JEAN VICQUEMARE - Leans a hand against the closed interrogation room door, barring passage, and arches his eyebrow even more. "Oh, you don't say?" Both eyebrows flick up. "Well, I'm sure it must be something *really* important."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – He means: "It better be something important to do with *work*."

HALF LIGHT - You can feel Ed's eyes on your back.

YOU – Lean in towards Jean, your clothing accidentally on purpose brushing against his, making little sparks in your viscera. "It is, so lay off."

PERCEPTION (SMELL) - Fresh deodorant over day-old *!Excess* fading like a memory.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "It better be."

PAIN THRESHOLD – A warm tiny ache in your core.

YOU – Lean back to meet his stare and hold it. "It's been a long day, and neither of us got much sleep last night," pause to add a smile that his eyes reflect for a gleaming heartbeat even if his lips don't. "But as I said, *I'll be back soon*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay. Fuck it. I'll do this myself." He loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. Pushes away from the door, waves you off. "Take your time."

DRAMA – Be still my heart. A grand performance is about to begin. Why miss it? Why not contribute a verse?

INTERROGATION ROOM DOOR - You open it and cross the threshold, feeling a little lighter on your feet.

PERCEPTION - Before the door swings shut, disturbing the grey horizontal blinds over the observation window, you hear Jean's dry voice: "You know, I'm a big coffee drinker. Can I get you one, too?"

ED – "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Thanks, officer."

RHETORIC - Interrogation Tactic, The First: pretend to be an ally.

LOGIC - There's more to it than meets the eye. This Ed is an informant - it's why Jean insisted on interviewing him first. We've seen and done this dozens of times before.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - It's so ingrained, it's almost muscle memory.

YOU - But why isn't he in my case file or report? Can I remember anything about him before yesterday?

INLAND EMPIRE - I've got nothing. Sorry.

LOGIC - Perhaps, at the time, your partner didn't think it wise to share such sensitive information with *shitkid*?

REACTION SPEED – Make a mental note.

TASKS – Ask JV About: Future writing? 10-200? Informant?

PRECINCT-41 - On a steel maintenance platform pinned between two chimneys on the domed roof, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi stands like a sentinel overlooking Central Jamrock. A smoking sentinel. As the lieutenant calmly smokes a cigarette, orange flashes off the lenses of his glasses. Although the cityscape blurs like impressionist dabs of oil paint on his retinas, he knows Boogie Street and the surrounding blocks of unlit avenues well enough to walk their mud in his inland empire. But he isn't walking them. Instead, he stares up into the incendiary darkness of the sky, past a gliding seagull, his forehead furrowed with worry. A noise distracts him - the sound of footfalls scaling the painted steel rungs of the maintenance ladder.

MAINTENANCE LADDER – Zap! Pow! You reach the top, pull yourself up and out onto the platform.

You - Open your eyes.

INLAND EMPIRE – Astral projection!

KIM KITSURAGI - "For the record, detective, you did not teleport this time either. I heard you climbing up."

SAVOIR FAIRE - You totally did, you phase-shifting palerunner.

INLAND EMPIRE – You and the lieutenant are on different metaphysical planes. Ignore him.

KIM KITSURAGI - Sucks the remainder of his cigarette down to the filter before stubbing it out on the sole of his boot.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Sparks flutter to the platform and die like miniature fireworks.

YOU - Flash a smile, rest your hands on your hips. "Ah, but did *you* teleport, Kim?"

KIM KITSURAGI – "Unfortunately," he exhales a column of smoke, "no."

PERCEPTION (SMELL) – The air smells of chestnuts.

YOU – Cross the platform to stand beside him, as he folds his hands behind his back and surveys the glowing night sky over Boogie Street.

INTERFACING – You dig around inside a pocket.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Pull out a crumpled packet of Astra Menthol and a disposable plastic lighter. Just like the safety on your service weapon, the lighter's is off; the flick of your thumb creates a flame.

YOU – Stick a cigarette between your lips, dunk the end into the flame and inhale, filling your lungs with icy smoke.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Fire and ice. Primal. Nice.

PERCEPTION - Exhale two streams of menthol smoke through your nostrils.

INLAND EMPIRE – The wind can be brutal up here, blowing through every layer of clothing and manmeat to the bone, but tonight it seems fairly tame.

