SECRET TUNNEL - You stand in the tunnel, holding onto the ladder with one hand, and point your flashlight west with the other: darkness. You point it east: more darkness.
YOU - Feel the tiny hairs on your nape stand erect. And shiver.
SHIVERS - IT'S COMING.
YOU - Peer even harder down the length of your flashlight beam: *What is …?*
SHIVERS - Blood on the streets.
YOU - Shake it off: *Not on my watch.*
HALF LIGHT - Fucking hell you're tense, Harry.
YOU - Am I?
HALF LIGHT - Can't you *feel* how flexed your muscles are?
YOU - Try to run your fingers over your pectorals and abdominals, but all you feel is the padded armour of your raid vest.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Steps down off the last rung, then looks back up at the hole in the factory floor, at Kim and Judit's faces, before turning towards you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your ass isn't armoured — check your cheeks.
YOU - Pat down your ass.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - *Iron*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE (Whispers at you.) "I believe that's my job."
YOU - Tell him the results of your physical self-examination: "I seem to be tense."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No shit. Let's go."
YOU - Nod your chin at the dusty beam of electric light stretching off to black infinity in front of you, and whisper, "We're going into the abyss."
HALF LIGHT - Fact.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Says nothing, letting the look he gives you speak for him.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - But he thinks, You know what? Maybe we are …
SECRET TUNNEL - The luminescent hands of your partner's watch reveal that five minutes have ticked into the past. Feels like five hours down here. Perhaps it is. Perhaps there's an isolary entroponetic anomaly bending time and memory. At least you aren't heading in the direction of that bombed church. Yet. But give it time. You will.
YOU - Whisper through your teeth: "I don't like it here."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Neither do I, partner. Neither do I."
HALF LIGHT - There's something there. Run away!
INTERFACING - Jean's hand wraps around yours over the flashlight, and pulls to aim the beam at the tunnel floor …
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - In the distance, you see a pair of glowing orange circles close to the flagstones.
INLAND EMPIRE - A stalking monster with burning coal eyes, guarding the entrance to the underworlds!
SAVOIR FAIRE - Is it snoring? Sneak past.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Ahem. Twenty metres away. Some kind of floor panel, or safety lights?
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Lets go of your hand, checks his rustling maps for a few seconds, then looks at you and presses his index finger to his lips.
YOU - Nod, brush your fingers through your hair, and get a little jolt to find it short. Still getting used to the new hairstyle.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Feels good though. And you look younger.
AUTHORITY - You look like an upstanding officer of the law.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stops sneaking to cup a hand around his ear. Stares at you. "Hear that?"
YOU - Listen.
PERCEPTION - You hear nothing — too much time spent in loud *discothèques*. But now that you mention it, you sense a sort of … vibration?
YOU - "Feels like a vibration?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods. Points at the floor. Beckons for you to keep moving.
SECRET TUNNEL - As you near the glowing eyes, they turn into a pair of safety lights. Because there's a hole in the tunnel floor, caused by a collapsed section of the stormwater drainage system below. Someone has cleared the rubble, and attached a ladder.
VISUAL CALCULUS - The ladder doesn't look like it's been here long — it hasn't had time to start oxidizing properly in the damp air.
PERCEPTION - Standing before the jagged hole and ladder, marked on Cuno's hand-drawn map with an encircled number 2 and an arrow pointing down, you feel and hear the humming vibration, muffled by the stonework under your armoured raid boots, getting louder with each step. A smell, like iron and strawberries, wafts up from below.
INLAND EMPIRE - Smells like blood.
THE LEDGER - You and JV descend onto a raised narrow walkway made of stone, skirting a reservoir of shallow water, in a semi-collapsed stormwater drainage chamber. It's shallow because someone has installed a high-tech pump. It vibrates and hums. You can feel the vibes in your ribcage. The noise echoes off the brick walls, through the pipes and tunnels. And that's a problem why?
YOU - If anyone else is down here, we won't hear them.
THE LEDGER - Right. But on the plus side, they can't hear you either. Also, there's no doubt in your mind that without this pump, the chamber would be roaring at full capacity with grey stormwater, courtesy of yesterday's drenching from Ozonne.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Takes out his Trigat, photographs the pump, clips the photo to a page of his notebook.
YOU - Assess the area.
VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] - Stormwater is still pouring out of various inflow pipes. Some no bigger than the diameter of your thumb. Bleeding rust down the walls — under one pipe it's caked over time.
More important, the pump is connected to a larger iron outflow pipe that disappears down a stone tunnel. The pipe is labelled *Esperance LYF 4* in blistered white paint that reflects the beam of your flashlight like a hologram patch. And *that's* where all the stormwater is being pumped out.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - And if you *really* try to ignore the noise of the pump, you can clearly hear water splashing out of the inflow pipes, but also the roar of water moving *all around you* through the network of collapsing drainage and sewage systems.
