YOU - Take Jean's left hand with your own, and admire the silver and gold bands. "Look at us; this is how we were meant to be."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Agreed," he nods, "and you'll keep your word …"
SUGGESTION - He means it. If you don't stay clean …
VOLITION - You will. You'll simply have to stay clean till the end of time. You'll do it with sheer willpower — willpower as strong as his.
HALF LIGHT - Till the end of days, which might be sooner than expected if the Coalition bomb the fuck out of Revachol again.
YOU - "I'll keep proving it till the end of the world."
LOGIC - Well, if you're *that* certain, then it's got to at least rub off on his doubt a little, rub it off perhaps.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods sarcastically, then leans in and steals a kiss. A quick dry locking of the lips. Chapped. "You look … all of a sudden ..." Moistens his lips, kisses you again. "Extremely fuckable."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - This is such an important moment. Your mesolimbic reward pathway does not mince words, and it wants to *celebrate*. It floods your synaptic clefts with pure dopamine, and it wants more of it for you. It wants more of *him*. Your receptors chant: Jean, Jean, Jean. Let's *play around*!
YOU - "Oh, so that's what you meant." You feign serious contemplation. "And here I was getting all excited at the thought of a wholesome game of Wirrâl."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yes, who wouldn't."
RHETORIC - He, I suspect.
YOU - "Sipping coffee and sharing a ciggie while my translucent welkins kick your ass."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Scoffs suddenly. "Oh, no. No, no, no — not the *translucent* welkins. I don't even want to imagine the horror of watching their organs shining as my humans fuck them to death."
EMPATHY - This isn't his usual faux enthusiasm. You've managed to make him just a little bit excited about a board game. It's a gold star day! Take it all the way.
YOU - Smirk, shake your head slowly from side to side. "We were talking about love."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Studies you with tenderness. "So what else is new," he says. "We always talk about *love*, don't we, even when it's what Judit calls an *exchange*, even though we never talk *only* about love. Because it never is *only* about it."
INLAND EMPIRE - It's as if your mind expands. Should we add this to the thought cabinet?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - A good old mind *fuck*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Even when you went psycho after finding out that I visited the drug dens …" Turns his head suddenly to look through the window as lightning flashes outside.
VISUAL CALCULUS - One thousand, two thousand —
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Boom! Thunder rumbles across Jamrock North.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It's fucking cold out there." He glances at you. "Good job getting out of those wet clothes. You okay now?"
YOU - Nod. "Yeah. So, uh, anyway ..."
RHETORIC - Don't say *where were you today*. It'll sound bad.
YOU - "What did you get up to today?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Library." He looks away and rubs the back of his neck, then mumbles, "Went to Jude's afterwards."
YOU - Nod.
RHETORIC - Say something.
SUGGESTION - Ask about the library first.
YOU - "Find anything good in the library?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shakes his head. "What about you?"
RHETORIC - Meaning, where were *you* today?
YOU - "Feeling the streets, listening to the city, that sort of thing ..."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*That sort of thing*."
YOU - "How's Judit?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay. It's okay."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He means *they're* okay. He had to admit to her as well that he fucked up by not telling you about the strike force straight away.
AUTHORITY - She still respects him more than she respects you. She feels protective of you because she sees you as weaker.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He pulls his hand out from under yours, and frowns down at the silver band on his ring finger as if he can't quite believe it's there. "Actually," the grey eyes meet yours again, "wanna call Nix Gottlieb? Make an appointment, before the storm fucks with the wires?"
EMPATHY - See - it *is* always about love.
YOU - Look through the window at the storm. Then down at the grey rotary telephone on Jean's desk.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - In you peripheral vision, you see him staring at you intensely, intently.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - With the penetrative power of an x-ray.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Sounds like a porno. Just call that hypocritical prick already so you can repeat the *horizontal disco dance* we all caught a glimpse of in the mirror.
VOLITION - It's just another talk. A conversation. It's nothing.
YOU - Look at Jean, nod. "I can do that," you say, then gaze across the room at the grey telephone, and swallow loudly, and then just stand there rooted to the spot like a tree.
