YOU – Sit at your desk in C-Wing, in a blade of sunlight cutting in through the industrial windows, waiting for your partner to finish his tête-à-tête with the captain like some shit-tier good boy.

EMPATHY – Maybe if you weren't so hard on yourself ...

YOU – Lightly scratch your facial hair because it is starting to itch. You *really* need to shave.

AUTHORITY – Your face is starting to resemble a homeless adolescent's.

EMPATHY – Okay, fine. Pretend I didn't say anything.

YOU – Well, a bit of contrast around my face does make my eyes look greener, I guess. But this shit itches, and I look younger and more professional when I shave. You rub your chin, adding a dry friction sound to the general police-station ambience.

PERCEPTION – In the relay room, from which a cloud of cigarette smoke blows, Oldboy's voice is punctured by pauses of static. Through the floor, you hear the muffled clacking of typewriter keys from the main hall downstairs. Outside, mechanics weld and panel-beat a motor-carriage back into service.

YOU - Read Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam's latest report. It's not good. Then you go to the file-room, and leaf through your partner's old report on Belles Lettres to prepare, take some notes in question form and clip them to the front of your ledger – on top of the annual notebook of official case files.

As you read and jot, shards of flashbacks nick and scratch your mind.

INLAND EMPIRE – Fleeting, insubstantial memories, like half-recalled dream images and with the same awry sense of déjà vu.

ENCYCLOPEDIA - Déjà vu is associated with temporal lobe epileptic discharges. Maybe you should go to the lazareth?

YOU – Nix Gottlieb is a fucking hypocrite. He reeks of sticky-sweet schnapps and can't remember half the emergency surgeries he performs. In short, he can go fuck himself.

CONCEPTUALIZATION – Why wish him so well?

INTERFACING – Back at your desk, you restlessly click-click a ballpoint pen.

PERCEPTION - The top part of the pen's slim body is teal; the bottom part is off-white. The clicker, which warms under your thumb, is teal too.

YOU – There's nobody else around. They're working hard, and you would already be interviewing the members of Belles Lettres were it not for the tête-à-tête.

DRAMA – Boring, my liege!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Boring, boring, *boring*.

HALF LIGHT – They're probably talking shit about your *stability*. That's not boring – that's *scary*.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – No, there's nothing to fear from your brothers – Jean's got your back. Pryce, too.

VOLITION – You're afraid of not measuring up.

YOU – Rub the back of your neck, and peer across your desk at Jean's, trying to take an intense interest in something other than the conversations inside your head.

PERCEPTION – Your chair squeaks as you half-stand to lean right over your own desk, zooming in for a closer look. It's fucking messy on the other side.

CONCEPTION – The sign of an ordered mind.

LOGIC – It is no such thing.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Under a green desk lamp, Jean's Posse notebook lies open at his drawings of The Burnt-Out Quarter crime scene. On a sticky note, you read the following scribbles upside-down:

TO DO:

Belletrist

Deregulation

BUY FLOWERS

An upright, pointed, concentrated dark blue cursive that *engraves* the paper. You feel like running your fingers over its texture.

Beside the notebook is the official paperwork, where the shoeprint photo has been attached with little white photo corners to the appropriate red info-box in the case file.

A 3x3 magnetic fidget cube sits on the edge like a paperweight – one of its twenty-seven cubes, about the size of an ice-cube, is missing-in-action.

A sheet fed into the electric typewriter seems to indicate that Jean has also started typing up his final report.

YOU – Stare at the dark cube hole in the magnetic fidget cube.

FIDGET CUBE – The cube represents you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION – Thank you for spelling it out for us, ironic anxiety-relief toy.

AUTHORITY – Something is *missing*. You should investigate and *find* it.

EMPATHY – Put the cube back together again.

YOU – Toss the pen aside with a sigh. Get up, adjust your black lieutenant's pants around the crotch. Then move around the desks to your partner's.

PERCEPTION – It's even messier from the front. His badge rests on the case file, beside his blue Trigat. A couple of ampoules have rolled off into a corner formed by the rotary telephone and the radio, where you also spy five 9mm bullets, the paper casings torn from their business ends like banana peels exposing edible flesh.