YOU – Look askance at the lieutenant's profile. "So, what's on your mind, Kim?"

KIM KITSURAGI – Nods up at the sky, where the aerostatic Archer hangs like a major constellation. "A Coalition Warship can shoot fifty shells per minute on twenty co-aligned arches, and would reach Revachol in fifty-eight seconds."

ENCYCLOPEDIA – We know this.

YOU – Nod, lowering your gaze back to his shadowed face. "I thought apocalyptic modes were more my style than yours."

KIM KITSURAGI – Gives you a nervous glance. "I realize I'm doom-mongering, officer, but ..."

YOU – Flick ash from your cigarette. "Kim, to paraphrase my partner, if you're concerned then it's entirely justified."

KIM KITSURAGI – Nods. "Your partner ... It's good to see you stable."

RHETORIC – Hmm ...

YOU - Squint at him. "So, about this bee in your bonnet?"

EMPATHY – Be patient. Coming off like an Apocalyptic Cop is not his style, and he doesn't like talking politics, which any mention of the Coalition often invites.

HALF LIGHT – Because he fears it will cause disagreements.

YOU – Pull on your cigarette and close your eyes, trying to exercise patience.

INLAND EMPIRE – If only you could be in two places at once.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Down in the C-Wing interrogation room, Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare switches to the tactic of positive confrontation. "We know you were on your way to a rendezvous with the idealogue in The Burnt Out Quarter," he lies with complete certainty and conviction.

"What? No way!" Ed sniffs, then wipes his nose across the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Who told you that?"

"It's *okay* - honestly." Vicquemare tries to look the picture of sympathy, though the skin around his nostrils and lips tightens in disgust. He leans back in his chair.

"But I don't know a thing about the idealogue."

"A pile of evidence contradicts your statement, Ed."

Paranoia sharpens the younger man's clammy features. "Evidence?"

Vicquemare nods somberly once, staring at him, assessing every micro-expression.

Ed shakes his head, tries again to deny that he is the idealogue; Vicquemare interrupts, shutting him down. Tactic number three: interrupt thought patterns, crumble confidence.

"But it *isn't* true," Ed insists, raising his voice. "I've either been set up, or *you* need to pin it on someone, so you're gonna use *me*."

In a lightning-flash, Vicquemare switches from Good Cop to Bad, his grey eyes chips of cold steel: "Cut the shit, Ed. You know how this works. Talk to me or go back to Reunion – you'll have a good view of The Burnt Out Quarter from there for sure. There's nothing you can say or do at this point to convince us that you are *completely* innocent."

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – On the domed roof the wind whistles a faint tune through the chimneys as if it's nervous about being overheard.

SHIVERS – The wind ruffles your hair before breezing north.

YOU – What's in the north?

SHIVERS – Martinaise. The wind weaves through the branches of a tree in the yard behind the Whirling. Like a hole in the world, the yard is missing a boy who secretly dreams of being a detective. He left Martinaise shortly after you, maybe *after you*, Necromancer Pig, and has not been seen since. Across the waterway, the wind howls low, mourning a drowned motor-carriage. In the fishing village, a church contains a 2mm hole in the world. The wind steers clear, blowing through a huddle of cinderblock shacks, dissipating smoke blowing out of the chimney of one. Inside, Lilienne rakes coal pellets with a fire iron, encouraging them to burn brighter, as unreal fish-hooks dangle from her ears. You have her sword, a prize gained by turning up on time and sober for a stroll along the coast.

YOU – What's in the south?

SHIVERS - The smell of caramel in the wind. Le Retour is waiting.

YOU – Wait. *What?*

KIM KITSURAGI – "The 'bee in my bonnet'? There's more and more talk that the Zone of Control will not hold up against the growing tension, officer."

YOU – Open your eyes.

KIM KITSURAGI – Looks towards East Revachol, his dark eyes hard and bright. "We live in the third incarnation of Revachol, in the international zone – it is in fact the only Revachol we have ever known. As a lieutenant of the RCM, it is my duty to uphold international law. Therefore, my flag is the signal blue of the Zone of Control."

LOGIC – Hold on – was that a syllogism?

INLAND EMPIRE – That was his Volta do Mar: distant enemy of himself. Burnt-out idealist, disillusioned moralist, clinging to the ideal because it's preferable to extremes, bloodshed, *the abattoir* as he once told Joyce Messier - because it's his *sworn* duty and yours.

