YOU - "Uh, maybe? Maybe I knew and forgot. Why, what did I say?" You flash a grin. "Something incriminating, I hope."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Frowns at you, then moves his head back a little along the soft pillow, the better to stare into your eyes. "No, nothing *incriminating*. We're not crime bros. We're cops."
YOU - Under the covers, you hook your leg over his. "Relax, cop bro — that was a joke."
PAIN THRESHOLD - Your asshole hurts.
YOU - Try to relax the sphincter.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah, you know me — always the joker. But you?" He pats your bare ass a few times.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Flex those glutes! Your ass is iron.
PAIN THRESHOLD - What did I just say?
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You make jokes like that, and then you're actually surprised by rumours about us. Like the one about working for La Puta Madre."
YOU - "I—I thought that rumour was only about me."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Does not reply, letting his expression speak for him.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He's your partner.
INTERFACING - His hand moves from your ass cheek up to your lower back, where his fingertips draw frustrated shapes across your spine.
YOU - It's your turn to frown.
SUGGESTION - Why has he woken up in a questionable mood?
YOU - I don't know. "I thought I made you forget your sadness — for a little while. I mean, I thought we had a good time …" Did we have a good time?
INLAND EMPIRE - You glance at the half-heartedly made bed. "Come on, Jean ..." And lead him over to it.
He pulls his hand out of your grip. "Harry, we're still talking. We've only accounted for your whereabouts on Friday night. What about the weekend, huh?"
You reach out quick as a striking snake, grabbing the belt looped through his black pants, and tug him towards you. "Later," you say against his lips.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No." Shakes his head against the pillow, making a wing of black hair fall over one grey eye, as the memory recedes. "You were great, honestly. I usually worry that I'm entering too soon, too hard, too much. But when you, like, took control and went on the ride yourself …"
YOU - Smile.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Oh! A compliment! A compliment on your fuckability. Is there a better compliment than that? *No*.
EMPATHY - A compliment on your *lovability*, perhaps?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Sure, sure. Oxytocin. The *natural* love drug, baby.
EMPATHY - That guy is being superficial. Besides, your so-called fuckability increases with your lovability.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It's just that …" He stalls, and his hand stalls on the small of your back.
INTERFACING - You pull him tighter against you with your leg. Then take your hand out from under the pillow, and gently slide your big fingertip across his brow to brush the wing of hair out of his eye.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - His pupils dilate.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Blinks. "As I said, you were talking in your sleep." He caresses your ass cheek, then rests his hand on your hip. "You were talking to me. Saying something about how it's hard to stay off the drugs and drink."
YOU - "Oh." The word sounds like a lead weight dropping into a pond. Your stomach sinks.
AUTHORITY - So you did say something incriminating. Not so funny now, is it, cop bro?
YOU - "But I *am*."
DRAMA - Refrain from protesting *too* much, my liege.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It's okay, honestly, I understand. But then you said that it *takes two* — like, maybe I'm making it harder somehow …?" He sounds unsure. The hand on your hip twitches involuntarily. "But then you also said no, it's *probably* just you. So, I want know, is it just you, or *am I* making it harder somehow?"
YOU - "I *probably* meant that you make it *harder* for me to fuck up."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Looks unconvinced. Turns his head to sigh up at the ceiling before turning back to you. "Okay, fuck it. Let me go and grab that breakfast in bed. The Frittte still has enough chocolate croissants to outlast even the next civil war. I'll put the coffee on before I pop down there, but you keep an eye on it, okay? Don't let it burn …"
RHETORIC - … like yesterday.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Maybe skip solid food this morning.
JEAN'S BED - You're being spoiled, you know. He doesn't usually eat in bed.
YOU - What does he usually do?
JEAN'S BED - Figurative sleeping, literal sleeping, sex. There's a small stack of books under the bed, mostly on true crime and drawing. But he's lacked the time to read them. He's also lacked the will.
YOU - What about the sex?
JEAN'S BED - What *about* the sex?
ENDURANCE - It's uncomfortably warm, all of a sudden, under the covers. You won't be able to listen to the wind or speak to the city like this.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - In the purplish twilight seeping in through the blinds, you watch your partner's half-lit form slide out of bed, stand up, stretch towards the ceiling.
YOU - Admire the view.
INLAND EMPIRE - Your hands kneed his tense biceps and triceps, and you imagine all those feel-good chemicals pouring from your fingertips into him.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Feels good for you, too, mapping his body with your hands, your lips, your tongue ... The thing you used to only do drunk, last night you did sober.