HALF LIGHT - *I'm scared*.
COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - You're a *Revacholian badass*. So bring it on.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - You should have *brought* a snorkel and flippers, Aqua Cop. Although that armoured raid vest you've strapped on lends you the appearance of a turtle, it will not protect you from *sinking*.
YOU - Look at Jean.
COMPOSURE - If he has mixed feelings about this, like you, he isn't letting them show.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Notices your scrutiny. Puts away his notebook, gives you a quick serious wink.
EMPATHY - He sees through your composure.
YOU - Breathe out, feeling oddly relieved. Slide your flashlight beam over the surrounding walls of stone and brick, the caved-in section … Look down at your armoured boots, standing at attention on the damp raised platform. Look further …
INLAND EMPIRE - Pipes and tunnels as far as your inner eye can see. Broken sewage pipes flooded with stormwater. Pipes for gas — which explains how The Burnt Out Quarter got its new name after the war. Deeper down … occupied mineshafts, the catacombs of L'Ossuaire Municipal. Caches of Revolution weapons waiting to be refurbished. Stashes of silver trinkets and magenta cocaine from Le Royaume. And the pale-irradiated, secret member of Belles Lettres, working hard and fast on the next mural, so big it needs to be assembled like a jigsaw puzzle … He's running out of black paint, will need to resurface for more soon …
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Moves closer to slide his cool hand over the back of your neck.
YOU - Almost jerk back, because he's never demonstrated affection in public while in uniform before.
RHETORIC - *Technically* you're in *public*, but not really.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Freezes for a fraction of a second, because of your reaction, then slides his hand up the back of your head, stroking your short hair with his thumb and fingers as he studies your face.
EMPATHY - A comforting gesture. Gives you warm fuzzies on the inside.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Leans in and whispers into your ear: "We're not Explorer Cops — we're Cop Cops. So if our instinct tells either of us that we should not be down here, then we trust our instinct and get the fuck out. Okay?"
INLAND EMPIRE - *Hunches and gut feelings*? That would be me.
YOU - Just nod.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay. Someone has obviously invested time and money in making the drainage system relatively safe — at least here. Someone we should do our best to meet. So let's move on." He lets go to point at the tunnel through which the outflow pipe *Esperance LYF 4* snakes. He doesn't seem pleased about having to enter it.
TUNNEL - Because this tunnel was not designed for fully grown men, and you and your partner are tall — like, 1.8m, 1.9m? So you have to crouch the whole way, and it's *back-breaking*. On top of this, fragile calcite stalactites hang from the curved brick ceiling, breaking off and raining down on you as you pass.
VISUAL CALCULUS - In addition, the iron outflow pipe running through the tunnel is ancient, rusty, and leaks from the joins, leaving you with no other choice but to splash through twenty metres of icy ankle-deep stormwater.
ENDURANCE - All the while ignoring the urge to take a leak because the water sloshing around your boots is playing tricks on your mind.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Your trudging and splashing echoes through the tunnel.
SAVOIR FAIRE - But it's so noisy down here, as long as you don't talk above a whisper, it *should be* fine.
YOU - As you take your next step, something crumbles under your boot.
REACTION SPEED - Did you notice that?
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Broken stalactites on the tunnel floor, under your boot *and* up ahead. Moreover, they were not broken by you.
YOU - Point at them with your flashlight. "Vic, check this out."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Checks it out. "Someone's been through here recently."
YOU - "Yeah."
TUNNEL - The back-breaking tunnel finally opens onto a second chamber, into which the leaky outflow pipe pours the stormwater pumped out of the semi-collapsed chamber.
PAIN THRESHOLD - The start of your thoracic spine pulsates with pain.
YOU - Take a moment to stretch. Then assess this new chamber.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Along with the pipe connected to the pump, two man-sized outflow pipes dump their wastewater into here like vomiting mouths. This chamber is essentially a large tub: water flows out of all the pipes down large steps to a basin with a giant drain in the centre around which the collected water swirls in a vortex. So it seems this place is where all the nearby outflow pipes converge.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - It might be what's known as a *catch basin*. But you're not sure …
CONCEPTUALIZATION - As you watch the vortex, you see debris, washed down from the streets of the Quarter, make a spiral galaxy around the black hole sucking everything in.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares down into the black hole. "It slows down the flow of water to stop it from overwhelming the drain," he says. "Fucking stinks."
HALF LIGHT - It's also a great place to slip and fall, get sucked in and drown. Those bigass steps look slimy.
PERCEPTION (SMELL) - The smell of urban and industrial decay *is* stronger here.
YOU - "Yeah," glance down at your raid vest and lieutenant's uniform, "we'll need our Perseus Blacks dry-cleaned for sure."