CONCEPTUALIZATION – Is it though? What about his jacket? What about the saying on your gun?

YOU – I'm not getting into politics.

VOLITION – An officer never should – that path leads quickly to bias.

KIM KITSURAGI – "But I fear that because this is all we know, our generation has forgotten *what* a revolution *is*. If we could remember, if we could imagine the Esperance running red with blood for days, then we would not whisper about Le Retour – let alone makes plans."

ENCYCLOPEDIA – He means that literally; the river did run red with blood for days. Blood and bullet-ridden bodies.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nowadays its waters are stained with the blood of industry.

SUGGESTION – None of this matters. Kim's a true Vacholiere.

YOU – "You're a true Vacholiere, Kim."

KIM KITSURAGI – Raises his eyebrows, then gives a small smile.

INLAND EMPIRE – Coalition cannons roar. Fire rains from the burning sky. Men, women, children, mostly working class, blister, peel, burn. Here it is, here is your revolution! A generation massacred. And the next, a seething mass of physical and mental trauma. And the next? Lessons already forgotten, ready to revolve again.

ENDURANCE – A tightness in your chest. A pressure behind your eyes.

COMPOSURE – Just breathe, slow and steady. Let this pass through you like a wave.

KIM KITSURAGI – "It's okay, detective," the lieutenant says softly, gently grabbing your shoulder. "I forgot how sensitive you are, how everything is wrought with meaning for you."

YOU – Stare into the blue-black avenues of Central Jamrock below, at halos of electric light scattered insufficiently here and there like glowflies caught in a vast web, at row upon row of fireboxes houses. "I've been trying to make adjustments, but my imagination is still accustomed to working at a particular pitch."

KIM KITSURAGI – "Really? Your 'pitch' is part of what makes you a good detective. It just requires supervision, a grounding partner – like Satellite Officer Vicquemare, I mean," he adds hastily.

AUTHORITY – Why do you put up with everyone's backhanded compliments? Stick up for yourself!

VOLITION – Just do your job.

YOU – Nod. "So, about those Warships raining hailfire on us?"

EMPATHY – He draws a breath to speak, then holds it, hesitating again. A pang of guilt?

YOU – "Kim, I'm not from the Inspectorate General - I'm not gonna rat you out," you joke. "Also," you lift your wrist and move your sleeve back to check your watch, "I have to return to an interrogation soon, so I need you to be straight with me."

KIM KITSURAGI – "An interrogation, at this time of night? I should be halfway home." He sighs. "The forty-first really is crazy."

YOU – Grin. "Just C-Wing, just my task force really."

KIM KITSURAGI - "And I *am* crazy enough to belong here," he mutters, barely moving his lips.

YOU – "That's the spirit."

KIM KITSURAGI – "But why are you here, then? You should be down there."

RHETORIC – Say it's *important*.

YOU – "This is important too."

KIM KITSURAGI – Nods, steels himself: "I am concerned about the RCM. In the event of an attempted uprising, I fear that we will be forced to engage in politics, which could form rifts in our ranks."

REACTION SPEED – Before, he said he'd heard *rumours*. Rumours about *rifts*?

SUGGESTION – If you ask, you *will* come across as if you belong to the rat squad.

AUTHORITY – Ask anyway.

YOU – "Have there been rumours about rifts …?"

KIM KITSURAGI – Averts his eyes. "One way or another, time will tell, officer." Looks askance at you. "It truly is both an honour and a curse to work under Pryce."

RHETORIC [Godly: Failure] – The lieutenant dodges.

SUGGESTION – You could try to guess, I guess?

YOU – Shrug it off. "Yeah. But I doubt the Moralintern will be too fussed by a little ruckus in Revachol - if that's what you mean. They know better than anyone that invading us without dire necessity would break international law."

AUTHORITY – You are the law.

YOU - "Anyway, we are the law around here."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Jamrock is ours – that's true. But places like Martinaise, Coal City ..." He shakes his head.

YOU – Twist to face the north, cup your hands around your mouth, and yell: "Martinaise, you've been *policed*!"

KIM KITSURAGI – A smile flickers across his lips.

YOU - "We'll handle our own shit. So will the other precincts."

