HOME AWAY FROM HOME – It's dark inside. Dark and musty.

WARDROBE - With a hint of stale lavender because you left the wardrobe open.

CEILING LIGHT - Although you can't see the cord pull switch, you know approximately which area of space it occupies.

YOU - Reach out, grab onto the cord and give it a tug.

PERCEPTION – *Click*: Let there be *electric* light!

YOU - Squint.

CEILING LIGHT - Photons burn leopard print onto your retinas.

PAIN THRESHOLD – The pain feels almost pleasurable.

ENCYCLOPEDIA - Sixty watts of warm carbon arc.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Exactomondo. No wonder it's always dark in here even with the light on. Maybe you wanted it shady? Maybe you chose a weakass lightbulb because you were suffering from a bit of hangover-induced photosensitivity at the time, *hmm*?

INLAND EMPIRE – You chose it because it's beautiful. Just look at those glowing filaments trembling with fragile power.

YOU – Stand under the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling to better inspect the ledger in your hands. Opaque lapis lazuli plastic shimmers under the golden glow.

HALF LIGHT - You can hear your own heartbeat. Under the drumming noise in your head, a frisson.

INLAND EMPIRE – Usually, I would advise caution. But not this time. Perform cardiac surgery: open its blue heart.

INTERFACING - You pull on the plastic latch ...

YOU - … and let gravity help the clipboard drawer slide open.

THE LEDGER - Soundlessly, the two plastic panels slide against each other. The permeables compartment, now exposed, reveals a sprig of forget-me-nots lying on top of a folded piece of paper.

HALF LIGHT - Adrenaline flushes through you.

ENDURANCE – In a good way. It's sort of empowering.

YOU - Reach in with your fingers and slide the piece of paper out from under the flowers. It's folded in half, torn along the edge with holes punched. Unfolding it one-handed, you recognize Jean's handwriting as well as the paper: a page from his Posse notebook.

JEAN'S NOTE - "A new memory for your clipboard. PS: The compartment is for storing the *case files* you leave outside on the clip - you realize that, don't you?"

PERCEPTION - The paper feels as if the blue-black ballpoint ink was *engraved* into it.

YOU - Reach into the compartment and pull out the moist sprig of forget-me-nots: a bunch of tiny blue-petals surround yellow hearts with holes in them.

PERCEPTION - The flowers look delicate sprouting up from your hand. The faintest scent of green, so subtle you might be imagining it. A cold droplet of water runs down your finger to your wrist and hangs on to the skin just barely.

INLAND EMPIRE - Jean means that night in the hostel on the Esperance tributary when you both lay awake pretending to sleep. You mentioned a bed of forget-me-nots.

EMPATHY – Do you feel that?

YOU – Feel what?

PAIN THRESHOLD – A balloon expanding inside your ribcage.

HALF LIGHT – Oh God, Harry, you're having a heart attack! You've stopped breathing!

COMPOSURE – No, no, relax. It's okay. But do you need to have a little cathartic cry?

YOU – What?! *No*.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – A cathartic what now?

COMPOSURE – It's okay. It's not like you're having a Meltdown Cop episode in a public space - you're home alone and the flowers *move* you.

EMPATHY – Move you to tears because it's been so long since anything this *nice* happened. It *highlights* the sadness. You worry there's a catch. I get it, I do. I know it's hard to show compassion to yourself, after everything …

YOU – (Try to collect yourself.) Two rivulets stream down your cheeks and into the longish stubble on your jaw and chin.

COMPOSURE – Now doesn't that feel a *little* better, releasing some of the pressure you've been hoarding?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – This is bullshit nansy pansy stuff. Time to shave, shit, shower and get this leaking thing to bed, son.

YOU – Turn off the waterworks with effort. Pocket the note. Then take the sprig of flowers to the kitchenette, put them in a glass of water, and set the glass onto the coffee table like a vase.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – For the RCM, for your blue soul: *A blue forget-me-not in the grey sky*.

INLAND EMPIRE – For your blue heart, each petal a piece of it floating in the grey.

VOLITION – And you're *doing it*. You keep wading through the grey Waste Land of Reality because you *can*. You've got this. Your partner is starting to believe in you again, and he believes in precious little.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Really? Because looking at the mess on the coffee table, the unmade sofa bed, the open wardrobe with clothes hung on the doors, it doesn't exactly look like you've got anything together yet. Maybe tidy up a little to keep up appearances?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Maybe tidy up your face first?

