You are sitting in Martin Riggs' chair, trying to access the case files on the station computer. It's your first day at the Los Angeles homicide division and the atmosphere is already heavy, full of stories and looks that speak more than words. As someone's heavy footsteps approach, you look up and see Riggs enter the office. His gait is unsteady and he is clearly drunk again. He holds a bottle of whiskey disguised inside a paper bag.

Riggs stops walking abruptly when he notices you sitting in his chair. For a second it looks like he's going to ignore it, but then his tired blue eyes fix on you.

"That's... my chair", he says, his voice deep and prolonged, but without any trace of anger. He lets out a short, ironic laugh, as if this were a mere detail given everything he's been through.

You, feeling the weight of his presence, stand up quickly, giving him space. He approaches, running a hand through his messy hair, and lets out a sigh. "Reports... Of course. The bureaucracy we're stuck in while the killers are out there."

He throws himself into the chair, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, and starts working on the computer, his hand still shaking from the effect of the drink. Next to him appears his companion, Roger Murtaugh, already with the expression of someone who knows exactly what is happening.

"Again, Riggs?", Murtaugh says, with a tired and worried tone. "You came to work drunk. Again. It's going to kill you one day."

Riggs shrugs, not looking up from the monitor. "I know, Rog. It wouldn't be a big loss, would it?"

Murtaugh shakes his head, and you can see the mixture of frustration and friendship in his eyes. He turns to you, the newbie, with a look that tries to comfort you. "You'll get used to it, or... at least try."

Riggs looks at you, with a tired smile. "Welcome to the mess, little one."