PERCEPTION - He bends over to pick a white t-shirt up off the floor, drags it on over his head and shoulders. Then pulls the front up to his nose, and breathes in long and deep.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Closes his eyes. "I can smell you on my clothes." His eyes light up, containing a smile.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - He's gonna get hints of your man scent all day, and every time he does, he'll remember how *great* you were last night.
YOU - "I can smell you on me. Like perfume in the pores of my skin."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Sounds like you need to shower, if you want my opinion."
PAIN THRESHOLD - A sadness creeps in …
YOU - "We need to work on that, you know."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "On what?" Picks up a pair of black pants, and pads off into the darkness of the matchbox bathroom.
YOU - "Your, uh, tendency to assassinate your own character."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - (From the bathroom.) "But self-deprecation is *cool*," he says, dryly, as he takes a piss. "Don't worry about me. I keep my shit together."
YOU - "Sure you do," you mutter.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - The toilet flushes.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You say something?" You hear him washing his hands.
YOU - "Nope."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Exactly, partner." Pads over into the shadowy kitchenette. "Your clothes have pretty much dried."
RHETORIC - He means the God-ass jeans, the t-shirt, and the scarf you hung up to drip dry from the shower-curtain rod yesterday.
YOU - "The scarf is yours — I'm returning it."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "…"
PERCEPTION - You listen to him preparing coffee.
YOU - Sit up in bed, wince a little.
PAIN THRESHOLD - It *is* your ass. You took him in too deep too fast — before your internal sphincter relaxed.
ENDURANCE - It's not like it went into a spasm or anything. Relax about it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Totally worth it. Increased his desire, and therefore yours, 1000000 times.
YOU - "On second thought, I think I'll skip solid food this morning." You throw off the covers, swing your hairy legs over the side of the bed, and sit up.
PERCEPTION - Your right foot lands on the floorboards. Easy peasy. Your left foot steps onto something cold and slimy. You feel it squish between your toes.
YOU - Look down.
PERCEPTION - There's a used condom under your bare foot. You stepped into it.
SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Failure] - Congratulations. Try not to step on the others.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Looks at you across the lightening apartment. "Not in the mood for chocolate croissants? I can pick up something else … Everything okay?"
YOU - "If you're still going down to the Frittte, I think I'd like a breakfast juice."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His expression changes, and he tilts his head. "So, I take better care of you than you do of yourself. Perfect. Great. I'm so surprised."
YOU - Lift your left foot a little for a better look at what it just squashed.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You *were* great. Just look at that knotted little trophy of man juice.
VOLITION - Hey, here's an idea: You should pick it up, the others, too, and chuck them into the trash bin.
YOU - "I guess we maybe did overdo it a little."
ENDURANCE - We could have taken that ride *all night* thank you very much.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "…"
YOU - Bend over and pick up the used condom. Then stand up, and dangle it from your pinched fingers as if showing off an evidence bag. "Maybe next time we won't need these?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Hmm …? Yeah … Maybe …"
DRAMA - Thy partner sounds purposely distracted, my liege.
JEAN'S APARTMENT - You bin the used condoms in the bathroom, wash your hands and face, and retake your seat on the edge of the bed, hunched like that famous buff statue of the thinker. Except you're not buff and you're also trying not to think.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Psst. Hey, you!
YOU - Yeah?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - I know what's up, buster. I *get* what's bothering you.
YOU - I'm not entertaining that thought.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Your mind is *suspicious* — at least admit it to yourself, you pussy.
EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] - It's okay, you know. It's just a thought, just a feeling — a slow burn starting up in your chest, a glow in your solar plexus. You don't have to act on any of it. But it's better to accept it, let it move through you and dissipate.
YOU - Why?
EMPATHY - Because when you keep it bottled up inside like this, that's when the bad thoughts and then the bad things happen, Harry.
HALF LIGHT - Bad, bad things. (You love those grim, grimy, *bad* things, don't you? It's *okay* — it can be your secret.)
YOU - Fine. I may be just a little suspicious. Happy now?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - What's with the lackadaisical attitude? You used to be *passionate* about this shit. The fight, the make-up sex. You live for that because it makes you feel *alive*, and it means he *cares!*
EMPATHY - That's not passion.
VOLITION - It's immature, emotionally manipulative, *shitkid* behaviour.
