Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He's a lost man!

*If* you make it -- if you've been sober for 10 months -- tell us. I'll work with you again. But not like this. Never like this again. This is over.

Let him sort it out for himself.

(‟Contact Mike is a reprise of the most inspiring basic sporting principle of open competition! A 5,000-1 rank outsider!”) Oh -- you don't say? (He arches an eyebrow.) Does he also *vault an impassible gulf of finance and privilege*?

You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you.

Where have *we* been? We've been fucking off, as far as I remember. (He crosses his arms.)

(‟You seem like a bit of a drag. No offence, but I could do better.”) None taken, my friend -- none taken. (He waves his hands.) Let's be honest, there's been some purely fictional talk in our imaginary station in regards of who'd even *be* worthy of your partnership...

That will never happen, Jude. He's the rudest man on Earth. He is the reason why the rest of us have to take sensitivity training. And I *hate* sensitivity training...

A straggler -- from the Revolution? (He sounds incredulous.)

Shut up! Show me your sidearm, or fuck off.

Okay, Trant, thank you. That's absolutely meaningless. You really are a lefty dink. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know *that*.

Oh, it's you, you eccentric genius. (He winks at you sarcastically.) I mean with your unorthodox approach to police work it *has to* be you.

Yeaaah... (He's rubbing his chin as he drags out the *yeah*.) Sort of. Okay. I get the reference. Like after he got run over or something.

They're going to fuck us to death.

I can go for that -- shitkid is a broken man, always has been. Who isn't? I know I am.

There are *universal* standards of good out there and that... that was just complete shit.

Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He's a lost man!

I can believe that. Not the *detective* part, that's a tall order, but that he fucked with us. This is typical Harry behaviour. A sick joke. I told you, Jude.

No, nothing. It's just... Judit went to his place and found the Monday mail unopened. I think he's still *there*. You didn't, like, drink with him over the weekend did you?

Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He's a lost man!

Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho. (He grabs his stomach in mirthless laughter.) Tequila Sunset -- not Sunrise, because you're almost dead. So funny, Harry. Thank you for fucking me.

(‟Fine”.) No, not entirely. (It's impossible to say what his eyes behind the shades are doing.)

You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you.

I've been there: Perhaps it's *not* because he's a petulant teenager in a 40-year-old man's body. Perhaps it's pale-related? Perhaps it's extraphysical?

But not like this. Never like this again. This is over.

(‟Contact Mike is a reprise of the most inspiring basic sporting principle of open competition! A 5,000-1 rank outsider!”) Oh -- you don't say? (He arches an eyebrow.) Does he also *vault an impassible gulf of finance and privilege*?

Oh no, NO, NO! You see, I enjoy watching other, better cops solve crimes -- and let me tell you, it's been quite a privilege seeing you work...

You were crying when we got here. Breaking things. You said we were going 'into the abyss'. None of us wanted to see the abyss, so we fucked off. (He sighs.) Like you told us to.

You really are a lefty dink.

Keep your weird bullshit to yourself and be professional for once, for fucks sake...

You look like a fucking clown, Harry. *Not* like a funny police officer, but like a real-life, full-time, pie-in-the-face, unicycle-riding circus employee.

Yeah -- Major Crimes Unit, under Lieutenants Du Bois and Vicquemare -- ring any bells?

Harrier and I are old friends... from way back.

Oh goddamnit, is he fucking kidding?

I'm your partner. I answer for you when you're not there.

Nothing *works* for me, that's the problem, buddy.

Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho. (He grabs his stomach in mirthless laughter.) Tequila Sunset -- not Sunrise, because you're almost dead. So funny, Harry. Thank you for fucking me.

Oh no, NO, NO!

Get over yourself -- you're not a *perfectionist*. You're a cop and you did a good job. With a lot of help from Lieutenant Kitsuragi.

(‟No one. Forget it.”) Already did. Let's go?

See - there! (He wags his finger at you.) He's getting it! I was *impersonating* him. Look at me, I'm G-Bevy. It was going to be funny. But then you really did have brain damage - so not so much anymore. (EMPATHY - He sincerely thought it was going to be amusing. For both of you)

He's probably just an *asshole*. A drunk asshole who *pretends* to have amnesia to get out of shit.

Let's be crazy... let's say you and I are partners. How's that for a thought experiment?

This shit does *not* leave this room! Not a word of this to the captain or anyone else. We'll give him a couple of days to pull his shit together!

I'm his *goddamn* partner!

Are you drunk right now? You're drunk right now, aren't you, you fucking *bum*. I can smell it!

Keep your weird bullshit to yourself and be professional for once, for fucks sake...

That's plausible. That's entirely plausible. Now we're really getting somewhere... (He gives you a long, meaningful look and adds:) ...somewhere *good*.

I'm your goddamn *partner* Jean Vicquemare, and this is *your* special task force, (he says, gesturing toward his companions.) Or what's left of it.

(‟Wait, your voice... I recognize it.”) Oh really?! I wonder where?!