INLAND EMPIRE - Everywhere reeks of decay, of the rotten and rotting past. It's the norm, the rust. It wafts up like strife, even in Central Jamrock where there's more life.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - History is contingent. Worse, what you see when you hold your magnifying glass over the past depends on what you're searching for *and* your lens. *See*?
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Points to the gaping mouth of a tunnel at the top of three large stone steps on the right. No water pours from its mouth. "We have to go there. But …" He points past it to a ladder bolted to the wall. It vanishes up into the darkness of the ceiling. "Where does *that* go?"
VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Failure] - You were so transfixed by the drain, you forgot to look up. Better late than never, I guess.
YOU - Follow the ladder up with your flashlight, lighting the way up to another pipe hanging vertically from the high girded ceiling. Glance at Jean, standing beside you. He's gazing up at the cast iron girders, too. "I think it's to support a main road," you say, putting on your *building safety inspector* hat.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods at you. "I think we're under the street in front of the factory." He consults his maps, angling them towards the light as he compares Cuno's map with the municipal map of the Quarter. "So that downspout something up there" — he points at the vertical pipe — "is probably the working drainage grate we spotted yesterday …" He looks at you. "I knew it. Didn't I say we were under the street? I said we were under the street."
YOU - Half-smile, nod. Throw an arm over his shoulders and give a fond squeeze.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - It would be easier to see daylight falling through a grate if you were to switch off your flashlight and let your eyes adjust …
YOU - Hmm, I have done *pale-running* before.
HALF LIGHT - And invite the fucking abyss to rush in like a flood of darkness with all its snarling monsters from *the other realm*? I strongly urge you to reconsider.
INTERFACING - That *downspout something* is big enough to fit around a workman wearing a backpack - you could climb into it using the ladder.
DOWNSPOUT SOMETHING - You're lucky it's not raining, otherwise you'd be climbing a *waterfall* of wastewater.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Thank you for your contribution, over-excited straw something.
DOWNSPOUT SOMETHING - You're welcome.
YOU - Walk around the edge of the chamber, passing below the dry tunnel on the right, for a closer look at where the ladder leads. You crane your neck, looking up the ladder and into the vertical pipe.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Daylight falls through black bars about seven metres up, trickles down the curved sides of the pipe — your flashlight reveals that the ladder goes right into it.
YOU - What's up there?
DOWNSPOUT SOMETHING - Skull gangbangers. Waiting for you and your colleagues to come out of the ruined factory so that they can sling more slurs at you, report your movements to the ultras in their coalition.
INLAND EMPIRE - Maybe if you could overhear their conversation, you'd get a clue …
YOU - Look at Jean. "Those Skulls are probably still hanging around …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Probably," he nods, sounding tired and unimpressed.
YOU - "So, I'm going up to take a look."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*No*."
AUTHORITY - He doesn't *no* you!
YOU - "I've got a hunch it might be important." You hand him the flashlight, careful to keep the strong beam away from his eyes.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "A *hunch*." He sighs. "Just be careful, alright?"
EMPATHY - This is him both showing that he trusts you and telling you that he cares.
YOU - Give the start of a smile. "Love you too." Then you unhook your prybar, handing it to him as well, and haul your ass halfway up the ladder.
ENDURANCE [Challenging: Failure] - It gets *hard* to climb. The raid gear you've strapped on is not meant for this kind of work. It weighs heavy on you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Because it is heavy, but you're *heavier*.
YOU - Palms are sweaty, knees weak …
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your strength is in your *arms*. Up and at 'em, son. Haul ass double-time up those rungs! What do you think this is, a job for nansy pansies?!
HALF LIGHT - Oh my god, Harry. If you slip, it's straight into the black hole!
COMPOSURE - Calm down.
SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] - Because you aren't *climbing* the ladder, are you? You're *teleporting*! And you've already teleported twice. No problem at all.
YOU - Close your eyes tight, clench your ass cheeks, prepare yourself.
DOWNSPOUT SOMETHING - Zip! Zap! *Kapow*! You *teleport* up into the pipe, haul yourself up and over the lip of the concrete storm drain so that you can rest on your forearms.
YOU - Catch your breath, open your eyes, and immediately squint against blinding, barred sunlight.
INLAND EMPIRE - *Astral projection* number three! You should get a prize.
VISUAL CALCULUS - The drainage grate is one and a half metres above your head, and has been locked from the inside, which is unusual. But it's another way out, at least, should the need arise.
PERCEPTION - Smells like wet concrete and motor oil with a hint of soggy cigarette butts. Broken glass and drug paraphernalia glitter in a corner.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You would know, buster.
AUTHORITY - Because you learnt about drug paraphernalia in cop school.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - You hear the street. Voices echo down before fading — the Skulls.
YOU - What are they saying?
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Two voices. Male. Juvies:
One is saying: "… pig orgy. Fuck do I know? Fuck do I even care? Why don't you go and fuckin' find out."