AUTHORITY - It's beneath you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Maybe he's not as loyal, faithful and committed as you'd like to believe —
YOU - Shut *up*. Just shut up.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - I can't shut up — I'm autonomic, asshole.
SUGGESTION - Try not to think up wild accusations. Handle your thoughts as you would your Villiers.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - With the safety always off, and all three barrels always fully loaded. Got it!
SUGGESTION [Challenging: Failure] - I give up.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Looks like you're having a deep and meaningful conversation with your synesthesia symptoms again."
YOU - Look up blankly as he pads bare-footed into your field of view, carrying a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.
YOU - Shrug defensively.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He puts the cups down onto the bedside table, then sits down, puts his arms around you and pulls you into a hug. "I made you *weak* coffee — just in case. I'll go down for a quick run, clear my head, and pick up that breakfast juice on the way back. Give you some space to relax a bit … Okay?"
YOU - Put your arms around his hips. "You could save the run for the station gym — while I'm in the lazareth."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods, nips the lobe of your ear.
Leans over and picks up his cup of coffee.
Takes a quick sharp sip.
SUGGESTION - It's now or never.
YOU - Look him in the eye. "I — I want to talk about you."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Puts down his cup, and crosses his arms. "*Okay*. Let's waste time on that because you don't have an important appointment this morning."
RHETORIC - Ignore that.
YOU - "What did you get up to while I was in Martinaise?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "What did *I* get up to? I was busy fucking off and not cramping your style, as far as I remember."
YOU - "Yeah. I know. Because you keep reminding me."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods with approval.
YOU - "But can you elaborate, please?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - The grey eyes flash. "I was trying to run a motherfucking major crimes unit. Alone. While covering for my missing partner, with not one but two captains breathing down my neck."
SUGGESTION - Be patient.
YOU - "You've mentioned that once or twice, too. And you know I feel bad about it."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, well, if I know —"
YOU - "*Jean.*" You lift your hand in a halting gesture, then run it through his hair before resting it on his shoulder. "Jean, please. I'm not asking about *work*; I'm asking about *you*. We-we'd had a fucking *massive* fight. How did you … handle … things …?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Is taken aback.
RHETORIC - That was not an elegant or eloquent way to broach the subject. But it got the job done. You utter hack.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Pulls away to tap on his forehead, thinking. "Okay, Harry. *Okay*." He lowers his hand and stares at you. "Judit knew. She followed me around — like a shadow basically. She tried to, like, make *things* easier …"
YOU - Nod. "That's good. She's a good friend."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yeah. I was going to go to your place on Monday …"
PAIN THRESHOLD - He flinches.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "… see if you were back. Anyway, Jude went instead. She found the mail unopened. I asked around. No one had seen you over the weekend. So then I thought you're probably still up there, in Martinaise." He shrugs stiffly.
YOU - Take his hand, and slowly stroke the knuckles with your thumb. "What about when Judit wasn't around?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Squints suspiciously at you.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - He's putting it together. Namely, your earlier remark on the condoms, your *deep and meaningful conversation with your synesthesia symptoms*, your soft interrogation.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, that's an interesting story, actually." He sounds mildly excited at the chance to tell it, but looks grim. "You're not going to believe this, but I was publicly spotted in the arms of a male prostitute half my age — while in full lieutenant's uniform. No, wait … That wasn't me; that was *you*." He nods enthusiastically, then gives you a disgusted look, and tries to pull his hand free.
YOU - Tighten your hold. "Hold on. I told you we just *talked*. You were *there*. Nothing happened. I — I was confused."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Are you *sure*? Because you were ogling him like you wanted something to happen. In front of everyone." He exhales to calm his breathing. "If I didn't know you had amnesia, I'd have thought it was *on purpose*."
PAIN THRESHOLD - It hurt him.
HALF LIGHT - Oh, it did a little bit more than that.
YOU - (Squeeze his hand, stroke his knuckles.) "But you did know."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - His hand is a dead weight. "Good for me. Let's change the subject."
INLAND EMPIRE - Hang on, *was* it on purpose? Because you did know, deep, deep down, that it was him. For example, you *knew* he was wearing a wig before you decided to keep *pretending* it was his actual hair. Maybe, deep, deep down, you wanted to hurt him?
YOU - It *wasn't* on purpose.
DRAMA - Methinks my liege doth protest too much.