YOU – Nod, leave your ledger on the table and head off to the bathroom.

THE BATHROOM MIRROR – Overgrown hair. No bloating on the face, no expression. Bloodshot green eyes – the surrounding pale pink makes the irises greener. Is that the new look you're going for?

YOU – Sniff. "I don't think so."

THE BATHROOM MIRROR – And what about this stubble? At this point you could grow it out proper, or even do something creative – badass Revacholian sideburns down to the Law Jaw, or your old mutton chops? Or would you prefer to shave it all, clean and professional?

AUTHORITY – Clean and professional and *powerful*.

YOU – Consider badass Revacholian sideburns just for fun …

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – The blade scrapes against your skin, removing a prickly layer of longish stubble. With each scratching sound, you shake the blade clean over the sink, discarding not only facial hair but any bad decisions made since the last close shave.

The sideburns *do* match your badass Revacholian nature, the slight swagger in your cop step, but you scrape them off too.

Splashing cold water onto your face feels like the completion of a ritual.

YOU – Run a hand over your smooth cheeks.

AUTHORITY – Good choice, officer.

HOME AWAY FROM HOME – After performing the shaving ritual, the shitting ritual, and the shower ritual, you tidy up around the place. You leave changing the sheets for lucky last because you want to crawl into your crisp bed immediately afterwards.

SOFA BED – As you tug the old sheets off, the thin mattress lifts with them, and something drops to the floorboards with a soft *plop*.

REACTION SPEED – Wait. What was that?

YOU – What was what?

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Down there, just under the bed. It looks like …

HALF LIGHT – Your heart shudders.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Oh *my God*. It's a baggie! A baggie with some *speed* left in it! It's our *reward* for being such an incredibly boring fuck, for keeping up appearances, for tidying up this old firetrap. Let's turn a ciggie into a straw, snort that precious white gold right up into the limbic system, and turn this place into a disco -

VOLITION – NO. Throw it away *now*.

YOU – Stand frozen, with your pulse in your throat, staring down at the little bag of off-white powder in the shadows just under the sofa bed.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – It'll turn you into a Super Cop. You know it will.

VOLITION – Don't listen to anything that guy tells you. It's not a reward. You got your reward. Look at the flowers. *Look* at *them*.

YOU – Look at the forget-me-nots in the glass of water on the coffee table. Lick your sticky lips. Swallow, but your throat is sandpaper.

INLAND EMPIRE – The flowers feel sad and sorry for you. See how their shoulders droop?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Maybe just a little taste, for old time's sake?

EMPATHY – Think about your clinically depressed partner. Do you want to make him feel even worse?

PAIN THRESHOLD – Ouch. *Ouch*.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Get outta here with the guilt trip. What about *your* depression? Just a bit of icing on the finger and we'll be pumped and dancing, pretty please?

YOU – Breathing hard and fast, you run both hands back and forth through your damp hair, and pull on the roots.

COMPOSURE – Calm down. Mind over matter.

YOU - "What the fuck do I do with the fucking thing?"

VOLITION – Throw it away.

YOU – "If I flush it, I could kill a fish or something. If I bin it, a homeless kid might find it and OD."

EMPATHY – Why, this is progress! You're thinking about things other than yourself without having to be prompted.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Yeah, yeah, and if you snort it, none-of-the-above. You'd be protecting local wildlife and the community.

VOLITION – Shut. Up.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – You could process it as evidence at the station. You could hand it over to your partner ...

HOME AWAY FROM HOME – Cumulonimbus clouds coalesce below the aerostatics. Watery sunlight filters in through the bay window from the east. Nevertheless, it warms your body as you lie on the sofa bed, fully dressed and awake, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling with your hands behind your head. At seven thirty sharp, a motor-carriage parks outside, its driver's door opens and shuts. Then there's an authoritative rap of knuckles on your front door.

YOU – Get up and open it. "Hey, Vic. Come in."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Assesses you. "What's happened?" He steps inside, watching you close the door.

YOU – "Nothing."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Bullshit. I can see it on your face, Harry."

