COUPRIS 40 - Through the dusty windshield, sunlight falls. It shines on the steering levers, and warms your face as you squint up at the window of room # 3 while pulling on your FALN sneakers. Your fingers are ingrained with dirt, making your fingernails stand out.
YOU - Listen to Jules updating Jean on the names-check: he confirms first that a Mrs Candice Rupert used to teach a course at the Académie des Arts, *HUMA3100 Commodifying Culture*, but resigned due to *health complications*. She was then and still remains the director of Compagnie Financière Milton, the ex-parent company of Antony Paints, now Isola Tux. Second, that Antony Rupert Junior bought out Isola Tux in '48. Third, Jules reminds you that CFM still owns 45% of Industrial Paint — though it's not enough to be considered a subsidiary.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "10-4, Jules. That's great. Anything on Antony Rupert *Senior*?"
JULES PIDIEU - "10-10 (negative), sir. Over."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Depresses the button on the radio-microphone again, and says: "10-4. Any news on the ID of the perp I killed, or the deceased le petit rat?"
JULES PIDIEU - "That's a negative on the le petit rat, sir, unfortunately. But the perp was" — you hear him taking a puff on his cigarette as he pushes some papers around — "a Mr Louis Auch, book-keeper for Isola Tux. Over."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Well, we're all surprised …" He sighs. Deeply. "Please 10-22 the captain that we have a 10-15 (prisoner in custody) who is with Lieutenant Kitsuragi and Patrol Officer Minot. We will 10-19 (return to station) ASAP — need to see the captain about organizing a joint-precinct red key. Just need to deal with a 10-14. Over and out."
JULES PIDIEU - "10-4, sir!" He sounds genuinely pleased by the update. "Station 41 over and out."
THE FORKS - As your partner hangs the radio-microphone back onto the hook, you look past him through the window, and see the glass door of the hostel swinging open, and Old Blonde (Mrs Candice Rupert) stepping out.
Her faded eyes lock onto your cop motor-carriage for a hot second. Then she makes a beeline for it — a brisk business gait that swishes her cobalt blue dress around her calves.
INLAND EMPIRE - You feel drawn to that colour. Blue is for mystery.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Follows your line of sight. "Look who speaking of the devil brought out …"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Knocks on his window.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Sighs through his nose as he winds down the window a few centimetres. "Madam?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Officer," she nods once — a stiff little bow of the head.
YOU - Lean closer to Jean the better to see her. "Good afternoon, ma'am. Do you require the assistance of a police officer?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "It seems that you recently took my son into custody. He *can* be a bit of a brat, but I can explain …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Looks bored. "Your *son*. A *brat*. Can you be just a *little bit* more specific?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Please don't play dumb, officer — it doesn't suit you. If you must know, I received the news from a … reputable source."
YOU - See the hostel door open again.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM - Steps outside, looking for all the world like he's lost in a daydream as he ambles over, hands in pockets, face tilted skywards, sandy hair ruffled by a breeze.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Raises his black eyebrows, looking *extremely* surprised. "Oh, a *reputable source*? Well, when you put it that way, I *almost* believe you, madam."
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Blinks a few times. "Ah, I see. You must be the passive-aggressive, bordering on aggressive, 'bad cop' in this partnership." She stoops lower to address you next: "My son: Antony Rupert. Junior. You arrested him recently, correct?"
YOU - "Ma'am, if you can confirm your alleged identity, then we would have to interview you."
TRANT HEIDELSTAM - Ambles closer, humming a little ditty under his breath.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Produces a plastic company ID card and hands it to Jean through the slightly open window. "I came here to find him, put a stop to his silliness, but it seems you beat me to it."
AUTHORITY - Obstructing an investigation! She knew what he was up to and failed to report him to *law enforcement*. Arrest her *immediately*.
SUGGESTION - Nah, let her stew in her own mind. You've only just returned from an arduous adventure, after all. You're covered in dirt and in need of lunch. Hook her by confirming that you have arrested her son, after eyeballing her ID, then fuck her with psychology: go take a shower, have a little rest — you deserve it. Enjoy lunch. Let her *stew*. She'll be soft and tender by the time you return.
YOU - Squint to examine the ID flashing with sunlight in Jean's hand. "Let's freshen up and discuss over lunch," you say to him. "We're not fit to interview anyone in this state, especially not the *chairwoman of CFM*."
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Now, hang on!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Catches on instantly.
DRAMA - Like the master thespian he is.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Took the words right out of my mouth, partner. It would be a dereliction of duty. We'd be a disgrace to the uniform." He hands the plastic ID card back.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM - Is more chipper than ever as he interrupts: "Shall the three of us meet back here in, oh, fifteen minutes? I saw a nice little coffeehouse up north …"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Turns to face the special consultant, her faded eyes shining and narrowed. "I *knew* you weren't a 'local history buff'."
TRANT HEIDELSTAM - Smiles nonchalantly. "Oh, I *am*, madam, I assure you."
THE LEDGER - So, yeah, you and your partner JV employ the Sit and Stew tactic. First, you excuse yourselves to confer about all the recent developments with Trant in the cramped mouldy bathroom of your psychedelic hostel room — he has nothing of interest to report about Old Blonde (Mrs Candice Rupert). But the special consultant does raise a new concern: Sergeant MT and his partner Satellite-Officer CM have not arrived, nor have they reported to the station since this morning when Communications Officer JP relayed JV's order for them to pack it up in Coal City. That is not unusual, but there is always the niggling worry with infiltration assignments that an officer's identity might have been compromised.
HALF LIGHT - Fucking hell. The outcome of that could be worse than when Mills was beaten to death.
INLAND EMPIRE - No. No, no, no …
COMPOSURE [Formidable: Success] - Just wait. Exercise calm patience. It's pointless to worry in advance.
THE LEDGER - Anyway, then you freshen up.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Packs his Perseus Black lieutenant's jacket into his blue RCM Carry-All, then pulls out a plain black suit jacket, *sans* hologram patches, unfolds it and slips it on.
INLAND EMPIRE - As Jean's fingers smooth out wrinkles and brush off imaginary dust, out of nowhere, Ruby the Instigator pops into your head. She knew who you were, had seen and probably read the infamous front page 'Du Bois' Death Squad' in the *Périphérique*. You ask her who was in the *squad* you turned up to Martinaise with.
She looks at Kim, standing beside you, and replies, "Not this scrawny dude … You had two guys and a lady. The guys looked pretty buff. Lady wasn't bad either. One of the guys seemed chipper, the other had a brooding something-or-other about him …" More important: "And the woman … the woman was the only one in uniform. All were carrying."
YOU - Whose idea was it to turn up in plainclothes?
VOLITION - Take a wild guess. You get only one.
YOU - Mine?
VOLITION - Well done.
YOU - Why is this important *now*?
INLAND EMPIRE - Oh. Right. Because you have *nothing* to wear that lets everyone else know you're a police officer. The armoured boots saved your lieutenant's pants, but the pants don't have patches on them, do they? And yet Jean, who usually makes a big deal about letting civilians know you're RCM officers, is in plainclothes.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Notices you watching him. "You need something …?"
