ESPRIT DE CORPS – At Precinct 41, cups and spoons clink in the coffee corner of C-Wing.
MACK TORSON cracks a laugh as he says to his partner, "Wonder what Vic and his long-lost boyfriend are up to down south?"
CHESTER McLAINE - Smirks. "I told you, it's not like that."
TORSON - "Yeah, yeah – hetero*sexual* life *partners*. What are they *up* to?"
McLAINE - "Getting to know each other again? I don't know. But it looks like that whole crazy phasmid discovery glued those two back together. You could ask Judit, or Kim Kitsuragi."
TORSON - "Speaking of, Kitsuragi seems solid. After all that crap with Mills, Jude deserves to shoot up to Satellite ..."
McLAINE - "You know Sunset poached him from the 57th?"
TORSON - "Like a boss."
SHIVERS - Down south, A Coupris 40, with blue and white livery bearing the number 41, parks outside The Affluent Fork, a coffeehouse nestled on the left tributary of the River Esperance. Two police officers climb out of the motor-carriage, one buff, the other sturdy. One has been keeping a secret concerning the other for over a month, a secret that burns like caustic soda, a secret the other is starting to remember in stutters.
As the pair steps inside, the waitress overhears the buff one telling the sturdy one, "… one addiction for another. Even you can't survive on nicotine and caffeine alone, Harry."
HARRY - "Is that a challenge?"
THE BUFF ONE - "Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho, you're so funny."
The waitress senses an electric tension running between them that makes her uncomfortable. They order a pot of coffee and eggs on toast, and devour their late all-day breakfasts as they bicker over a case file. She fantasizes about the nature of their relationship.
HARRY - "Is this a test?"
THE BUFF ONE: "Is what a test?"
HARRY - "You must know that case was hard on me. So is this new case a test?"
THE BUFF ONE - "That depends ..." He cocks his head to the side and narrows his grey eyes a little. "Define 'test'."
HARRY - "Don't be an asshole, Jean."
JEAN - "But I am an asshole," he wags a finger, "and so are you."
They flash each other mirthless half-smiles.
As the waitress clears their table, she notices the caffein jitters in Harry's fingers. He rolls a ballpoint pen back and forth over a document dense with flowing blue cursive. The lines upon lines of handwriting are razor straight yet practically illegible except for four words scrawled in capital letters in the margin: THE NEXT WORLD MURAL.
HARRY - His fingers slip and fly off the pen, which skids backwards towards him, and land on Jean's hand.
JEAN - Snatches his hand back as if touched by a hotplate. "Gottlieb got to the captain," he says in an undertone, pulling on his tie knot, his stare fixed on the table. "You're unstable. Everybody knows. But you can hear a fan spinning, can't you?" He glances up. "You can guess what's going to hit it soon."
HARRY - "But he *knows* I'll always side with the RCM! I could have been captain twice; I declined the promotion both times so that we could keep doing *real* policework."
JEAN - "Oh, suddenly you remember things." His tone twangs with sarcasm. But then he adds, "Of course he knows, Harry. You're fucking one of us, goddamnit."
HARRY - "I sense a 'but'."
JEAN - "But after your emotional fucking meltdown in Martinaise you need to show that you can keep your shit together. Okay?"
HARRY - His face falls, the chair squeaks as he leans back. "I solved the case. I discovered a new species. I -"
JEAN - "With a lot of help from Lieutenant Kitsuragi."
HARRY - "And *I* recruited him. If I'd been a lousy partner to Kim, would he have relocated to -?"
JEAN - "Let's just go." He rubs his face in frustration, and then stands suddenly, pushing back his chair. "Let's go and solve this goddamned case."
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Through the dusty, bug-splattered windshield of the motor-carriage, parked on the northern edge of The Burnt Out Quarter, the husks of buildings loom in a landscape of ash and ruin.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Picks up the radio, and presses a button.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - The Coupris 40's cabin fills with static.
JULES PIDIEU - "10-2, 10-5. This is the 41st. Come in! Over."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "10-4, Station 41. We are 10-23, over."
JULES PIDIEU - "10-23, 10-4. Good to know, over. Anything else, sir?"
"Negative, Station 41. 10-10. Over and out."
"Roger that. 10-10. Station 41 over and out."
