Chapter Text
You: You do not speak about it.
INLAND EMPIRE: You think about it though. It’s hard to think of anything else.
You: You do not speak about it as Kim slips out of your grip and over to the window, gesturing to you to keep low and out of sight, out of range of stray shots. As you feed him the information to add to his notes, as the case spills open starkly in front of you.
LOGIC: Coalition eyes meeting with burnt-out cops, leaking RCM secrets like the precinct’s last remaining Coupris 40 leaks motor oil all over the motor pool. The RCM shouldn't even have secrets from the Coalition, the case whispers to you. You're their lapdogs. Who are you to bite back at the hand that feeds you?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: But you know, even as you repeat in hushed whispers to Kim what is said, that nothing will come of it. No arrests are made; no punitive justice metered out. How can justice be delivered when they have the rear-loading weapons, the armour, the confidential information? The coalition have you tied in a neat little bow. They bomb you into oblivion and leave the RCM to take the blame for cleanup duty. They have their committees and enquiries to point to all the failures of the RCM all while using you as a nice, convenient shield. No one will go down for this. They've got their red tape shield. All that comes from your long nights of no sleep and mind numbing work is a list of names- officers who cannot be trusted.
HALF-LIGHT: You can't trust anyone. Anyone except the man beside you.
You: You don't even speak about the kiss when you get home, although perhaps that is because you are too tired to manage words. Kim’s face is pinched with exhaustion, his tone shifting between matter-of-fact and snappish, on the drive home. He takes the 8/81 around Eminent Domain even faster than usual, and drives much less smoothly, his hand resting hard on the speed lever, jolting at the brake every time he goes round the corner. You half crawl up his apartment stairs in the early hours of the morning. You follow Kim like a lost puppy, not sure if this is where you're meant to go, and he accepts you into his flat unquestioningly. Without words. There is not even an attempt to create an excuse for you to be there. There's no chance you're going to be doing paperwork at three in the morning.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim doesn’t even bother turning the apartment lights on. He toes off his boots, kicks them aside, and throws himself face first at his pillows like he's trying to knock himself out. He doesn't even take the glasses off. He leaves the bedroom door open, and you have a moment of confusion over whether he still wants you to sleep on the sofa, but then he makes a sleepy sound of frustration and lifts the other edge of the blanket for you to get in. Something that sounds vaguely like come here.
You: You quickly shuck off your jacket, kick off your disco shoes and remove your tie, and check yourself to make sure you don't smell too bad.
PERCEPTION: It's not great , but you can roll with it.
You: You crawl into bed beside him, still half-expecting him to kick you out, but he just makes a small satisfied sound and immediately falls asleep. You lie stock-still beneath his thick wool blanket, scared to move in case you disturb him.
EMPATHY: He needs the rest far more than you do. He is usually far better at stopping you from overreaching his boundaries.
HALF-LIGHT: Exhaustion opens him up like a corpse on a morgue table, lets you have a good old rummage around in the organs.
PERCEPTION: His room is small, mostly dominated by the bed. There is a small plywood table on his side on which lies a forgotten glass of water from the previous night, coated on the surface with floating dust, and two books. A biography of a tip top tournee driver, and a scifi book in a green-chequered library dust jacket. Something about spaceships. The book is thick and wordy; you can only imagine how complex the world building surrounding the mechanics is.
CONCEPTUALISATION: The lieutenant has limited imagination. He enjoys experiencing flights of fantasy via in-depth accounts of spaceship maintenance. A true torque dork.
KIM KITSURAGI: He makes a sound in his sleep. He's dreaming.
INLAND EMPIRE: Tomorrow morning, while you give yourself a cursory sink bath and redress yourself in yesterday's clothes, Kim will blearily press his face to your still-warm pillow and breathe in. You smell, to him, like sweat and cigarettes. Like ozone and like the cheap grapefruit shower gel that you apparently kept in your locker in the precinct changing room before your memory loss. He will want to lie there forever. In the warmth of your shadow. He will be too exhausted to freak out about anything. He will feel more content than he has in a long time. When you return to him with a steaming mug of his weird herbal tea in hand, his lungs may even glow beneath the white wool blanket. You can't be sure.
PERCEPTION: You feel the impact of an arm flung over your chest and a knee slides over your hip.
CONCEPTUALISATION: You are being spooned.
EMPATHY: Apparently Kim is a cuddly sleeper. Who knew?
You: But you still don't talk about it.
LOGIC: And then there's the revelations to deal with.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: So. The Coalition has eyes on the RCM and ears on you too. That's not surprising, not really. But some of the names-
INLAND EMPIRE: Pryce is in his office when you debrief him, unspooling the thread of your notes. You give a detailed description of that night, of everything you heard. There are certain things omitted from your narrative. When you get to the list of leaks, he leans forward and pinches his brow in frustration. Blackwood, precinct 34, Terrè, precinct 46, Marekova. Precinct 57. Fucking… Marekova. I trained her. She used to get so angry at other officers accepting bribes. We work for the people, not for the money. That's what she used to say.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The precinct is buzzing, after. No one outside of your unit is quite sure why, but there's an electricity in the streets they've never seen before.
PERCEPTION: When you and Kim take your regular patrol along Boogie Street, there’s an energy in the air that you can’t quite place. It’s not like other periods of unrest that you’ve had before, the buzz in the air around the tournee season when people are betting and boozing and fighting, or when there’s tension between the various gangs in the area and people stumble out of alleyways with knives sticking out of their lungs. It’s an electrical tension. Everyone is excited, but no one is getting violent. Yet.
RHETORIC: It’s political tension.
INLAND EMPIRE: In Revachol West, in the financial district of La Delta, a group of students start a camp-out in front of the Bank of the World and INSURCOM building. There’s always some kind of protest going on there, on Enlightenment Street, mostly kept in check by the rear-loaded-gun wielding security guards that lurk outside the glass-fronted entrance and on the balconies above, but it swells and grows over the next few days into a little tent city.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Enlightenment Road is one of the main thoroughfares in the financial district, well lit and grey with excessively modern architecture. It is lined on either side with bronze statues of various political and philosophical figures throughout the ages. One is of Dolores Dei, another of Irene Le Navigateur. The statues are controversial, the local populations never consulted on the figures chosen for the statuary, which has led to the inclusion of several economic theorists considered responsible for the current state of Revachol. Their statues are regularly covered with graffito, despite the constant armed guards that patrol outside the more important buildings with their rear-loading weapons.
INLAND EMPIRE: A young girl with red hair and thick glasses brings a portable tea urn and hands out warm mugs of chai to anyone who joins their sit-in, until the guards decide that it’s too much of a threat and confiscate it. An older woman with pale brown eyes in a thick woollen headscarf places herself at the end of the row. She doesn’t speak the language, although she understands it, but she sits and takes the hand of the person beside her and squeezes tightly enough that her solidarity is understood and accepted. A man, with a red windburned face and a thick dark beard, stands shouting intricate threats into the mirrored glass windows until the security guards in their black turtlenecks and their vitreous enamel under–armour remove him.
SHIVERS: The crowd grows and swells like a living organism.
EMPATHY: Behind the mirrored glass walls, fear begins to seed.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Over the next few days there are people visiting, people who would never be seen dead in the Old Silk Mill otherwise. There are huge amounts of money changing hands. Crates being moved, delivered to people that even a few weeks ago would have done everything in their power to keep the RCM out of their affairs. Torson and McClaine are sent out as glorified delivery boys, in plain clothes, on foot, seeding information in different factions all around the city. Seeking out leaders willing to speak, though they're few and far between. Gangs, unions, charity workers, student groups, anyone with a voice, anyone who knows about the gun lockers beneath the city. Three union bosses- debardeurs, tram workers, ouvriers d'usine- visit Pryce over the next few days. He rolls down the blinds in his office and you all try to pretend you can't hear the raised voices, although at this point you all know what's happening and are just avoiding saying it.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Pryce is gathering his allies.
