a long time.
VOLITION — You should sleep.
ENDURANCE [Heroic: Failure] — You’re barely standing as-is. The gunshot wounds are catching up to you.
YOU — Your eyes are drawn to the (Un)Familiar Tenement. Sleep *does* sound nice…
INLAND EMPIRE — Don’t go in there.
YOU — Where else would I go?
INLAND EMPIRE — Anywhere. Even the street would be preferable. Please! Nothing good remains inside.
VOLITION — You are not sleeping on the street.
ENDURANCE — Seconded. Do you think you could live through a second bacterial infection? Because that’s what trying to sleep in an alleyway will get you.
LOGIC — *If* you make it through the night. This isn’t the safest part of town.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Failure] — You could always, y’know. Head to a bar. Warm someone else’s bed?
VOLITION — With a *gunshot wound*!?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Don’t kinkshame! Besides, you’ve been good — how long has it been, eight days since you had more than a sip? One drink isn’t going to kill you!
ENCYCLOPEDIA — Mixing alcohol and pain medication can lead to death.
PAIN THRESHOLD — Not necessarily a downside.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Okay. You could probably still do coke or something.
ENCYCLOPEDIA — No?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I’m liking that question mark. Means we have a chance.
ENDURANCE — Need I remind you of your leg? There’s no way you’re making it to a *bar*.
YOU — You’re sure I can’t power through?
PAIN THRESHOLD — Testing, you shift your weight to your bad leg and the dull ache turns into a stabbing pain. Your stomach rolls at the thought of heading *anywhere* but up the stairs to your apartment.
ENDURANCE [Godly: Failure] — No. You can’t “power through”.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Fine. *Whatever*. Be a bunch of lame fucking binos.
YOU — You turn and hobble your way inside the (Un)Familiar Tenement.
(UN)FAMILIAR TENEMENT — The inside is… surprisingly cozy. It looks like someone living here has gone through the effort of *decorating* the lobby. A pair of mismatched armchairs have been arranged to create a sitting area near the front door and, judging by the overflowing ashtray on the end table between them, it’s used fairly often. Several potted plants — all alive — dot the room and a large multi-color rug, worn and dull, stretches out across the ugly linoleum floor.
Near the staircase is a wall of metal mailboxes. One of them is yours. Next to the mailboxes is a cork board covered in flyers of all kinds: lost pets, stolen items, announcements, funny drawings from both children and adults, advertisements, the list goes on and on. You pause and look them over, eyes catching on a chalk recreation of the cityscape during sunset. It has no signature. A post-it note inscribed with a heart has been tacked to the bottom.
TASK GAINED: Find the items on the tenement’s missing items board
VOLITION — See? There’s still good here.
(UN)FAMILIAR TENEMENT — Up the staircase, on the second floor, is a long hallway with dark wooden doors lining either side. Apartment 12B sits at the far end.
INLAND EMPIRE — It’s not too late.
TOMB OF A DISCO ANIMAL — The door swings open to darkness.
YOU — Flip the light switch.
TOMB OF A DISCO ANIMAL — Flickering light illuminates a small studio apartment. To your left, a kitchen: stove, yellowed fridge covered in takeout menus, a sink, and two overhead cabinets. There is no counter space. To your right is a wall — the bathroom maybe. Straight ahead is a twin bed shoved up against the window, a dresser, and a coffee table with a tape player on top. A cardboard box has been shoved beneath it. There’s nothing else. No knick knacks, no funny pictures on the walls, no signs of personality. Nothing.
This is the apartment of someone who doesn’t expect to be here long.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — There are holes in the walls. Dents. Black scuff marks from who knows what. One of the kitchen cabinets is hanging half-way off its hinges.
VISUAL CALCULUS — A figure standing at 180cm drunkenly fumbles with the front door and swings it open with too much force. The knob slams into the opposing wall, denting it. This scene repeats multiple times a week.
HALF LIGHT — Ugh. Your neighbors must hate you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Does anyone notice something *wrong*?
TOMB OF A DISCO ANIMAL — This place is shockingly clean. Okay, a *deep clean* might still be in order — a film of dust covers just about every surface — but it isn’t the People’s Pile you were expecting. There’s even a trash can next to the stove.
Across from the twin bed is the door to the bathroom. It has a pedestal sink and a standing shower; the mirror is cracked at the bottom left hand corner — from a fist? — and the shower mat is a bright venomous green. Opening the medicine cabinet reveals an almost empty bottle of over-the-counter pain medication, magnesium tablets, and a bottle of unopened mouthwash.
PERCEPTION (SMELL) — The air is sharp and smells faintly of citrus.
LOGIC — Like cleaning supplies.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Shit.