AUTHORITY - He can't *make you* do it. *You* do the making.
DRAMA - Do not lie to thine own self, sire. Every time you do, you lose a piece of who you truly are.
INLAND EMPIRE - Till one day you wake up with a shattered consciousness, a corrupted memory, and have no idea whose face is staring back at you from the steam-misted mirror. All you know is that the face you see scares the shit out of you because it's so haunted by hurt and regret. And love.
AUTHORITY [Medium: Failure] - Go ahead — be subordinate. Follow his orders. Yes, sir! *Do it*.
INLAND EMPIRE - But what if the so-called happy pills dull your *imagination*?
VOLITION - They won't. The only thing they'll dull is all the black and blue, the thoughts that make you toss and turn in bed, the crying over dying flowers. All in your head.
HALF LIGHT - What if they don't work?
VOLITION - You'll increase the dose, or try others. Either way it'll be okay. Jean's a veteran. He'll back you up every step of the way.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Yeah, back you up against the wall, and *party*.
DRAMA - The lazareth medic will prick us, my liege. Prick us and make us bleed.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - You feel his hand thoughtfully rubbing your back. "Gottlieb *is* an asshole," he says, reading your mind, and rubbing faster as if trying to warm you up.
PERCEPTION - Feels nice. Comforting.
RHETORIC - Like he's *got your back*?
EMPATHY - Soothing your anxiety but also his own frustration with that rubbing.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Forces a quick smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But so are we, partner. So are we."
YOU - (Nod.) "Okay, Vic."
GREY ROTARY TELEPHONE - "Gottlieb," says a raspy voice into your ear. "What'd you get yourself into this time?"
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - He doesn't actually sound as if he gives the slightest bit of shit. And the question is followed by the sound of him chewing and sucking on a piece of caramel candy.
YOU - "Nothing. I've been totally clean since that case up in Martinaise. You may have heard —"
NIX GOTTLIEB - "Yup. Giant stick insect. Congratulations. Is Satellite-Officer Vicquemare there?"
YOU - Look at Jean. "Uh ..."
DRAMA - No!
SUGGESTION - Yes?
YOU - "Maybe ... Why?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - You practically hear him roll his sticky eyeballs in their sockets. "Just put him on the line — unlike you, I don't have the day off."
YOU - "Fine," flatly. Hand the receiver to Jean. "I assume he wants to speak to you."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Presses the receiver to his ear. "Vicquemare … Yes … Yes. It's true. Yeah …" He hands the receiver back.
HALF LIGHT - Fucking unbelievable. Your face burns with anger and humiliation.
YOU - Hold the receiver against your ear. "Happy now?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - "Yup. *Congratulations!* And you're still ambulant — imagine that."
INLAND EMPIRE - Whatever.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Puts his arms around your waist from behind as he leans against your back, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your track pants. *His* track pants. His fingers rest lightly over your crotch. His chin rests on your shoulder, his goatee prickling through your — *his* — thin t-shirt.
YOU - "Yeah. Thanks. So, anyway, now that I'm off the sauce, I wanna give the happy pills another try …"
NIX GOTTLIEB - "I'm not a brain doctor, but stop by some time, and I'll write you a script."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nuzzles your neck, your phone-free ear.
PAIN THRESHOLD - His facial hair pricks your skin like bright tiny stars in the night sky.
NIX GOTTLIEB - "If the pills work in a month or two — great."
YOU - "Uh huh …" You unhook Jean's thumb from your waistband, take his hand and press it against your hardening dick, rub your ass up against his crotch. "How about tomorrow?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - "Come between nine and ten. You probably need to eat magnesium and vitamin D too."
YOU - "Okay," you say, totally cool as the frottage heats up.
NIX GOTTLIEB - "Now I have to return to work."
YOU - "Yeah, something's just come up for me, too. See ya."
INTERFACING - You hang up, making a bell ding inside the grey plastic carapace of the phone.
Then you reach behind to the back of Jean's head and pull him into a kiss over your shoulder.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Pulls back. "Hold up, Harry," he says, a little breathless, his hands on your hips, turning you on the spot to face him. "We really need to talk about motherfucking Martinaise."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Huh?!