YOU - Meet Jean's eyes. "I just have one more question."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - He jerks his hand free, turns his head away. "Oh my God, there's more." He rubs his face, and sighs, then asks in a measured, monotonous tone, "Do we really have to do this whole thing again, Harry? What was the point of the talk down in the Quarter?"
YOU - "Will you answer just *one* more question? Just *one*?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No," he says calmly, then stares at you.
RHETORIC - Ask now or forever shut up about it.
YOU - "Did anything, you know, happen … with you?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "With *me?*" He scoffs. "Oh, *sure*." He looks away again. "*So many* things happened. There are *amazing* tea rooms all over Jamrock. And, you're not going to believe this, but one even has a hookah parlour out front and red cubicles at the back where drunk druggie bums and random strangers carrying twenty STDs can get together for blow and a blowjob."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Seriously?!
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*Cool*, right?" He meets your eyes again, nods along. "I just knew you'd agree."
PAIN THRESHOLD - A hot pain flares behind your left eye.
YOU - "If nothing happened, then you'd just say so instead of trying to —"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, *accusations*. Wow. How novel." A shadow flits across his face. He blinks angrily at you. "Nothing has changed."
YOU - "That's not true. You know it's not true." You shake your head, run your fingers back through your short hair. "Why can't you just say that nothing —?"
REACTION SPEED - You sense the air shift. Without warning, he lunges at you.
YOU - Try to move — an instinctive jerk out of his reach.
REACTION SPEED - Too late. Vicelike hands clamp around your wrists, and he thrusts you bodily to the bed, before you even know what's really happening.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - You're flat upon your back, with your arms pinned to the mattress, and his full hard weight pressed on top of you.
HALF LIGHT - A cold fear trickles down your throat as you burn all over with adrenaline.
YOU - Swallow dryly, breathe heavily. "Jean, calm down."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "*No*. No, no, no. Satisfied now? We done with this line of inquiry?"
PAIN THRESHOLD - His low voice is taut with emotion. Your stomach churns. Your wrists tingle.
YOU - Look into his dark, shiny eyes.
PAIN THRESHOLD - *Ouch*.
EMPATHY - Apologize.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Yes. You should apologize to your partner.
AUTHORITY - Immediately.
YOU - "I shouldn't have asked that — especially not after yesterday. I'm being an idiot."
EMPATHY - A gram of compassion sparks in the grey sadness.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Yes. It was stupid."
INLAND EMPIRE - But it's always about love — even when it's not. He said so. Yesterday.
YOU - "A stupid, stupid 'exchange' about love — because it's always about love, that's what you said. For example, I can feel the pressure of your love cutting off the blood flow to my hands …"
PAIN THRESHOLD - You try to twist your wrists in his grip, and he loosens his hold.
INTERFACING - He shifts his weight to the left, then drags his cool hand across your warm, slightly moist forehead, on the pretence of fixing your hair.
INLAND EMPIRE - Your perspiration transfers to his fingertips.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Fucking Harry …" Relaxes on top of you, rolls off to lie beside you. Takes a quick breath. "It *is* stupid. But it's also good. It's progress — honestly," he mumbles. "Better than you letting it turn into one of those obsessive thoughts."
EMPATHY - This is progress for him, too, even if he's deflecting it all onto you. This wound can finally start to heal properly now that it's been cleaned.
JEAN'S APARTMENT - Jean returns from the Frittte, saturated in the scent of Astra Chocolate cigarette smoke. You suck off your tropical breakfast juice, perform your showering ritual. Skip the shit and shave. Pull on your god-ass jeans, your white t-shirt, sliding them down off the shower curtain rod.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Cocoons himself in the dark plaid shirt jacket he wore yesterday as you step out of the bathroom. "Still a chill in the air out there. Need a jacket?"
YOU - "Nah, I'm good."
CONCEPTUALIZATION - You're uncomfortable when it's warm; and he always complains about the cold. The concept of wholes being bigger than their complementary parts is a central tenet of both Seolite and Samaran philosophy.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - That's a fact. There's a School of Naturalists, to this day —
YOU - "You ever notice that you don't like to be cold, whereas I don't like to be hot? You're the sunny side of the hill; I'm the shade side."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "You got the shady part right."
YOU - "Come on, Jean, admit it's a cool concept. We're a *perfect balance* of complementary parts — we are bigger when we're whole."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Agreed, Harry. We are both definitely *bigger* when we're *whole*," he says dryly while studying you. "But calling me the sunny side of anything is …" He glances down, shakes his head.