KIM KITSURAGI – "I do hope you are right, detective."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare takes his last sip of tepid coffee, then clunks the cup down onto the little interview table. He leans back in his chair again, this time taking up as much space as he can, and squints at the informant. "Everything. Tell me *everything*, Ed, and I'll give you a way out of this mess with minimization, make your involvement justifiable – a mistake. You're just a druggie artist."

"Hey! I have feelings, you know. Officer."

"Oh, well, if I'm making you go boo boo, allow me to *profusely* apologize. I'm just trying to prevent the outbreak of civil war in Revachol."

Ed's eyes widen. He turns pale. "I'm *not* trying to start something. I'm *not* the bad guy here."

"Exactly," says Vicquemare, pointing at him. "You're not the bad guy here, Ed. I just want to know who is."

"I *told you*, I don't know that. But, *but*," Ed leans across the table, moistens his lips, "you're wrong about les petits rats. There's a way into L'Ossuaire Municipal from The Burnt Out Quarter – no need to go all the way to Coal City, see – and to Le Royaume. And a kid did bring back that magenta blow. They're bringing back other stuff, too – silver cutlery and shit, and get this, get this: old *weapons*."

"*Weapons?*" Fuck, Vicquemare thinks. If this is true, then Pryce is right.

"Yeah - *guns*. That's all I know. I swear."

Vicquemare slits his eyes, studying him: "Say I believe you for a fraction of a second, who told you?"

"Blixa. It's Blixa who knows everything. Not me."

"And how would I get into the city for the dead from The Burnt Out Quarter?"

Ed shakes his head. "No idea, man. Sorry."

"Don't fuck with me." Vicquemare raises an admonitory finger. "Thanks to your buddy Blixa we have plenty of evidence to send you straight back to Reunion; and you already gave yourself away, flight-risk. Where exactly were you planning to go? And how is it connected to that Milton shit – I want to know that as well."

PRECINCT-41 – You and the lieutenant take the maintenance ladder down from the platform to the fifth floor. A faded sign, painted in ghostly white, adorns the brick wall: LA FABRIQUE. You part ways with Kim, then jog down the stairwell, past the fourth and third floors.

YOU - Burst out into the long corridor that leads to C-Wing, your holstered gun bouncing a little against your ribs each time your feet hit the floor sprinting.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare wraps up the interrogation. Leaning back against the outside of the observation window, he tugs reluctantly on his facial hair, and rests his tired eyes on Patrol Officer Judit Minot, watching her face dunk into the light cast by a green desk lamp every time she stoops to write. Foregoing all conversation etiquette, he strides over and gets straight to the point: "Have you seen him?"

Judit looks up from her paperwork, momentarily taken aback. "Who - Harry? Maybe he is on the roof with Kim? I saw him heading up there."

"On the fucking roof?" asks Vicquemare, raising his eyebrows.

"Oui. Kim has a custom. Like," she frowns by modulating her tone of voice, "a smoking ritual ...?"

"Smoking ritual?" he repeats, blinking.

"He allows himself only one cigarette a day," she patiently explains. "He usually smokes it as a reward after completing all his major tasks."

"Oh, a *solitary* smoking ritual." Vicquemare relaxes a little, pauses to think, then says, "I know what this is about."

"Well, good." She tries to return to her daily write-ups -

"Enough, Jude - go home and get some rest. Tomorrow our cases might converge into a stereo-investigation." Vicquemare searches the room with his stare. There's nobody else around. "Mack and Chester's too."

The patrol officer looks off into the middle distance, puffs out her cheeks and sighs.

YOU – Skid over the threshold into C-Wing, then feign a casual walk through pools of light and shadow as you pass between the rows of desks with their green lamps.

PERCEPTION – The interrogation room is empty and the light is off. Jean and Judit are talking about something at her desk.

LOGIC – You're late.

HALF LIGHT - Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Harry.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yes, yes." He sounds bored. "As long as the papers don't call us the 'Death Squad' again, it'll be a wild success."

JUDIT MINOT - "They called us *Du Bois's* Death Squad and Harry didn't even kill anyone." Pushing her chair back, she gets to her feet, and looks up into his eyes. "It was hard on him, Jean."

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – Hear that? Your name.