The other replies: "And get a station call, or worse?! Not for an ultra, man. No way. But when d'you reckon we'll get our hands on those *epic* shirts …?"
The former is like: "You missed the broadcast again?!"
The latter whines: "Man's gotta sleep, all right?"
"First drop is tonight."
"No shit?"
"Yeah shit. Limited edition shit— designed to designate allies. You walk in, and say you're *browsing for something revolutionary*. Got that?"
"So, Ant makes the design, and Lilik-Hiriadi takes all the credit? Huh. That's some seriously ultra-bullshit."
"Not our problem though. Who cares who made it, or who branded it? It's the *message* that counts. How we look — *appearances*."
INLAND EMPIRE - It's just a hunch, but you get the feeling that they are *not* discussing shirts because they're devoted followers of fashion.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - During the Antecentennial Revolution, communard protestors wore white shirts and blazers. It had something to do with not letting the night snuff out the stars. And striking workers wore orange safety vests.
But Lilik-Hiriadi Atelier, on Boogie Street, is the pride and joy of a known pyrholidon addict who *appropriates various cultural influences for the creation of highly fashionable attire*, like the *Death Cloak* you were partial to a couple of —
JEAN VICQUEMARE - From below, you hear his low voice hiss: "Psst! Get down and *fast*."
DOWNSPOUT SOMETHING - You climb down most of the ladder before letting go and dropping the rest of the way back into the catch basin under the street.
Your partner immediately snatches your wrist out of the air, locks his hand around it, and tugs you towards the dry tunnel now on your left.
You hear a roar of rushing water, and throwing a look back over your right shoulder, you feel your eyes widen at the sight of grey rapids gushing out of an outflow pipe in waves. The vortex of water around the large drain in the floor is growing deeper, rising up the large stone steps.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Swings the flashlight away from the flash flood, hands it to you, then gives you a boost up the large step into the dry tunnel.
YOU - Bend down, grab his vest straps, hoist him up.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stands beside you on the the tunnel lip, smoothing his hair and dusting off his armoured vest and jacket sleeves. "Fucking hell did *that* come from?"
YOU - "Fuck knows. Maybe someone flushed their toilet."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Coughs out a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, I can go for that." Gives you a serious look. "But no more side-quests, okay?"
YOU - "Okay. But you wanna know what I overheard?"
THE LEDGER - So, while walking down the dry-ish tunnel, which follows JV's red wax pencil extrapolation of a Cave City mineshaft, you inform your partner about the *shirts* designed by *Ant* but distributed by *Lilik-Hiriadi Atelier*, provided one knows the passcode: "I'm browsing for something *revolutionary*". You both add Lilik-Hiriadi Atelier to your tasks.
Anyway, twenty or thirty metres north of the catch basin, you come upon another collapsed section of the drainage system. But there's evidence of a recent excavation attempt: brand new shovels stand erect in mounds of ancient rock and earth. And just under the ceiling, someone has tunnelled into, nay, *through* the obstruction.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Double-taps you on the side of the arm with the back of his hand, then points at the tunnelled crawl-way, lit by your flashlight.
YOU - Nod, then look from the crawl-way down to your armoured raid vest and boots.
Will I fit?
VISUAL CALCULUS - You'll fit — it'll be tight, but whoever tunnelled through the cave-in made it big enough for fully grown adults to fit.
LOGIC - So it was probably a fully grown adult.
INLAND EMPIRE - But this explorative approach to gathering evidence is bound to get tighter the deeper you go. There's a reason why *les petits rats* are all under fourteen.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - You *are* around the same age as a *le petit rat* — if you just read the number from right to left.
YOU - Thank you, head.
LOGIC - There is a small problem, which your partner sees and solves:
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Whoever goes in first needs to light the way, but we have to go in *together*, otherwise whoever goes last will be left in the dark. So you lead, and I'll enjoy the view."
YOU - Just smirk.
CRAWL-WAY - Clamping the heavy flashlight between your teeth, you curl your fingers over the crumbly edge of the crawl-way, and pull yourself up and in.
Then start moving forwards on all fours.
Your knees, rubbing against the rubble, are protected by the pads extending from your armoured boots.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - You peer ahead and see that the crawl-way gets significantly tighter.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - You should check on your partner.
YOU - Stop crawling, take the flashlight out of your mouth. "All right, Vic?" (Glance back.)
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You know me — I *love* tight spaces."
YOU - "It's about to become even tighter."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Great."
YOU - Hold the flashlight out in front of you, then drop flat upon your front, and wriggle into the tight spot, pushing yourself forward with the toes of your boots …
RAID VEST - You're actually really glad that you're wearing this thing now. It even helps you slide along.
HALF LIGHT - Are you kidding? It's like you're buried alive.
YOU - What?
HALF LIGHT - *Buried alive*.
