It's so easy to dehumanize people. Nanu creeps himself out with how badly he wants to. The problem with Guzma is that he's capable of being human. Memory serves to remind Nanu of that. Hala is constantly calling to remind Nanu of that.
This is why Nanu is currently on an unplanned night shift at the local jail, slouching on a masonite stool in the warden's office. His close-toed shoes are spread flat on the floor and the horizontal pressure of hard tile under his feet is grounding in a way that makes his brain swim with the idea of sleep.
The distant rhythm of a forehead beating against concrete pulls Nanu out of his daze, and then a scream. The pitch is more on the side of "attention-seeking" than "dying" though, so there's some reluctance in Nanu's sigh as he pulls himself to his feet. This has to be a bipolar disorder, he thinks privately to himself, or schizophrenia. It's hard to say. He's not trained for this. Alolan prisons are supposed to provide mental health services for cases like Guzma but Nanu has never seen evidence of it. There's the vague idea of a traveling psychologist; documentation verifying the existence of one, but nobody has ever been able to make contact beyond the computer-automated run-around.
"Hey," Nanu taps one of the bars with his knuckles. "Cut it out."
Guzma whirls on him. "Shut the FUCK UP!"
Nanu catches a glimpse of white styrofoam in Guzma's hand and darts out of the way without a second glance. He doesn't need to see what's in the cup. Nanu has been at this long enough to know that the contents can only be piss, spit, or semen. The cup clips a bar from the opposing cell and spirals to the floor. Something warm and lacking in viscosity splashes his elbow.
It's piss.
Guzma hocks a wad of phlegm in his direction for good measure, but it falls short in a transparent pink smear. Nanu's eyes make a down-up flick from the floor to Guzma's face. He somehow manages to be a bigger mess every time Nanu sees him. The gaps between his teeth are welling with blood and his hair is now a dried, fried orange from a botched attempt at going blond.
Guzma retreats from the bars, and as Nanu draws close again he can see the white of a second styrofoam cup appearing in his hand. "Hey, HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!" Nanu's hand goes to his belt. Krookodile emerges in a flash and smacks the bars with its tail, snarling with a ferocity that Nanu can feel in his skin. The use of his pokemon's intimidation ability is all for show. He can't legally restrain or attack Guzma while he's in a cell. The kid doesn't know that, though. He trips over himself backing away, falls flat on his ass, and spills urine all over himself in the process. Then he draws his knees up to his chest and starts screaming, again, but it's one of those choking screams that only exist to cover up a sob.
Nothing about Guzma's situation is funny, but there's no denying that he makes a spectacular fool of himself when he's having his breakdowns. This is the sort of thing that would get him bullied by any other cop; it's the sort of thing that would tempt Nanu to bully any other prisoner; if that prisoner wasn't someone he felt an obligation to care about.
Nanu can see him more closely now and notes with relief that the blood is only coming from a cut in his lip. "It's four in the morning, Guzma. Go to sleep."
Guzma buries his face in his knees and groans. "I want to go home."
"Where, Guzma? Where is home for you? Are you going back to Melemele? Your parents are afraid of you. Hala has a grandson to take care of. If I let you out tonight, you're just going to find a new porch to sleep on, scare the hell out of some other family, and I'll have to come out and arrest you again before the sun is up."
Guzma keeps his face hidden and submits to quietly sniffling- a sign that he's sufficiently worn out and ready to be quiet for the rest of the night. In the morning Nanu will give the kid some juice boxes and snacks from the employee lounge and send him on his way. Until the next call, and the next arrest, and their next sleepless night in this sorry excuse for a jail. How to get Guzma out of this cycle, he has no idea. But they're doing this one day at a time.
Nanu digs his hands into his pockets and lets out a heavy sigh. "Goodnight, Guzma."
Nanu begins to have new dreams about Faller, and in these dreams, he is the warden of a prison. The sounds of her labored breathing carry down the hall, into his office. And when Nanu goes to look inside of the cell she is blind and curled like a fetus in a puddle of her own filth.
Her face is often different. It could be emaciated, or just the way it looked when she was healthy. Her hair might be a dry, bleached orange and occasionally, she looks almost exactly like Anabele.
Nanu spends the entirety of these dreams trying and failing to open the cell door. He will struggle on and on but something always goes wrong. The key won't work, or the hinges are jammed, or he pushes too hard and the metal bars will fly to the floor and smash her into a pulp. No matter what variation of the nightmare he is having, the dilemma is always the same: Faller is dying, with nobody intending for her to die, and Nanu is powerless to help.