YOU — A field of ghostly images appears before your eyes; the state of what your apartment used to be.
VISUAL CALCULUS [Formidable: Success] — Bottles sit in neat lines on the coffee table — and the dresser, and the stove, and the sink, and the *other* sink. Everywhere. All exactly 1.27cm apart. Some are broken up (or knocked over) by wayward clothes piles and trash and some by a broken lamp that isn’t in this apartment anymore.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — If you look closely, you can see where the bottles kept the dust from accumulating — perfect circles of cleanliness.
INLAND EMPIRE — “The fuck is this sequence killer shit?” Jean squints at the mess, an empty trash bag clutched in his fist.
Judit Minot has already opened the kitchen cabinets and is rummaging through them. “I expected worse,” she says, “save the sequence killer comparisons until we find a shrine.”
YOU — They cleaned my apartment?
LOGIC — It certainly looks like it. But when?
PERCEPTION (SMELL) — Sometime in the last two days. The scent is still strong.
YOU — You aren’t sure how you feel about this. Part of you is grateful; the thought of returning to a shit-filled apartment while injured makes your head hurt. Another part — a paranoid, nasty part — is *pissed*. Who the fuck do they think they are, digging through *your* shit?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — And getting *rid* of *your shit*!
VOLITION — There’s no point freaking out about it now. It’s done, move on.
HALF LIGHT — PUNCH THE DOOR
VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Do not punch the door.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Success] — Check the toilet tank.
YOU — You jerk the lid off the tank and see —
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — FUCK! They cleaned you out, man!
YOU — You shove through the bathroom door, restless energy thrumming within you. There's gotta be something left — right? There has to be *something*. Your eyes scan the apartment as ghostly blue figures clean their way through your stashes. Pulling out the clothes in your dresser, the food in your fridge, opening your tapes, checking under tables — anywhere there could conceivably have been hidden pills or bottles.
VOLITION — This is a good thing, Harry.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Oh fuck off, crownhead. They should’ve minded their own fucking business!
VOLITION — They did what they thought was best. It would have been irresponsible to leave you here surrounded by drugs and alcohol — especially while *injured*.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — That’s the *best* time to be surrounded by drugs and alcohol! A drink would take the edge off.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — Alcohol has been shown to reduce pain in humans and in animals. In fact, recent studies suggest that approximately 28% of people who experience chronic pain turn to alcohol to alleviate their suffering.
YOU — It would be nice. I feel like shit right now.
PAIN THRESHOLD — The pain throbs in time with your heartbeat; your body feels like one giant wound.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — But nooooo, someone decided they knew better than us! And now we’re fucked. Enjoy a week of this bullshit, baby, because it’s only getting worse from here.
VOLITION — You're feeling this way because you've been running around all day and you're exhausted. Go to sleep and you'll be fine — you don't need a drink.
LOGIC — Can we stop whinging about whether alcohol would or would not help our situation? We don’t have any. This is pointless.
SAVOIR FAIRE [Challenging: Success] — Are we sure? Think, Harry. You know this apartment better than those two chucklefucks — there has to be some hiding place they would've never thought to check.
TASK GAINED: Find the hidden stash in your apartment
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Savvy I could suck you off right now!
YOU —
- 1. [SAVOIR FAIRE: HEROIC] Search for a still hidden stash.
+1 Reconstructed where they checked - 2. [ENCYCLOPEDIA: IMPOSSIBLE] Try to remember your dealers' numbers and if they make house calls.
-20 Brain full of holes - 3. Wallow.
SAVOIR FAIRE [Heroic: Failure] — You Jamrock Shuffle your apartment, checking and rechecking anywhere you can think to. After thirty minutes you're in more pain with little to show for it. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Not even a half-empty travel bottle.
YOU — You aren't surprised, really. Judit and Jean are *RCM detectives* — of course they found all your shit.
PAIN THRESHOLD — But you were still hoping.
YOU — Maybe a little.
YOU —
- [SAVOIR FAIRE: HEROIC] Search for a still hidden stash.
LOCKED - [ENCYCLOPEDIA: IMPOSSIBLE] Try to remember your dealers' numbers and if they make house calls.
-20 Brain full of holes - Wallow.
YOU — You struggle with your shoes before collapsing onto the twin bed, exhausted. The stained button-up is tight and awkward across your chest but you can't bring yourself to take it off.
INTERFACING [Easy: Failure] — Your hands are shaking too much to work the buttons anyways.
ENDURANCE [Impossible: Failure] — Sleep tugs at your eyelids. The events of today — the past week — your *whole life* — are catching up to you. There is no way to stop it.
The rising tide of darkness pulls you under.