COMPOSURE [Godly: Failure] - You're not buried alive. No one's buried alive. Don't panic, don't panic. Do. Not. *Panic*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Just keep moving, partner. Centimetre by centimetre. I'm right here, right behind you."
YOU - Keep moving.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Finally, the crawl-way opens up onto an inclined tunnel of earth that connects the stormwater drainage system to the mineshaft under it.
YOU - Take in all the sudden *space*, gulp a breath of relief.
HALF LIGHT - Your heart's still pounding, and your eyes are pupils.
REACTION SPEED - Quick! Think about something else.
INLAND EMPIRE - Cuno drew the mineshaft as part of the drainage system, but …
YOU - "You were right, Jean." Inhale. Exhale. Under your armour and uniform, you're covered in cooling sweat. A rivulet dribbles down your ribs. "It's a mineshaft, all right."
THE LEDGER - The mineshaft creaks and crumbles all around you. Bare rock and dirt, rotting girders, shifting silt pouring out of cracks in the ceiling. It's so quiet you can hear clothing moving against skin as you walk, your fingers rubbing together as you try to get the dirt off. The air is cold and tastes stale, sticks to the inside of your throat like ice. You are still shaky from the crawl-way.
Anyway, you and JV trudge north for five minutes before the mineshaft turns ninety degrees west. JV signals for you to stop, then bends down onto one knee to pull out his map of the Burnt Out Quarter, and pencil in a new calculation.
YOU - Shine your flashlight closer to Jean's map —
REACTION SPEED - Footprints — in the dirt!
FOOTPRINTS IN THE DIRT - The flashlight *clearly* discloses footprints in the earth of the mineshaft floor.
YOU - Crouch, study the footprints.
VISUAL CALCULUS - They glow an even brighter yellow than usual — like a flock of canaries in this coal mine. Shoe size is 44 for sure. It matches the size of the print found on the aero-graffito.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE DIRT - Custom designed *boots*. The soles have mismatched patterns. On the right one, there is a cameo with the alphanumeric M32-8 *imprinted* in the dirt.
YOU - Blink the yellow away. "Vic…"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Holds up one index finger as he finishes penciling a measure of distance in metres along the leg of a triangle. "Do you know where this mineshaft goes, Harry — where the secret entrance to the city for the dead is on Cuno's map?" he says, sounding distracted. Finally, he looks at you. "Because I do."
YOU - "No, but I know that our perp passed through here recently, because these footprints are fresh."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Studies the footprints for a moment, then you again. "Agreed — they do look fresh."
INTERFACING - He unclips one side of his raid vest, pulls his blue Trigat out of a jacket pocket, fiddles around with it for a moment, then takes a photo of the prints. The automatic flash blitzes, the ampoule cracks, the instant-photo paper rolls out. He labels the photo before it's even finished materializing, clips it to his notebook, pockets everything again. Re-clips his vest.
YOU - "So, where's the secret entrance …?"
INLAND EMPIRE - A sense of dread slides over you like a cloud shadow, noticeably dropping the temperature.
YOU - Clench to suppress a shiver.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "We're under the road that intersects with Rue de l'Église, heading west to where the Dolorian church was razed during the bombardment." He keeps studying your face as he says, "That's how our suspects gain access to the city for the dead — under the old church."
HALF LIGHT - Fucking hell.
INLAND EMPIRE - I think you should know, I'm feeling those bad vibes now. I've got a *hunch*, a *gut feeling*, an *intuition* that you should stop and turn back. Seriously.
YOU - "..."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Look, I noticed you avoiding the area when we walked down Rue de l'Église. I can see that you want to avoid it *now*." He raises his eyebrow, slowly. "Why?"
AUTHORITY - Oh, he wants an *eyebrow lifting competition*. Let's give him one. Time to engage in some heavy brow-lifting.
SUGGESTION - Hold on. Now's your chance to broach The Subject.
YOU - Does it really need to be capitalized?
SUGGESTION - Just broach it. If you don't, and he finds out later, it'll be like when you thought he lied to you.
YOU - Mumble: "Because each church was constructed to contain an isolary entroponetic anomaly."
DRAMA - My lord employeth the smoke and mirrors of half-truths. Be wary, sire, lest it should backfire.
SUGGESTION - You're not half-truthing. You're merely *broaching*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Of *course*," he nods as if in complete agreement with you. Then whispers flatly, "This again."
REACTION SPEED - Light!
YOU - Cover your flashlight with your hand, making your fingers glow bright red, and lower it to peer harder down the black mineshaft. "Jean," you whisper, "do you see … light at the end of the tunnel?"
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - There's an electric glow, faintly reflecting off the mineshaft ceiling. You blink and it's gone.