YOU - "Just working out what to wear … Why did I insist on us turning up to Martinaise in plainclothes?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares at you. "'Cause you have a hard-on for going undercover? To fuck with the fifty-seventh? I don't know, Harry — you were too fucked to make much sense. Crying hysterically, breaking things, being emotionally manipulative …"
PAIN THRESHOLD - *Ouch*. That was your morale taking a nose-dive.
YOU - Swallow down the sickening sensation. "Why'd you go along with it?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It was easier than the alternative." He bends over his blue Carry-All duffle, pulls out a spare white shirt, and throws it at you.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - You catch it.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Straightens, turns to you. "Let's change the subject."
EMPATHY - He hates to be reminded of Martinaise.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - As you put on your partner's shirt, cool cotton sliding against your skin, he asks, "Have you thought about what I said — about seeing Gottlieb …?"
VOLITION - Well, *have* you?
YOU - Give a slight smile, focus on buttoning up the shirt. "It's hard, you know." Study the buttons. "I need to kind of psych myself up for it first …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I *do* know." He moves close, tucks the front of the shirt down into you pants, gives you an almost accidental grope before pulling his hand out. "Keep doing that, alright?"
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Are you just going to stand there and take that?
YOU - Nod back, suddenly warm all over.
VOLITION - It's just Nix Gottlieb. Schnapps and chain-smoked cigarettes. What's the big deal?
DRAMA [Easy: Failure] - He'll make fun of our role and performance on the world stage.
VOLITION - Impress him with your newly acquired temptation-proof self-discipline. Go back on the antidepressants. Not only for yourself, and your partner, but for all the burning lives in the district, depending on you to keep them safe.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Yeah, and try not to trip over the guilt that Crown-Head keeps throwing across your path.
THE LEDGER - So, anyway, after freshening up, you, JV, and TH grab some lunch at a little coffeehouse north of The Forks.
ENDURANCE - It wakes you up a little.
THE LEDGER - Then TH heads back to Jamrock in his motor-carriage, and you and JV head back to The Forks for that interview. You both decide to conduct the interview in Old Blonde (Mrs Candice Rupert's) room.
YOU - Why?
THE LEDGER - I'm glad you ask. One: so that you can both scope the scene for potential evidence or other incriminating artefacts. Two: to give her a false sense of security after letting her stew.
HALF LIGHT - Fucking with the cougar like a yo-yo. Be careful of those white and shiny teeth.
THE LEDGER - Three: confession then motive.
DOOR # 3: As you and your partner approach the door, you hear what sounds like a conversation on the other side.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - You notice him turn rigid, trying to prick his ears and listen, as his right hand hovers over his hip holster.
YOU - Raise your fist to knock —
REACTION SPEED - Pause!
INLAND EMPIRE - Remember, you're about to encounter the most hideous fucking wallpaper in existence. In all of history, probably.
YOU - (Knock on the door.)
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Who is it?"
YOU - "Police!"
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - It's become very quiet on the other side of the cheap hostel door.
INLAND EMPIRE - But you can *feel* her presence in there. And something else, too …
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "It's open!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Allow me," he says, stepping in front of you as he reaches for the door handle …
ROOM # 3 - The hideous wallpaper glares at you and your partner, daring you to shame its appearance to its face.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - There's only one person in the room — its current guest. But a shortwave radio sits on the carpet, beside the bed, and so you infer that the conversation came from its speakers. The petite ass-print on the quilt of the otherwise perfectly made bed also suggests that Old Blonde was sitting there, by the radio, a moment ago.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Hello again, officers." She pulls a chair out from under the table, which is a carbon copy of chairs and table in your room, and sits down. Then she makes a show of lighting an apricot-flavoured cigarette, pressing the golden filter between her puckered lips and puffing away, filling the air with smoke that makes you feel queasy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - She doesn't *really* inhale. It's like it's a cigar. Except it isn't. What a pussy.
COMPOSURE - There's tremendous tension in her bony shoulders, beneath her silk shirt with its complex plot of sewn-on pearls. Good.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods at the shortwave on the floor. "Is that for broadcasting or receiving?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "The latter, detective." She gestures at it with a wave of her long golden-tipped cigarette. "I stick to strictly listening. See for yourself."
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - What was she listening to before you interrupted?
YOU - "What were you listening to before my partner and I interrupted?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "White noise. The … channel … I listen to broadcasts sporadically. Unfortunately, I never know exactly when, so I usually keep the shortwave on …"
DRAMA - *Lies*, sssire. Trust our Wise Council. Lies, lies, *lies*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "And what frequency is that?" He crouches down to examine the radio. Takes out his notebook, and jots down the frequency that the dial is set to. Then switches on the shortwave.
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … hhhzzzzzzzzssss …"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Flashes him with her white teeth. "The one you just noted down."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm asking *you*, madam."
AUTHORITY - He is *not* going to let her off the hook.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Takes another puff on her cigarette. "102.5."
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - But it sounded like a conversation.
YOU - "My partner and I heard what sounded like a conversation coming from your room. How come it's just static now?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Keep listening, and you'll hear little bits … from here and there … and nowhere."
DRAMA - Lies.
YOU - Listen.
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … 4, 18, 21, 4, 1 … Zzzzzzzzsssshhhhkkkk …"
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Is that … lottery numbers? And what is that noise in the background, behind the static? Sounds like a washing machine rattling a drawer full of silverware or something …
INLAND EMPIRE - A chill creeps over you like slow recognition … Have we heard this before, Harry …? Maybe in another life — or someone else's?
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Shrugs as if to say: *I told you so*.
YOU - Rub your sides for warmth.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Frowns at you.
DRAMA - Pay attention, my liege. The lady is *lying*.
RHETORIC - I don't know …
DRAMA - Trust not that *shithead*.
RHETORIC - Who? *Me*?!
YOU - "Is it the pirate channel?"
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss …"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Tosses back her head. "Yes, detective. It is. Why? Am I in trouble with the law just for listening?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, I would say it's bad, yes. So far, *just for listening* to the pirate broadcasts of seditious instigator cells, and for failing to assist police in a time-critical investigation, therefore obstruction. However, thank you for your *honesty*. It's always *so* refreshing."
AUTHORITY - She's a suspect.
YOU - "You're a suspect."
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Laughs like chimes. "A *suspect*?! I made the anonymous call — I tipped you off about the second mural. I even hinted there'd be a third. And 'instigator cells'? They're just parroting ideas from a class I used to teach."
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods enthusiastically. "But teaching an *idea* at the Académie des Arts and purporting it is true to an angry public you're trying to arm with antique weapons just before the month of May are two very different *ideas*, madam."
YOU - "You are 'listening' to an *operational cell*, ma'am — not a theoretical discussion."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "An operational cell that follows your *ideas*. Which makes you the ideologue we've been hoping to meet."
ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] - Partners, working as one like a well-oiled machine.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Yes, I suppose it does. But I haven't *done* anything. And I wasn't aware of the weapons …" She looks worried.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Gives a cold smile. "Yes, we have already established that you failed to assist us. Do you also claim that you had no idea about the gallons of paint used for the murals even though CFM still owns 45% …?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Well, you've certainly done your homework. Of course I knew about it! But that's just public art."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Those were confessions, he thinks. And now we have both the idealogue and the ideologue. Not bad for a day's work.
AUTHORITY - But it's nothing without a *motive*, he thinks on second thought.
YOU - "Good one, Jean." Turning back to Old Blonde, you say, "Your son pointed the finger at you. He named you as the ideologue."
COMPOSURE - She looks genuinely shocked. As if you slapped her upside the head. Then she recovers her composure:
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "He's ill. He's not himself."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Ill enough to kidnap and imprison les petits rats? You mean that kind of *ill*?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Shakes her head. "No. I heard something about that. But I assure you I had nothing to do with it!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, well, if you heard about it, but it wasn't your fault, then it was okay to do nothing. Your in-action is justified!"
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … Aaand, we're back online. So remember, comrades. Remember the Instrument of Surrender. Remember to wear your Revolution shirt and march with us. *Soon*!"
YOU - Exchange a look with your partner.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Turns back to the suspect. "When is *soon* exactly?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "I don't know the secret handshake."
SHORTWAVE - "Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … tinned meat … Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … vegetables … Hhhhhzzzzzzzzssss … hhhhzzzzzzzzssss …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Switches off the radio.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - The static cuts off. Silence fills the hostel room. Then you hear the scratch of Jean's pen scribbling away in his notebook.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "I'm aware that I should have done more, detectives. It's why I've been looking for my son. He's *always* been a brat, you see … His father passed away when he was just a little boy …"
ENDURANCE - There's something else, too. Something deeply ingrained, something she is trying to hide, that you recognize in her because you've experienced it yourself …
YOU - Like … *addiction*?
ENDURANCE - In a way … Addiction is a form of sickness …
YOU - Watch her suck hungrily on her cigarette, wash the smoke over her tongue and into her tastebuds, then blow it out in a thick white cloud. "There's something else, isn't there?" you say, slowly. "Something you're trying to hide — like an addiction …"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Spurts out: "My son and I are over-radiated. It makes us both behave badly sometimes — such as starting a revolutionary group of artists and art vigilantes."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Are you claiming that your son is the *real* leader of the Belles Lettres?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "No — he's more an honorary member of the tribe, because of his … social status."
REACTION SPEED - But she said *starting*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "But you said *starting*. So, your son has started a new group?"
SUGGESTION - Yes, go for the motive now. Begin with your theory of extremities.
INLAND EMPIRE - Wait. Go back to what she said about how they're both *over-radiated*. Learn more about *that* first.
YOU - "You mean the pale?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Is not assessing the suspect anymore. He's assessing you.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Nods at you, takes a puff on her cigarette.
YOU - Look at Jean just as he turns back to squint suspiciously at the suspect. "Well, if what you say is true, it needs to be white coats — professionals, to examine you and your son."
DRAMA - Thy partner is just playing along, my liege.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Why would I lie about something like this?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, to get out of shit," he answers without missing a beat, as he crosses over to where you are standing. "My partner and I need a moment …" Meeting your eyes with his steely grey ones, he jerks his head at the door. "Won't be long."
HALF LIGHT - Yeah, let her sit and stew some more.
THE FORKS - Outside, standing in the corridor hallway between her room and yours, your partner pulls you aside.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His hand grips your bicep. "Just tell me you aren't falling for that fucking bullshit about the pale? Just tell me that," he whispers. "I mean, seriously …"
INLAND EMPIRE - You can still *feel* the unnatural silence in that church. What if you spent more time in there, with that 2mm swallow of pale, more than we can remember right now?
LOGIC - If her claim is true, there will be medical records. That's evidence.
YOU - "If the suspect's claim is true, there'll be medical records. I think we should look into it. Don't you, detective?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shakes his head, mutters to himself, "I don't *believe* this shit."
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - He looks like he really is having trouble believing this shit.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Releases your bicep to wag his index finger in your face. "I don't care if they're *over-radiated*," he says, voice low. "I really don't give a shit. It doesn't justify what they did to the kids."
EMPATHY - He's suffering.
YOU - Nod. "I know, Jean. I know. And we'll get to that when we go back under ground." Rest a hand lightly on his arm. "Calm down."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Are you sure that your own interest in isolary entroponetics isn't the real reason why you want to *look into it*?"
YOU - "Are you sure that my interest in the pale isn't interfering with your *neutrality*?"
RHETORIC - Well-countered, sir!
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Leans back, rubbing his face in frustration. Then changes tack completely: "We'll discuss this later. Seriously. You and I — and what you think maybe happened to you in Martinaise. I've been … *insensitive*."
RHETORIC - It's the sensitivity training talking.
YOU - "Are you saying that just because of the sensitivity training shit, or do you mean it?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You mean the shit we *all* had to eat because of *you*?"
YOU - "…"
AUTHORITY - He didn't answer your question.
YOU - Nod. "So, now what?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Now we just —" He cuts himself off. In a restrained tone, he starts again: "Now we need to establish a motive that isn't based on entroponetics, okay? Start with your extremities theory — the one about ousting the middle class. *Okay*, Harry?"
THE FORKS - You return to room three …
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Crosses his arms like the Revacholian badass that he is, and stares at the suspect, looking unimpressed.
RHETORIC - He's going to let you do all the talking.
YOU - Lean back a little, rest your fists on your hips. "All right, let's rewind a little, ma'am. We have the murals and aero-graffito, the refurbished Revolution weapons, and the pirate broadcasts — all linked to you and your son. Based on the class you used to teach, would you say, theoretically, at least, that the motive is to *oust* the middle class?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Grinds her cigarette out in the ashtray on the table, bending the golden filter in on itself. She looks up at the ceiling, deep in thought …
INLAND EMPIRE [Godly: Success] - The sky, not the ceiling, is reflected in her pale eyes.
The sky, and Coalition warships on fire, burning as they fall to the ground.
Not her memories — someone else's, from the pale.
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Theoretically, yes." She meets your eyes. "The class I taught was always about cultivating a revolutionary consciousness in students for the purpose of preserving and commodifying the scant few remains of Revacholian culture. Since what remains after war is always low culture, never high — because high culture becomes whatever our *caretakers* want it to be, meaning their own — the only way to preserve it was to marry high and low."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - There it is. Motive. Same as her son's.
SUGGESTION - You could squeeze out more …
YOU - "So, your ethnic background is Vaasan, but you're a Revacholian patriot?"
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "Yes, detective. My husband was Revacholian. I've spent practically my whole life here."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Is squinting at her suspiciously. "Please explain what you mean by *cultivating a revolutionary consciousness*."
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "No, thank you, detective. I think I'd rather speak to my legal representatives first."