PERCEPTION - A click, then utter silence fills the cabin. Outside, covering the facade of the tallest tenement still standing, is one more eight-story Next World Mural. Except for an addendum, the new Next World Mural is almost identical to the original Next World Mural up in doomed Grand Couron.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - The one still fading into the cityscape with sun-bleached dignity thanks to your partner JV initiating a public art conservation project.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Cut into the enormous black silhouette of a kissing couple, the words TRUE LOVE IS POSSIBLE ONLY IN THE NEXT WORLD - FOR NEW PEOPLE / IT IS TOO LATE FOR US / WREAK HAVOC ON THE MIDDLE CLASS yell north across the River Esperance. The addendum takes up horizontal instead of vertical space, bleeding down from the silhouette into the street where it runs down the road like a ribbon of words: LOSE YOURSELF IN THOUGHTS; LOSE YOURSELF IN LOVE; LOSE YOURSELF *FROM HERE*.
VISUAL CALCULUS - The addendum's clearly reading material for the Coalition aerostatics.
YOU - "A message for the Coalition aerostatics," you murmur, gazing up at the glaring sky through the windshield.
PERCEPTION - And there it is. A dark dot in the clouds.
YOU - "But how are the two messages related?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*Are* they related, apart from the contradictory remarks on love?"
YOU - Close your eyes. It helps you to think. "Good point. Let's start with the concrete before moving to the abstract."
PERCEPTION - You feel him examining you. It's a pressure like fingers pressed against your skin.
INLAND EMPIRE - Whose fingers? *His?*
CONCEPTUALIZATION - That was just a simile.
INLAND EMPIRE - No, there's more to it. You feel *strange*.
PERCEPTION - No, I already said it's a pressure - just a pressure.
INLAND EMPIRE - Like electricity. Coursing through you.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - *"Such as ...?"* His dry voice cuts into your stream of thoughts.
PERCEPTION - You open your eyes: through the windshield, the black ribbon of aerostatics graffito trails off into the grey ruins of The Burnt Out Quarter .
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His hand vanishes into his jacket and reappears holding an RCM Posse notebook and a ballpoint pen.
YOU - "Is this paint the same industrial paint that the Belle Lettres used for the original mural?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Let's bag samples and find out."
YOU - Put your Ledger of Oblivion onto your knee, and click on your Kind Green Ape pen, releasing the ballpoint tip: "Okay, *tasks*: obtain paint sample. Analyze paint sample. Compare results to old mural's industrial paint. If same, question Belle Lettres. Else -"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "- find paint origin." He scribbles away. "Let's go."
HALF LIGHT- Heads up! As you exit the motor-carriage, there's a tingle on the back of your neck.
YOU - I'm being watched.
AUTHORITY - The *nerve* ...
YOU - Walk over to the start of the graffito on the road, look around.
DRAMA - My liege! You are a Revacholian badass. Play the part, sire.
COMPOSURE - So far, so good.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His footsteps crunch as he walks around the motor-carriage to stand beside you. You both frown down at the start of the ribbon of words. "We're being watched."
YOU - "I feel it, too."
DRAMA - You're on stage. Give the audience a good performance.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - The Skulls, an art movement cultivating the reputation of Jamrock gang-bangers who allegedly stab and shoot cops on sight, drag-race stolen motor-carriages here, which they modify with bottom and underbelly lights that represent Revachol's underbelly: brazenly visible and therefore not soft.
You - "The Skulls?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Maybe. Or maybe just whoever has the pleasure of calling this shithole home." After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he pulls a penknife out of a pocket, followed by a little evidence bag. Crouching down to take a closer look at the paint on the road, he scrapes some off with the little blade and deposits it into the bag. After tagging it, he straightens, strides over to the new mural, and does the same, scraping off a sample from the wall.
LEDGER - You observe and take notes, filling in a red square on the first page of your case file. You omit the shithole remark.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He holds the two evidence bags up between you. The clear plastic shines in the spring sun. The black paint samples sit innocuously within. "Or maybe someone from the Belle Lettres?" He pockets the evidence bags. "We made a shitshow of questioning them last time because *you* were a mess."
YOU - Shake your head. "I don't remember."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Of course not. You literally forgot my face, so how could you remember that."
ENDURANCE - A sinking sensation in your midriff, a heaviness in your chest.
EMPATHY - It must show on your face because his expression softens.
LOGIC - You didn't *literally* forget.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Well, you didn't figuratively forget either.
INLAND EMPIRE - How did you forget, then?
YOU - "I didn't 'literally' forget your face. It's more complicated than that. I *knew* you were wearing a wig."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Wow. Here's a crazy idea: maybe you've had training to detect really obvious disguises -"
YOU - "But another part of my mind blocked it - stopped the thought in its tracks. Why would part of my mind want to block *you*, Jean?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I don't know." He tilts his head, staring at you oddly, assessing. The air between you trembles with expectation. "Why would it?"
EMPATHY - Look into his eyes.
