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Associative memory is defined as the ability to learn and remember the relationship between unrelated items. Filing names under faces, smells under names, colors under shapes. Sometimes, a smell alone can evoke a particularly strong memory response.
The smell of gunpowder has conditioned the Inspector to brace his chest, square his shoulders, and keep his watery eyes wide. It's subtle enough, until it comes up in conversations he's not expecting it to.
"You seem different today," says Droog matter-of-factly, only moments after he has settled down in his usual seat across from him and lifted his cup into his hands. They're both expecting a stutter in Inspector's hands as he moves to set the pot of tea down, but it doesn't come, and he almost curses himself for his own inability to stick to status quo.
"You... and I don't mean to offend, but. Your coat." Inspector taps a finger on the edge of the table, hesitant to continue. "...smells like gunpowder."
Droog raises an eyebrow. "Gunpowder? Is that your version of a benzodiazepine?" He takes a slow sip as Pickle Inspector fidgets in his seat, twisting the tablecloth between thumb and index finger.
"Or, rather. I never took you as the type who relished in war. Are you really that out of place when you're not on the frontlines, Inspector?" Droog's gaze stays unblinking between sips. These little meetings of theirs were strictly a professional way of trading information, but at some point it began to feel more like a humorous disection. PI huffs out an indignant laugh.
"Really. Do I look like I belong anywhere on a battlefield, to you?" He gestures vaguely in the air, his rail-thin arms stretching out and letting his ill-fitting sleeves sag pointedly in air.
This does little to deter Droog, who shrugs. "People change. You couldn't imagine the things I used to do, either, before now. But it's not nearly as interesting of a change." He sets his teacup down with barely a sound. "Tell me, Inspector. Were you any good, as a marksman?"
A number flashes behind his eyelids, and he shuts them tight for a second, willing the memory back into the dark. The sun bearing down on his back, the press of the scope against his sunken eye. The way each mark would drop, like a ragdoll, every time he squeezed the trigger closer to him, clutching it like a silent lifeline. The departure of self, the operant conditioning of enemy and friend.
Pickle Inspector clenches his jaw. The warning taste of bile that rises to his throat is almost welcome. Before, he would have never gotten sick on the job.
His hands have begun to return to their default jerkiness, and he shakily wraps his spindly hands around the warmth of his own cup.
"Let's... talk about something else," he manages, finally opening his eyes and hoping that, just this once, he looks resolute despite his demeanor.