EMPATHY - Harsh words softly spoken. He had to force them out of his throat like something substantial.
YOU - "…"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What is it? I said we would talk, didn't I?"
REACTION SPEED - Yes. He said he'd been *insensitive*.
YOU - "Do you *really* want to, or are you just ...?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yes. Yes, I *really* think we have to talk about what you think happened to you up there. In Martinaise. Your newly acquired fear of pale —because you were *not* like this before. What do you say to that?"
YOU - Feel your eyebrows arch up of their own accord.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - What happened to playing around and being extremely fuckable?
COMPOSURE - Relax.
YOU - Blink. "So, were you just distracting me with all the foreplay or …?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Shakes his head. "It's just that if we go to bed now," he glances at it, "I *won't* want to talk about motherfucking Martinaise. I don't want to, you see. I don't want to at all. But we *have* to." He sighs. "As I said, you didn't have this, like, dread before then. So it's *not* good. Now *please* talk to me."
EMPATHY - He's worried. It's either a result of your brain damage, or an actual entroponetic encounter. Either way …
HALF LIGHT - ... it's *fucked up*.
VOLITION - Just talk.
INLAND EMPIRE - Wait. Not so fast. There's something you need to remember about this — like a word hooked into your tongue.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Takes hold of your shoulders, makes you meet his eyes. "And you saaay …?"
YOU - "Okay …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Okay," he nods once, as if underlining the word.
YOU - "I just need to collect my thoughts." Close your eyes, collect your thoughts in the black, try to remember.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Suuure." You feel his hands loosen their grip, release.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - He walks back to the kitchenette, pours slightly burnt coffee into a cup, picks up your cup and his, and brings both back to the desk.
YOU - Try to remember.
INLAND EMPIRE - Uh …
YOU - Open your eyes.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Leans his ass back against the edge of the desk, and takes a sip of softly steaming coffee. "Okay, Harry. Let's start with what happened when we fucked off like you told us to."
PAIN THRESHOLD - Wince.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What did you when we fucked off?"
RHETORIC - He seems to gain some sort of satisfaction by repeating that.
EMPATHY - Because the more he says it, the less power it has over him. One day he'll say it and won't feel a thing, and then he'll stop saying it.
INLAND EMPIRE - Okay. You sure you want to remember this?
YOU - Yes.
INLAND EMPIRE - Whirling in Rags. Above your head, dim yellow electric light streams from a ceiling fan down into your hostel room. The rotating blades squeak softly with each swivel. It makes the spinning in your head even worse, the blood whirl faster through your alcohol-stream. The blades disturb the dust, and you watch the volatile chaos of glittering motes battling in the light, and feel like you're gonna be sick. The air reeks of your breath, of Potent Pilsner. The motes are like the atoms of some once-living thing that's just broken apart. You wish your atoms would do the same.
ENDURANCE - Yeah - *you* make yourself sick. Others need not apply.
INLAND EMPIRE - I'll pretend I didn't hear that unnecessary interruption. Where was I ... Right. Judit and Trant are next door — you share a mouldy bathroom. Your bladder is like an airship. You really need to piss.
But Jean blocks the way, staring at you with his fists clenched at his sides as he tries to control his breathing and regain his composure.
And you say: Get out of the way, will you?
And he says: Why? Gonna piss yourself again if I don't?
And you're like, All you do is cramp my style, man.
Then you imitate his low dry voice, except you make it sound annoying: 'You can't do that, Harry. Cops can't say that, Harry. Don't wear that, Harry. Actually, are you still a cop, Harry? It's hard to tell with all the disco. Are you even still Harry, shitkid?'
And he asks, Well, *are* you still a cop, *shitkid*, or are you a —?
And you cut him off, yelling, *You're* a shitkid, asshole. I can't *think* with all your crap constantly in my head. I can't *work*. And you know what? I don't need you! I'm better off alone. So why don't you just *fuck off*!
The air in the hostel room solidifies.
He stares at you for a long, long moment. In the dusty light, you see his eyes darkening inside his frozen features. Then something in the way he's looking at you sort of ... cracks. You see it, first in his eyes, then on his face.