INLAND EMPIRE – Yes, your name. Focus on that. Disregard the other stuff. Nothing to see here, move along.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Ouch.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Murmurs, "I know." He sighs heavily. "Maybe I -"

YOU - "Did somebody say *Harry*?" Smoothing your sweaty hair back from your face, you dry your fingertips on your pants.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You're fooling nobody, son. You're puffy from the sprint and trying not to look like a gasping carp. Calisthenics without *regular* cardio can only take a body so far. And the smokes don't help.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Get outta here! The Menthol ziggies are cold as ice and keep you cool and *together*.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Speak of the devil and in he walks."

JUDIT MINOT – Smirks.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Tilts his head a little to one side and looks you up and down.

INLAND EMPIRE – Like pinpricks against your skin.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You ran – all the way from the roof?"

YOU – Nod, still catching your breath.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Well," he pauses for effect, "points for trying to *be back soon*."

JUDIT MINOT – "Jean."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – He looks at her. "Okay, okay. I'm being a tired asshole. That's what you want to say, right?"

JUDIT MINOT – She does not answer his question. But her bloodshot eyes sparkle, lighting up her long bony face as she beams at you both.

YOU – Shrug. "The RCM needs assholes like us – we stop all the other assholes from killing each other."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Yeaaah..." Stretching the word, he looks back at you and rubs his goatee. "Sort of. Okay. Like fighting fire with fire, we're fighting assholes with assholes."

JUDIT MINOT – "It definitely is time for me to call it a day."

YOU – "'I'm an ordinary guy'", you smile a little and sing under your breath, "'burning down the house'."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Ordinary." He rolls his eyes. "Got the burning part right – that has Harry written all over it."

DRAMA – Methinks the gent doth protest too much, my lord.

EMPATHY – Agreed.

JUDIT MINOT – Smiles and shakes her head as she makes a beeline for the locker rooms, leaving you and your partner alone.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – It's so, so quiet, you can hear the keys of a typewriter automatic-firing downstairs in the main hall, the thoughtful rasp of Jean's fingers rubbing his goatee as he looks away.

INLAND EMPIRE – Fingers stroking, fingers pressing you down, fingers slowly circling before delving into you like *this* and like *that*.

YOU – Blink, lick your salty lower lip, smile a little to yourself.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Blood is heading south. Your pants are gonna tent in a few seconds.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Get a load of the spoilsport over here.

SUGGESTION – Ahem. Can you apologize without apologizing?

AUTHORITY – Sycophant.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] – Ignore Skull Face, Mind Implants is right. The restrained tension in your partner bears all the marks of an argument not carried far enough, not resolved. It could explode later if you don't defuse it now.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – There's the muffled sound of a shower being turned on in the locker rooms.

YOU – Rest a hand on Jean's shoulder to gain his attention. "I had a meeting with Kim about those concerns; I'm trying to look after everyone on the task force properly this time around. It wasn't my intention to avoid helping you with the interrogation." Look into his eyes. "You know that, right?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Nods, glances around, then gives the back of your hand a quick pat before hiding a yawn behind his fist. "And did you allay the lieutenant's concerns?"

YOU – Sigh, lower your hand back to your side. "I don't know. Ask me again later?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Stares at you for a long moment, then nods once, making a strand of black hair fall in front of his eye. "We need to go back to that shithole tomorrow. We missed something."

REACTION SPEED – The Burnt Out Quarter.

YOU – "The Burnt Out Quarter?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Yes." He flicks the strand back with a finger. "*That* shithole."

LOGIC – You'll need a motor-carriage.

YOU – "There is one good thing here."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Arches an eyebrow.

YOU – "Motor-carriage."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Rubs his forehead, then his temples.

COUPRIS 40 – As the asphalt under the tyres turns to mud, in the cabin the soft glow of the fuel pre-heater gauge accentuates your partner's long nose and defined cheekbones as he works the steering levers. The radio-microphone on the hook crackles softly with static, murmuring to itself. Parking in front of your home away from home, the cabin darkens when he switches off the engine.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Your ears ring in the sudden silence. Maybe the constant noise of the radio has been damaging your hearing slowly over time, giving you tinnitus?

INTERFACING - Jean lights a cigarette and blows smoke against the inside of the windshield.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) – Bitter chocolate fills the cabin.