INTERFACING – You wrap him up in a tight embrace, press your face into his shoulder and your fingers against the tense muscles of his back.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) - A fresh spray of !Excess cologne wafts from the warp and weft of his jacket: cedar, oak bark, patchouli. The smell of nicotine in the starched cotton of his shirt is like a jolt. And underneath, the heady smell of him, just him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Everything underneath that jacket and shirt has always calmed you, centred you, kept you sane.

YOU – Breathe him in.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Harry," your name, exhaled against the side of your ear, "talk to me." A scratch of prickly stubble against your freshly shaved jaw as he pulls back to hold your wrists and stare into your eyes.

SUGGESTION – Telling him is a *really* bad idea unless you work it to your advantage. Use the conversation on drugs to open him up about that 10-200.

YOU – Lean into a soft press of your lips against his, stealing a kiss before the shitstorm: "I was tidying up, and I found *that*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Turns to follow your line of sight to the coffee table, sees the baggie sitting on the very edge of the corner closest to the unmade sofa bed.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You see him retreat deeper into the abyss of his reality, from melancholy to despair. It dims the light in his grey eyes.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Great. I don't even know what to say to that anymore."

EMPATHY – That admission brims with sadness. His cup overflows with it.

YOU – "But I *didn't* touch it. I swear, Jean."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – The muscles in his jaw tense. "Oh, well if you *swear*, then I guess I should believe you."

EMPATHY – Past promises broken prevent him from taking your word for it.

YOU – "I mean, I did, but only to put it on the table. I didn't -"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Come with me," he interjects, voice stern, tugging on your wrists to lead you into the windowlight. He inspects your pupils before lifting a hand up to your chin to gently move your face this way and that, his fingers unconsciously caressing. "When did you find the speed?"

YOU – "Two hours, maybe more, after you dropped me off, I guess."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Ready to take on the world today, partner?"

INTERFACING - You can feel him checking your pulse.

YOU – "I wanted to throw it away, but I was worried that it'd end up killing marine life or a homeless kid or something."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Arches an eyebrow. "Marine life?"

YOU - "Yeah, fish. So, I thought I'd hand it over to you instead."

SUGGESTION – Now: remind him about that 10-200. He's not the only one with *questions*.

YOU – "Maybe you can use it to sweeten a contact. For example, the next time you're on a 10-200."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Squints at you. "Did you want to snort the drugs, Harrier?"

DRAMA – *Lie*, my sssilver-tongued liege. On principle.

RHETORIC – How many times must I remind you that you *can't* lie - not to *him*.

YOU – Look out through the window, frowning at Perdition as your partner frowns at you.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Through the grime of industry collected on the outside of the panes, the grey sky spits the first droplets of rain onto the blue-and-white livery of the Coupris 40.

YOU - "Part of me *thought* about it."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Whooh." He releases you, sags back against the wall beside the window, and wipes his brow in mock relief. "You really didn't."

HALF LIGHT – A hot flash of anger makes your face flush – there's no hiding it.

YOU – "That's not funny."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "How refreshingly responsible and …" He trails off, staring at the makeshift vase of forget-me-nots on the centre of the table. His expression softens.

EMPATHY – His burlesquing is a defence mechanism, like putting on a mask - but seeing your flower arrangement pulled it right off his face.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Studies your expression and says, "Okay, okay, it wasn't fucking funny." He dusts off his perfectly clean black jacket, adjusts his tie. "None of this is funny. It's fucking sad."

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – There's a moment of silence, broken by the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, which thickens fast to a proper shower that you can hear outside on the muddy road as well.

YOU – Fold your arms across your lower chest and hold your elbows as if hugging yourself. Admire the sprig of forget-me-nots in the glass of water, their little blue petals glowing softly in the half-light. "The flowers are beautiful. That's not sad."

EMPATHY – This is what you do. You point out the shards of light still shining in the world, encourage him to at least notice them. The phasmid was a massive shard.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Looks at the flowers, then meets your eyes and sighs.

YOU – Risk a crooked, tentative half-smile.

SUGGESTION [Challenging: Success] – Now *ask* about that 10-200.

YOU – "Now will you answer some questions for me, like why were you MIA all afternoon yesterday? Oldboy was pretty evasive on the matter of your whereabouts – under orders from you, I'm guessing."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Runs a hand through his black hair, shrugs. "You were right when you speculated that the magenta cocaine might not be tangential to the investigation. It needed to be checked, so I thought, fuck it – I'll do it myself. It turns out that there is no magenta cocaine in Jamrock. But there's -"

YOU – "So with whom did you embark upon this epic side quest?"