The breaking point in him cracks right through you, too.
Jean ... Jean, I ...
He nods enthusiastically, his eyes glinting like a knives, and says, Okay, Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois. Okay. We wouldn't want to *cramp the style* of Detective God. So you solve this fucking hanging without us.
Jean, wait, I'm sorry ...
Then he leans right into your personal space, making your stomach turn because you fucking want him, want him right there in the circle of light, cheek pressed against the dirty floor, knees bruising, his fingers digging into your hips.
He pushes low words through his teeth: And *we're* done, shitkid. We're over. Go live in the fucking pale for all I care.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Harry …?"
YOU - Look up at him, leaning against the edge of the desk, using his cup of coffee as a makeshift hand-warmer while he frowns grimly down at you. You ask, "Did you tell me to *go live in the fucking pale*?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. "Let's say I did, right after you told me to *fuck off*."
YOU - "I told you to fuck off, not to go and un-exist."
PAIN THRESHOLD - It hurts.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm sorry, Harry, but it doesn't matter now. We both said some things we didn't mean. It happens. What matters now is what you did in the time between when we left and Kitsuragi introduced himself to you."
RHETORIC - That apology was insincere, by the way.
VOLITION [Formidable: Failure] - …
YOU - "Wait. Didn't I try to stop you from leaving?"
COMPOSURE - His posture tenses.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His stare slowly leaves your face as he turns his head to look up at the storm through the window. The watery daylight silvers his cheek. A shadow of pain comes over him. "You started breaking things ... And crying ..."
PAIN THRESHOLD - I feel a headache coming on. A real splitter of white bright pain.
YOU - Close your eyes and massage the side of your head. "You told me to go live in the pale … And I … What did I do?"
INLAND EMPIRE - Challenge accepted! You extended your feelers, felt around, sussed out the vibes, and found the swallow like a cold still blackness drawing you sickly to itself, like calling to like.
SHIVERS - I WARNED YOU. I WARNED YOU TO AVOID THE CHURCH.
HALF LIGHT - But I wanted to un-exist. He told me to ... He *left me* — again, for real, for good.
YOU - Shudder, even though Jean's apartment is warm, as rain continues hissing outside. Shudder so violently it's visible, makes the chair under you creak in quick sharp protest.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Stares at you, assessing. But does nothing, says nothing. Does not move.
YOU - "I think I tried to … somehow … I think I did it."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Did what, Harry?" he mumbles.
YOU - Meet his grim grey eyes. "Go live in the pale."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, really?" His eyes glint. "*Okay*, sure." He puts down his cup, fingers his hair out of his eyes, and crosses his arms. "The pale is fucking 6000 kilometres away from Martinaise. 6000 kilometres north."
YOU - "I'm aware of that, Vic. Thank you."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Squints at you. "Are you?"
RHETORIC - Mind your tone. There's no need to turn this into an argument.
HALF LIGHT - The church raid got classified … Trant heard a rumour that it had something to do with an entroponetic investigation — some special branch of the ICP — accidentally crossing with your raid. So you went back *there*. I told you not to!
YOU - Swallow. Your throat feels dry. You wet your lips. Stare at the out-of-focus window in front of you. "I found a swallow. I remembered the raid at the church, and the rumour that Trant told us about …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His shoulders slump as he unfolds his arms and sighs. "There are always rumours, Harry. You of all people should know that."
INLAND EMPIRE - You threw a bottle of Commodore Red at the stained glass illumination of Her Innocence. You broke her heart, made it bleed red. There was nothing behind her. Just like the hole in the heart of the church, just like the fresh rupture in *your* heart.
Then you sat in the centre of the silence all night, deep in those dark holes, and forgot him by substituting ... hell. Like a meditation, a Volta. But it all got mixed up. Jean. The welkin. Jean. Dora. Dolorous Dei. You made your own hell.
EMPATHY - Did you think you deserved it? Do you *still*?
PAIN THRESHOLD - How dolorous. This is not the good kind of pain.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Let's move on, Harry. What did you do then?"
SUGGESTION - Don't mention the bottle.
VOLITION [Easy: Success] - Actually, you should. He's seen worse — much worse.