RHETORIC: And why would they work with him? Trust comes too easily.
HALF-LIGHT: The great blood-letting, the unravelling of everything. It is close at hand.
EMPATHY: He's enjoying this.
LOGIC: No surprise. The captain of the Bloody Murder Precinct finds the threat of violence exciting.
EMPATHY: It lights up his eyes. You're scared by it, sometimes, the hunger that you see there. The hungry calm.
LOGIC:And he won't share his plans. Not really. You're going in blind.
KIM KITSURAGI: He swears more and more often these days, quietly, to himself. Especially when, during your brief lunch breaks, he finds time to read the newspaper and do some of his daily crossword. He turns it to you one day to show you the second-largest headline. RCM Caught in Yet Another Scandal , the headline says. Trite bullshit, pandering to people’s worst fears. Something about funding and bribes and a Moralintern spokesman saying that no body is above the law. The irony of that is not lost on you. It has the whiff of a smear campaign about it. “It really is happening, isn’t it?” You hear him say.
Old Silk Mill: It is a dull, calm afternoon when you see Pryce appear by your desk-side.
CONCEPTUALISATION: [Easy: Failure] You usually see him sat behind his own neat desk. It is weird seeing him from the waist down. Sometimes you forget he has legs.
VOLITION: Your brain is spewing out absolute dogshit. You really need some sleep. You haven’t written a thing in the last ten minutes, although the page is spread out in front of you and the pen is in your hand.
LOGIC: Life carries on in Revachol, even with the way that things seem to be unravelling in the background. Murders to be solved. Burglaries. Petty thefts. Someone has commandeered an excavator from a Jamrock Central building site and used it to liberate the built in cash machine from the side of a Frittte!, getting away with about seven hundred real. A man has been found face down dead on a blood-soaked mattress in a bed frame sales room. Mysteries to solve.
PERCEPTION: At the desk in front of you, Kim is slumped a little. His usually rigid posture is softened around the shoulders, his chin resting on his hand as he taps his pen on his teeth. The moment he sees Pryce he sits bolt upright again.
Ptolemaios Pryce: “Du Bois, Kitsuragi,” he says.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Sir?” Kim says, looking up from his desk and readjusting his glasses on his nose.
Ptolemaios Pryce: “You’ve been here since five,” he says, tutting. “And you were in for twelve yesterday too. Fourteen the day before. Thirteen the day before that. I’m not going to start paying overtime, you know, we don’t have the budget for it.”
ENDURANCE: You are absolutely fucking drained.
VOLITION: The body is not meant to endure this. Not for this duration. You will start to shut down if you keep pushing this. Kim is not far behind, either.
You: “I want to be close to the precinct, in case-”
Ptolemaios Pryce: He inclines his head. He understands. But. “You haven’t taken a break for two weeks, either of you. It ain’t good for the heart,” he says. “Overwork. Ain’t good for the force either if the two of you are too wiped out to do anything.”
You: “But-”
LOGIC: But this is the way of the precinct. This is how you live.
ENDURANCE: You don't stop. You keep going forever.
Ptolemaios Pryce: “Go home, Du Bois. And you, lieutenant.”
HALF-LIGHT: I don't trust this. I don't trust this at all.
LOGIC: Where is all this coming from? He's not given a single shit about burnout in the past.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I assure you, Sir, I am perfectly capable-” He is interrupted by a yawn that rips through him spine-first.
Ptolemaios Pryce: “We need you strong for what’s coming up next, alright?” It is said with an intensity that you don’t normally see in the calm Captain, and it makes you think of the awe in Cuno’s voice when he talks about Pryce’s reputation. He’s smoked thousands.
LOGIC: What is he doing, exactly? What is he playing at?
RHETORIC: Ideological inconsistancy. Confusion.
EMPATHY: There's more going on here than you'll ever understand. You don't really need to.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Just follow orders, right? Machinations continue above your head.
Ptolemaios Pryce: “You need a break.” Kim clearly doesn’t look convinced because Pryce turns and stares him down. “Things are hotting up and it will likely turn bad soon, alright? We need you fighting fit. Go home. Rest. That’s an order, Kitsuragi.”
AUTHORITY: And who are you to disobey a direct order?
So you and Kim share a glance, and simultaneously you both pick up your things and head out of the precinct.
PERCEPTION: It is early afternoon, around three. Schools haven’t let out yet, and the streets are mostly empty as you make your way down towards Kim’s tenement building a few blocks away. It’s automatic. You don’t even think about it; you just follow him.
You: “How come you listen to Pryce and not me when he tells you to rest?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He swallows a silent laugh and looks over at you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edge. A just-for-you smile. “Because Pryce is my superior officer?”
AUTHORITY: Oh, you cannot let him get away with that. Show him just how superior you are.
EMPATHY: Absolutely do not do that. Why would you do that?
You: “Technically I’m your superior officer, too.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He raises an eyebrow. The Eyebrow of Authority. “And yet,” he says, his mouth a smug little twist.
AUTHORITY: [Impossible: Failure] And yet. If he told you to sit and beg, right here in the street, you would.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And he knows it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: That gives you some Very Good squirmy feelings that you’re too tired to delve into right now.
AUTHORITY: You’re an embarrassment to the uniform, Chief.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Khm. So what do you want to do with your time, now the world's ending?"
EMPATHY: Kim is joking, mostly, but a little bit not.
KIM KITSURAGI: "How will you spend your last day of freedom?"
You: "I imagined it." You grimace. Dark times. Bad thoughts. "I used to think I'd just go to a bar. The nice one, on Rue l'Majne, with the chatty waitresses. Get drunk, like just absolutely blitzed. Turn my brain into a nice pink smoothie."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sounds great! Let's start with the bottle of whiskey you know that Jean keeps in his desk and go from there.
EMPATHY: The way he's wavering beside you right now, Kim may even join you.
SHIVERS: No. You will be needed.
KIM KITSURAGI: "And now?" He raises an eyebrow at you. “What do you want to do?”
You: "Sleep," you say honestly.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Me too."
You: "I guess you want your apartment back to yourself, then." You don't look forward to the prospect of heading back to your old apartment. Judit helped you clean it out, but now it just feels too clinical. The framed blue uniform on the pale yellow wall looks like an autopsy bruise.
KIM KITSURAGI: He very deliberately doesn't look at you. "I don't mind," he says neutrally.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: That, for him, is practically as good as a proposition.
KIM KITSURAGI: "It's nice having someone else around."
You: "Hmm," you hum in agreement. "Helps stop the doom spirals."
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you sideways, nodding slowly. "Khm. Yes," he says. He looks like he might say something else, but stops himself before it can leave his throat. "And it's closer," he says instead. "In case something happens at the precinct."
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah yeah yeah, sure. Whatever. We both know that he’s inviting you back to bone.
VOLITION: I don’t think that’s entirely accurate, but-
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sexy end-of-days fun, funky baby! Nothing gets you going like impending doom does. Let’s cut to the chase and get freaky in one of these convenient little alleyways!
VOLITION: [Hard: Failure] He doesn’t want to fuck you, Harry.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] At least not right now. Not while he’s struggling with the concept of walking in a straight line because he’s so exhausted.
SUGGESTION: You’ll never know if you don’t ask.
KIM KITSURAGI: Your hands bump together as you climb the stairs to his place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you when you very slightly run your pinky finger over the back of his glove. When you hook your finger around his, linking you together, he lets out a nearly imperceptible breath.
You: “Kim,” you say. “Do you-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are we-” He starts at the same time, then dips his eyes away from you. “Khm. Sorry.”
You: “You go first.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No, you.” He untangles his hand from yours to fumble with his keys and get the door open.