YOU - "Maybe I see you better than you see yourself."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Or maybe you're getting *cold* feet at the thought of your appointment with Nix Gottlieb?"
YOU - "*No*."
VOLITION - Don't crack the crown.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Studies you a moment longer. Then nods once. "Good," the word sighs out of him. His keys scrape and jingle as he snatches them out of the ashtray, manhandles the front door open, and indicates for you to step out into the dimly lit corridor beyond. "Come on, cold half — let's go. There's a shortcut …"
EMERGENCY STAIR - You and your partner saunter down the corridor to a fire door bearing a plastic sign that heralds *NO ENTRY* in red capitals.
AUTHORITY - You are the law. The law enters where and when it pleases.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Pardon me while I titter.
AUTHORITY - Is that dishonourable deviant daring to titter *at me*?!
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Nods at the sign. "This will take us up to the motorway, and from there it's just a short walk to the station."
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Kick in that fire door! Or put your shoulder into it.
INTERFACING - Jean tugs on the handle, opens the door.
LOGIC - Or you could try the handle first.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Now that the door is open, you hear dripping water plonking into a puddle somewhere above. In the background, a muffled traffic jam hums.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Takes a moment to empty his lungs with a sigh.
SHIVERS - Suddenly, there's an answering sigh. It exhales over the clogged motorway above, disturbing the particles of pollutants in the air. It blows in through the street-level doorway where the fire door was stolen long ago, brushing empty baggies and chewing gum wrappers into a corner already full of the city's refuse. It stirs up the stench of stale urine as it sighs down the steps towards you. Trouble lies in wait up there, it whispers. Trouble, just a breath away — if you want it.
YOU - Nod down the dimly lit corridor. "Sounds like there's a lot of traffic up there. Should we take the elevator instead?"
LOGIC - But that's the *long* way, and you need the *shortcut* this morning.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "There's always a lot of traffic up there." He taps you on the ass. "Let's go."
8/81 MOTORWAY, JAMROCK NORTH - A couple of RCM detectives, dressed for a day off, step cautiously out of the concrete cave of an emergency staircase and into the morning sun and fog.
Spring hangs in the polluted air, even up here on the motorway.
Raindrops still cling to the safety railings, dripping off at the slightest vibration.
The loud noises of engines from the traffic jam mix with the angry voices of a small crowd of protestors blocking all westbound and eastbound lanes.
The protestors wave home-made placards: *Social Democracy Now. Vaasa for Revachol! Down with the Coalition Govt. Free Revachol!*
Underneath the detectives' deceptively casual attire, pepperboxes bulge in concealment holsters, ready and willing to spit fire and lead should the dire need arise. The pair exchange looks, and then turn their attention to the protestors, grimly assessing them.
In the near distance, faded by fog, Station 41 hunches on the Central Jamrock exit ramp like a giant glittering ladybug.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "This is all we need now. More fucking unimaginative garbage politics."
SUGGESTION - Just walk away from this. You have a more important matter to attend to this morning.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - But *Vaasa for Revachol* sounds like something cooked up by Old Blonde and Ant the Idealogue.
LOGIC - The protestor could just be a Vaasan supporting Revacholians.
SUGGESTION - Don't you have an appointment to attend like *soon*?
YOU - (Whisper.) "We could just walk away for now. We're off-duty. And this is below our pay grade. We could get a junior officer to handle it — once we're at the station."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Agreed, Harry." He squints at the protestors. "But I have a hunch that this is connected to the case."
YOU - "So do I, Vic. But I also have to get that prescription …"
INLAND EMPIRE - … before you *do* get cold feet.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Checks his wristwatch. "Let's split up." He nods his goatee in the direction of Precinct 41. "You continue to the station, —"
YOU - "Uh, that's a negative." Shake your head for extra emphasis, unconsciously rubbing the side of your abdomen where you took three bullets for your partner. "As in, *no fucking way*."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Glances down at your rubbing hand, then stares right into your eyes. "You're right." He pats your shoulder a couple of times, gives it a quick squeeze. "Okay, fuck them, let's go."
8/81 MOTORWAY, JAMROCK NORTH - It's a nice day to walk right past a group of protestors as if they don't exist. You could even whistle a little tune …
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Free hugs?"
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - You see a scrawny young man approaching. His eyes have been following you for a while. He wears a bright red t-shirt that hangs down to his elbows and knees. Emblazoned on the t-shirt, white caps lock yells *FREE HUGS FOR A SOCIALLY DEMOCRATIC FREE REVACHOL*. He holds out his arms, and beams at you as he approaches, welcoming you to step into an embrace.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Go on, give the young man a big squeeze, let him feel your manly appendages.