SUGGESTION - You've opened her up as much as you can right now.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - But Lieutenant Kitsuragi and Patrol Officer Minot will want to interview her and her son about the weapons; and The Torso and his partner will want a word about the cells …
YOU - Look at Jean. "Why haven't we arrested her yet?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Produces a pair of handcuffs. They jingle in his hands …
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - Looks startled.
YOU - Turn back to her. "We're just following protocol, ma'am."
OLD BLONDE (MRS CANDICE RUPERT) - "*Following protocol* — the most common excuse employed by war criminals after the Revolution." You clearly see the flames in the sky reflected in her eyes again. "What a farce."
YOU - Blink slowly, look at Jean. "Arrest her before this drags out any longer." Turn back to her again. No flames. "We'll stall the extradition process indefinitely on the grounds of continued interview. You and your son will be safer at station 41 for the purposes of our investigation."
THE LEDGER - Driving through Central Jamrock to your station on top of the motorway exit, you note that several surrounding streets have been freshly bombed with red graffiti — painted using government-marked fuel.
HALF LIGHT - Got a light?
THE LEDGER - Slogans like *The struggle continues*, *This concerns us all*, and your personal favourite, *Be realistic, demandez l'impossible*. In case anyone should be left in doubt about the identity of the vandals, you also see the word *SKULLS* dripping down one entire wall like blood.
It gets better: Upon returning to your station, you and JV note the press sniffing around with telephoto lenses and microphones, looking to ruin your day. But before they can catch a whiff of your scent, a guard on the bridge presses the button to raise the security curtain allowing access into the garages and stables.
YOU - Glance at Jean as he operates the chrome steering levers. "Did you see G Bevy in that press gang?"
RHETORIC - Do *not* mention *The Man with Sunglasses*.
EMPATHY - He wanted it to be amusing for both of you. But …
PAIN THRESHOLD - … *then you really did have brain damage*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shakes his head.
YOU - "Do you want him back on the task force?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Could be useful …"
YOU - "… for when the shit hits …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Suddenly, he leans forward, and proclaims: "*Motherfuckers*."
YOU - Follow his line of sight, through the dusty, bug-spattered windshield …
PRECINCT 41 - In the parking space that used to be reserved for your personal Coupris 40 motor-carriage, someone has parked a Harmel-Rioux Supersonique motor bike with a dusty black aerodynamic carapace. A pair of Jamrock Biker-Cop Sunnies dangles on the end of one of its mirrors.
REACTION SPEED - Hold up! Isn't that the motor bike Mack and Chester rode to Coal City?
YOU - Yeah, it is.
THE LEDGER - You and your partner hand Old Blonde (Mrs Candice Rupert) over to the officer on desk duty at the women's holding cells, where an electrical circuit has shorted, causing a strip of ceiling lights to flicker ominously. Then you and JV head back to C-Wing.
INLAND EMPIRE - Home. The closest thing to it, at least.
YOU - Isn't that … sad?
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Oh, I don't know … You kind of *are* married to your job — in a way.
YOU - Glance at Jean, as the two of you stride in step along the main corridor.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What is it?"
YOU - Smile. "Nothing. I was just thinking that we're home because we're both here. We're both *married to the job*."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Gives you an amused look. "Not bad, partner. Not bad."
EMPATHY - You moved him. Just a little. Just enough.
THE LEDGER - As you step into C-Wing, thick with cigarette smoke, the sky outside the big industrial windows already yellowing like tobacco, you hear Sergeant MT laughing hoarsely at his own joke, and his partner, Satellite-Officer CM contributing to the anecdote they're telling. Same old, same old, in other words, but what a relief …
MACK TORSON - "Yeah, very fuckin' dangerous — they almost got us, ain't that right, Chester?" The bald man pats the redhead on the back.
KIM KITSURAGI - Looks genuinely shocked by whatever he has just heard.
JUDIT MINOT - Is accustomed to the stories told by the iconic duo, and listens with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
CHESTER McLAINE - "It was a close shave, all right." Shakes his head slowly, perking up a little as he adds: "But, man, that *Supersonique* is from out of this world."
MACK TORSON - Sees you and Jean walking in, raises a big hand in greeting, and shouts, "Hey, the homies are here!" A grin splits his face. "It's good to see you!" He runs his hand back over his bald head. "*Man*, it's been a while … I lost all my hair."
CHESTER McLAINE - Laughs at this, then explains: "He wore a *wig*, Vic. He wore a wig in Coal City!"
THE LEDGER - MT and CM hand you their half-written report on the precarious situation in Coal City, and provide a verbal update. You and JV sit at your conjoined desks, reading it.
One entry stands out immediately.
The pirate radio station that Old Blonde was listening to actually broadcasts sporadically from a moving motor lorry that drives back and forth from the Quarter to Coal City. The duo were almost caught tailing it.
The last broadcast recorded by MT and CM reads: "Just one more revolution. March with us through history. Walk with us to victory, through the wasteland. Put on your revolution shirts, and join our marching band. Put one foot in front of the other …"
Scanning the rest of the report, you notice that there is no mention of Lilik Hiriadi Atelier, or the password. So, what you do is, you hand the Lilik Hiriadi side-quest over to MT and CM, for whom it's obviously a main quest. But not before telling them a story of your own about how you scaled a spout to overhear the Skulls discussing the designer shirts and the password …
The duo are *impressed*.
YOU - Wait. Do I tell them how I *teleported*?
THE LEDGER - These are your *official case files*. Do you really want to give away your physics-defying super-power in them?
YOU - Drop your ballpoint pen onto the case file, lean back in your chair till its supporting you on its hind legs, and put your feet up on your desk.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Does not stop scribbling in his own ledger as he says, "You're going to fall and break your back. And then I'm going to have to take care of a disabled ex-detective on a police pension for the rest of my life."
YOU - Smile and sit properly. Pick up your pen.
DRAMA - Why is my lord resorting to a regular, boring ballpoint? Where is thy Kind Green Ape?
YOU - In the drawer. Ran out of ink. Takes a weird refill.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - There is a familiar susurration of nylon jacket behind you.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Glances up as Lieutenant Kitsuragi walks past. The grey eyes meet yours, then look at the lieutenant.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Now's your chance to sweet-talk the lieutenant into Strike Force Pryce, your partner thinks.
YOU - Look over your shoulder just as Judit walks past.
REACTION SPEED - You have a *hunch* …
EMPATHY - She told Kim. Of course she did.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - They're partners.
INLAND EMPIRE - Could finding out about the Strike Force be tied to Kim's worry about a civil war within the RCM?
YOU - "Hey, Judit?"
JUDIT MINOT - "Oui, Harry?"
YOU - "Just need a quick word …" You look past her at the lieutenant hanging around in his orange bomber and dark cargos near the exit, and add, "Won't be long, Kim. Just need Judit's help …"
KIM KITSURAGI - Nods at you, then looks at his partner. "I'll be in the Kineema, going over my notes."
YOU - Feel Jean's eyes staring at you as you beckon Judit closer to your desk. On a scrap of paper, you write a question in blue ballpoint, and gesture with your boring pen for her to read it:
*Have you told him about the Strike Force*?