YOU - Flick off your flashlight, plunging yourself and your partner into the deepest darkness that you have ever motherfucking experienced.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His fingers find your hand in the black, and squeeze around it. "Too exposed — need to move." Tugs you over to the wall, presses against you like a shield. Unholsters his pepperbox, clicks off the safety.
SUGGESTION - This isn't a moment of *dire need*. He should holster it.
PERCEPTION — You're blind. Rough rock presses against your side, you can smell the coal and earth and history. The underworld silence hisses in your ears …
INLAND EMPIRE - Did you really see someone else's flashlight? Doubt creeps in.
REACTION SPEED - *There* again. See?!
PERCEPTION - The light is small and bobs. Out of the static of silence, you hear footsteps emerging.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Someone walking with a standard flashlight.
HALF LIGHT - Your hairs stand on end, on your arms, on the back of your neck.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His lips brush against your ear as he breathes words into it, sending an electric shock down your spine to your balls: "Probably our perp. Let him come closer."
YOU - Light up on the inside. "Okay, but holster your gun."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Tautens like a spring against you. But then his shoulders relax.
INTERFACING - There's a metallic *click* of the little safety switch. A *compromise*.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION - All right, here's the plan: You shine the flashlight onto the perp's face to blind and stun him, and Jean *immediately* closes the distance to get a pair of cuffs on him.
PERCEPTION - The crunching footsteps are louder, closer. You can see the silhouette of a man now, behind the flashlight's glow.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - Shit! There's something else in his other hand. A can of paint? It can be used against you as a blunt force weapon or even as a projectile. Need to rethink your approach.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You stun him with the flashlight. I've got the rest. *Now*, Harry." He pushes away from you, dashing forward, holstering his gun —
INTERFACING - You switch on the flashlight and blast the beam into the perp's face.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Yells in pain and shock, swings his arm up to shield his eyes, flashing you with his weaker light.
YOU - "Police!"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Spins around on his boot heel, trying to run back in the direction he came from, but it's obvious he can't see shit.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION - Jean's left hand grabs the perp's flashlight, his right hand snaps the wrist holding the can of paint.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Screams and drops the can. The lid pops off as it hits the ground. Black paint dribbles out onto the disturbed earth.
YOU - Run right through it to assist your partner.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Forces the perp's hands behind his back as he sweeps his feet out from under him with a swiping kick that drops him to his knees.
INTERFACING - Clicks the handcuffs on.
HALF LIGHT - Oh, god, yes! Mega hard-on.
COMPOSURE - Then he steps back, calming himself, steadying his breathing. The situation is under control.
INLAND EMPIRE - You recognize the perp — it's the flower painter. You were *right*.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - He's around Jean's age, maybe a few years younger — say, thirty-ish.
Pale blue eyes. No eyebrows. Shoulder-length black hair with about three centimetres of very blond regrowth.
*And* those same eye-catching motorbike boots.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - You frisk the perp while he pretends you don't exist. Find a wallet.
WALLET - The leather is soft and supple. You flip it open to an ID card behind a clear plastic window. Examine the photo and compare.
ID CARD PHOTO - It was taken recently. Maybe three months ago, judging by the length of his regrowth?
YOU - "Identify yourself," you say, fishing the ID card out from behind the plastic.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - *Score*!
WALLET - Tucked in behind where the ID card was, there's a plump baggie of *magenta* cocaine.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "Antony Rupert Junior," he says loftily.
YOU - Feel your pupils explode at the sight of the magenta blow.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Because of the pretty colour. Of course.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - The purple blow, man. *Confiscate* the blow. (Wink!)
VOLITION - What was with that fucking wink?!
YOU - Glance at Jean, taking out his notebook and pen.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Guilt turns your stomach over.
THE WALLET - You fish out the blow, as evidence, obviously, and hold it up between your index and middle finger. Looking past it to the perp, you ask, "Where did you obtain this?"
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Very professional. Good question. Then you can *obtain* more.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "Wouldn't you like to know."
YOU - "I would. It's why I asked. Is it from Le Royeume? Have you been using les petits rats —?"
RHETORIC - Don't ask about the kids yet. Ask innocuous questions first.
YOU - Too fucking tired.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "How much do you think a baggie like that is worth, officer?"
AUTHORITY - Technically, possession of narcotics is legal in Revachol — but that is no way to speak to a police officer. You should reprimand him.
ENDURANCE - You can *feel* the pressure of your partner staring at you, like a formidable force.
YOU - Meet Jean's eyes and the pressure intensifies — those grey eyes pierce into you, reading you inside-out. You hand the baggie across to him, watching the plastic gleam in the flashlight beam as it slides out from between your dirty fingers.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - What a pussy!
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Gives you a nod, pockets the blow.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - You did the right thing.
YOU - Look away from your partner and back at the perp. "Answer the question."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "..."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Why are you down here?" There's controlled fury in his voice.