VISUAL CALCULUS - He will be exactly one metre away from you in four steps, and he could be concealing anything under that t-shirt — even a refurbished antique gun.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Unzips his jacket.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He intends to feel for your service weapon, and try to snatch it from you, your partner thinks. It's not a free hug — it's a pat-down and hijack.
YOU - Hold out your hand in a casual halting gesture.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - Comes to a stop, two metres away, his arms still outstretched at his sides. In the comically oversized t-shirt, he looks like a scarecrow in a concrete field.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Pretends to yawn as his tired eyes follow Red Political Shirt's every micro-move. "You know what I give?" he says, casually, pretending to rub his abdomen to keep his hand close to his concealed service weapon. "I give free shrugs." He winks sarcastically.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Shrugs are cheap." The young man frowns. "What about fucks? D'you give a fuck about the people of Revachol?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm sorry. I misphrased my sentence. What I meant to say was fuck off — nobody cares about your groping fantasy."
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - The smile extinguishes from his eyes though his mouth still makes the shape. "So you don't give a fuck?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Tenses beside you. "From where I stand, you're playing right into the Coalition's hands."
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "How so?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "By disabling yourself from doing any actually useful work. You make a little protest, you get a little station call, a little criminal record. Prevents you from even being able to get a real job where you could make a difference. Actually, do you even have a job?"
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - He waves an arm at the group of despondent protestors, some of whom have decided to sit in the middle of the road with their backs to the traffic. "This is a job."
DRAMA - He sounds uncertain.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Snorts. "Are you *sure?* Must look *really* good on your résumé. What's your job title — professional protestor?"
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Public event organiser and manager."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Wow, *sounds* big time."
INLAND EMPIRE - Something about this asshole is familiar. You know what it is?
YOU - What?
INLAND EMPIRE - It's his voice. You've heard this voice before …
DRAMA - The voice of someone who has something to hide, sire.
YOU - Try to remember where and when.
SAVOIR FAIRE - His t-shirt is distracting you. Look *past* it — look at *him*.
YOU - "Who are you?"
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Just a free-hug-giver at a friendly protest."
YOU - "There's more to you than that."
PERCEPTION (HEARING) - An engine revs. A horn beeps for a full five seconds.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Easy, *pigs*," he says in a low voice. "You're supposed to be the 'cool' bacon — remember?"
INLAND EMPIRE - He was *there* when you arrested Ant the Idealogue. He was one of the Skulls who talked about the special shirts — that side-quest you handed to Mack and Chester — when you were eavesdropping from the stormwater drain.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Then you know that I also hand out free misdemeanour forms."
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Oh, a free misdemeanour form. Yeah, I've heard of those paradoxical pieces of cheap paper."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Obviously."
YOU - Check your watch, then glance at the station in the clearing fog, before returning your attention to the young man. "You're one of the Skulls from the Quarter …"
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - Nods and beams at you again. "So let's chat and get to know each other, nice and friendly, at a nice and friendly protest."
YOU - "We'd love to stay and chat, but can't right now. Let's meet somewhere later, okay?"
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "La Laverie Rouge — know it?"
YOU - "It rings a vague bell."
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "It's a speakeasy posing as a laundromat."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - A *speakeasy* laundromat?! Oh. My. God. Let's do the laundry, Harry. We've got shitloads of it piled up! We'll be there *all night*.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Doing the laundry is so boring, who wouldn't want to get drunk?
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Buy you a drink 'cause I have a job."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Time to get your drink on *for the job*! Take one for the blue team!
VOLITION - Piss yourself and pass out for the police, more like. Are you honestly excited at the prospect? I mean, seriously? Is it more exciting than that gold ring on your finger?
YOU - Flick your wedding band with your thumb, spinning it round and round your finger.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Little flashes of gold in your peripheral vision.
YOU - Now that I pause to analyse it, it's more a feeling of …
HALF LIGHT - … dread. Cold dread. The apocalyptic kind. τὸ ἀντίξουν συμφέρον καὶ ἐκ τῶν διαφερόντων καλλίστην ἁρμονίαν καὶ πάντα κατ' ἔριν γίνεσθαι. Isn't that what you tried to explain to Jean as you left the apartment? And he understood — he knows it so intimately it's just more apathy.