INLAND EMPIRE – Except these bullets eat flesh.

PAIN THRESHOLD – A twinge where your thigh and pelvis meet reminds you of where you were last shot.

YOU – Missing magnetic cube, missing magnetic cube, missing …

INLAND EMPIRE – Check the typewriter.

LOGIC – The electric typewriter's carapace is made of plastic not metal, so it's unlikely that the cube attached itself to it.

YOU – Look anyway, then scan the text on the page.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – What the fuck have we here? *Not* the start of a final report, that's for sure.

YOU – Read it.

JEAN'S TYPEWRITTEN PAGE – The next world? This is all there is. This job is the only fight we are given, and I am already a veteran. What does the beloved future hold? Nothing. To have been loved for a brief time will have to suffice. There is a city for the living and a city for the –

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – Footsteps ring in the corridor just outside the entrance to C-Wing.

YOU – Duck behind the desk, and pretend to search for the magnetic cube. There it isn't, there it isn't –

When did he type that?

There it isn't.

Is it some sort of writing therapy?

ENYCLOPEDIA – It could be Future Writing.

SUGGESTION – Don't guess – it's too important. Ask him.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – There it *is*! Stuck to the side of the grey filing cabinet.

INTERFACING – You pry off the cold smooth magnetic cube with some effort, and straighten, holding it up, set in a prong between your thumb, index and middle fingers.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – An explosion of orange enters the room.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – The sight of Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi feels like flying an aerostatic up into the cloud cover of the lower troposphere, like a subtle change in atmosphere. The half-brother with whom you survived a fucking *tribunal*, with whom you discovered a new *species* in the limbo of Martinaise – now a full brother.

YOU – "Kim!" You beam at him. "Settling into the forty-first?"

RHETORIC – Good: that sounded like something a Major Crimes Unit Task Force leader would ask.

KIM KITSURAGI – A terse nod. "I think so, detective – in a manner of speaking." He wears his usual lithic visage as he folds his hands neatly behind his back. His dark eyes move from yours to the little dark-grey cube poised in your hand and then down to your partner's desk.

YOU – "The piece was missing," you flick the heavy cube up into the air and catch it before putting it down onto Jean's desk. "I found it."

KIM KITSURAGI – Tries to smile and fails. "Yes." He gives a nod. "I've seen how your mind operates."

EMPATHY – He enjoys teasing you a little because of your unorthodox yet highly effective methods.

PERCEPTION – As you walk back around the desks towards him, you catch a strong whiff of Astra Chestnut.

HALF LIGHT – Whoa! The last time he lit up before the end of the day was when you finally came to after being shot.

COMPOSURE – Be cool, boss.

EMPATHY – He's troubled – *torn*. You've seen him like this before, in Martinaise, when confronted with having to explain his own beliefs, or lack thereof.

YOU – "You've just had your daily ciggie, Kim." You take a step closer, frowning. "What's happened?"

KIM KITSURAGI – Sighs, unfolds his hands, and sags a little in his bomber jacket. "Nothing, lieutenant-yefreitor. It's just been a long day." He looks dismissively down at his digital wristwatch.

AUTHORITY [Godly: Success] – Are you just going to let him dismiss you too? Or are you going to start leading this task force again – before you get your cop pension, that is? Who's the one in charge? You are!

YOU – Throw a look at the windows and say, "With hours to go before sunset, lieutenant. Do I really need to pull rank on you?"

KIM KITSURAGI – "Hmm? Uh ... Khm ... Patrol Office Minot and I found another weapons stash – they're taking up an entire cell down in evidence now. She insisted on remaining down there until each and every one is properly logged, and ..."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Down in Evidence, Patrol Officer Judit Minot watches a processing officer like a hawk. She has to, she thinks, after overhearing one of his colleagues joke about letting a refurbished Belle-Magrave grow legs because it might come in handy soon. She shivers involuntarily, cold at the thought.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Well, *as you know*, there has been a growing sense of civil war in the city ever since the strike in Martinaise, and avoiding this escalation has been my primary concern. But ..." He trails off, and looks around C-Wing, making sure you're alone. Then he leans closer, and lowers his voice to a whisper. "But I'm hearing rumours -"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – Footsteps again – approaching with Authority.