EMPATHY - He's thinking about Cuno, and the dead girl. And imagining others.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "For my work, obviously." Disdain. A practised curl of the lip. "Don't you *know* who I am?!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Baron Von Kikkenberg." He winks sarcastically.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "Huh? I'm an *artist*. See that spilt paint over there?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Of *course* you are. Who hasn't heard of the eccentric *artist* Antony Rupert Junior, ideologue behind seditious and incendiary political graffiti posing as belles lettres."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "That only matters in *occupied* Revachol, but when it's a *free city*, nobody will care."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Abandons his sensitivity training: "I've had enough of this shit — let's check his boots."
CONCEPTUALIZATION - So have you. There are exactly zero grains of sand left in your patience hourglass.
YOU - "So have I. Show us the soles of your boots."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Kicks a clump of dirt at you. "*No*. You have no right to — *argh*!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shoves the perp to the ground.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - His teeth click together and rattle as his chin hits the mineshaft floor, face-planting into the dirt he kicked at you.
HALF LIGHT - Now, that's *art*. Fucking beautiful.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*Stop resisting*, sir."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "Stop brutalizing me — *ow*! Okay-okay, I've stopped resisting!"
YOU - Walk around him, press your boot down hard upon his, at the back of his ankle, pinning it in place. Bend over to shine your light onto the sole.
BOOT SOLE - There's a cameo of Milton wearing a neck ruffle, and under it the alphanumeric *M32-8*.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Size 44. We have a match, detective.
YOU - Sigh, relieved. Mentally scratch 'find owner of sole' off your list of tasks. "We have a match."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Just as we said."
YOU - Walk back around to Antony Rupert Junior's front, as Jean pulls him easily back up to his knees. Half of his face is covered in dark dirt.
SUGGESTION - Get him talking. He's an artist with a political agenda. Inspire a motive out of him.
YOU - "Why would a *famous artist* get involved with the Belles Lettres? Why bother playing in the mud with politics, les petits rats, and Skull gangbangers when you're living a beautiful life across the beautiful river?"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "A *beautiful life* — under Coalition control? So we should all just keep bowing down to foreign intervention — our conquerors and caretakers? The Rulers of Revachol who *invaded us* to steal our natural resources?" He sounds so, so bitter. His handcuffed fists clench. "No, thank you." He turns away. "They're nothing but bullies and thieves, and you're moralist converts and vassals. But you'll just fade away one day, whereas posterity will remember me as not only a great artist but also a famous revolutionary."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods enthusiastically. "And a *modest* one, too. Brilliant speech."
DRAMA - A passionate soliloquy, sire.
INLAND EMPIRE - But there's something missing — you can almost feel it, can't you? Like a *silence* lodged deep inside him …
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "No one is modest anymore. For example, when someone says they *live modestly*, what they mean is that they're too *poor* to afford not to. It's not a *mode*, you Moralintern vassal."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You don't sound like a *revolutionary*. You know what you sound like?"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Does not take the bait.
INLAND EMPIRE - Like someone educated at an East Revacholian university.
YOU - "Lucky for you we also take a *Moralintern* approach to shooting bad guys in the head."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "I'm not even *armed*. But everyone knows the RCM shoot first and question later."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "So you're also not a hoarding freak with antique gun-mania? *Revolution* gun-mania?"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "…"
INLAND EMPIRE - *DU BOIS'S DEATH SQUAD*, the newspaper headline washing up before your mind's eye declares.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Ouch. *That* bit of bad press always comes back to bite you on the ass.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "And I guess you take zero responsibility for the kidnapping, forced labor, imprisonment, and deaths of how many *les petits rats*?!"
YOU - "Vic, calm down."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares at you, bites his lip. Then sighs, and continues more calmly: "Let's give Junior here some time to think about his life choices in a crowded Jamrock cell."
AUTHORITY - Yes. Arrest him and take him in!
YOU - "For the record, Mr Rupert, you have confessed to spreading seditious and political graffiti -"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "So what! I'll be telling my legal defence how you *assaulted* and *blinded* me without provocation."
CONCEPTUALIZATION: There it is: *extremities*. He's so rich, he thinks he's untouchable.
AUTHORITY - No one is untouchable. The law touches everyone.
YOU - *The law touches everyone*? You realize how that sounded, right? I'm not saying that.
SUGGESTION - It probably would not be a good idea to say it.
YOU - Focus your attention on the perp again: "Additionally, you have confessed to being a 'revolutionary'."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Nods once, though he looks a little confused.
INLAND EMPIRE - There it is again. A *silence* in him.
YOU - Have exactly negative one fucks left to give. "What you *are* is under arrest. Your Wayfarer rights have been suspended. Information provided to the officers on the scene will be used against you by the prosecution."
