Nothing. A big black nothing with no centre or periphery - a universe of nothing. A horror vacui. You're suspended in black. It's warm.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - We're back, baby. Oh, *yes*. Look at us, Harrier. We're back in *the* Precinct, rocking the jam.
YOU - Rocking the what now?
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - Jamrock!
LIMBIC SYSTEM - He's forgotten wordplay. Oh, Harry. Harry, Harry ...
YOU - ...
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - We *are* the 41st, baby - just ask Kim.
YOU - Kim ... I was shot! We apprehended Dross - murder weapon, confession, motive. And we discovered the Insulindian Phasmid!
LIMBIC SYSTEM - *Yes ...* It made even *Jean* forget his sadness. If but for a moment.
That sadness runs very, very deep, Harry - and you're partially the cause.
YOU - What? What is this?
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - It's nothing - nothing at all. Forget about it, brother. Relax.
LIMBIC SYSTEM - But has he forgotten his own sadness? Have you forgotten *yours*, Harry?
Little lights flare and pop in the black like camera flashes.
YOU - I promised I would. I promised the Insulindian Phasmid. I promised Elysium.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - Good for you, Harrier! You're a star, baby.
VOLITION - No. You're a *detective*. It's time to wake up, lieutenant double-yefraitor Du Bois. Get up and do your job. You can. It's nothing.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Host in heaven, Harry - did you sleep here all fucking night again?"
VISUAL CALCULUS - Several empty coffee cups - one with a swamp of cigarette butts - the face-print on the report you were still writing well into the wee hours, and the fact that you have only just woken up but are in full uniform, all point to yes.
PAIN THRESHOLD - The crick in your neck and the burning pain between your shoulder blades agree.
DRAMA - *Lie*, sire. You were simply examining the contents of your report from a different angle to gain a new perspective.
EMPATHY - He's not angry; he's actually worried - again. Okay, he's still a little angry that you didn't recognize him in Martinaise, but he's had a month to get over it.
YOU - Give what you hope is a disarming smile and not the return of The Expression. "It's nothing, Vic. I was just finishing up my report, lost track of time ... You know how it is."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His grey eyes feel sad, but you also see a shadow of compassion flicker just below the surface. He slaps a new case file onto your desk. "Clamp that onto your ledger, and let's go. I've assigned us to a new case - I'll brief you on the way. It's on the border of the Burnt-Out Quarter, so we'll take a detour to your place first - pack your literal and figurative shit."
YOU - The *Burnt-Out Quarter*? You close your eyes for a moment, and get a hazy image. "That's a forty-five-minute drive," you say, opening your eyes to find an appraising look in his that makes you feel strange.
INLAND EMPIRE - All human beings have flickering lights hidden inside them.
The domed roof of the re-purposed silk mill that is Precint 41 gleams with morning sun. On the bridge, Officers Blau and Roberts stand guard. Both wear patrol-officer blue. After you and Jean stride past, one of them calls out "Hey, lieutenants! Happy phasmid-hunting, brothers!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His jaw tightens, but he dismisses the patrol officers with a casual "Hey" as he turns towards the garages, where horses and motor-carriages share space.
YOU - Pause before the great steps that descend to Central Jamrock. A cool breeze brushes your face, your eyelashes, making your eyes water.
SHIVERS - Look up for me in the Burnt-Out Quarter where the air smells of caramel.
YOU - *What?*
At the bottom of the great steps, a small queue of officers stretches from Kuklov's kebab stand past a Fritte on the corner. The smell of barbecued fly larvae spices the air. The breeze twists through the streets and alleys of the utility district, past the library, the florist, and the Saramirizian restaurant, where the smell of kebabs mingles with the scent of wine -
YOU - Shake off the sensation.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Sure, sure - let's just stand here because we don't have a case to solve, right?"
RHETORIC - Sarcasm.
INLAND EMPIRE - Sure you're ready for this?
AUTHORITY - *Show* that you're ready to *lead* again.
YOU - "Let's roll, Vic."
You take an old albeit adequate RCM Coupris 40 to your home away from home on Perdition, where wooden row-houses cut grids of muddy alleys. Vic lights an Astra, and wheels the Coupris into Perdition off Main, as he breathes out a dense cloud of chocolate-scented smoke. The cigarette dangles from his lips, and he squints through the smoke, as the Coupris prowls down the street past a piebald stallion, and gives a brief but genuine smile.
EMPATHY - Your partner prefers horses to motor-carriages - to humans, too. But he still tagged along with your whole motor-carriage lightning-response concept.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - The concept you re-conceptualized by turning it into a ✤45,000 saltwater aquarium in Martinaise. Congratulations, you single-handedly created a unique tourist attraction.
PAIN THRESHOLD - A sensation, like a sickening jab to the solar plexus, lets you know that your morale just took a hit.