YOU - Blink, refocus, look at him. "I think I maybe smashed a hole through Her Innocence — the stained glass …?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Maybe? Certainly. Even during the shootout we were careful to avoid causing damage to that fucking thing." After a moment's reflection, he adds bitterly, "We were still fucked by the ethics commission."
YOU - "Then I sat in the silence of the swallow. All night, I guess. Trying to forget you. Forget me, too. Forget everything. 'Go live in the fucking pale for all I care'."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Rubs his goatee, lets out a deep sigh. "I read your report, and Kitsuragi's — he corroborated your statements about the alleged 2mm swallow-something, the so-called crab-man, the programmer, too ... But if you were there all night, why didn't the crab-man recognize you, why didn't the programmer ...?"
YOU - Shrug. "The programmer wasn't there. She wasn't there even when I went there with Kim. Turned up later. And the crab-man's memory is worse than mine. Even what he remembers, he wills himself to forget."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "This sounds insane, Harry," he remarks without feeling. "Here's *my* theory: You were already drunk and high when we got to Martinaise."
YOU - "And I got drunker. I know where this is going. It's all delusions, a product of delirium tremens."
RHETORIC - And so on and so forth.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Shut up for moment. Just as I said, you were getting drunker, but you were also blaming me about some kind of *hole* in your *structure*. Honestly, it was difficult to make sense of because you were slurring and … Look, you said before that you displaced your feelings for me onto the welkin, to make it easier for us to continue working together. Right?"
YOU - Nod.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods along with you. "I can go with that. So isn't it more likely that you displaced this hole in you onto the church - an actual *structure* with a *hole*? I know it's hard to accept, but it's a simple explanation, and simple explanations are usually …"
INLAND EMPIRE - But *usually* isn't *always*. That little bit of leeway — that's where you live and operate most of the time.
LOGIC - It would be more likely if Soona wasn't investigating it, and if Lieutenant Kitsuragi hadn't felt the swallow too. But he did.
HALF LIGHT - He was scared.
YOU - "Kim will back me up. And Soona — the programmer. But I figure you'll only believe Kim — so why don't we talk to him?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Because I read Kitsuragi's reports, and because he is *not* part of our current talk," he snaps. Rubs his face again. Takes a calming breath. "Okay, Harry. Okay … This shit does *not* leave this apartment." He points his index finger at you. "Not a word of this to *anyone* else — not even Kitsuragi." He lowers his finger, pauses to reflect. "Maybe the rumour Trant heard was true. If it's true, then it's the real reason the ICP classified that shit. I don't want you drawing attention to yourself with this, Harry — they make people vanish in the night. Understood?"
EMPATHY - He's being protective.
YOU - "So you believe me?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I believe *you* believe it. But I don't *know* … I just don't know ..."
YOU - "But, but you have to believe me. Kim felt it. too. Kim was scared."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No, I don't *have* to." He raises an admonitory index finger. "That is not a must."
PAIN THRESHOLD - Ouch.
EMPATHY - He's just questioning relentlessly, needs concrete evidence.
VOLITION - But if he doesn't believe the lieutenant's report, or you ... There are limits to *relentless questioning*, otherwise there'd be no point in investigating.
LOGIC - The ask and answer would be endless.
VOLITION - Exactly. Stand up for yourself.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He knows that. He's a cop.
VOLITION - So are you.
YOU - Push the chair back, and stand up so that you're eye to eye, in preparation for standing-up for yourself. "What is a must, then, Jean? I mean, I was there, Kim was there, and we're both pretty okay detectives, so ..." You shake your head and shrug at the same time.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I didn't mean to imply that you're not a *pretty okay* detective. Honestly."
AUTHORITY - He sounds genuinely apologetic, but it would take a significantly worse state of affairs to wrench a sorry out of him.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It's just that ..." He takes a breath. "My point is, nobody can fucking fix this shit," he mumbles, then starts patting down his pockets for his cigarettes.