JUDIT MINOT - Her brown eyes quickly scan the words. Then she turns to you, frowning.
YOU - "That's all I need to know," you say softly. "Because if you haven't then I'm supposed to …"
JUDIT MINOT - Nods. "Oui …" She looks from you to Jean, and shakes her head slowly from side to side.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Raises his eyebrows at her.
JUDIT MINOT - Walks around your desks to loom over you partner. In a dignified undertone, she says, "You know, sometimes you can be a real asshole."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Huh?!" As Judit turns and walks out of C-Wing, your partner looks at you. "The fucking hell …?"
YOU - Pick up the piece of scrap paper, and hand the note across to him.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Reads it. Looks sadly up at you as his fist closes over the scrap of paper, scrunching it. Draws a breath to speak, but is interrupted by the ringing of the phone on his desk.
YOU - Startle at the shrill bell sound.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Those sad grey eyes stay fixed on yours as your partner picks up the receiver and puts it to his ear. "Vicquemare ... Yes, Captain. Affirmative. Right away, sir."
THE LEDGER - The joint-precinct raid gets the green light. It takes a few days for the captains to get together and strategize. Meantime, you and JV, your whole squad, in fact, get time off.
YOU - After your meeting with the captain, you and your partner step out of the station and onto the bridge. You wait till the guards are out of earshot, sling your Carry-All onto your shoulder, then ask: "So, uh, we're okay?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay. Perfect. Great." He pauses in mid-stride to light an Astra Chocolate. A breeze carries away the first stream of smoke. He squints at you as he takes a drag.
YOU - "Just checking in." You moisten your salty lips with your tongue. His eyes linger on your mouth. "Wanna grab dinner?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I don't know …" He looks away. "I'm not really hungry." Looks at you. "But I'll see you. Soon, okay?"
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - You're not *really hungry* either.
COMPOSURE - That wasn't the point.
YOU - Nod.
THE BRIDGE - Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare claps his partner on the back, a sort of automatic gesture, then heads off in the direction of the garages and stables. Lieutenant-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois stands on the bridge, watching his partner's back till he's out of sight, then he jogs down the great steps to Central Jamrock and the market. He feels amiss.
Long shadows stripe the ground. The air is suffused with an early evening glow, with pollution, with sea brine off the coast. Seagulls fly overhead.
Kuklov's kebab stand is making a killing for dinner - mostly from junior and patrol officers eager to prove that they can hack the fly larvae special, that they're *real* cops.
YOU - Weave through the market stalls, noting that business is not exactly thriving.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Closed stalls. Empty stalls. An apologetic sign reads:
*Due to supply chain disruptions caused by dockworker strikes, we are experiencing temporary reduced product availability*.
INLAND EMPIRE - As Trant warned, the dockworker strikes are cutting supply chains and crippling trade.
HALF LIGHT - It's worrying ...
YOU - Peer up at the troposphere, looking for the lights of Coalition Warship Archer.
SUGGESTION - It's better to focus on what you can control - what's within reach. Revachol West is RCM land.
AUTHORITY - Control the streets, control the warship.
SUGGESTION - *Keep* control of the streets, keep the warship cruising happily, at least.
AUTHORITY - Exactly. Passive control.
SUGGESTION - See, even Skull Face is advocating a soft-power approach - for once.
AUTHORITY - We know how to choose our battles.
SHIVERS - All around the market, walls and roofs of faded tarpaulin flap in a brimy breeze. A detective of the RCM looks around, trying not to shiver as his partner's white shirt ripples over his torso. Fast food wrappers rustle and flutter. He sees a newspaper page tumble past along the ground, heading towards the utility district. He chases after the page, catching it just as it falls into the deep gutter of Meroe Drive.
YOU - Peer down into the gutter.
PERCEPTION - Yesterday's copy of the *Peripherique*.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Which was *not* part of the newspaper and radio reports on your desk.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - It reads as follows:
"Le Retour has been 'coming soon' every year since the Revolution. Is it finally here? Is it a necessary counter-force against the pale? Is the pale a manifestation of nostalgia and historical inertia? A recent study at the Ecole normal de Revachol supports the infra-materialist hypothesis, but the ICP gag-ordered further research …"
SHIVERS - The breeze calms, the air regains its composure.
REACTION SPEED - Hey, there's something in the gutter.
YOU - Really? What is it?
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Looks like … a ring?
YOU - Crouch down, hook the ring onto the tip of your index finger, and pick it up.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - It's the most tarnished silver band we've ever laid eyes on. It's basically black. Matte black.
LOGIC - Probably lying in the gutter for a good long while.
INLAND EMPIRE - Your memory is still sketchy on this, but didn't there used to be a market stall near here called *Coastal Treasures* or something? Owned by a Mesque scuba diver with a metal detector?
ESPRIT DE CORPS - She would bring weapons dumped by gangbangers ...
YOU - Where is she now?
SHIVERS [Impossible: Failure] - The breeze whispers, but it's too low for you to hear.
YOU - Study the ring.
VISUAL CALCULUS - 8mm wide. Fits on the ring finger of your right hand, but it's tight, which means it would be a better fit on your partner's hand.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - It's what's known as a dome-shaped band.
INLAND EMPIRE - Take it back to your place and give it a good polish. Who knows what reflections its flat cool shine might inspire?
YOU - Pocket the ring, and walk down Meroe Drive, which usually smells of home-made wine, but not this evening because the restaurant is closed.
MEROE DRIVE - Past the library, the florist — which reminds you of Jean's forget-me-nots. More red graffiti on the wall. And it doesn't smell like paint.
INLAND EMPIRE - Smells like fire.
YOU - Cut through an avenue that will take you faster to the corner of Main and Perdition, where a nondescript building hunches in a haze, waiting for its tenant to come home-away-from-home.
HOME AWAY FROM HOME - Step inside with the sun setting on your back, lending your partner's shirt a golden glow.
As the street light flickers to life outside, the bay window lets the evening in through its grimy panes. What was golden is now blue.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Like the tiny delicate petals of the forget-me-nots, in the glass on the table, glowing softly in gentle welcome.
YOU - Give them a gentle smile.
INLAND EMPIRE - But isn't it sad how things die? You can see it already: the loss of petals, the drooping stems. The skull beneath the skin.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Ouch.
COMPOSURE - Come on. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. (Collect yourself.)
PAIN THRESHOLD - It still hurts.
COMPOSURE - Perhaps you *should* see Nix Gottlieb?
YOU - …
COMPOSURE - Think about it. It's for your own good. On so-called happy pills, we'd be cool as balls.
YOU - Take the flowers to the kitchenette sink, and replace their water. Wiping a ring of cold water off the thick glass bottom with your hand, you take the flowers back to the coffee table.
REACTION SPEED - Aren't you forgetting something?
YOU - What?
REACTION SPEED - The ring, man! It'll be cool to see how it looks under that patina of black.
EMPATHY - It'll cheer you up a bit.
INLAND EMPIRE - Transformed, like you. Scarred by life, like you. Lost and found, like you.