YOU – Snap a look at the doorway.

DRAMA – *Lie*, sire. Act as if you have been discussing something amusing.

YOU – Laugh, startling the lieutenant. "You're right, Kim. In hindsight, the joke really was on us with those phasmid traps."

KIM – "Ah," he gives a quick nod, catching on, "indeed. Especially -"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Appears in the doorway, dark and brooding as per usual.

YOU - Feel strange -

KIM KITSURAGI – Leans back away from you.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Shifts his weight to lean a shoulder against the doorframe as he folds his arms in front of his chest, and nods at Kim. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi. You bring light to my partner's day."

KIM KITSURAGI – Nods a return greeting, but says nothing.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Pushes away from the doorway, strides over to his desk, and looks back and forth from Kim to you. "But I'm sure we all have hard work that we should return to."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – When you *clocked out*, he thinks, I became *solely* responsible for the entire task force; and now you're back and still *joking around* a month later, instead of taking some of that load off my shoulders.

YOU – "Kim was just voicing some concerns ..."

KIM KITSURAGI – Holds his breath.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Amusing ones?" he asks, unamused.

YOU – You swipe at the air with a dismissive gesture. "Before that."

KIM KITSURAGI – "On second thought, officers, it really has been a long day, and I was probably over-reacting."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Sighs. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi, we are honoured, and extremely fortunate, that you decided to transfer to the forty-first. If *you* are concerned about something, then I am sure that it is far from an *over-reaction*."

KIM KITSURAGI – "*I'm* honoured," he stresses.

AUTHORITY – Now that they're done honouring each other ...

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "But if you ... feel more comfortable, like, discussing it with my partner ..." He shrugs.

RHETORIC – He constantly complains about having to take Sensitivity Training because of you, but it really paid off.

EMPATHY – He masks his true feelings about you getting on so well with Kim as your temporary partner. But he would sooner die than admit it – even to himself.

KIM KITSURAGI – "How goes the vandalism case? I heard that the total damage is estimated at ✤74,000 so far. Captain Pryce seems convinced that it will eventually tie into my gun-trafficking investigation - that a *stereo*-investigation will form."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Gives him a sharp look. "Perhaps, lieutenant." He picks up his badge, and clips it to his jacket, slips his Trigat into a pocket. "It was mentioned to me, too."

KIM KITSURAGI – "Let's hope not." He sighs. "I hate it when that happens."

RHETORIC – Hold on, to whom else was it *mentioned*?

KIM KITSURAGI – "But there's more to it than ideological protest graffiti?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "We'll know that when we find the idealogue or ideologue. I mean, *is* the alleged love belles-lettres in both the mural and aero-graffito directed at the Moralintern? I want to know *that*." He rubs a thumb back and forth over his lips, pondering.

INLAND EMPIRE - His thumb drags down across your lips, clinging to the lower one that his tongue tastes and his mouth sucks on as it moves against yours. His thumb dips into your mouth, and a force surges through you, tightening your chest, your solar plexus, -

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "*Harry?*"

YOU – Raise your eyebrows at him. You haven't heard a word of what he just said.

ENDURANCE – You can still *feel* him, in your mouth, where the memory is imprinted.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Is this a semi I feel before me?

JEAN VICQUEMARE - Has stopped rubbing his lips, and is inspecting you with an unreadable expression. "I said," he tugs on his tie knot as if it's too tight around the throat, "the captain wants to speak to you about it before we leave."

SUGGESTION – Do you not have an opinion to voice?

YOU – Turn to Kim, whose eyes are wider than usual. "Jean and I are on our way to interview Belles Lettres. Think we should Jamrock Shuffle, see if any of those refurbished weapons turn up?"

KIM KITSURAGI – "Jamrock Shuffle," he pauses thoughtfully, then gives the slightest of smiles. "Priority is given to containers, right?"