EMPATHY - Meaning *he* can't fix it.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I mean, pale is not a well-understood phenomenon. Moreover, you need to see an entroponaut, but we can't *do* that because then ..." He pauses to think, crumpled packet of Astra Chocolate ciggies poking out of his pants pocket. "What about the cryptozoologists, the ones on Tabernacle ...?"
YOU - "Lena and her husband."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods. "Them. What do you say if we see them and, like -."
YOU - "Wait." (Hold up a hand.)
INLAND EMPIRE - Yes — *wait*. What's all this nonsense about how *nobody can fucking fix this shit*?! *He* fixes it *all the time*.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What?"
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - His voice sounds lower somehow.
YOU - "You've got one crucial detail wrong." Move closer …
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Move your body real close, until …
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Leans back a little against the desk, the better to stare into your eyes. Behind him, raindrops tap against the windowpanes, break and slide. "Okay, but are you going to tell me *what?*"
YOU - "*You*, Jean. *You* fix it all the time. So, —"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What?! Harry, I'm a cop, not a fucking entroponaut."
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He's not just *a cop*; he's your partner.
SUGGESTION - He's your *partner*.
JEAN VIQUEMARE - "No. No, no, no. This is serious. You need —"
YOU - "My partner." Take his hand, with its band of silver on the ring finger. "I need my partner."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "This is a typical Harry response." He shakes his head. "But I can't even fix myself, so how the fuck am I supposed to fix you, huh?"
PAIN THRESHOLD - That admission was harder for him to drag out than he lets on.
SUGGESTION - Maybe you're meant to fix each other.
YOU - "Maybe we fix each other? Maybe that's how it's supposed to work."
EMPATHY - A spike of longing gleams in his eyes, tautens his body for a moment. Longing, and something more.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Tautens yours, too.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Typical Harry behaviour," he looks away, slowly shaking his head.
EMPATHY - And yet, this is the *Harry behaviour* he yearns to believe in.
INTERFACING - You take hold of his face between your hands, turn his head till you're face to face again. Run your thumbs down across his chapped lips, over his goatee, and along the line of his jaw. Gold gleams on your ring finger.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Your fingers smell like menthol."
INLAND EMPIRE - Astra Chocolate and Menthol is Astra After-Dinner Mint.
YOU - "Sometimes when we kiss, I swear it's like eating an after-dinner mint. I wonder if they considered how the flavours would blend when coming up with them?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Probably," he says flatly, nodding, "but stop trying to change the subject."
PERCEPTION - You slowly stroke his jaw, listening to his facial hair rasp rhythmically under your thumb. It sounds nice, feels nice, calming somehow.
YOU - Glance at the half-heartedly made bed. "Come on, Jean …" And lead him over to it.
JEAN'S BED - You're under the covers, curled up with your knees close to your chest, and your partner's arms wrapped around your waist. His grip is relaxed — he's *actually* asleep!
Shhhh … Don't wake him with these loud thoughts.
YOU - Good. Good idea. No more thoughts. Fall asleep now …
JEAN'S BED - But you don't. Maybe it's the bed's fault?
YOU - No, it's lovely. It smells of us. Our bodies, intimate, warm.
PERCEPTION - And you can hear and feel him breathing. Outside, the rain pitter-patters, calmer now.
INLAND EMPIRE - Focus on that, then. On his slow, steady breathing. The calm rain.
YOU - Yeah.
INLAND EMPIRE - Like waves, lapping gently at a shore. The scene forms under your eyelids, the colours all cool blues and yellow-greens and greys. The coast is still cold, still has a bit of wintry bite to it, this early in the spring.
SHIVERS - You hear the traffic on the 8/81 above. As dusk settles like dust over Revachol, the sodium lights adorning the billboard on the building opposite switch on. And begin to blink. On and off through the storm-washed window, and the thin slats of the blinds, into the room where you're half asleep.
INLAND EMPIRE - A thin glowing stripe blinks across your closed eyelids, making them twitch, making you see red and black, red and black. In the blackness, a blinking lighthouse appears on the water's edge.