YOU - Okay. Let's do this.
BATHROOM SINK - After squeezing Blue Gel Stripe toothpaste onto an old toothbrush, you scrub away at the stubborn black corrosion. The minty smell of fluoride, fresh breath and white smiles fills the air.
INLAND EMPIRE - You picked it up at the Frittte because it reminded you of the blue and white livery on your motor carriage. The one that has become a tourist attraction in Martinaise.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Ouch.
YOU - Clench your jaw, scrub harder and faster.
INTERFACING - It's stubborn all right, especially in a couple of isola-shaped spots on the inside of the band. So you call in reinforcements: a sheet of aluminium foil from the kitchenette. It does the trick, scrubbing off what the toothbrush couldn't.
YOU - Rinse off the leftover toothpaste suds, and lift the dripping silver band up to the bathroom light for inspection.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Voila! You can *feel* your pupils *dilating* with pleasure. Under the bathroom light, you see an 8mm domed band of cool silver. Sand-blasted. Whether from its time under the sea, in the coastal sands, enduring the push and pull of tides, or from your recent rough treatment with the abrasive toothpaste and foil is hard to tell. Probably a bit of both. But the ring has millions of *microscopic* scratches all over it that do strange things to the light. A few nicks, collected in one spot, are deeper than others.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - It's rugged and manly. A tough survivor.
YOU - Push it, all wet and dripping, onto your ring finger.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - You admire the way it dulls and cools the light.
COMPOSURE - It's calming.
ENDURANCE - No. It's too tight. Not meant for you.
VISUAL CALCULUS - It would fit your partner perfectly. You should give it to him.
INLAND EMPIRE - It is fitting. It'll teach him fate.
YOU - What do you mean?
INLAND EMPIRE - He asked for a ring.
RHETORIC - Yes, but with extreme sarcasm.
YOU - So, should I give it to him or not?
VOLITION - Sleep on it. The morning is wiser than the night.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - 3.8 billion stars, twinkling through endless layers of translucent shadow, fill the nothing. All the souls of the world.
LIMBIC SYSTEM - All those souls. Many lost, some found — like you, Harry. And they're all relying on *you*.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - Nah, relax, man — that ain't even true. How many people are there in Jamrock right now? 60,000. And how many of them are *cops*? That's 60,000 people under the watch and care of your entire precinct. You don't have to do anything alone — especially because you're not alone anymore. You never were.
LIMBIC SYSTEM - But can any of them listen to the wind? Listen to the wind and speak with the city to *save* her?
VOLITION [Impossible: Success] - It's okay, Harry. Time to stop letting anxiety get the better of you. Wakey, wakey.
WARDROBE - Oh, it's a mufti day today! How exciting. You can wear whatever you goddamn want. The right outfit, in the right situation, can alter your fate.
HALF LIGHT - Yeah, so, no pressure.
SUGGESTION - Don something comfortable.
WARDROBE - Are we still in our *blue period*, sir?
YOU - Peer into the cavity of the lavender-scented wardrobe. Hologram patches flash and glimmer at you.
WARDROBE - Not today, officer.
Oh! I know. How about L'Homme *jeans*, which will lend you a peach-shaped God-ass.
SAVOIR FAIRE - And a simple white t-shirt — to help cover your sidearm in its concealment holster. And sunglasses so that you can make secret observations.
WARDROBE - How about the blue pair that Kim likes — good for a sub-insulindic rendezvous.
YOU - Slip on the deep-sea specs, and the world turns blue. You're not sure why, but these sunglasses always make you feel tender.
INLAND EMPIRE - Because the light is on the same wavelength as your heart.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - And your soul.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - And now pull on your FALNs and we're done! Let's get this body moving, son.
YOU - Wait. What if the springtime shadows give me the chills?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Hey, everybody! Get a good look at the nansy-pansy over here.
EMPATHY - There's nothing wrong with looking after yourself.
WARDROBE - The final touch: a light springtime scarf. Voila!
YOU - Reach for the sea-spume coloured scarf —
REACTION SPEED - What about that *other* scarf? It's blue.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Well, of course it is. Everything is through these sunglasses. Can't really see well through them though.
INLAND EMPIRE - It's blue and *grey*.
YOU - Reach into the cavity of the wardrobe, your hand pushing gently past various fabrics, close your fingers around the other scarf — surprisingly soft and slippery — and pull it out.
INLAND EMPIRE - It's his. It opens up before you, the amber of memory, caught in sticky slo-mo. He steps inside from the cold, removing his cap and gloves, and unwinds a blue-grey scarf …
YOU - Hold the scarf with both hands, lift it closer up to your face for inspection. It's a blue-grey plaid, with very thin lines of black and white through the grey and thicker lines of dark teal and greenish khaki through the blue. A frayed postage stamp label is sewn in on one end: tiny white letters on black proclaim *TOUT SAUF ORDINAIRE. REVxELYSIUM. EST. '39*.
INLAND EMPIRE - Funny how things alter when you *really* pay attention.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - It just screams *Jean*.
YOU - Sniff the scarf.
PERCEPTION (SMELL) - Cool woody-earth, and a bitterness clinging to the very edge of sweetness. *!Excess*, Astra Chocolate, and Jean.
INLAND EMPIRE - Just Jean. Grey eyes staring into yours through strands of black hair. A warm wet mouth on your neck, your collarbone. A body sliding over yours to the rhythm it beats deep inside you.
And then the morning after. The cold as the bed covers lift. Curled up all alone in your sofa bed, hugging the deep rupture in your chest.
EMPATHY - But it's okay. You know it wasn't really how you thought it was.
YOU - Nod, bury your nose in the scarf and breathe the scent into your lungs, feel it buzz through your bloodstream like nicotine.
INLANE EMPIRE - It moves through you.
COMPOSURE - It moves you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You're *craving* him — like last night, in bed, in the dark. Take your L'Homme God-ass to his apartment and completely hind-sight him. Then put a ring on it!
YOU - Just to clarify, we're still talking about the silver ring …?
VOLITION - The only one hind-sighted here is that guy. Talk to your partner. Just *talk*.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - There's a phone booth on the corner of Perdition and Main. (Wink.)
YOU - Wind the scarf loosely around your neck, flip one end over your shoulder, let the other hang loose.
COFFEE TABLE - Don't forget: ID card and sidearm (concealment holster). Keys, wallet, ciggies and lighter, sirens. Ring.
YOU - Scrape your day-off EDC up off the coffee-table …
PAYPHONE - A metal rotary payphone inside a translucent plastic booth with graffiti and phone numbers scratched into it like public toilet poetry.
YOU - Pick up the handset to check whether the machine is still operable.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - A dial tone hums monotonously into your ear. You're in luck.
YOU - Feed ten cents into the coin slot. Close your eyes. Let your muscle memory take over …
INTERFACING - Your fingers run over the dial, then your index finger hooks in and dials 005 for Revachol, followed by 34 … 42 … And the last three digits of your partner's phone number.
PAYPHONE - Calling …
Calling …
Still calling …
End of tone.