YOU – Nod.

KIM KITSURAGI – "I've heard it's an effective method – very thorough."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "It's second nature to some," he says, pointing at you.

KIM KITSURAGI – Flicks up his eyebrows. "Ah, of course - I should have realized, in Martinaise. The way your eyes lit up at the sight of my prybar. It explains a lot, actually."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Purses his lips for a moment, fighting to maintain a neutral expression. "Yeah, you should see him at the hardware store."

KIM KITSURAGI – Coughs into his fist, hiding a laugh.

YOU – "Ha-ha, very funny. As if nobody else around here has *ever* thought that prybars are not only solid tools for entering practically anything but are *also* aesthetically pleasing."

KIM KITSURAGI – Studies you for a moment, his eyes still sparkling, then raises an eyebrow.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Frowns down at the little magnetic cube sitting beside the 3x3 fidget toy, as he pulls his notebook out from under it, closes and pockets it. Totally ignoring the sheet of paper in the typewriter, he raises his grey eyes to stare over the desks at you.

YOU – Wink. "Lost and found."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Shakes his head and rolls his eyes, then manoeuvres around the desks, and claps you on the back as he strides past, giving your shoulder a quick squeeze. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go. We can punch a fresh micro-perforation into your ledger hologram later."

YOU – Follow him with your eyes, unconsciously admiring how the white RCM back patch on his black jacket shimmers with iridescence as it catches the windowlight, before he slips out of sight into the corridor.

RHETORIC - Everyone here is leaving too many things unsaid.

SUGGESTION - Maybe that's for the best.

KIM KITSURAGI – "Harrier."

YOU – Turn towards him.

KIM KITSURAGI – He mimics holding a cigarette. "Around 21:00, on the roof - usually."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Captain Ptolemaios "Ptolemy" Pryce sits behind a heavy wooden desk, decorated with a signal-blue vase of May Bells, in an office lit by a green desk lamp. While waiting for his coffee to cool, he reads a ledger, examining a column of names in a table labelled Strike Force Pryce: Du Bois, Vicquemare, Torson, McLaine, Kitsuragi, Minot. In a column beside the first two names, he writes: ideologue ID. A knock at the door draws his attention. He drops the ballpoint, slides the ledger into a drawer, and barks, "Enter."

CAPTAIN PRYCE - Looks up as you amble into the office with your ledger tucked under one arm, light flashing off his spectacles and bald head as he surveys you up and down.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – You actually look like a Regular Cop, he thinks with approval, except for the black-and-white FALN sneakers with their reflective silver stripes.

DRAMA – My lord, how about swapping the FALNs for some *boring*, regular black shoes?

YOU – My FALN Ultra Series sneakers boast SpringBoard soles with grip-tape and ultra-light synth-fabric tech. They were probably designed by a radio-computer, and I swear they increase my Reaction Speed and Hand/Eye Co-ordination. Plus, the colours complement the uniform. In short, they're perfect cop shoes.

CAPTAIN PRYCE - Brushes imaginary dust off a sleeve of his black suit, then picks up a steaming cup of coffee and slurps from the surface.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – The slurping noise is like a slap to the face in the soundproof office.

VOLITION – Really? Time to cut back on the caffeine?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Don't you *dare*. That and the smokes is all we have left.

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "At ease, lieutenant-yefreitor." He shakes his head once – just as he did when you declined the second promotion to captain.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - He *really* wanted you to accept that promotion.

HALF LIGHT – Tie you to a desk like some fucking typewriter. Unthinkable horrors.

INLAND EMPIRE – How would you talk to the wind, then? How would the city speak to you?

YOU – Via the air-conditioner?

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "Take a seat."

YOU – You sit down, hitching up your pants a bit at the knees as you do.

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "So, according to the ever-grinding rumour-mill of the forty-first, you're *unstable*. What else is new." His padded leather chair creaks like unoiled hinges as he leans back, squinting at you.

YOU – "Yes, sir, and last month I was Mardre's can-opener."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – Barks out a laugh.