EMPATHY – Your tone sounded positively jealous just then. Do not let the green-eyed monster out of its cage.

AUTHORITY – Yes. Let's fixate instead on how your partner took total control of the task force when you were *otherwise occupied* in Martinaise, and how you're still leading *by proxy*.

VOLITION – And whose fault was that? Let's focus rather on how you re-conceptualized the task force *together*. How you *co-lead* it.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Glances over his shoulder at the window. Outside, Perdition is ghostly with rain. "I didn't bring an umbrella."

AUTHORITY – He didn't answer your question.

YOU – "*Jean*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Looks back at you and snaps, "I already told you, I did it myself."

HALF LIGHT – What? Is he fuckin' crazy?!

YOU – "But that's crazy, man. You *know* what happened to Joseph Mills."

HALF LIGHT – They beat him to death. It was torture.

YOU – Shudder, feel the flush draining from your face.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "You're right," he says, nodding enthusiastically. "What was I thinking, going alone on an *epic side quest* to the drink and drug dens of Jamrock. I obviously should have taken my recovering addict partner with me." Shaking his head in disbelief, he bends over the coffee table to pick up the baggie, then holds it in front of your face as evidence of the fact for a few seconds before pocketing it. "Do 10-200 calls still 'get the blood pumping'?"

ENDURANCE [Medium: Failure] – Ouchies.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You expected a reward for *not* snorting the speed – for him to be just a little impressed. You know what would have been much more rewarding? Snorting the speed and getting the blood pumping.

INLAND EMPIRE – Memory in the water! Brace for impact in three, two, one: "*Not* snorting every powder that crosses your path, and *not* getting your drink on at two o'clock is your *natural state*, shitkid, not an achievement!"

SUGGESTION – He's trying to divert your attention away from what *he did* by focusing on your fuck-ups – and he's succeeding. It's time to retake the reins of this conversation. Pull on his heartstrings.

EMPATHY – Isn't that a bit manipulative?

SUGGESTION – No, not when you're trying to prevent him from getting *beaten to death*.

HALF LIGHT - A black hole of fear yawns inside you, its gravitational pull stealing your breath.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Let's get a move on. There's plenty of work that needs to be done before we leave for that shithole."

HALF LIGHT – Pull *hard* on those heartstrings. Make it grimy and *graphic*.

YOU – Take his hand, press it flat over your heart and hold it there.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Looks at your linked hands, draws a breath to speak, but says nothing.

YOU – Lean into the pressure against your chest. "I get that you're worried, but -"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah, you're a fucking worry-fest. What else is new."

YOU - "*But* I'm better. I swear, Jean, I've quit. And if something fucking happens to you because of me, I promise you I will put my loaded Villiers into my mouth and pull the trigger" - his hand flinches violently under yours; you tighten your grip – "to join you in the next world." Tears prick your eyes. "Understood?"

DRAMA - Pulling the trigger, sire, is like a lover's pinch: it both hurts and is desired.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Bullshit it is. I haven't been striving like fuck to pummel this body back into shape for you to literally waste it like some self-slain god.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Deranged fucking lunatic," he pushes out softly through his teeth, snatching his hand out from under yours.

VOLITION - An accurate if harsh assessment. What you said is insane, and you should take it back and un-believe it.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - Breathes in and out to the count of three, but fails to calm himself. Tries again, exhaling slowly. Then shakes his head and says, "You manipulative fuck. Running your mouth about how you're going to take your leave in a fit of theatricality is *not* what your mouth is for." He inspects your lips, moistens his own with his tongue. "You know what your mouth is for?"

YOU - Step right into his personal space, one FALN sneaker planted between his polished black shoes. Standing against him, his body heat radiating like fury through his black suit and uniform jacket, you feel him grow hard. You close your eyes and kiss him.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - His mouth moves on yours, opening, sucking, fighting. Then he shoves you off with one thrust of his hand to your chest, smears his mouth wetly across your face to your ear. "Fuck you, Harry."

HOME AWAY FROM HOME - You stand there, with the trace of his lips cooling on your skin, as the front door opens and then *slams* behind you, shaking the firetrap to its foundations.