PHYSICAL ENDURANCE: This is embarrassing. You are stumbling around like a teenager. Blushing like a wöman.
RHETORIC: Don’t be sexist. The phrase ‘like a woman’ is derogatory and-
PHYSICAL ENDURANCE: Fuck off, you wokescöld.
You: You tune out the voices, stepping over the threshold and kicking off your crocodile green shoes. You take a breath and turn. “Do you-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He locks the door behind you and is right there suddenly, impossibly close to your face. You immediately lose track of your thoughts, your brain turning into pleasantly pine-scented mush. Kim’s eyes dip, very slowly, to your half-open mouth. “Sit down, detective,” he says. “Let me get you a drink.”
You: “Oh, it’s alright. I can do it. Let me -” you make an aborted motion, attempting to step towards his little kitchenette area, but the Eyebrow stops you in your tracks.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I said sit down, detective.”
AUTHORITY: Alright. Okay. Alright.
You: You sit down obediently, like a good dog. You slide uncomfortably onto the too-hard sofa, despite your best efforts to sink in . It is overstuffed and the springs beneath the cushions jab out unpleasantly; discomfiting enough that it distracts you slightly, until Kim returns.
KIM KITSURAGI: He has taken off his black RCM jacket and rolled up the sleeves neatly to the elbows. There are two mugs of hot herbal tea in his hands; two cups, both white. One is decorated with a stylistic black swallow. The other is a promotional mug for Speedfreaks FM, featuring flames and wheels and discotheque lights. He hands you that one, looking vaguely embarrassed about it.
You: It’s extremely good, the tea. He’s put practically half a bag of sugar in it, knowing that you like it sweet enough to kill, and the tea itself is some rich mixture of cinnamon and dried orange peel.
KIM KITSUTAGI: Kim settles himself on the sofa beside you. He’s still wearing most of his uniform; the shirt and tie, the black slacks, the shiny polished boots. He sips his tea.
PERCEPTION: His face twitches slightly. He’s burnt his tongue, and he’s trying not to show it. He’s more nervous than he’s trying to let on, hands fidgeting around the rim of his mug.
KIM KITSURAGI: “What were you going to say earlier, lieutenant?” he asks. His eyes are twinkling, just a little.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He’s laughing at you, chief.
VOLITION: At how easy you are to fluster, especially when you’re this tired. It’s already impossible to keep you on track when you’re fully functioning. Half-asleep, your already shit attention span becomes dire .
You: You really can’t remember what you were going to say.
VOLITION: The lieutenant is waiting for you to say something. Anything. Come on, Harry.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s looking at you. Face impassive, except for the crinkles round his eyes. As the silence goes on he tilts his head at you.
INLAND EMPIRE: Wondering briefly if you’ve broken again, like when you mentioned your gun to Joyce.
SUGGESTION: You should touch him. Put your hands on the sharp planes of his cheeks. Put a hand on his chest.
You: “I can’t remember,” you say. Then you close the space between you on the sofa and kiss him, your hands coming up to either side of his neck. He stiffens slightly, lips still warm from the tea.
EMPATHY: He wasn’t expecting you to be so forward.
KIM KITSURAGI: But then his hands come up to the back of your head and his fingers wrap into your hair, pulling tightly on the greying strands.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Ouch. Tears threaten at the corners of your eyes.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Fuck yeah, baby. He knows you so well .
KIM KITSURAGI: He tugs back hard so that you are forced to follow. For a moment your gut flashes with anxiety, scared you’ve done something wrong, and you move to pull away, but his grip is unyielding. He just holds you there, a few inches from his face, and examines you with slightly narrowed eyes. Assessing the situation.
You: How’s it looking?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Bad. Your face is blotchy and red from years of mistreatment, and though your nose has deflated a little, now that you have stopped soaking it in Potent Pilsner every night, it is still too large for your face. A sad red clown nose. Your eyes are watery all the time, even when you’re not actually upset, and you probably don’t smell great.
PERCEPTION: I can confirm. You do, in fact, not smell great.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s a nice face though. Solid foundations. The ladies all love a Perikarnassian nose.
KIM KITSURAGI: He grins. Flashes white, wolfish teeth. An electrical little grin that makes you shiver like the energy in the air outside. His grip tightens impossibly in your hair.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And the gentlemen, apparently.
PAIN THRESHOLD: The lieutenant is anything but gentle as he brings his mouth to yours again. Weeks of repressed frustration, exhaustion, longing, all come pouring out into your glowing lungs.
HALF-LIGHT: You want to breathe him in forever.
KIM KITSURAGI: His teeth skim your lower lip sharply, and he bites down suddenly. You feel him huff out a laugh at the embarrassing sound that you make.
EMPATHY: He’s much more comfortable like this, when he’s in control. Giving you what you need. And it’s not exactly a chore for him either, the encouraging little sounds he makes as you palm at his chest. He doesn’t even seem to mind the unwashed fragrance that sloughs off you in waves, pressing his nose to your mutton chops and breathing in deeply.
KIM KITSURAGI: He shifts himself on the sofa so that he’s half on top of you, your big thigh pressed between his, and pushes until your back hits the unnervingly solid sofa cushion. His hips roll forward slowly, and his eyes flutter shut for a second. “What do you want, detective?” He says, his voice a low hum against your cheek. His glasses are getting in the way so he takes them off and sets them down on the coffee table next to his tea mug. “Tell me. Use your words.”
COMPOSURE: [Legendary: Failure] The only sound that leaves your mouth is a pitiful whimper. Your hand is busy trying to untuck his shirt from his pants so that you can finally get your hands on his skin.
KIM KITSURAGI: He unwinds one hand from your hair to catch your groping wrist and pin it to your side. “Use your words, ” he says again.
You: Um. Uh… What do I want?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You want him to sit on your face. You want him to smother you with his surprisingly muscular thighs. You want him to spit directly into your mouth. You want him to choke you until all you see are the twin stars of his eyes glinting in the hazy floating space beyond your unfocused eyes.
HALF-LIGHT: You want so many things, brother, and there just isn’t time.
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Say something sexy. Something that accurately conveys just how much you carnally desire him.
VOLITION: [Medium: Failure] Say something romantic.
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Failure] No, wait!
You: “I want to make you happy,” you say clumsily. “Just… I just want to make you happy.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Well, that was painfully effeminate.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Congratulations. You’ve successfully killed the mood. Even the lieutenant’s raw sex appeal cannot fix this.
EMPATHY: Don’t be ridiculous. Pay attention.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant’s eyes have darkened, his mouth falling open slightly, and his left hand clenches where he’s holding your wrist still. Nails dimpling your skin.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh. Oh. Apparently there’s something about naked, pathetic honesty that really does it for him. You can feel him against your thigh, his hips stuttering slightly at the flare of arousal that your words send through him.
KIM KITSURAGI: He lunges for you again, more of a fight than a kiss, wrestling you back against the couch until your head is bent back and he is on your lap looming over you with his hands now coming up and cupping the sides of your face. Your own hand is set free so you resume your previous mission of trying to touch as much of his bare skin as you can. Your hands fumble with the white pressed cotton, but they find their way underneath. You run your broad hands over the bumps of his spine. You can feel the ghosts of his ribs through his skin. The way he’s looking at you hurts.
PERCEPTION: His eyes still slightly narrowed, straining to try and get you in focus. To drink in as much of your face as he can. His fingers card through your beard, the surprisingly soft wiry hair.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You do,” he says against your lips. “You do make me happy. You do.”
You: “Fuck,” you breathe. “Tell me what to do. What do you want? Anything.” The words don’t come out quite right, all blending together into one long stream of sound. You could be speaking Ancient Samaran for all you know.
KIM KITSURAGI: He presses his forehead against yours. One hand drags from your cheek, down your neck, over your very sensitive chest. “Jacket off,” he says. “And shirt.”
