(The name on the headstone reads simply: Harrier Du Bois.)
The begradled man groans, rubs his sore neck and simply sits in the dirt. He buries his hairy, swollen face in his hands and laughs. Or perhaps sobs.
“Figures I’d wake up in my own grave. Classic Harry move…stupid…fuck…”
(Get up.)
[I don’t want to do this again. I’m tired.]
(There is a distinct lack of a certain smell in the air: alcohol.)
[Maybe I burned out my sense of smell this time. Who gives a fuck?]
(No, you smell like blood and antiseptic and salt. Your olfactory senses are intact. The earth around you smells exactly like damp, wet dirt.)
(You feel like shit. But you actually aren’t hungover. Congratulations on staying sober.)
(So you blacked out this time for no good reason. Lame.)
(Shut up. Get up.)
[Blood and antiseptic…salt.]
(Yes.)
Harry staggers onto his feet and heaves himself upwards, out of the ground. He falls- miscalculating some step or tripping- he’s not sure which- and lands face forward in the grass. He rolls over with a soft groan, more embarrassed than pained.
(By the way, your bandages are damp, your leg no longer hurts. It is not comfortable but at the very least you no longer feel as though you were shot a few days ago.)
(A miracle! Your wounded body, healed!)
[You know what guys? None of this is reassuring to me. I’m just going to lay here until I wake up.]
ii. scenario three (demon)
(Sure has gotten a lot quieter in here.)
(Feels nice. Feels intimate.)
(We can really get to know each other now, have a real man to man conversation without the pansies butting in.)
(No more sad feelings. Just the cool sexy rockstar ones.)
[…I like quiet.]
(I know you do, baby. You like quiet thoughts and loud music.)
(No, no, no. Put that down. We’re still here.)
(WHAT are you doing?)
[I have no idea.]
(That line works when you wake up naked in a gutter, not when you’re-)
(You are holding SOME DRUNKEN ASSHOLE still by his throat. He twitches and huffs rough breaths around your vice-like grip. Your claws- once blunt nails chewed to the quick- dig into the fragile skin there. His pale eyes are wide and not yet beginning to glaze over with anything other than drink.)
(He’s crying. He’s terrified. He thinks he’s going to die. For god’s sake!)
(In your right hand you are holding a broken bottle, a jagged flower made of glass. Liquid still drips from it, to join the puddle stain on the ground.)
(What a waste!)
(You are also crying. It blurs the features of his face.)
Somewhere on some dark street in Bavan, a demon is positioned over SOME DRUNKEN ASSHOLE, the man is on his knees, nearly gurgling. The demon is shaking, crying. Caught in the throws of a new addiction.
Harry Du Bois | Disco Elysium (cw: substance abuse, addiction, violence)
(The name on the headstone reads simply: Harrier Du Bois.)
The begradled man groans, rubs his sore neck and simply sits in the dirt. He buries his hairy, swollen face in his hands and laughs. Or perhaps sobs.
“Figures I’d wake up in my own grave. Classic Harry move…stupid…fuck…”
(Get up.)
[I don’t want to do this again. I’m tired.]
(There is a distinct lack of a certain smell in the air: alcohol.)
[Maybe I burned out my sense of smell this time. Who gives a fuck?]
(No, you smell like blood and antiseptic and salt. Your olfactory senses are intact. The earth around you smells exactly like damp, wet dirt.)
(You feel like shit. But you actually aren’t hungover. Congratulations on staying sober.)
(So you blacked out this time for no good reason. Lame.)
(Shut up. Get up.)
[Blood and antiseptic…salt.]
(Yes.)
Harry staggers onto his feet and heaves himself upwards, out of the ground. He falls- miscalculating some step or tripping- he’s not sure which- and lands face forward in the grass. He rolls over with a soft groan, more embarrassed than pained.
(By the way, your bandages are damp, your leg no longer hurts. It is not comfortable but at the very least you no longer feel as though you were shot a few days ago.)
(A miracle! Your wounded body, healed!)
[You know what guys? None of this is reassuring to me. I’m just going to lay here until I wake up.]
ii. scenario three (demon)
(Sure has gotten a lot quieter in here.)
(Feels nice. Feels intimate.)
(We can really get to know each other now, have a real man to man conversation without the pansies butting in.)
(No more sad feelings. Just the cool sexy rockstar ones.)
[…I like quiet.]
(I know you do, baby. You like quiet thoughts and loud music.)
(No, no, no. Put that down. We’re still here.)
(WHAT are you doing?)
[I have no idea.]
(That line works when you wake up naked in a gutter, not when you’re-)
(You are holding SOME DRUNKEN ASSHOLE still by his throat. He twitches and huffs rough breaths around your vice-like grip. Your claws- once blunt nails chewed to the quick- dig into the fragile skin there. His pale eyes are wide and not yet beginning to glaze over with anything other than drink.)
(He’s crying. He’s terrified. He thinks he’s going to die. For god’s sake!)
(In your right hand you are holding a broken bottle, a jagged flower made of glass. Liquid still drips from it, to join the puddle stain on the ground.)
(What a waste!)
(You are also crying. It blurs the features of his face.)
Somewhere on some dark street in Bavan, a demon is positioned over SOME DRUNKEN ASSHOLE, the man is on his knees, nearly gurgling. The demon is shaking, crying. Caught in the throws of a new addiction.