Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry wasn't supposed to be here.
No one in Precinct 41 knew Harry was here. There would certainly be repercussions for his being here in the inevitable future, but he couldn't give a shit less about the future in this moment.

"What?"
"I said, 'I want to have fuck with you.'"

He'd driven here purely on a whim. He hadn't intended to wind up in the armpit of Revachol when he'd drunkenly stumbled into his Coupris. His bleeding heart and aching muscles had guided him. Some force beyond basic human understanding had pulled him into the ruins, luring him with sweet, distorted music.

"I did it! I did it! She never loved me! No one could ever love me! I'm a monster!"

Harry wanted her.
He'd spotted her accidentally as he ambled across cracked pavement. She was smoking a cigarette on the roof of some shoddy hotel. Blonde and curvy, the woman on the roof looked almost exactly like her in Harry's warped mind.

"The time hath come for Tequila Sunset! The end of all things!"

She often reentered her room with some fuck in body armor. The asshole felt the need to shield himself at all times for some reason. Harry hated him. He was probably holding her hostage in that hotel room.

"Yes, it would certainly bring in a hefty sum, but... Sir, this is your RCM issued service weapon. Are you sure you want to sell this to me?"
"Take it. Just get it the fuck away from me. I don't deserve to carry it anymore."

Across the way, a lost, ailing militia man lay on a damp matress as he watched the blonde woman throught the scope of his rifle with feverish intent. He remained completely still and silent. Only the dying reeds surrounding his fortress shifted in the breeze. Harry knew nothing of this man.

"I can't go back there. Not while he's still around. I'm sorry. You'll have to find someone else to run the cafeteria. I can't go back there."

Harry was cloaked in a black sweatshirt, hood pulled over his eyes, and a pair of black jeans. Five o'clock shadow covered his swollen chin. He wore stolen FALN sneakers on his aching feet. He looked nothing like a distinguished member of the RCM, though his gun held a familiar weight in his pocket.

"Yes, I am en route to Martinaise. I will be waiting to meet him in the Whirling-In-Rags cafeteria first thing in the morning."

Every so often, a smattering of tiny, dehydrated flowers fell to the ground. They were May Bells. Harry could only suspect the armored debaucher of bringing them to the woman. Perhaps he'd been a Revolutionary. Harry didn't give a shit either way.

"Look at me! I'll fuckin' do it! You don't know shit! I'll blast my brains out, right here, right now!"

In his drunken stupor, Harry imtimidated the skiddish locals, stumbling through decrepit alleyways and muttering to himself. The people in the shoddy hotel shunned him from the innards of the building, keeping the alluring staircase out of his reach. He was repeatedly denied access to the woman on the roof.

"The strike? Fuck are we supposed to do with that!? You're askin' us to cover up a murder here!"
"I don't fucking know, Titus. You have to put it together somehow. The political structure of Martinaise is in jeopardy because of all this. I cannot afford to lose my position."

Harry was a poignantly jealous man. He found comfort and familiarity in spontaneous violence. As he mulled over various methods of breaking into the second floor of the hotel, he regained the brief presence of mind to hope old Bourke-o was faring well in his crumbling apartment.

"I abandoned everything I had to live for long ago. I failed society, and society failed me. The commune had already been destroyed before my return. I was robbed of my final opportunity to rid the world of another conniving bastard. I will participate in your ruse only if your officers of the law will end my time in this world."

He was too inebriated to discover the hidden pathway leading to the roof. Despite his impeccable physical strength, he couldn't leap nearly far enough from the rusted harbor staircase to reach the top of the building. Eventually, Harry resigned himself to releasing his anger on a specific target, as he had done many times in the past.

"You want me to help the RCM cover for him? After he shot my lover? I suppose I could use a good excuse to cut my attachments. I've been here too long."

Harry had parked his car in the treeline outside of the ruins in a drunken attempt to avoid detection. He slipped out of the view of cautioned residents to return to his mobile sanctuary. He fumbled his keys and then the contents of the battered glove compartment. His illegal firearm clattered to his feet.

"You are to return to Martinaise and act as though you are investigating the murder. You are not to deviate from the plan for any reason whatsoever."

He couldn't place how or where he'd gotten his hands on the damn thing. He'd had it for as long as he could remember, at least since he first joined the RCM. All Harry knew was that it was the perfect weapon for putting square bullets in square holes.

"He fucking WHAT!? You have got to be fucking kidding me. This is the worst fuck-up he's pulled yet. I cannot believe this shit."

The following events occured in a manner that Harry could only fathom as natural. He stood directly in front of the building, aiming for the row of windows that separated the bed from the outside world as he watched the pair engage in sex for the final time.
The bullet shattered one of the windows. She screamed. Harry turned on his heel and bolted back to his car.
He drove haphazardly towards his meager dwellings in Jamrock. Reality sobered him greatly, though he refused to allow fear to overtake him. The RCM would cover his ass. They always did.
There was no plausible way he could have known that the ICM deserter had erased the last clause in his will to live upon witnessing the execution of the armored man. He had no concern for drug addled twelve-year-olds or politically-minded, disgruntled employees. There were no Revacholian lieutenants adorned in stiff jackets and thick, opaque glasses in his life to guard his every move. He possessed no knowledge of sentient plant creatures that spouted wisdom or otherwordly phenomanon that eradicated man-made transmitions.
In nine days' time, the murder weapon would be sinking to the bottom of the ocean along side Harry's reputation as a militia officer. Later still, he would reemerge as a new man and solve an ongoing crisis. For now, the forlorn alcoholic drove to the melancholy tune of The Smallest Church In Saint-Saëns.

But now you are all alone
None of this matters
Now, none of this matters
At all