VOLITION - Guarded grey eyes gaze into yours. Did you note the pupils dilating?
HALF LIGHT - There's a lot of anger on the surface.
CONCEPTUALIZATION [Formidable: Failure] - Like light gleaming on water. You squint, shield your eyes, but it's still too hard to see beyond the flashing surface.
HALF LIGHT - But below, shadows of fear flicker.
PAIN THRESHOLD - And in the depths, pain - familiar, shared.
INLAND EMPIRE - As familiar as sharing a cigarette.
VOLITION - I've got bad news for you.
YOU - What?
VOLITION - Your skill-set is compromised; you can't trust these guys - they're not giving you the whole picture.
SUGGESTION - Softly now, ask *Jean* to tell you what happened.
HALF LIGHT - Your adrenal glands are about to hyperventilate. What the fuck is wrong with you?
YOU - "What happened that night?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He blinks. "What happened is the usual. You were drunk, and you'd snorted fuck-knows-what. So the main suspect walked."
VOLITION - No, not that night. That night was an *effect* of what happened. You're after the *cause* -
INLAND EMPIRE - Hush, you crown-headed -
VOLITION - *You* hush.
AUTHORITY - I believe *I* am the husher here.
YOU - "Wait - the 'main suspect'?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "We got a group confession that there was an idealogue behind the mural, but we didn't get deep enough into the questioning to uncover the alleged idealogue's identity, or a motive. Typical shit-kid case."
YOU - "Well, with such a heavy weekly case load, I'm sure I made mistakes."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "How refreshingly honest." He shrugs, looks away. "We all make mistakes."
YOU - "So we're going with the idealogue's the real perp. What was disclosed about them?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "That a member of Belle Lettre is ultra-wealthy enough to have paid not only for the industrial paint but the whole paint factory - a *faux* struggling artist. You know the type, right?"
LEDGER - You *do* - it's right here in THE NEXT WORLD MURAL. I quote: "really rich".
RHETORIC - You know that's not what he means.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Hold on. Is this why JV became a white knight of public art conservation - to catch the *faux art-eest*?
YOU - "Is this why we lobbied for the mural to be conserved? You wanted to make them feel safe enough to do it again?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "My partner *loves* public art. He's been known to 'dabble' in it from time to time. You should ask him - he may remember and surprise us all." Shaking his head in disbelief, he produces a dark blue plastic lighter. He lights an Astra, blowing a chocolate-scented smokescreen between you. "But on a more serious note, if this is Belle Lettres all over again, and not some copycat shit, we'll get them this time. The city's a powder keg - we can't let this provocation shit slide. I mean what's the *motive*?"
ENDURACE - He seesaws back and forth between hostility and compassion. It's frankly dizzying.
YOU - "The aerostatics addendum bothers me, too, because this isn't some lone Skull sucking a litre of fuel out of a government motor-carriage to use as paint. This is big, organized, requires reál."
INLAND EMPIRE - Share the cigarette. It's your can-opener here.
YOU - Fuck it.
PERCEPTION - Jean's posture turns rigid, and his expression stiffens as you lean in close to snatch the cigarette smoldering between his thumb and index finger.
YOU - Take a long drag on Vic's Astra, hold it for a few seconds, then breathe out slowly.
EMPATHY - Sharing a cigarette with him feels comfortingly familiar.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - ...
INLAND EMPIRE - Move closer still, and you'll be clear of the smokescreen and near enough to breathe in the smell of a black RCM jacket with !Excess cologne, the fold of a starched shirt collar brushing against your ear. Broken scents, broken images, broken memories.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "The fuck,' he says softly, "are you doing?"
YOU - Trying to remember. Are the broken images memories, or fantasies?
INLAND EMPIRE - What's the difference?
LOGIC - One actually happened; the other is wish-fulfillment.
DRAMA - What a bore.
RHETORIC - The silence is stretching thin between you. Quick - say something clever.
YOU - "Sharing is good. It builds camaraderie."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay," he says slowly, clearly expecting you to add something conclusive.
RHETORIC - That could have been smoother, but it wasn't stupid.
YOU - "Camaraderie helps us to work better together - solve the case." You smile, hoping to fuck it isn't The Expression.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - There's a line, though. A thin sharing line.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He sweeps a look all around, from ruin to ruin.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - You're still under observation, he thinks, by unknown parties.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Or, *or* ..." He meets your eyes, and lifts an index finger. "We could stop fucking around, and go back to doing our job. That's what usually solves the case funnily enough."
YOU - Step back, look around at the crime scene, follow the ribbon of painted words ... Have we missed something?