VOLITION - He will forgive you. Give him time.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He parks the Coupris outside the front door of a gaunt wooden house.
HOUSE - It's more of a "studio" really, "open plan" - meaning a breezy room with a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - In his usually dry voice, he says, "I'll wait here. Take your time."
RHETORIC - It's impossible to tell whether he means that, or the opposite.
YOU - "You're sure ...?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He waves off your question as if it's a fly he's trying to concuss, pulls a pamphlet out of an inner-pocket of his black RCM jacket, and proceeds to give it his full attention. The glossy pamphlet is advertizing a new boardgame with welkins that looks like a rip-off of Wirrâl.
REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] - He's hiding something, but I'm not sure what. It's the way he *avoids* looking at you, at your house.
DRAMA - Hmm, I'm not so sure, sire.
YOU - "You keeping something from me, partner?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah - the need to tell you to fuck yourself." He turns his attention back to the welkins.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Although you *do* have a "bröderbund", your partner thinks you should mind your own business. Maybe it's a personal matter.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - But the RCM follows a command structure called the Décomptage. Every lieutenant is responsible for two sergeants and eight officers. That means you deal with *personal affairs* on a daily basis.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - As does *Lieutenant* Vicquemare.
DRAMA - He *might* be hiding something, sire.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - You open the door of the motor-carriage, step out into the muddy street, and stretch.
INTERFACING - The letterbox is choking on junk mail. You automatically pull it out - the floppy ads are soggy and cold - trash it, and step up to the front-door with its flaking signal blue paint. You reach into your pants pocket for the key.
Inside, shadows and mustiness greet you.
PERCEPTION - You snap the front door shut behind you, creating a heavy silence that feels like water in your ears. The floorboards creak underfoot as you step deeper into the house. Sunlight filters in through a grimy window, rubbing out shadows and drawing details: a dark draughty fireplace, a sofa-bed - lying open, the sheets unmade - a coffee table littered with food wrappers and scraps, a soft drink can, and a glass ashtray growing cigarette butts. Under it, you've accumulated a small stack of boardgames: Suzerainty, Wirrâl 3rd edition mega-setting supplements module, also the main Wirrâl game.
SUGGESTION - Vic was reading that pamphlet on the new game with welkins. So maybe take Wirrâl along for the trip?
PERCEPTION - In the corner, near the sofa-bed, a wardrobe looms. Further down the hall, past the open door to the bathroom, is the kitchenette with a little dining table for two. Out of sight, a fridge hums with energy.
LOGIC - You could be there for days, down in the Burnt-Out Quarter. Pack sensibly.
INLAND EMPIRE - All you need is love, love.
YOU - What?
INLAND EMPIRE - Ask me again later.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You should pack some *fun*. Slip out through the back door like a cat, get it from the dealer down the alleyway. Get your *party eyes* on - you'll work better.
ENDURACE - Don't be a little pussy. You've survived the Waste Land of Reality - don't dick it all away for an ephemeral thrill.
COMPOSURE - You sigh deeply. Your shoulders slump a little. The world is a darker in this space.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - But look - light filters in through yonder grimy bay window, rubbing out shadows and drawing details. Otherwise how else could you see?
WINDOW - Peering through the wavy windowpanes, you spy Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare in the driver's seat of the Coupris 40. Eyes closed, head tipped back, throat exposed, Adam's apple protruding above the crisp white collar of his shirt. A tuxedo cat catches your attention as it saunters past, tail erect as an antenna. Light shines out there, but not in here.
YOU - Touch the twenty-sided lapis and bloodstone Sirens in your pocket, thanking them for Jean's lucky decision to remain behind in the carriage. His Perception is a finely tuned instrument.
VOLITION - It's not that bad. He's perceived far worse.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Thanks to me. Let's not forget *my* small contribution.
HALF LIGHT - How could anyone?!
PERCEPTION - You sweep a look around the open plan living area one more time and let out a long sigh. The floorboards creak, creak, creak as you walk around, taking in details and deciding what to pack into your blue RCM Carry-All duffel.
HOUSE - Should you tidy up a little? Might make you feel a bit better, you know, not living in squalor.
YOU - No time, now. Vic's waiting. Later.
FIREPLACE - An accumulation of ash stirs as a cool breeze whispers down through the chimney. In a fireplace with no fire, what were you expecting? The mantel reveals that your reading tastes can best be described as eclectic. There's a cop school textbook on building safety and inspection, because every cop has to choose a civil specialization to keep the city running - your partner chose first aid. What else ...? There are textbooks on ballistics, on field autopsies, and so on. But you *own* this information - it's *all* in your head. Then there's *A Primer for Small Kids*, *Medicinal Purposes of the Pale*, *From A to Zrieek! A Guide to Cockatoos*, and so on.