SHIVERS - You hear traffic on the motorway. In an ancient motor-lorry, an old woman clenches her bony hands around the steering levers as she imagines a vivid meteor shower blasting a path through the vehicles congesting this great artery of Revachol. A few motor-carriages away, two pairs of men in drab suits with ICP badges clipped to their breasts sit cramped in the latest Coupris. One fiddles with a cufflink, looking annoyed as he peers through the windshield at Station 41, hunched over the motorway exit just a few kilometres away, a few very, very slow and seemingly unreachable kilometres. He, too, would like to blast his way out of the traffic.
In a holding cell, an impossibly blonde older woman sits expectantly; down the long corridor, in the men's crowded holding cells, her son holds court, pontificating to his cellmates about social change: commodifying workers' trades by re-branding them as *super artisanal practices unique to Revacholian culture*. In the corner, a gangbanger looks on, fantasising how it would be to make this self-important rich East Revacholian bleed big kipt dick out of his ass. On the 8/81, the ICP motor-carriage crawls ever closer.
JEAN'S BED - Half-formed thoughts — something to do with Old Blonde and Ant the Ideologue — encounter destructive interference as your brainwaves slow, swallowed in a sea of sleep. Your breathing finally steadies, unconsciously matching your partner's. Your eyelids twitch.
YOU - Find yourself standing beside the empty bed. Dark fuzzy shapes blink on and off in the apartment. But the light is on in the bathroom, seeping out from under the door.
HALF LIGHT - The light scares you, but you don't know why.
YOU - "Jean?" Your voice warbles a little.
HALF LIGHT - No reply.
VOLITION - Maybe try again?
YOU - "Jean?"
VOLITION - Right here.
YOU - "Where?"
VOLITION - Close.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Why has Crown-Head got his buff arms around you like a lover? Why's he whispering into your ear?
VOLITION - Shut up, Coach. We're not discussing that now.
YOU - "What are we discussing?"
VOLITION - Promises. You're going to keep yours promises to your partner.
YOU - "I'm trying."
VOLITION - Yeah, I can see that. You're trying really hard, aren't you?
YOU - "I'm doing my best."
VOLITION - "Your mind *is* healing. But why is it so hard? Is it hard because of you or me?
YOU - "It's probably me. But it takes two, doesn't it? I don't know … But I'm getting better! You said so.
VOLITION - You are. You are getting better. So let's keep doing that, okay?
YOU - Okay.
VOLITION - Okay. Because your partner wants to draw you happy for a change.
YOU - "Jean draws me?"
VOLITION - In between the misery, depravity, and ugliness of crime-scene sketches and notes, there's you.
YOU - Oh.
LIMBIC SYSTEM - Your eyelids flutter as a distant sort of shock stirs inside you, quickening your brainwaves. It's only for a fraction of a second, but it's enough. Even though you've closed your eyes again, instead of falling back into the black embrace of the ancient reptilian part of your brain, you sense the light of the room around you, the warmth of the bed. The weight of the arms holding you close. The breath of a dry whisper in your ear: wakey, wakey …
You're back.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - " … Rise and shine. Seize the day and all that shit."
LIMBIC SYSTEM - How awful — it isn't even 07:30 yet. It isn't even 07:00! Just think of all the shit you've seen. All the shit you'll still have to see.
RHETORIC - Wait! Hold on just a second here. Because that wasn't Crown-Head, —
VOLITION - Vomit Words! It's nothing. You've got this. You've got him.
DRAMA - Sire! Vomit Words is —
VOLITION - Multi-Face! I'm beginning to doubt your judgement and your loyalty to the crown.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "How about hot coffee and breakfast in bed before we head over to the lazareth for your appointment? How does that sound?"
YOU - In a voice deep with sleep, you utter your first awake words of the day: "I'm up for that."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, you're up for *that*."
YOU - "I'm up for you, too." You smile lazily and open your eyes, then turn in his embrace to look at him.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Nothing can stop the morning glory of this body, thank you very much.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Or of his. Just pointing it out. In case you somehow managed to miss the obvious.
PERCEPTION - I missed nothing, but those sad grey eyes are perpetually tired.
YOU - Why is that?
VOLITION - Because uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.
DRAMA - That's my line! That's it. Sire, methinks thy partner has been whispering in thy ear as thou slumbers!
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You talk in your sleep — did you know that?"