THE LEDGER – You and your partner JV spend the rest of the morning working on separate parts of the case. He visits Archives and Rare Books at Jamrock Public Library to dig up maps of The Burnt Out Quarter, L'Ossuaire, and the mine shafts under Coal City while you interrogate the alleged leader of the belletrists and his buddies using the information leaked by the informant.

At midday, you ask Communications Officer JP for an update on the popular footwear care brand Isola-Tux, and whether it and the industrial paint used for the murals are subsidiaries of a holding company.

THE RELAY ROOM - Is hazy with cigarette smoke. Static crackles from the shortwave. Jules "Oldboy" Pidieu switches off the microphone, then lights a cigarette with the smouldering stub of his old one.

JULES PIDIEU - "I would have had it sooner," he gives an impatient wave with his cigarette, drawing a zigzag in the air, "but the ICP are always stingy with private sector information. Isola-Tux is not currently a subsidiary of a parent company; however, it used to be called Antony, and sixty-five percent of Antony was owned by Compagnie Financière Milton -"

YOU - Raise your eyebrows. "Really?"

JULES PIDIEU - "Sir."

YOU - "Thank you, Jules - that's great work, and much appreciated."

JULES PIDIEU - "Thank you, sir, but there's more: the brand Industrial Paint is still forty-five percent owned by CFM - not enough to be considered a subsidiary, but close enough to be interesting." He glances over your shoulder suddenly.

YOU - Feel your stomach turn over as a dry voice says, "Hold up, Jules ..."

ENDURANCE - Precarious there for a second. Frankly thought you might vomit.

PAIN THRESHOLD - Your solar plexus burns in a strangely beautiful way.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stands in the doorway of the relay room, his black hair damp, a lieutenant's cloak draped elegantly over his shoulders, where the black tarpaulin glistens with rain. Under the cloak, he crosses his arms in front of his chest and shifts his weight to lean sideways against the doorframe. "Did I hear that right? Compagnie Financière *Milton*?"

JULES PIDIEU - Takes a quick puff on his cigarette and nods. "Sir. CFM also own the plastics brand Poly-Maid."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "And who owns CFM?"

INLAND EMPIRE - You remember ... something ... something as hazy as this Relay Room. Then it slips from your mind. Gone.

JULES PIDIEU - "Unknown."

YOU - "Can you try to get us a name?"

JULES PIDIEU - Looks at you, then your partner, then you again.

COMPOSURE - Something about the energy between you two is making Oldboy fidget in his squeaky chair.

JULES PIDIEU - Nods, squinting at you as he drags on the filter of his ciggie.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "We're on our way to The Burnt Out Quarter. 10-13?"

JULES PIDIEU - Blows out a stream of smoke, then reads a printout tacked to the corkboard privacy screen in front of him. "Expect rain until at least fifteen hundred, during which time humidity is expected to have dropped from seventy-seven percent to thirty-five. There may be a late afternoon thunderstorm."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Always something to look forward to," he says, scowling.

JULES PIDIEU - "Wind direction is South East at twenty-three kilometres per hour. Good luck, officers."

COUPRIS 40 - You're driving. *You*, lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois, are *driving*. Kilometres of wet asphalt blur like a moving conveyor belt under the wheels of the machine. You haven't driven since trying to turn your motor carriage into a submarine in Martinaise. Technically, you're still not permitted to sit behind the steering levers - but what's a little technicality. Your partner sits in the upholstered passenger basket, and lights a cigarette. Ahead, beyond the windshield wipers scraping rain off the glass, nothing but the dust and debris of dead industry. A river oozes through it.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - Breaks his long radio silence with you: "It was stupid to go alone and I shouldn't have," he mumbles.

YOU - Glance at him.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - He's staring straight ahead through the windshield. If anyone could ever *sit* at attention, this is how they'd look doing it.

EMPATHY - You both hurt each other by caring. It's ... I don't know.

YOU - "What I said to you about my gun was stupid and I shouldn't have."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - Relaxes a notch in his seat. "Let's find a half-decent place to stop for lunch and go over the new information on the case." He pats the pocket where his Posse notebook is kept as if to make sure that it's still there, safe and sound. "I'm fucking starving."

YOU - "Sure thing, Vic."