You: You shrug off your jacket obediently, and let it drop to the side. Then your red tie and your disco silk shirt. You’re too foggy-headed to make it sexy, to try and tease it out, and it wouldn’t work anyway. You’re a sad, vaguely man-shaped blob.
KIM KITSURAGI: But Kim’s grin widens. He presses his face to your shoulder and bites down hard at the joint there, and then trails open-mouthed kisses to your flab-softened chest-
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: -your extremely impressive pecs-
KIM KITSURAGI: -to the soft dip at your sternum. One hand rests over the top of your left lung. He breathes in deeply. Like a lizard or a snake, some cold-blooded creature, basking in the warmth of a heat lamp. He runs both hands over the swell of your belly, nails scraping lightly over your skin, just hard enough that you really feel it. Then one hand dips lower. He palms you roughly through your awful mustard yellow disco pants, his elegant hands pulling hissing huffs of breath out of you. You are achingly hard, and you can’t help but try to lift your hips, to get more friction. He immediately withdraws his hand, lips twisted in a smirk, and soothes your ruffled feathers with a kiss.
CONCEPTUALISATION: A cockatoo, crest raised, tormented by an unyielding mate.
You: “Please,” you say without realising you’re speaking until it comes out.
KIM KITSURAGI: He hushes you, stroking your hair. His hands are everywhere, overwhelming. “Be patient, detective,” he says. “Do you-” And he stops. The flush rising up the back of his neck.
EMPATHY: Don’t react. Just let him speak. He’s being vulnerable with you right now.
KIM KITSURAGI: He breathes slowly. His face is carefully blank, his only tell the dark spots of red on the outer shell of his ears. “Do you want to fuck me?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He doesn’t even need to ask. He could ride you like one of the precinct’s fucking police horses if he wanted.
EMPATHY: But this is the lieutenant. He doesn’t offer this to just anyone.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: How long has it been, since he’s asked this?
INLAND EMPIRE: Years. He would lie about it if you asked him. It’s like the one-a-day cigarette for him, a game of denial. A game that’s coming to an end.
HALF-LIGHT: This is the end of the world, speaking through him. He’s losing his grip on that rigid self control. If a bullet finds him in the coming days, all this self discipline will have been for nothing. Staying alive is no use if you deny yourself an excellent reason for living.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Look at the flush rising up his throat, the sweat on his brow, his huge pupils all starry-eyed and open.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Vulnerability like a cut-glass vase on the edge of a shelf, teetering on the precipice. Ready to shatter into a thousand million little needle-shards.
EMPATHY: He really truly trusts you.
You: You are entranced. “Fuck yes.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He kisses you again, quickly, and then stands, tugging your hand to pull you up from the sofa. You follow after him. Like a dog on a leash. His. He brings you to his bedroom.
HALF-LIGHT: The bed, with its smooth white sheets, will make a perfect sacrificial altar.
You: Your knees, already weak, give way before you reach the bed. Kim sits back, hard, on the edge, and you push yourself between his legs and run your nose along the inside of his thigh. Your hand crawls up the outside. He smells so good, like cool spring air and faint piney greenness. Citrus soap, maybe. Then something else, something natural and deliciously human beneath it all. The rough fabric of his uniform trousers grazes over your soft cheek, bunches up underneath your fingers. You graze over the slim pocket on the side, where another Mnemotechnique A6 is tucked away. The loop where he normally hangs his handcuffs on the outer side of the belt. Drinking in every detail.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Handcuffs. Now there’s an idea to get the blood pumping.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Not that you need any help in that area.
ENDURANCE: Just the sight of the lieutenant, his head tipped back and his lovely throat exposed, is enough to bring you to the edge. We can’t draw this out much longer. There’s little hope for a round two at your age.
LOGIC: You’re not even that old, Harry. It’s not your age. It’s the near-consistent self-abuse that’s whittled you away.
PAIN THRESHOLD: There is a seam in your awful disco pants that is pressing down painfully against your dick whenever you move wrong, sending white sparks across your vision. It is not unpleasant, but it is dangerous if you want this to last.
KIM KITSURAGI: A hand comes down and winds into your hair, and when you look up Kim is looking down at you.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Everything feels righted, somehow, in the universe. The Pale stops its doom-march towards you, for a brief moment.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry,” he says softly. “My boots.”
You: You nod, mouth dry. Your hands come down to his calf, to the knot of laces. You carefully untie the knot, unwind the shoestrings with the gentle devotion of one of Dolores Dei’s Therriers tending to the living saint. Your hands move over the polished black leather. Perfect. Unmarred by the dirt of the city streets. Palm cupping the heel, you carefully pull one off, and then the other. Reverent. He tilts his head forward and watches you, lips parted, eyes like black beetles crawling over your face.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But in a sexy way.
PERCEPTION: The afternoon sun behind his head like a halo. Always.
You: You set the boots aside, and gently roll off his left sock. Tentative, like you're cracking the code on a bank vault. You rub your thumb along the high elegant arch of his bare foot, eliciting a satisfied hiss. Then you repeat the action on the other foot too, running your fingers up higher over his ankles and up his calf, underneath the hem of his trousers.
PERCEPTION: You can see the neat row of stitches where he’s taken up the ends of the uniform pants to make them fit him better. Flawless, as usual.
KIM KITSURAGI: He slides one foot into your lap, running the pad along your cock. Starbursts explode in your brain.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Neurotransmitters flaring, pumping out acetylcholine, norepinephrine, dopamine, histamine, and serotonin. Too much. It is far too much.
HALF-LIGHT: You always need more.
KIM KITSURAGI: He smirks when you whine and push your hips up against him again, and withdraws. “Come here,” he says, leaning back on the bed, and so you do; letting your bulk fall over him, pressing him down into the mattress. He lets you kiss him like this, slobbering wetly against the junction of his jaw, but eventually pulls back with a sharp smack to your thigh. “No,” he says. “Not like this. On your back.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He likes that you’re strong, the feeling of your weight pressed on top of him. He likes that you could hold him down if you wanted to.
EMPATHY: But even more he likes the fact that you never would. You could so easily overpower him, but instead you roll over obediently and let him settle himself over your hips, gently rocking against you.
ENDURANCE: [Legendary: Failure] Panic flashes through you. You’re nearly there.
You: “Kim,” you say, wide eyed. “I’m gonna-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He raises an eyebrow. “No you’re not. Not until I say you can. You want to be good for me, right?”
You: You nod, too fast. Your head feels light. You try to calm your breathing, pinching at the skin on your side to try to calm yourself down.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It isn’t helping, Harry-baby. It’s making things worse, if anything.
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans back, lessening the intensity for you, so that he can wriggle out of his trousers. He folds them and sets them down on the table by his bed, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and they go the same way. Then his shirt. He is not doing it elegantly; it is perfunctory, almost professional , like everything he does. He is a piece of art, puckered scars from various wounds in the line of duty, straight white scars along the upper parts of his chest from something else. Your mouth is watering. He’s getting off on your gaze, too. He meets your eyes and a shiver runs through him, that soft smile again. He’s gotten a little packet of lube in his hand from his bedside table, warming it up between his fingers, and he holds eye contact with you as he rips it open with his teeth and starts to open himself up.
You: “Fuck,” you say, closing your eyes. It’s too much. Too, too much. “You’re perfect. You’re so lovely.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Eyes on me, Harrier,” he says sharply, and you force your eyes open.
HALF-LIGHT: He’s going to kill you. You’re going to die of wanting.
PERCEPTION: His throat is working, swallowing, little sighs of pleasure coming out of his mouth.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Good boy," he says with a flash of teeth. One hand braced on your chest, the thumb idly rubbing circles into your sensitive skin. Your skin is burning, lit up everywhere that his hands have traced. You can’t look away from him.
CONCEPTUALISATION: The most beautiful man in the world.