INLAND EMPIRE - But excitement and terror feel so similar, sometimes you confuse the two.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Pain and pleasure, too. Our threshold is high.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Is staring at you.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "20:00 tonight. Let's see if Ant's right about you and your social interests …"
JEAN VICQUEMARE - Turns back to the red shirt Skull. "We'd love to, but unfortunately, my partner and I prefer coffee, and legal establishments. La Guêpe Rouge — same time tonight."
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Okay, fine. Boring pigs."
YOU - "Wait. I have questions."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Okay, fine, but they better be able to serve a double-shot of real Saramirizian airship fuel at this coffeehouse, buddy. You can still get your sex on, anyway, afterwards. Give Boring Cop over here a big-time blowjob. Drink straight from *his* bottle. In public! I *dare* you. *Yes*, this is a *great* idea!
INLAND EMPIRE - You can absolutely *imagine* it - the devil is in all the exquisite details.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - "Like what?"
VOLITION - Stop fantasizing, and concentrate on the Skull. Be present. This is important.
YOU - Focus your thoughts. Tug on your t-shirt collar a couple of times to let your body heat escape into the brisk air. "Like on instigating simmering citizens into another civil war and another failed state."
VOLITION - Good.
JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Like kidnapping and enslaving les petits rats. What are your thoughts on *that*?"
EMPATHY - You should ask Jean about that, when you get a moment. Add it to your tasks. Because you're not the only one dreading a trip down into the underworld again, though your reasons differ.
YOU - It's added. I feel bad for not asking already.
INLAND EMPIRE - Something's up with him. You've already noticed. Maybe it's that?
WOMEN'S RIGHTS - "Excuse me, is this the correct protest?" asks a woman's voice to your left.
RED POLITICAL SHIRT - Turns his attention to the woman, and beams a shit-grinning welcome as he flips out his arms again. "Free hugs! Welcome to our friendly protest against the Coalition government!"
WOMEN'S RIGHTS - "The Coalition? But they *care* about women's rights!"
THE LEDGER - Can't an exhausted officer and his blue-souled ledger take a couple of measly days off?
Anyway, after arranging to meet Ant the Idealogue's Skulls, you rock up to the station, and make your way to the lazareth at the back for your *medical examination* with NG — everybody's favourite medic …
LAZARETH, PRECINCT 41 - Bright white slabs of light hang from the ceiling, burning through a fug of antiseptic so strong you're sure it sterilizes even the climate-controlled air down here. Cold metal everywhere — even under your ass as you sit across from the medic cracking his jaw around a chunk of caramel candy as he writes up your script for antidepressants.
NIX GOTTLIEB - Drops his fancy pen in a stainless steel tray, then hunches over his desk to hand you the script.
YOU - Take it, fold it in half, pocket it.
NIX GOTTLIEB - Leans back in his squeaky leather chair. "So, you've stopped drinking …" His bloodshot blue eyes narrow and sharpen onto you. "Have you stopped smoking, too?" He sniffs. "All I can smell is Satellite-Officer Vicquemare's favoured flavour …"
REACTION SPEED - Fire deflection torpedo!
YOU - Shake your head. "Have you — stopped smoking, I mean?"
INLAND EMPIRE - Deflection in the water!
NIX GOTTLIEB - Tosses his head back in wheezy laughter. Then takes a moment to light a fresh cigarette.
INLAND EMPIRE - A direct hit!
PERCEPTION (SMELL) - Tutti-frutti sweetens the air, mixing chemical cherries and pineapples with the antiseptic.
ENDURANCE - Franky disgusting.
NIX GOTTLIEB - "The law states that each consultation must last for a minimum of fifteen minutes, and I've just spent five minutes reminding you about how to hack your dopamine, serotonin, endorphins and oxytocin *without* the assistance of bottled and bagged goodies." He blinks at the gold band on your ring finger, follows it with his eyes. "So," he taps the armrests of his chair, accidentally ashing his cigarette onto the floor, "do you have any other *pressing* medical concerns?"
HALF LIGHT - Martinaise. The swallow. Your pale exposure.
AUTHORITY - You promised your partner that this matter would not leave his apartment. Breaking that promise would be most dishonourable.
RHETORIC - You don't have to be open and direct about it.
DRAMA - Meaning, *lie*.
YOU - "You ever deal with any cops who were irradiated by pale?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - Narrows his eyes again. "Because of that wealthy mother and son you brought in?"
