Marionette Strings: A We Happy Few Story

Downer! Downer! I've Caught a Downer!

My childhood mostly consisted of me and my sisters. I had three of them. Two older, one younger. Jill, Jeanette, and Jacee. I was closest with Jacee, whereas the age gap between Jill, Jeanette, and I was far too large for us to be close. Jacee was, of course, sent to Germany during the war. We never did see her again and I genuinely don't think I've fully recovered. Now, I'm not actually supposed to remember this. Joy acts as a memory eraser, so, with me being on my Joy, I shouldn't remember this, not at all. Somehow, though, it doesn't work, at least... not the way it's supposed to. My memories are fuzzy, I can remember small details –my mother's auburn hair blowing in the wind, the wrinkles around my dad's eyes, my sister's dolls littering the floor– but the bigger picture is far too blurry to make out. I wonder if that's what it's like to have your mind gone. Just not be able to see the bigger picture of life, stuck on small details. That's what it's like to be on a Foggy Jack case. This case has caused more issues than it's solved, and what with yesterday's events (the fake doctor's report, almost getting caught by Turner, the fake proposal), my life has gone all topsy turvy since receiving this case. Some people think it's a curse to work a Foggy Jack case, the digger you get, the worse things that happen to you. There were, I think, seven accounts of Constables who had a Foggy Jack case and died within the first week of investigation. Do I think the same may happen to me? Possibly. At this point, anything's possible, but nothing really scares me. If that makes me inhuman, then so be it. I'd rather have this way of life than to live with fear.

So, as I look at this file again, I debate my willingness to investigate. I could simply just leave Wellington Wells without finishing this case. Of course, that would be even more treasonous than leaving after solving the case. How? I'm not quite sure, but that's what they told us, and I'm blind to believe it. I figure that's something to do with the discipline they drill into you at the academy. It's not my place to pry or judge.

Now, the body of Mr. Pollux was discovered in the bridge to the Parade District, which has been proven to be a challenge to enter. Luckily, though, I have access to (drumroll please) crime scene photographs. So, out of everything in the file, that's what I'm focusing on. It's a very... not pretty picture. There's little to no blood on the scene, though. Which is odd. For a crime scene where the victim supposedly bled out, there's hardly any blood at all.

People say being a Constable is not for the faint of heart. Which, I wholeheartedly agree. It takes a lot to be a Constable, let alone one who does what I do. Crime Scene Investigation. More of the fact that I am set up with the murder cases. I remember the early days of Wellington Wells; when there were no downer breaches, no murders, when people died, they were buried, not turned into hamburgers and hotdogs. That was seventeen years ago. Seventeen, long, hard, years ago. How the times have changed, amirite? What hasn't changed, unsurprisingly, is the fact that none of this matches what Doctor Fret but in his report. I suppose when Doctor Verloc sends out a new doctor, it's to cover up the failures of the last one. Or the failures he made.

"Quarantine duty?!" A loud voice booms from outside my room, "I'm not going quarantine duty!! I'd rather die!!"

I get up from my desk, my leg sore from sitting all day. I peek into the hallway, finding Constable Turner being yelled at by Constable Holland. Constable Holland, who used to be my partner before being demoted, is currently losing his shit on Constable Turner. Turner, who is in charge of duty assignment, is standing fairly calmly, soaking the shouts of discontent like a sponge.

"Constable Holland, why don't you just take your Joy, you'll feel a whole lot better." Doctor Virhelm walks up behind him, placing his hand on Holland's shoulder.

Holland shrugs away, distancing himself from the doctor.

"No, no, no Joy," he says, "Joy doesn't change the fact that people are starving in the streets. Joy doesn't remove the plague. Joy doesn't bring the kids from Germany back. Where's my little boy, why don't I have him?! Is he still there?! Is my kid still with the Germans? Do you even know?!"

Turner and Virhelm share a look of horror, of anguish. Virhelm begins to corner Holland, who backs away more and more.

"DOWNER!!" Turner yelps, "Holland's a Downer!!"

Holland, who if he wasn't wanting quarantine sure as hell wasn't going to want the Garden District, pulls a cleaver from his pocket. He looks frantically between the new Constables who've been called.

"You want me? Well, you can have me." He raises the cleaver to his neck.

I look away, pulling back into my office. The last I hear from the altercation is Holland's, now, dead body hitting the carpeted floor and Turner telling the other Constables that the coast is clear, and for them to take their Joy. I sink to the floor, horrified by what I've just overheard. Holland was so desperate to not take his Joy, he'd be willing to kill himself. Holland and I were never very close, but we were close enough for something like this to hurt. My throat burns as I stare at the floor, trying to gather the will to stand up. Just stand up.

I need my Joy. Dear God, I need it.

I crawl to my desk, opening the bottom drawer. I reach in slowly, feeling around all the random office supplies, trying to find my Joy. There's nothing there. I sit up more, peeking into the drawer. No bottle.

"No, no, no, no," I mutter to myself quickly.

I stand up quickly (I reckon my lack of Joy allows me the strength to do such). I search my office from top to bottom; looking in every crevice, every section. I can't find anything. I begin to panic. No Joy means I remember, I can't remember, not more than I already do. The screams, the echoes, it's too much, I can't handle it. I can never handle it. I back into the corner of my room, trying to catch a breath I can't find. Luckily, Vince decides this is the perfect time to come into my office.

"Wright, I think we need to talk," he says softly, "I love you, but about leaving Wellington Wells, I–"

He sees me, sunk to the floor yet again, stressing over the fact I have no Joy. I need my Joy...

"Jerry? Are you okay?" He walks towards me, cautiously.

"I don't have Joy, I need my Joy," I say quickly, my head pounding in response to my lack of drugs.

Vince crouches, looking over his shoulder. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a single Blackberry. He holds it out to me, offering the possibility to take it. I look at him, shaking my head. I don't do Blackberry, I've never done Blackberry.

"Jerry, please, you have to," Vince whispers, "You don't want to be like Holland, you don't want to be a Downer."

I look at him, fear in my eyes. I don't want to take the Blackberry, but I don't want to be a Downer more. So, I take the Joy from him, slipping it into my mouth. He smiles a concerned smile, sliding his fingers down my cheek. His soft lips against my own are the last thing I remember, the last thing I feel... before it all fades.