You: You’re saying his name, you realise, over and over again, your voice a hoarse whisper. Like a Dolorian monk, chanting your prayers.
KIM KITSURAGI: He brings his hand to your disco pants, to the fly, and you gasp at the cold air suddenly touching your skin as he frees you and pumps his hand up and down, once, twice. “So good for me. Are you ready?” His voice is low and gentle.
You: You nod frantically. “Please.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He raises himself up, the muscles of his thighs twitching, and lines himself up over you. “God,” he says quietly. And he sinks down.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Warmth fills you. Heat and fire. He’s everywhere, all around you, and when he shifts his weight you want to cry.
KIM KITSURAGI: His jaw is tense, muscles of his neck straining. The sensation is too much, but more so it’s the feelings that are making him freeze.
EMPATHY: You are looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.
CONCEPTUALISATION: He loves you, maybe.
VOLITION: Like a stray dog that he found on the street.
EMPATHY: Loves you, loves you, loves you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You want him to stop.
HALF-LIGHT: You want him to leave you lying there, useless and wanting, want him to slam your hand beneath his lovely boot and break the little bones of your fingers so that you don’t have to think anymore. He doesn’t love you in a way that makes sense . Not in a way that your little pea brain can comprehend.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: With a calm, consistent intensity. A considered focus. Unerringly precise, like a laser sight or a knife between the fourth and fifth ribs.
KIM KITSURAGI: He hisses, his hips moving painfully slowly, and bends forwards to place a kiss between your eyebrows. His breath sticks hotly to your skin. “Alright?” He asks, and moves .
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It is more than alright. It is heaven . You are ascending.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your heart is beating impossibly fast, your hands coming to rest at his narrow waist, taking some of his weight.
KIM KITSURAGI: He speeds up in retaliation, refusing to let you control proceedings. "Stay," he scolds, pushing your hips down with his free hand. Hisses air through his teeth. The sounds that he’s making should be illegal. The hand on your chest makes a desperate claw, the nails digging half-moons of blood out of your skin.
ENDURANCE: You don’t stand a chance.
You: White hot flashes in your vision; you feel Kim tighten around you, falling forward against your chest as his aching muscles give up. You feel the stickiness land across your belly. He’s breathing heavy, mouthing at your neck. The heat is scalding. Melting your flesh until there’s no separation, until you’re melded together into one creature. Two halves of a whole. You wrap your arms around him tightly, feeling the goosebumps on his arms where the sweat is starting to cool and give him chills.
KIM KITSURAGI: “God,” he says against your chin, lips smushed against your skin.
You: “Yeah,” you say, breathing out. “God." It feels like forever before you can manage proper sentences. Your breathing synchronises, just for a moment, with his. "Why haven’t we been doing this all along?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek before he unpeels himself from your sweaty chest and slides out of bed.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No, wait! Come back! He’s got dopamine on tap, funky baby, you’ve got to keep him.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s back a moment later, it feels like, although it’s clearly been longer than you thought because he’s cleaned himself up and he’s redressed himself in a fresh pair of boxers and one of his ironed white t shirts. He has a flannel in hand and he kneels on the bed beside you and wipes you clean. You can’t bring yourself to move to help him. You just lie there watching him, the sweat-sticky curls plastered to his forehead, the slight shake in his hands. He’s nice when he’s relaxed like this. He fights back a yawn a couple of times, nuzzles against your palm when you reach up and gently touch his face. When he’s done and you’re all decent again you hold your arms out like a little kid wanting to be picked up, and, with a long suffering sigh, he lets you pull him into a hug and tug the blankets over you.
You: “Right,” you say to the soft sparse hair at the top of his head. “Next thing on the hierarchy of needs. Sleep.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are you still trying to look after me?” His voice borders on peevish, but his hand tightens where its clasped around your bicep. You can feel him smiling slightly, the curve of his mouth, on your shoulder.
You: “You’re my partner. Of course I am.” You pause. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need. I mean it.”
PERCEPTION: You lie there, in a contented silence, lit up by the afternoon sun.
ENDURANCE: Sleep comes easily, after all of that, despite the brightness. The catharsis has wrung all the energy out of you.
HALF-LIGHT: This is the last peace you will see for some time. Enjoy it.
You: You fall into dreamless sleep, his head pillowed on your chest.
PERCEPTION: Here's where it all speeds up. That unravelling thread.
HALF-LIGHT: The clanging ring of the funeral bell in the old Dolorian Church, in the unnamed fishing village. Tolling the dead.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] You crack open a tired eye. It is just Kim's phone, an old fashioned rotary thing but still completely serviceable.
EMPATHY: He likes the mechanical components. The bits that move. There is a thrill in turning a dial that pressing buttons just cannot replicate.
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] Wait- ugh.
KIM KITSURAGI: He is out of bed before you can catch him, padding barefoot across his wooden floors.
You: The loss of him beside you makes your flesh shrink with the sudden cold. "Come back to bed," you say, whining like a needy puppy.
KIM KITSURAGI: He is framed in the door frame like a painting, his shoulders slouched and relaxed, his hair free of its gel and falling loosely into his face. Hand hovering over the telephone table. The background is streaked with orange, his aerostatique jacket hanging on a hook by the front door. He looks back over his shoulder with an all-consuming fondness that makes your stomach flip. "No," he says. The exact same tone as no, bad dog, get off the couch! He smirks when you pout at him, and picks up the white bakelite handset.
PERCEPTION: The death knell cuts off.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Kitsuragi speaking. Yes." A pause. He tilts his head. "Yes." A longer pause this time and then his eyes go round with concern. "God- You're certain?" He gropes for his jacket on the hook and extracts his notebook from the pocket. He writes something down in his sharp, loose handwriting. "No, that's alright- he's with me, actually. I will. We'll be there soon." A pause. "Alright, sir. Goodbye."
You: At the sight of his face, anxiety crossed with a kind of rabid excitement, all thoughts of playing hooky are forgotten. You've already started to dress, finding your clothes from wherever they've been dropped on the floor. "It's happening, isn't it?" You say, one leg in your trousers.
PERCEPTION: Outside, you hear the loud clanking engine of a Revachol Voluntary Medical Corps vehicle passing by and the green and orange lights briefly flash across the ceiling.
KIM KITSURAGI: "It's getting bad at the blockade. Pryce wants us back at the precinct, ready to mobilise if we're needed."
SHIVERS: You will be needed. I need you.
You: You suppress a shiver. “Right,” you say.
SHIVERS: It's chaos trying to get across town. Traffic is insane; people trying to get out of the city as things heat up.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Frogs escaping a pot of boiling water a little too late.
SHIVERS: The city is haemorrhaging its lifeblood. In Central, most sane people are bunked down in their houses trying to wait out the insanity. Others, possessed with a political illness beyond their control, head over to the blockade. Numbers swell. The crowd is becoming ungovernable. A riot. It is an organism in its own right now, a creature of the city. It has descended quickly upon the people, unexpectedly, like a gathering storm. The clouds above, too, are threatening rain.
You: What is to the West?
INLAND EMPIRE: A woman- a girl, really. Slightly stooped shoulders and thick glasses, long red-dyed hair that flies behind her like a waving flag. A student at the University. There's a blockade, mercenaries with itchy trigger fingers, and she tries to climb, to deliver her message from as high as she can get. One foot on the pedestal of a statue of Scott Adamms, a Verpertine libertarian economic theorist from the previous century, one on the plastic-and-sandbag concoction that the Coalition are using to keep the people back. She's shouting something but the wind swallows her words. A regular face made awesome by anger, mouth wide, eyes wider. Revachol is the only word that the crowd can make out. One hand clings to Adamms' bronzed bald head and the other reaches for her pocket. Someone on the other side lines up the shot.
CONCEPTUALISATION: A handful of paper may bells in her pocket, folded political pamphlets. FREE REVACHOL.