BATHROOM - You walk inside, and are surrounded by blue tiles that lend the otherwise mundane space a submarine glow.
INLAND EMPIRE - It speaks to your blue soul.
BATHROOM - Light seeps in through a window near the ceiling, and is coldly reflected by a mirror above the sink, a mirror that doubles as a door to a medicine cabinet.
MIRROR - Three-day growth shadows your thin face, making your eyes look greener. All the swelling from the ethanol-poisoning has subsided. Your cells thank you. You've been getting fit, too - calisthenics.
COMPOSURE - "No Expression, no Expression."
MEDICINE CABINET - The little mirror-door squeals open on rickety hinges and your Poker Face slides off its silvery surface. Inside, a cabinet is filled with masculine toiletries, a Nosaphed nasal spray, a bottle of magnesium.
SHOWER - The cubicle steams up in seconds. The world turns into submarine blue and swirling steam.
The hot water scalds and scours your skin, your clenched bared teeth. You take a leak.
YOU - In the shower?
SHOWER - Cops do that. Now, you squeeze a bit of liquid soap into the palm of your left hand, and lather up. As you rinse off the suds, you tilt your face up to the water and close your eyes.
PERCEPTION (SMELL) - A heady woody scent suffuses the steam.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - A memory mugs you - quick and shocking as a bullet to the gut in a dark alley.
INLAND EMPIRE - Don't exaggerate. It's hazy, a fragment.
YOU - Try harder. What can I recall?
INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: success] - The warp and weft of a black RCM jacket, the fold of a starched shirt collar brushing against your ear, a strong hint of cedar, oak bark and patchoulli cologne. Pining.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - Shao Dark's *!Excess*, actually, is the brand and name of the cologne. The brand name was chosen for its mystical connotations, the cologne name for its embarrassment of woody riches, which is negated by placing the exclamation mark at the front in an attempt to appeal to a broad market. It has precious little else to do with the Seolite Empire. Detective Jean Vicquemare is partial to it; perhaps pondering this in the Thought Cabinet might produce more particular details?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - What are you doing? You're not some radiation cleaner in a fucking decontamination chamber. Time to get moving.
PERCEPTION - You leave wet footprints on the floorboards from the bathroom to the wardrobe.
WARDROBE - The doors moan as you pull them open, releasing a musty lavender smell. Lavender deters moths.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - What about forget-me-nots? What do they prevent?
WARDROBE - Are you in a Blue Mood? There's a predominance of blue in here.
YOU - I have a blue soul, and a blue heart.
VOLITION - Good. Anything is better than your Orange Mood.
INLAND EMPIRE - Orange is for Sunset. Sunset is for something else that starts with 's' and ends in death.
YOU - "You have a blue guitar, you do not play things as they are."
SHIVERS - THINGS AS THEY ARE, ARE CHANGED UPON THE BLUE GUITAR.
YOU - You roll your shoulders to shrug off the sensation like a heavy tarpaulin cloak.
WARDROBE - You're wearing a RCM lieutenant's cap, a RCM commander's jacket, a white shirt, black RCM pants, and black-and-white FALN sneakers. Might I suggest changing your shirt, and packing a spare one?
ESPRIT DE CORPS - United in black, you and Satellite-Officer Vicquemare will work together like a well-oiled machine. Wear your uniform.
YOU – You've been here before. If you let your Blue Mood have its way with you, this will happen:
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He releases a slow, smoky breath to calm himself. But then his Half Light lunges - *you* can feel *his* pulse rising. "The fuck is that?" He jerks his bearded chin at your checkered blue jacket. "Do I have to be your mother, too, shitkid? Where's your *proper* jacket? You know, like, with RCM patches that let everyone know you're a cop and not a dink with a gun. Even the so-called Disco Ass Blazer is better than this Son of fucking Lung shit."
YOU - "I'm in a blue mood."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, well, then maybe the captain should demote you to *patrol officer*, Art-Cop."
AUTHORITY - This is *not* the way to re-establish authority in his eyes.
Outside, Satellite-Officer JEAN VICQUEMARE, buff and brooding in a black uniform suit, leans against the motor-carriage, flicking ash from his Astra. When the front door snaps shut behind you, he looks up, jerking a strand of black hair out of his eyes, and examines you from head to foot.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He nods once. "Let's go, lieutenant."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Good decision, wearing the uniform. This is you at least looking the part of a major crimes unit task force leader, he thinks. This is good.
You stash your blue RCM Carry-All duffel on top of the toolbox, and then you both get into the Coupris 40. Jean fires up the machine.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Precise destination?
INLAND EMPIRE - Unknown.
YOU - "So," looking askance at Jean, you light a cigarette, "brief me on the case."
A/N: Had to update the chapter, because ff messed with the formatting.