THE LEDGER - While you babysit Junior, your partner JV takes it upon himself to confirm that there is indeed a secret entry into L'Ossuaire Municipal from the Quarter. In the earth deep under the burnt-out Dolorian church. For the record, you think that this is the opposite of a good idea. For the record, JV says that he understands your concern, right before equipping the Grundstellung RAO police flashlight, and sneaking off down the shady mineshaft, leaving you with the standard battery-powered flashlight that he confiscated from the perp …
INTERFACING - An expensive piece of crap with a designer label. The sorriest flashlight we've ever handled. Clicks, clacks, and rattles in your hand every time you move it around, like it's about to fall apart. Probably made in Safre.
STANDARD FLASHLIGHT - With a platinum-plated body of brass machined from two solid pieces, and scratch resistant sapphire glass, thank you very much.
INTERFACING - But is it weatherproof? Does it boast a dynamo? Can the beam be concentrated? No, no and no.
YOU - Look from the flashlight to the perp. "Why have ultraliberals formed a coalition with the Skulls? Why a marriage of social, cultural and economic extremities?"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Stirs and blinks a few times.
Gazes at you as if seeing you for the first time.
A long moment passes. You hear the links of the handcuffs clinking between his wrists as he shuffles again.
Finally, he speaks: "Because it's the only way to undo the divisions caused by our invaders — the zones of control. My mother is the true ideologue; she used to teach a class at the Académie des Arts. Even got involved with some poets who were trying to make a modern Volta do Mar — a universal poetic language, they called it. But the guy funding it vanished into thin air. It's no secret at all, cop."
INLAND EMPIRE - You met a guy like that in Martinaise. Remember? Idiot Doom Spiral.
AUTHORITY - Universities are given autonomy to teach. That autonomy can be taken away *in a snap* if abused.
YOU - "Universities have intellectual sovereignty: the autonomy to teach anything, as long as academics do not believe or claim that their ideas are the truth, or intend to proselytize them — like you. You've taken an intellectual exercise onto the streets. And the streets belong to the RCM, you see."
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "And you lick the Moralintern's boots. I get it."
SUGGESTION - Now's your chance to start following the captain's new orders.
YOU - "No." Shake your head. "The RCM is *the law*. And the law exists to protect good guys and punish bad guys. Otherwise we'd be no better than mercs."
SUGGESTION - Good.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - "Moralintern mercs."
SUGGESTION - You saved his mural. Remind him.
YOU - "Would a Moralintern merc lobby for the conservation of your mural because of *public* opinion?"
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - His pale blue eyes widen: "Was that *you*?"
SUGGESTION - Step one complete.
YOU - "My partner. Made himself really unpopular for a while because of it, too." As you speak the words, a powerful flashlight beam pierces through the darkness — as if you summoned Jean to yourself. You sigh in relief, feel your muscles relax as worry drains out of them. "Speaking of …"
THE LEDGER - So anyway, you're finally topside again. The sun is shining, the ash is blowing through the hollowed-out ruins, the air smells surprisingly fresh and crisp. You would not go so far as to call it *clean*.
When you and JV, accompanied by KK and JM, escort the perp out of Antony Paints, the Skull gangbangers are still loitering on the street. They watch in hostile silence as KK unlocks the Kineema's suspect transport enclosure at the back.
ANT, THE IDEALOGUE - Looks back at the Skulls. "These cops are cool."
COUPRIS KINEEMA - The cage, with its hard bare seat, looks rather uncomfortable — because it is. You help Antony Rupert Junior climb inside, then slam the cage shut, watching it auto-lock. The Kineema is cool like that.
The Skulls continue to hold their vigil of hostile vibes as the four of you pile into the cabin. Lieutenant Kitsuragi behind his beloved steering levers. Patrol Officer Minot in the passenger basket. And you and Satellite Officer Vicquemare basically asleep in the back, despite the ungodly whine of the engine.
As soon as the Kineema pulls over at the hostel, you and your partner wake up. You both decide it's best for Lieutenant Kitsuragi and Patrol Officer Minot to take the perp in.
YOU - "We'll see you soon, back at the station." Standing on the pavement, you wave the Kineema goodbye. Its wheels churn a trail of dust.
Then you turn to Jean, and look him and yourself over.
INLAND EMPIRE - No doubt about it, the raid gear saved your Perseus Black, your knees, and would have saved your spine too in the event of a cave-in or a landslide, which could still happen when you return for the joint-precinct raid.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Your armoured boots are caked in drying mud, your armoured vest is dusty with dirt. Although Jean's boots are just as muddy as yours, somehow your partner climbed back out of the underworld noticeably *cleaner* and *neater* than you. Just saying.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You're a *dirty, naughty boy*.
THE LEDGER - So, you pull off your armour, and stash it in the back of the Coupris 40. *While* JV is on the radio microphone, communicating with your station to ask JP for an update on those names, you see a curtain twitch up in room three.
HALF LIGHT - You're being *spied* on by a cougar. Better run before you get eaten.