PERCEPTION: On the radio, the reporter is listing safe routes out of the city. Roads that aren't totally deadlocked yet.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: There are people clouding around the precinct when you arrive, seemingly without purpose. Just part of that human urge to see the action. Cops too, are lingering in the lobby; beat cops and junior officers, waiting for orders.
JEAN VIQUEMARE: Jean catches you as you come into the Major Crimes Office, his hair in disarray. He has an awful habit of carding his hand through his hair when he gets stressed, making it stick directly upwards, and he's clearly been doing it all day. "Hey, shitkid," he calls, waving you over. "Pryce wants you."
KIM KITSURAGI: He touches your arm lightly. "Go," he says. "I'll be at my desk."
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: Pryce is on the phone when you come in, but he waves you into a seat as he finishes the call. "Fucking Moralintern," he says by way of greeting to you. "Constantly on my dick." He pauses to write something down in the laconic spread of notes in front of him. His face grows serious suddenly, and he leans forward on his folded arms. "They're pulling out their people. The diplomats, the suits. Military stays, on standby."
INLAND EMPIRE: The ferry port. Terminal B. Chartered flights. How fast can you get us out? Money's no object.
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: "They want us to go in, disperse the protesters."
You: You frown. "But they haven't done anything illegal."
RHETORIC: And would it really matter if they had?
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: "Yeah," Pryce says. "There's the thing. I told them I'd think about it."
You: "You're not actually thinking about it, are you?"
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: "Of course not, fucking hell, Harry. What do you take me for?" He taps the pen against his chin, scowling at some point beyond your head. "No. But I couldn't just say that to them, could I?" A pause. “I’m withdrawing the precinct’s cooperation with the Coalition. I refuse to tacitly cosign this behaviour, right? It ain’t right. And besides,” he flashes his teeth, a mouth full of them, bright and sharp like a shark. “It’s an opportunity to strike out. Le Retour, Harry. What we've all been waiting for.”
PERCEPTION: A siren passes by outside.
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: "Their mercs are just provoking the protestors. I've got officers heading down, but their orders are to de-escalate and protect the people if they can. I need someone to get word to the unions, and I can't be seen cooperating with them via official channels. Not yet. Understand me?"
DRAMA: [Easy: Success] He's giving you a knowing nod. He wants you to intuit what he wants you to do without him having to say it.
LOGIC: He wants you and Kim to get word to them. To the factory union buildings where they’ve all gathered, consolidating the people’s power in one place. But without making it look like you are collaborating.
RHETORIC: They've done the work and he wants some of that glory now.
AUTHORITY: He's losing his mind.
RHETORIC: Or finding it.
HALF-LIGHT: This is not to be trusted. This is going to end with brains sprayed on the walls of the old silk mill.
SHIVERS: WHATEVER HAPPENS, YOU'LL DIE IN MY ARMS.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A shiver runs down your spine, icy and unpleasant.
HALF-LIGHT: You're going to die. You're going to die. You're going to die.
RHETORIC: You should be down there. With them. The people at the barricade- not playing politics with union bosses and cops.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: There's a hum of excitement under your skin though. Something buzzing.
You: You nod shortly. "Got it."
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce: "Good. Great. Send your guys down to the Bank of the World building too, anyone who's still left in the office. De-escalate, protect the people, right? And tell them to take one of the portable radios. Big orders coming soon." He's already moving on, dialling a number into the phone. "And Harry," he says with a short nod. "Be safe."
You head back down to the office, your head swimming, and tap your hand on the door frame.
Inside the office, Judit looks up from her paperwork, her mouth twisted with concern. You nod, once, like pulling a trigger. She understands. She starts to pull her gun holster on, fingers failing with the buckles. Jean looks up, too, a moment later. "Dégage, j’essaie de travailler! Get out, shitkid, I’m trying to work!" The words leave his mouth before he registers your serious expression.
You: "It's time, Jean."
JEAN VICQUEMARE: "Fuck. You're sure?"
"Pryce's orders. He wants you down at Enlightenment Street. All reserves getting called in. Try to wind down the tension, try to stop people getting hurt. That's the MO."
JEAN VICQUEMARE: "And where are you going?"
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jean's usually-flushed face has gone pale. His stomach churning. Fiercely regretting the bump of speed he'd taken a few hours earlier, because now he's nauseous and anxious and it's hard to tell if the paranoia he's feeling is genuine or a side effect of the comedown.
You: "Different orders. Where's Kim?"
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He shrugs, pulling on his parade jacket and smoothing it down with shaking hands. "I don't know, usually babysitting you."
You: You touch his arm as he goes to head out past you. "Hey," you say. "It's really happening."
COMPOSURE: [Legendary: Failure] You cannot keep the excitement out of your voice. You are buzzing. The electricity in the streets is contagious, crawling all over your skin, getting you all jumpy.
INLAND EMPIRE: You talked about this, when you were the old Harry. At the bar on the corner of Rue l'Majne, until morning, hashing out the same old thoughts over and over again. It will happen, Jean. And we'll be there, right at the front. You got so excited about it, flailing your arms around to punctuate your point, that you knocked your glass over on the counter top. A rising tide of red; wine and blood. You're cracked, shitkid. Back then, the nickname was still said with some trace of fondness.
SHIVERS: She's coming home. She's coming home! Le Revacholier.
RHETORIC: Freedom. Equality. Shrugging off the chains of colonialism, tearing off the hands of those who hold those chains. A first foot on the rung towards Mazovian paradise.
LOGIC: Social democracy, at best.
RHETORIC: That is not enough for you. Votes, ballots, civil debate. You don’t want peace and quiet. You want terrible things to happen to all those terrible powerful people.
HALF-LIGHT: Blood on the walls.
LOGIC: The RCM will collapse. There are already cracks in the foundation. Soon you'll be your own man and what will you do then?
EMPATHY: You don't want people to get hurt. You don't want people to be scared.
RHETORIC: But you will get there. Baby steps, comrade.
LOGIC: Baby steps at least towards a free, self-governing Revachol.
RHETORIC: Fire up the sausage grinder, Harry-boy!
You: "It's going to be glorious ."
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He shrugs off your hand, but holds your eye contact. "We're not all as excited to die as you are," he says sarcastically. He's trying to sound disaffected but it's there in him too. This spark. The excitement is catching.
You: "Good luck," you say.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: "And you." If you close your eyes, it almost sounds like he means it. And then he's gone.
JUDIT MINOT: She's still fumbling with the strap of her holster as she passes you, so you reach out and fix it for her. "Thanks, Harry." She gives you a nervous smile.
You: "Good luck." You offer her a handshake.
EMPATHY: It feels awkward after everything that you've been through, not quite enough to communicate how grateful you are to her. She's been so patient with your memory loss, so careful in checking the worst of Jean's outbursts. A handshake is not enough.
LOGIC: But it's all you've got. She wouldn't appreciate a hug, especially if you didn't offer one to Jean. She doesn't like to feel that you're treating her differently because she's a woman.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And how far have the men in this city fallen, when a wöman must bear arms to defend them.
RHETORIC: Shut the fuck up.
JUDIT MINOT: She takes the offered hand and squeezes it tightly, so tight you feel like your bones are going to crack. "Good luck," she repeats back. "Tell Kim, too, when you find him."
You: "I will."
And they're gone.
You find Kim in the nearly empty motor pool, glued to the radio.
You: "You've heard the news? They're pulling out their people. The families, the ambassadors, the politicians. The military stays. More coming."
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods stiffly. His eyes are still wide, wet, focused on the radio. "A kid got shot at the blockade. They just called it in. She was handing out leaflets to the crowd. Some idiot merc thought she was reaching for a weapon, sniped her in the head."
INLAND EMPIRE: Arching over the crowd; red, red blood and white, white petals. Red hair streaming as she falls.