YOU - He's not home. Where could he be?
ESPRIT DE CORPS - On Meroe Drive, a yellow motor lorry heaves past the library. Inside, an off-duty RCM detective stalks the stacks, scanning the decimal system stuck to the spines of books for the stuff on entroponetics. But there's not much. There's not much at all …
YOU - Hang up.
YOU - Amble around the streets of Central Jamrock. The cool spring breeze blows dust, faded candy wrappers, and the remains of newspapers around your feet. You tune in and out of passing conversations, feeling the city, pressing yourself flat — as the well-worn metaphor goes — against the world-tape to take it all in.
INLAND EMPIRE - You barely notice when you step over the imaginary line demarcating Central Jamrock from Jamrock North.
PERCEPTION - But there's nothing like cold water to the face to wake up a dreamer. And the first hint of another spring storm pulls you back into your body as a few raindrops sting your cheeks and nose.
YOU - Wipe your face with your hand, look up and blink. "Motherfucker."
INLAND EMPIRE - Yeah. While you're feeling the streets, over your head …
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - … a front of ominous-nimbus charges towards Revachol —
YOU - Wait. Let me guess. From Ozonne.
LOGIC - Probably. Like, ninety-five percent likely …
INTERFACING - It's one hundred percent going to fuck with all the radio channels and electrical appliances.
LOGIC - You are neither dressed for nor equipped to deal with this weather.
REACTION SPEED - Quick! Duck and run under some cover before the sky starts falling in earnest. An awning, anything …
YOU - Look around.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Apartment blocks, their facades cracked, water-stained, faded. The entrance to the one on your right is recessed to protect a wall of letterboxes.
VISUAL CALCULUS - It will provide approximately fifty centimetres of cover, provided the wind doesn't blow in your direction.
YOU - Good enough.
BUILDING ENTRANCE - Standing in the little square cave of the entrance to a residential ruin, an off-duty detective of the RCM frowns at the quickly thickening rain. Frowns in his summer t-shirt and his partner's winter scarf. And sticks his hands into the pockets of his God-ass jeans as the chill brought by cloud shadows sliding over the city sinks into his skin.
SHIVERS - The temperature drops just enough to be perceptible. The rain erases the horizon, as if the whole of Martinaise has been consumed by pale. Closer, in Jamrock North, the physical dividing line of the 8/81 motorway hangs over the labyrinth of muddy streets, of buildings new and old, its concrete pillars towering up from the wasteland.
Some of the warehouse spaces built against the pillars during the construction of the motorway now house the homeless, others have been given a second life as studios and lofts. The residential pillar rising up to the highest point of the motorway calls to you.
INLAND EMPIRE - Your destination. All your ambling was just pre-amble.
RHETORIC - Nicely word-played.
JEAN'S APARTMENT - Fifteen minutes later, give or take a few minutes, a drenched off-duty police officer stands before a door.
He stands and studies the slit for the key in the deadlock, as the key burns in his pocket.
YOU - "Fuck it." Pull out the blue key ...
INTERFACING - ... stick it into the grey deadlock, and give it a little wrench …
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - … as you push against the door with your shoulder.
INLAND EMPIRE - KEEPER
ESPRIT DE CORPS - OF YOUR PARTNER'S
AUTHORITY - BLUE KEY.
JEAN'S APARTMENT - The blinds are drawn, letting in watery streaks of daylight that stripe the desk under the window, the half-heartedly made bed. They do not reach a wardrobe hunching in a shadowy corner.
The storm outside drowns out the usual hum of traffic from the most elevated section of the 8/81, creating a pleasant white noise.
Smells of coffee and nicotine linger in the air.
YOU - Pocket your blue key. Shove the door into the frame to engage the deadlock. Remove your Villiers in its damp concealment holster, and place it onto the side-table below the mirror.
INLAND EMPIRE - *What do you see when you look into the mirror*?
YOU - Remove your blue sunglasses. The reflection of my face: a regular, shaven police officer.
MIRROR - I see *you*, looking better than before — even with your snazzy new haircut plastered to your skull and your skin paper pale because your blood drained from the superficial parts to keep your core temperature within homeostasis.
YOU - Look away from that self-reflection, and bend over to pull off your wet sneakers. Leave them beside a pair of shined black shoes.
INLAND EMPIRE - He'll know you're here as soon as he walks in. He'll see the sneakers, the gun …
YOU - Will he smile like a rainbow?
EMPATHY - On the inside, a little. But he'll worry.
PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish he wouldn't.
VOLITION - That is within your control. Making him not worry. You can do that.
YOU - Walk deeper into Jean's apartment, see the kitchenette on the left, exposed brick wall and pipes. A glass coffee pot rests on a black plastic coffee-machine.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - A nice hot brew is exactly what you need to warm you up.
INTERFACING - You add a filter to the mesh basket, measure out coffee for two, pour water into the glass pot, and turn on the machine.
COMPOSURE - Your central nervous system recognizes the moves. You've done this before. Here.
COFFEE MACHINE - It starts the brewing process, emitting a hum that joins the chorus of rain and traffic outside.
ENDURANCE.- This is all wonderful, I'm sure, but you need to get out of your soaked outfit ASAP.
JEAN'S APARTMENT - In the matchbox bathroom, the smell of *!Excess* dominates. You pull off the scarf, beaded with raindrops. Peel off your t-shirt and jeans like a clingy outgrown skin. Hang everything over the shower curtain rod to drip-dry. Then you find some of Jean's clothes to wear: loose black track pants, a soft white cotton t-shirt that smells like him.
INLAND EMPIRE - Like a warm and cozy full-body hug.
WARDROBE - There's a full-length mirror on the inside of one creaky door. You look into it, giving your reflection the once-over. You see the half-heartedly made bed behind you.
INLAND EMPIRE - The mirror reflects a slice of his bare back, muscles flexing a languid rhythm beneath his skin as he moves on top of you. Your knee appears in the mirror, his hand slides over it, vanishes down. You hear yourself moan low, muffled.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - The temperature between your skin and Jean's t-shirt spikes, burning off the last of the chill.
INLAND EMPIRE - The images in the mirror dissipate.
YOU - Stand there, breathing the remains of the memory. Run your fingers through your damp hair, trying to brush it into some kind of appearance of order.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - It's as if the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door is a planar anomaly, a time-depth conversion —
INLAND EMPIRE - A *distortion* that bends the past and present together.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - A frozen slice of pale.
HALF LIGHT - Boring conceptual *buuullshit*!
PERCEPTION (SMELL) - Sure, sure, but what is that smell? Oh, it's —
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Very nearly burnt coffee. A smell you'd know anywhere.
REACTION SPEED - Turn it off!
YOU - Dash off to the coffee machine and flip the clicky switch.
As you pour yourself a cup, some coffee dribbles down the domed glass of the pot and drips into a puddle of brown on the kitchen table. You wipe it off with your hand, and are about to wipe your hand on your pants —
SAVOIR FAIRE - Freeze! They're not *your* pants. They're your partner's.
