it's feral time

all vic wants is some coffee and a cigarette

three things satelitte-officer viquemare was certain of:

the man in harrier du bois' body was a stranger

he wasn't fucking grieving

he would paint the walls of his apartment with his brain before the year's end

[25 MARS '51]

nobody fucking died. at least, nobody died who mattered. as a member of the revachol citizens militia, satellite-officer jean vicquemare should care when people are killed, but the moralintern agents deserved it as far as he was concerned and the drunks barely hanging on to the coastal shithole of martinaise weren't exactly going to be missed. probably.

tucked into a doorway barely covered by an empty but optimistic flower box attached to a window one floor up, jean glanced at the leaflet in his hand for the fourth time in as many minutes. the freezing rain dripping down the window box collected at the collar of his coat. soon the fabric would be soaked enough to begin sliding down his back, where it would settle into a chill that would take the rest of the night to shake.

the leaflet in his hands was too glossy and brightly colored for the bullshit text within it. grief.

he laughed bitterly, cigarette hung loosely between his lips as if he'd forgotten it was there.

[he had, in fact, forgotten the unlit stick of cancer he held as a habit and in two minutes time he would curse himself for the damp waste it was turning into.]

THE FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF read the title, the words a juxtaposition to the poorly drawn sad fucking face beneath it, inked yellow like the burning sun of a sweltering revachol midday. the background was a blue as bright as the sky holding the same burning sun of the sad fucking yellow. this was a complete and utter waste of his time. he had a dozen more important things he should have been doing and at least twenty things he didn't want to do that was more appealing than reading about grief.

with a quiet sigh, he opened the leaflet to the next page. five words were in large letters, each underlined. DENIAL. ANGER. BARGAINING. DEPRESSION. ACCEPTANCE. the words alone gave him a discomfort he couldn't quite understand. beside each word was a blurb, a definition he could only roll his eyes at. he focused on the first word.

DENIAL — definition here

"not in fucking denial when he's lying about it." grumbling the words made the forgotten cigarette fall from his lips, straight onto the wet concrete in front of him. it soaked through immediately. even if jean wanted to somehow salvage it, a passing pair of feet trampled it, disintegrating it into nothing.

it was the last cigarette of his pack. a quick pat of his pockets told him that he had no money on him to buy another until he returned to the mill. "fucking fuck!" the loud outburst caused several passing people to glance at him on the street. he looked almost ashamed for a split second but his expression turned into a scowl as he looked at the tragic remains of his last cigarette.

without looking at the leaflet again, he scrunched it into a glossy ball. he pushed into the thick of the rain, not for the first time today wishing he had brought his waterproof jacket. too little too fucking late.

he shoved the bullshit psychobabble of a leaflet into a trash can as he passed by it, glad to be rid of judit's poor way of helping him.

head down against the rain, jean vicquemare led his long legs back to the precinct where he could warm up with burnt coffee, get some work done, and hopefully bum a cigarette (or two) from someone.