RHETORIC: The red-and-white flag, the upended star.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Girl child revolution.
KIM KITSURAGI: "They practically threw a lit match into a tinderbox. It's tactical. They're trying to provoke a violent reaction so they can put the whole thing down. It’s turning into a riot down there."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It is a technique passed on from the Coalition to the RCM. Certain precincts use it with abandon when dealing with hostile unions on behalf of Coalition interests. Provoke until they snap, then use that to justify harsher sanctions. It is not strictly legal, but no one says anything when the job gets done and the agitators get shut up for good.
You: You lean over him as you slide into the back seat of the MC, and pull on your Mazovian Revolutionary’s Hat left in the footwell after your stakeout a few nights previously. It smells like pine, unlike the rest of your clothes, which smell like you've been wearing them for several days non-stop.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Torson and McClaine are on site trying to keep the peace right now, I heard them radioing in to Oldboy. Helping people who don't want to be there when it gets bad get out of the area. INSURCOM have stopped the trams running. People are trapped." A deep breath. Steadying himself. “Where are we going?”
You: "Fuck," you say. Just to get it out of your system. “Pryce wants us heading to the factory union offices. Other side of La Delta. They need to pull their people out, or arm them. Whatever they decide.” And then the most important piece of news to pass on. "As of about-" You check the clock on the dashboard as Kim starts the engine, sliding his gloved hand elegantly down the steering lever. “- ten minutes from now, the RCM is no longer responding to Coalition orders."
KIM KITSURAGI: He breathes out slowly, and shuts his eyes.
HALF-LIGHT: He wants to run. He wants to run and run until he can't run any further, until his lungs shrivel up and burn.
EMPATHY: He wants to drag you along with him, his hand around your wrist. He wants to put you somewhere safe and come back for you when it's all over, and he wants to never let you out of his sight.
KIM KITSURAGI: "We need to get moving, then," he says instead.
You: You nod.
SHIVERS: Out of the motor pool, out of Central Jamrock, round the 8/91 and up towards La Delta. Everyone is streaming out; you are practically the only MC heading into the danger zone. You can smell ozone and rust in the air. Fear, sweat. Rain is coming. A storm. The dark sky is churning with a heavy bank of clouds, blowing in suddenly from the west, as you wind down the ring road into the heart of La Delta.
INLAND EMPIRE: Somewhere on the periphery, right on the edge of the bay of Revachol, Coalition Warship Archer buzzes with communications. Weapons primed.
PERCEPTION: Wait. Up ahead, flashing lights in the street. A blockade of some kind across the street, stopping access.
LOGIC: Stopping any more protesters joining the fray, stopping the protest from snowballing. Stopping reporters too, perhaps, so that there’s no one to tell tales of the brutality.
PERCEPTION: It is built up in the pinch-point between two crumbling revolution-era buildings. Two half-collapsed tenements that the owners just never quite found the funds to rebuild.
KIM KITSURAGI: He brings the Kineema to a stop, and glances at you nervously. “We should continue on foot. Tread carefully.”
You: You nod, and step out beside him. There’s only one guy manning the traffic stop, a rear-loaded gun worn on a strap across his front, pacing.
DRAMA: His body language reads as anxious, uncertain. He’s green, still, sire. New to his role.
You: “Hey, man,” you call, stepping towards him. The merc spins, holding the gun out like a shield and not like an assault weapon. “Woah, hey. It’s okay. We’re RCM.”
Mercenary Kid: “Orders are no one gets in or out,” he says, and shrugs. His face is hidden by his helmet, the glossy black ceramic armour. He’s wearing a thin ribbed black shirt over the top of some pretty hefty protection.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Failure] Impenetrable armour. No gaps. He’s invulnerable.
You: “Yeah, but we’re RCM. Here to keep the peace, right?”
Mercenary Kid: He snorts and spits on the ground at the side of your foot. “Yeah, right. Word is your lot have been agitating this whole thing.”
EMPATHY: Your lot. He’s repeating a message he’s heard over and over again.
You: “All we want to do is get regular civilians home unhurt, kid.” You take a step forward.
Mercenary Kid: “I’m not a fucking kid. Stay back, alright?” He gestures with the barrel of his gun.
AUTHORITY: [Legendary: Failure] This little pup shouldn’t even be raising his eyes to you, let alone his weapon. Put him in his place.
You: “Listen,” you say, drawing yourself up to your full height. Behind you, Kim inhales sharply through his nose. You can’t see him but you know his hand is on his beloved pistol. For once, you are glad for it. “Kid. Let us through. People will die if you don’t let us through. Civilians. Regular folk. This is life and death.”
Mercenary Kid: His eyes, through the mask, narrow. His pupils are wide, eyes darting between the two of you, and between the bombed out buildings around you like he’s looking for a hidden sniper.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Paranoia. Irritability. Directionless violence. He is roided up to the fucking eyeballs, Harry-boy.
Mercenary Kid: “Are you threatening me?” He raises the barrel of his gun again, levelling the point at your chest.
SUGGESTION: Maybe that would help? Maybe you should threaten him?
Mercenary Kid: “Huh? Are you threatening me, pig?”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The term “pig” as used pejoratively when referring to police dates back to the days before the RCM, before the revolution even. It refers to the “nose” of the officer, the “snout,” used for sniffing out crime like a truffle pig. It quickly became a derogatory nickname when a South Semenese revolutionary activist, Aimee Lemarque, referred to the pre-RCM police force as filthy pigs in a speech decrying their defence of racist officers, their loyalty above all to forces of capital, the rampant corruption amongst their ranks. Useage snowballed from there.
RHETORIC: In these circumstances at least, it would seem that he is in fact the pig. Loyalty above all to the forces of capital. It’s right there in the quote.
You: “Maybe I am,” you say and take another step forward. The barrel of the merc’s gun bumps against your chest. “Pig. ”
HALF-LIGHT: Let’s dance, Harrier.
REACTION SPEED: [Formidable: Failure] Wait, no-
Mercenary Kid: He moves before you have time to counteract him, grabbing your arm and spinning you so that his gun is pressed up under your chin, your body held in front of him like a shield.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s gun is drawn too, trying to find an opening. You can smell the panic coming off him. He clears his throat. A nervous tick. “Let’s all calm down, shall we?” He says, his voice impossibly steady and cool.
Mercenary Kid: “No fucking chance. Fucking communards.”
RHETORIC: Well. It’s accurate, but there’s no way he could have known that.
Mazovian Revolutionary’s Hat: Maybe it’s something to do with me. Just a thought.
PERCEPTION: The barrel of the gun nudges hard at your throat, forcing you to tip your head back.
EMPATHY: He wants to shoot. He wants to do it, badly. But there’s something stopping him.
CONCEPTUALISATION: He kills at distance, normally. Faceless people. Foreigners that he can dehumanise. You, stood right in front of him, breathing, with your skin impossibly red and vital, are very difficult to imagine dead.
You: “Hey, look-”
Mercenary Kid: “Shut the fuck up. Shut up.”
You: “Just let us go through. We’ll be out of your hair. No one even needs to know-” he shuts you up by pushing the cool metal against your skin and twisting it until the skin pinks painfully.
Mercenary Kid: “They’re going to wipe this shitstain off the isola. You know that, right? We’ve got warships and weapons to blow this place off the map, just waiting for you to start getting ideas. Good fucking riddance to the whole lot of you.”
You: Your eyes lock with Kim. He’s so cool, calm. His face a smooth pool of water, an unbroken mirror.
PERCEPTION: [Godly: Success] Not quite. Look, there. A tremor in his hand. Minute.
EMPATHY: [Hard: Success] He's just as shaken as you are, and his composure won't hold together for much longer. His twitchy finger rests on the trigger. His trigger discipline is usually impeccable. Anxiety, adrenaline, whatever you want to call it. His muscles spasm slightly.