YOU – Wait for him to enjoy a few calming drags, then pluck the cigarette from between his lips and take a pull on the moist filter. Lick his saliva off your lips and sigh out a content cloud.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Glances at you and smiles.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) – Actually fucking *smiles*. At *you*. Did you get that?

INLAND EMPIRE – I got that, bent and fleeting and poignant as a ray of light breaking into rainbow colours.

HALF LIGHT – So try not to fuck it up this time. Remember, this is your *last chance*.

REACTION SPEED – Quick - think of something else.

YOU – Tasks: Ask JV About -

REACTION SPEED – Why not, why not.

YOU – Take another drag on Jean's cigarette. "I need to ask you about some things ..." The words puff out of your mouth in smoke signals.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Super." He lights another cigarette. "Okay, ask me about some things."

AUTHORITY – Ask your questions.

YOU – "Let's say Ed is one of your informants."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Okay, that's plausible."

YOU – "Why isn't he in the paperwork?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Stares at you through the smoke. Finally speaks: "Why do you think?"

YOU – "I think you didn't want the *shitkid* to fuck it up."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – His eyes turn cold as he steels his heart and keeps staring at you.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Words are hard, causing both blunt and sharp-edged trauma as they're forced up and out. But the way his eyes have changed *burns* like frostbite.

HALF LIGHT - It's how they'll look when you ruin your last chance.

VOLITION – Not *when*. *If*. But you won't ruin it.

YOU – Blink and break eye contact. "It's okay. I mean, I would have kept sensitive information from me too." You swallow. "In a way, I guess I did."

COMPOSURE – I'm doing all I can to keep your hold on the cigarette steady. Maybe take another nicotine hit?

YOU – Suck on the cigarette hard, flashing amber light over your slightly trembling hand as ash rains.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Harry ..." His sad eyes thaw. "I *want* you to talk to me. But can the other things wait till tomorrow? I'm not trying to get out of shit. I'm fucking exhausted, which means it's a lot harder for me to keep my shit together."

RHETORIC – Fair warning, partner.

YOU – Nod. "Okay. I was just gonna ask about your 10-200 and -"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Believe me, that shit definitely needs to wait till the morning."

RHETORIC – Something about his tone makes me worry that you are not going to like what he has to say about that 10-200.

DRAMA – 'Tis not only the cagey tone but also the closed body language, sire.

EMPATHY – Your partner did a lot of overtime today. Show some compassion.

YOU – Frown at him. "Are you sure you're going to be okay to drive home? I've got this book -"

RHETORIC – Don't say *Medicinal Purposes of the Pale*. Do *not* say that.

YOU – "It's on, you know, herbal tea remedies for -"

RHETORIC – Don't say *hangovers*. There are remedies for other *ailments* in there too.

YOU – "For various ailments and stuff. My place is still a bit messy, but you could spend the night. I could make you a relaxing cup of birch, mint and chamomile."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Pulls a face. "Uh ... Yeah, tea ... *No*."

PERCEPTION - He pulls on his cigarette as if to wash the very idea of tea off his tongue and out of his taste buds.

INLAND EMPIRE – Strobing images surface before your mind's eye, shards of memories: Jean sipping coffee, lots of it.

YOU – "I just remembered! I remembered *every time*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Okaaay, I'm happy for you, but what?"

YOU – "*You* drinking coffee. Sometimes black. Sometimes with milk. Always without sugar. Except for that one time in Wheat Town where it was so burnt and bitter you had to mask it."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "You want a pat on the back?" Keeps his hand low as he reaches out to squeeze your leg above the knee.

PERCEPTION - His fingers linger, as if in consideration of a caress.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Good night, Harry. See you at seven-thirty sharp." He releases your leg to point down at your ledger, just barely visible in the shadows of the footwell. "Don't forget your new ledger. Maybe, like, rattle it a little bit."

INLAND EMPIRE – Wouldn't that rattle its blue heart?

INTERFACING – As you open the passenger door, Jean sticks his ciggie between his lips, and presses the HEAT button to ignite the rear-mounted engine. You exit the motor carriage with your ledger tucked under one arm, and shut the door.

PERCEPTION – Cool crisp night air washes over you and clears your lungs.

YOU - Flick your ciggie at the pavement, and feel something light *shift* inside the new ledger's compartment for permeables.