YOU - Look around the kitchenette. Tear off a bit of paper towel and wipe your hand and the table, then bin the towel.
INLAND EMPIRE - You stand behind the kitchen table, gazing through the wavy steam rising from your cup, in the evening light. You, Jean, and Judit — drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes. Some other day off, long ago.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Her hair smells like shampoo.
YOU - Lift the cup to your mouth.
PERCEPTION - It radiates heat against your face.
YOU - Gently blow a rolling wave of steam off the dark brown surface, take a tentative sip.
PAINT THRESHOLD - Scalding, yet …
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - God, *so* good.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - The sound of a key shoved into a lock stabs into the moment of calm.
YOU - Startle, turning your head in the direction of the apartment door. Your throat clicks as you swallow.
PAIN THRESHOLD - A rivulet of coffee spills over the rim and down the back of your hand. It leaves a stinging trail.
YOU - Put down the cup, and listen.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - The door opens, there's a jingle of keys, the door closes. You hear a deep sigh — of relief. Then nothing. A tense pause — like the end of a note, suspended.
Silence.
More silence.
ENDURANCE - Tension grips your shoulders tight.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Honey, I'm home!"
YOU - Feel the tension release your shoulders. "There's coffee!"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah, I know," dryly. There's a clunk as he places his gun on the side-table. Then the man himself appears around the corner. "I can smell it."
EMPATHY - He looks worried, but also hopeful. Always hopeful — it's terrible, yet necessary.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - He looks like a young god.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Someone give Coach an honorary award for bullshit. Jean's wearing loose black pants, a loose white t-shirt, and a teal plaid shirt-jacket. You can't see shit underneath.
DRAMA - I'll give the award, my liege.
INLAND EMPIRE - No. It's because you can map his body with your eyes closed.
LOGIC - He's also carrying a dripping black umbrella. Therefore, unlike you, he did not get drenched.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - But that's okay, because he likes what he sees: you, in his clothes. Giving you *elevator eyes*. (Wink.)
YOU - Half-smile.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shows you his umbrella. "Won't be long. Just need to …"
He vanishes into the matchbox bathroom, then returns sans umbrella, and assesses you. "Everything okay?"
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Why, yes. Yes, it is.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Everything is in perfect working order.
YOU - Nod.
VOLITION - Commit to it. Tell him you'll go to the lazareth tomorrow.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Moves closer. "So, that leaves *insurmountable need*." He traces the line of your jaw with the edge of his thumb as he says, "I'm not busy, you're not busy — wanna play around?"
YOU - Take his hand, kiss the knuckles. "Miss me?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Smirks. "I'm kind of a big deal at reloading fast."
VOLITION - Tell him.
YOU - Huff a laugh under your breath. "I'm gonna go to the lazareth tomorrow. See Gottlieb."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares at you, looking slightly taken aback. Then wraps his arms around you and pulls you close.
YOU - "But I do have an insurmountable need." Turn your head to speak into his ear, stroke the length of his back. "Want me to show and tell …?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay …"
RHETORIC - The way he says it, it's as if he already suspects some ulterior motive.
SUGGESTION - Okay, here goes nothing: put on the ring.
YOU - Pull gently free, take a half-step back. Fish the silver band out of your pocket, and put it onto your ring finger.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "…"
SUGGESTION - Now, we're going to start with pathos.
RHETORIC - Mind Implants has my attention.
SUGGESTION - First, tell him the story about how you found the ring as you let him feast his eyes on the fruit of his labours adorning *your ring finger*.
YOU - "So, last night, I found this ring …" As he looks down at it, you move your hand so that the 8mm band of silver catches and cools the light seeping in through the blinds. "In the gutter on Meroe Drive — near where that *Coastal Treasures* market stall used to be?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Glances at you and nods once. "Yeah, it's your hobby."
YOU - "It was all black and bruised, lost and alone. I took it home and gave it a bit of TLC — and look at it now, Jean. See how it captures the light, and, like, changes it? Calms it?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Sure …" You can see him already thinking fast — trying to get ahead of wherever it is you're going with this story. "Okay."
SUGGESTION - Good. Step one complete. See the silver reflected in his pupils? Eyes like mirrors.
Next, we're gonna employ logos: it would be a better fit on him. Put it on his finger to support your claim.
YOU - "The thing is, it's a bit tight on me …" You wrench the ring off your finger, to demonstrate that it is indeed *a bit tight*, then take hold of his hand, and push it onto his.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - And he lets you.
YOU - "See! I knew it would be a perfect fit on you. It's like fate."
SUGGESTION - Easy. Be subtle. Keep providing proof, not *fate*.
YOU - "And silver *suits* you much better than it does me. Complements your skin, matches those grey eyes …" You smile, quick as a flash, then look down at the ring.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "…"
SUGGESTION - Okay, he's obviously already caught on, and knows *exactly* where you're going with this. So it's time for the final step.
REACTION SPEED - Yeah, plunge ahead! There's no stopping this now.
SUGGESTION - Let's move in for the the kill with ethos. Persuade him that he can keep trusting you to uphold your ten-month agreement. But convince him that it would be easier for you to handle the bad times with a little silver reminder.
YOU - Hold his hand, with the ring on, between you. Stroke his palm with your thumb. "I think we both agree that I'm doing reasonably well. *Trying my best*. And, and if you were to wear this ring, it would be a beautiful reminder of why I'm trying so hard — of my commitment to *us*."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares into your eyes for a long moment. "If I were to wear this *band* on my *ring finger*, you mean?"
YOU - Nod, swallow. "It's a physical manifestation of my devotion to our bond."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Bonds. Plural. You're welcome.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I get it … But there's one — at least *one* — small problem here, Harry. Can you *see* what it is?"
REACTION SPEED - Whatever it is, you can solve it.
YOU - "I'm sure we can solve it if we work together."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "The problem is that now *you* are sans ring, partner. So when we're apart, there'd be no *physical manifestation* to remind you of" — he takes a quick breath — "everything you just said."
COMPOSURE - Your breath clogs up in your throat.
SUGGESTION - Wait. Don't panic. We've got this. He's talking himself into it — let him do a bit of the work now.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares down at the ring on his finger, contemplating something. He bites his lip, then looks over at his desk under the window, then meets your eyes. "Wait here a moment, okay? Pour me a cup."
YOU - Follow him with your eyes as he crosses the apartment to his desk, and pulls open the drawer beneath.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Fingers through the stuff within. Finally, he takes something out, then returns to you. "My father's …"
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - He opens his fist to reveal a classic gold wedding band, thinner than the silver one on his finger, but domed like it. And scratched like it.
SUGGESTION - Be still my fucking heart. You know what this means, Harry.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Now it's yours …" He pushes the gold wedding band onto your finger. It catches on the last knuckle, squeezes tightly over it, then hangs comfortably against it, just loose enough to fidget with.
VISUAL CALCULUS - His father was a giant.
COMPOSURE - …
RHETORIC - …
HALF LIGHT - Oh, God. *Don't* fuck this up, Harry.
VOLITION - You won't. You've got this.