HALF-LIGHT: [Impossible: Success] But there's a wildness to his slightly hunched stance, like a cornered animal, a feral glee that he's experiencing from this proximity to danger. The same wildness that is lighting your veins up with all the fire that drugs never gave you. It's dwarfed by both of your fear. But it is there.
CONCEPTUALISATION: There is no one else you would rather die beside.
You look at Kim. He looks at you. His eyes are luminous behind the glasses, wet with panic, narrowed in focus. Wet strands of hair stick to his forehead. The barrel of the gun does not shake, his hands forcibly steadied now. He's lined up his shot. He nods, imperceptibly.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Hard: Success] There is a narrow chance that he will be able to fire the bullet into the small gap between your tilted head and your shoulder, hitting the Agent in the one chink in his armour. The narrow gap at his throat, between the cuirass and the helmet.
INLAND EMPIRE: He had to retake his sharpshooter examination so many times and only really succeeded on rote memorisation. Muscle memory. This is a live target.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] The odds are impossibly slim.
VISUAL CALCULUS: 3% chance of success. If he misses the shot it will likely kill you.
CONCEPTUALISATION: But you would rather die a thousand times over at his capable hands than be killed by anyone else.
HALF-LIGHT: He is the beginning and the end.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You've shared these looks of total understanding before. When he knows you want a coffee and brings you one before you get a chance to ask for one, when you put a hand out to steady him before he even trips, when he preempts your breakdowns and has a hand comforting on your shoulder before your face crumples. But this is different. A more costly manoeuvre.
HALF-LIGHT: You pray that he really does understand the wide eyed look that you give him.
SHIVERS: Take the shot.
KIM KITSURAGI: He takes a deep breath in through his nose. He takes the shot.
Single-shot Kiejl A9 Armistice: The primer sparks, and the gunpowder ignites. The burning powder releases gas that expands rapidly and pushes the bullet out of the barrel with a bang that echoes off the broken windows of the surrounding buildings. The jacketed bullet flies just east of its target by a few millimeters.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your vision explodes in a flash of pure-grey, of every colour everywhere swirled together into the Pale. Your skin burns.
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Failure] Wait-
HALF-LIGHT: A scarf of liquid red unwinds itself around your throat and down your front.
LOGIC: [Hard: Failure] You're bleeding, Harry. You're bleeding out.
You: Your head feels light, impossibly dizzy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But it's good too. All the drugs in the world and you've never had a rush like this. We should try this more often.
VOLITION: We won't get to try it more often, you stupid slut. We're dying.
PERCEPTION: The Agent at your back falls away, his arms going loose. Your back feels cold, exposed. But that doesn't matter if you're dying.
ENDURANCE: [Easy: Failure] It's too much. You can't hold yourself up anymore.
You: You let yourself fall to your knees, your breathing impossibly loud. Your eyes still locked with Kim's.
KIM KITSURAGI: He's fixed on your sweaty red face, your hitching breath, like he's trying to burn this image into his memory forever. His hand is slipping on the bakelite grip of the pistol, smoke still pouring from the tip.
CONCEPTUALISATION: At least you'll die looking into the true face of the sun. Look at him. Isn't he lovely? And so impossibly bright?
PAIN THRESHOLD: The pain is fading. Your vision clearing. Blood is pooling on the ground at your feet.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Wait. This blood isn't yours.
You: You put a hand to your throat, to your broad neck.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your fingers probe at the wound, dipping inside, testing the depth. A hiss of pain escapes your lips. Kim is frozen. He cannot stop watching you.
VOLITION: The wound is superficial. It will require stitches. Perhaps antibiotics, the way you're shoving your grubby fingers into it. You will live.
HALF-LIGHT: For now.
You: "I'm alive," you say.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Yes," he says. His voice is a breath, so low, only for you to hear. "You are. I am glad."
EMPATHY: He is more than glad. If he was a different man, he would be crying now.
CONCEPTUALISATION: If he was a different man, you wouldn't feel this soft bust of love in your chest.
EMPATHY: He will cry later. When the two of you are coming down from the adrenaline high, away from the blood and the bodies.
PERCEPTION: You can hear gun fire in the distance.
You: You tear your eyes away from Kim. Behind you lies the mercenary, bleeding out on the wet tarmac. His gun lies at his side, useless, with no working hand to wield it. You peel the helmet back, throwing it aside. He looks painfully, impossibly young. The sticky-out ears, the gullible slant of his mouth somehow shocked that his righteousness didn't save him.
INLAND EMPIRE: A kid. He used to lean over the bridge on KänalStrausz in Graad with his little sister and drop leaves into the current, then race them downstream to see if he could get to the second bridge before the leaf had floated its way there. His father watching, smiling fondly, a tied bundle of books under his arm. His mother wanted him to become a lawyer, or a writer. My clever boy.
CONCEPTUALISATION: He wasn't made for this kind of life. No one was.
KIM KITSURAGI: "I'm sorry," Kim says, and you're not quite sure if he's apologising to you or to the dying man with the silk scarf of blood winding out of him like the worst magic trick ever. There’s a current of revulsion running beneath his skin, despite his stiff upper lip. His eyes shut briefly as he pushes down the urge to vomit.
You: You wait for the shine to fade out of the dying man’s eyes. They are deep brown, traces of rust, of brick red. Two round copper coins for the Ferryman. When the light goes out, you reach across and gently push his eyelids shut.
KIM KITSURAGI: "We should get moving."
You: "Are you alright?"
KIM KITSURAGI: "I should be asking you that," he says with a short laugh. "Are you?"
You: The adrenaline is starting to crash inside you, now that the immediate danger is dead at your side. You're trembling like a handbag dog. Your neck wound smarts.
HALF-LIGHT: You will have worse before the night is over.
EMPATHY: But when Kim leans down to offer a hand up… yes. You're all alright.
You: "Never better," you say and give him an awkward smile. The inside of your mouth tastes like pennies. "You?"
KIM KITSURAGI: "I would have preferred that shot to be a little cleaner. I would have preferred not to have to shoot at all." He touches his fingertips to the tender flesh beneath the open wound. They come away sticky, like a child sticking his fingers in fresh strawberry jam. "I am sorry," he says.
You: "You saved my life," you say with a shrug. "You didn't need to do that. I was being a provocative dumbfuck."
KIM KITSURAGI: A cloud passes over his face. "Of course I did." It's not open to question. It is said simply, an incontrovertible fact. Your life, in his estimation, is more valuable than anything.
INLAND EMPIRE: You have known since day one that he would die for you. It is another thing entirely to know that he would kill for you too.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Let's head for the Kineema, if it's still there. Get our next orders. I can stitch that up for you." There is silence for a moment; you follow him along the craggy crest of the bombed out old building. "Khm. I love you." It takes a moment for you to register his words. Your head snaps round to look at him. The tips of his ears are flaming, his mouth an uncomfortable turn at the corners. He is standing very stiffly. "Just in case I don't get the chance to say it later." You open your mouth and he silences you with an eyebrow. "Don't say anything," he says. "This is inappropriate enough as it is," and he holds out a hand to help you over a fallen iron beam.
You: You take it, your bloody paw of a hand in his one clean black glove. Beyond you, in the sky above, the sun is rising.
You: "Sunrise, parabellum."
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods. "Sunrise, prepare-for-war."
PERCEPTION: The sky is bleeding, red and yellow viscera streaking through the polluted skies. The observers, the aerostatic balloons, are nearly all gone. Too vulnerable, too easy to shoot down when there's action on the street. You can see stars, above your head, in the darkest part of the sky. More stars than you've seen in Revachol skies for years. Forever refusing to go out. They make white marks against the dark, like little chips of bone. You are putting the city back together and bringing it back to life.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Dawn in Revachol. A prayer to the city.
SHIVERS: I hear you. I love you. Stay safe. We will be together.