DRAMA – A ssstanding ovation, sssire. Take a bow.

RHETORIC – You're being let off the hook, even though you turned a top cop motor-carriage into an aquarium.

SUGGESTION - Should we be suspicious?

VOLITION – No. You also solved not only one but three cases in Martinaise, prevented a small-scale civil war, and arrested those druggies.

AUTHORITY - And opened a case on Evrart Claire's involvement in an assassination.

INLAND EMPIRE - *And* the Doomed Commercial Area – let's not forget that. Oh, and you discovered a *new species*. Jean's face when he saw the photo …

YOU – Yeah, we mopped up quite a bit with Dros. Thank God Kim was there.

EMPATHY - The publicity from that alone practically re-paid your motor-carriage debt in donations to the RCM. Sort of. The point is that you're an *okay* detective.

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "I ran into Special Consultant Heidelstam today – he was delivering his latest report to C-Wing. Have you read it?"

RHETORIC – As a matter of fact, you have. You're a professional.

YOU – "Yes, sir."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "Give me the summarized version."

YOU – "His contacts abroad – contingency spread and systems analysts working in the risks departments of banks and so on – are shitting themselves. The systems analysts are worried because the price of fundamental foodstuffs has risen by one-hundred percent thanks to the Débardeurs' strikes; the one up in Terminal B started it, but the new one down in YC was the straw that broke the free market's back. It's only a matter of time before people start to starve, and that's bad for business. The Moralintern spread analysts have access to our databases, the ICPs and who knows what else, and *they're* biting their nails over the refurbished weapons. Also, talk of Le Retour is on the rise, as happens every spring, only this year it's made it to the radio: according to Trant's report, seditious talk was captured in signals from Coal City and The Burnt Out Quarter."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "The Burnt Out Quarter – site of the *new* Next World Mural."

YOU – Nod. "Yes, sir. I doubt it's a coincidence."

HALF LIGHT – No such thing.

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "I *know* it's not, detective. It's a cluster-fuck. The major cases of your task force are gonna merge into a stereo-investigation: the gun-nuts, the instigator cells, the ideological vandalism – all come from the same source. I want you to find that idealogue *yesterday*."

CONCEPTUALIZATION – You know what this is like? It's like that ultraliberal hobo up in Martinaise flashing you, a police officer, his wears of *amphetamines*. Remember, he called them *amphetamines* because you're a cop?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Yeah. So?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - The ultra-hobo is no different from the ultra-bourgeois in La Delta: he's so poor, he's beneath the radar of the law; they're so rich, they fly over it. The beauty of extremities is what you're looking for – it's where you'll find the idealogue.

YOU – Nod once. "Yes, sir – we're looking for the beauty of extremities."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "Explain."

YOU – "Satellite Officer Vicquemare and I have a hunch it's their allegedly rich secret member and patron. The extremities – the ultra-poor and ultra-wealthy are below and above law and order, or at least *believe* themselves to be."

AUTHORITY – No-one is above or below *the law*. Their over-confidence will be their undoing.

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "And that's the *beauty of extremities*?" He gazes up at the acoustical tiles on the ceiling as he nods to himself, then lets out a sigh and fixes you with a solemn look. "One other thing – off the record, Harry. Understood?"

YOU – "Understood."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "Sure as the May Bells will soon be in full bloom," he points his clean-shaven chin at the vase of flowers - "a revolt is brewing, and there will be blood on the streets in May."

DRAMA – Now is the spring of our discontent.

HALF LIGHT – You clench your fists, and your pulse rises.

YOU – "Spring is always the worst season for the RCM."

CAPTAIN PRYCE – "Spring shows us another new year is here while we remain in a post-war winter. Five decades of social tensions fuelled by the impossibility of *re*-forming *not* reforming our society due to us having been divided into Zones of Control. It isn't the people's fault. The RCM upholds international law, and that law exists to *protect the people* with justice, union, prudence, and force – sometimes to conserve a mural, other times to stop vandalism. *Remember* that, detective."

RHETORIC – Wait, this requires reading between the lines.

YOU – "I will, Captain Pryce."