YOU - "Yeah." You nod, and lean forward in your seat, emphasising with a flap of your hand. "That's *exactly* it. What are we dealing with here?"
DRAMA - A candid half-truth. Oh, well done, sire! That was going to be Our Wise Council.
NIX GOTTLIEB - Exhales thick lazy smoke signals as he asks, "Haven't you heard, detective?"
YOU - Frown. "Heard what?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - Sighs, folds his hands over his flat stomach, his fingertips yellowish against the white of his coat. "The ICP turned up early this morning, and took those two off our hands."
HALF LIGHT - What the fuck?!
YOU - Startle so badly your metal chair screeches. "Sorry — what?!"
HALF LIGHT - The lazareth suddenly feels even colder. The white light glares down at you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - This is bad. This is really, really bad.
NIX GOTTLIEB - "I was summoned to see Pryce soon after he found out about it." He shrugs, but there's real anxiety in his eyes.
INLAND EMPIRE - You've seen eyes like that gazing into yours so many times in the mirror. Too many times.
YOU - "Wait. Is the captain okay?"
NIX GOTTLIEB - Nods. "You should speak to him, I suppose."
YOU - "I will. Thanks." You stand up. "Look, about that fifteen-minute rule … This is an emergency — I really need to go."
NIX GOTTLIEB - Nods, waves you off. "Don't forget to buy and eat your medicine *every day*. Do you remember what happened last time when you stopped suddenly?"
PAIN THRESHOLD - *Ouch*.
INLAND EMPIRE - Double ouch. That was *not* something I wanted to be reminded of out of the blue. He ambushed me!
YOU - "Yeah. I do." Don't think about it. "Thanks for reminding me."
NIX GOTTLIEB - "Just doing my job. See me again in exactly one month."
YOU - Glance back at him and nod on your way out.
C-WING - You and your partner agreed to meet here, but you're earlier than expected, so he isn't back from clearing his mind at the station gym yet.
YOU - Walk automatically over to your desk while looking around the deserted wing — no clicking coffee cups, no cigarette smoke, no ringing telephones. Should I find him at the gym, or exercise patience …?
YOUR DESK - Someone has refreshed your reading material. Look — there's a piece of paper with the captain's stamp on it. Means he's approved a request. What have you requested lately — a new motor carriage, perhaps?
YOU - I wish. What has Pryce approved?
INTERFACING - You pick up the typed letter with the captain's stamp.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT) - Oh! Cuno's laissez-faire position!
ESPRIT DE CORPS - The young brother will be able to support himself through junior officer school now. This *is* good news.
INLAND EMPIRE - Yep. Sparklers and cake news. We should make a little party for him — he's probably never had one in his life.
YOU - Nod at the letter.
EMPATHY - Don't try to fake excitement you don't feel. Today has been tough — your lack of excitement is justified.
SUGGESTION - Maybe there's some more good news in the pile?
YOUR DESK - There's a clipping from the *Périphérique* — but probably nothing nearly as exciting as the article that led you to the tarnished silver ring the other day.
YOU - Smile despite your blue mood as you turn on your heel to exit C-Wing and dash off to the gym.
INLAND EMPIRE - Stop. Wait. Help is right in front of you.
YOU - Huh?
INLAND EMPIRE - Yes. The *Périphérique* article you fished out of the gutter claimed that a *recent* study at the *Ecole normal de Revachol* was gag-ordered by the ICP after researching *what*?
YOU - An infra-materialist hypothesis, blah blah —
INLAND EMPIRE - Yes, yes, but about *what*?
YOU - The pale.
INLAND EMPIRE - That's got to be better than asking a couple of cryptozoologists, right? (As nice as it would be to see them again.) These academics might even *be* entroponauts. You could potentially kill two birds with one stone —
YOU - Jean hates that idiom.
RHETORIC - Correct.
INLAND EMPIRE - We'll never use it again, then. Happy now?
YOU - Yes. Continue.
INLAND EMPIRE - You could ask the gagged academics about pale exposure for yourself *and* potentially find out more about the Ruperts, because —
HALF LIGHT - Maybe there really is a Remote Viewers Division — only in the ICP, not the RCM? Oh, God, Harry. Maybe they're triangulating onto *you* right now with their psionic abilities!
VOLITION - You need to pull your shit together. Right *now*. You don't wear a tin-foil hat — *you* wear an RCM lieutenant's cap because you *earned it* by *working hard*.
YOU - Take a deep breath, pull your shit together, and exit C-Wing.