Chapter Text
REVACHOL WEST: Spring comes to Revachol like a gift. The wild raw dampness of winter you had woken to in Martinaise eases, the ice on the river melting. The water rises, breaches its banks, overturning kayaks at the floating drug market and washing strange things ashore. Some things long searched for, some things better left lost.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Spring is a busy time for the RCM. But then again, so is summer, and autumn, and winter…
YOU: Not that you know this. At least, not at first. You are not allowed back on duty for two feverishly bad weeks alone in a shithole of an apartment that they say is yours. It must be. There are photos of you and *her* in a box, bent and ragged with heavy handling. There is an excellent collection of tapes, spanning musical genres you do not remember. There is mass of stolen Jamrock Public Library books propping up your stained and sagging mattress.
PAIN THRESHOLD: And there is despair, and a scatter of empty pill bottles, and broken glass in the bathtub.
PERDITION AND MAIN: It is still winter in these first weeks. It will always *be* winter. Always this. The cold rain lashing at your windows. The dark apartment with its corners made of shadows. Always the burnt-out bulbs and acrid stench permeating the rooms.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You don’t know anything else, after all. The other seasons are unverified rumors, strange fairy tales from another land.
HALF LIGHT: This is what you wanted to get away from, Harry.
PAIN THRESHOLD: This is what you turn everything into. Despair and filth and darkness. And your leg. Oh, god, your *leg*.
DRAMA: Martinaise is ages away. Martinaise is not *real.* Just a fever dream you made up.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Then who shot you?
SUGGESTION: Probably yourself in a drunken, drugged-out rage.
LOGIC: Okay, then who stitched you up?
INTERFACING: Your hands aren’t nearly steady enough for this fine of work.
YOU: You trace your fingers over the sore and healing wound on your thigh again and again until it becomes over-sensitive.
PERCEPTION: And then there is a familiar infernal roar in the street.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The beat of your own heart, swelling to fill the world.
SHIVERS: Your upstairs neighbor - a single mother with three children who you are already on *very* bad terms with, although you don’t know it yet, and who threatens her misbehaving children with the monster who lives in the basement -
CONCEPTUALIZATION: That’s *you,* Harry -
SHIVERS: -looks out the vibrating window to see an RCM motor carriage parked half on the curb. “Goddamnit,” she says, and begins to round her children up to go down the street.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s *Kim.*
YOU: You rush around the apartment, attempting to pick up the bottles on the floor, crumpled newspapers. You’re shoving them into a bag when Kim knocks on the door.
HALF LIGHT: Don’t answer. It’s not *really* Kim. He’s not real, remember?
YOU: You drop the trash bag, pushing it against the wall and grunting with the effort. “Coming!”
PERCEPTION: Your voice is the hoarse craw of a carrion bird.
RHETORIC: When’s the last time you spoke aloud? Yesterday? The day before?
YOU: What time is it? What day is it?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Friday, 7 PM. Kim came over straight after work.
YOU: You swing the door open. Kim Kitsuragi stands there in a dark RCM jacket.
DRAMA: See? It’s not him. Kim wears *orange.*
ENDURANCE: The poor lighting outside your apartment makes the bruises on his face a dark muddy stain.
PERCEPTION: The lone light flares out around his head in a halo.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: No, this is Kim.
HALF LIGHT: This is just another hallucination. The DTs are a real bitch.
1) “Kim!”
2) “Who are you again?”
3) “Say something you would only know if you *weren’t* a figment of my imagination.”
4) [Reach out and touch him.]
YOU: You reach out slowly and touch Kim’s bicep, then watch your shaking hand rise to his shoulder.
KIM KITSURAGI: His breath catches. “Detective?” His dark eyes watch you with some concern.
YOU: “Just making sure you’re real.”
KIM KITSURAGI: If anything, this seems to concern him more. “Did you think I wasn’t?”
YOU: “I think I’m going a little stir-crazy, being cooped up here all alone. I tried to go for a walk earlier in the week, but…”
ENDURANCE: You trail off and pat your leg.
KIM KITSURAGI: “All alone - detective, has no one from your precinct stopped by?”
VOLITION: Don’t do it. Don’t -
COMPOSURE: Too late. Your throat tightens, eyes filling with tears. The halo behind Kim expands and brightens until it blinds you. You shake your head.
YOU: It is a bit of a blur after that. Kim goes out and gets takeout from a place on the corner, and watches as you eat it. He picks at his own before insisting on examining your thigh. You sit on the edge of your disgusting mattress, propping yourself up on your fists.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim kneels between your thighs, prodding gently around the wound. He has stripped off his gloves and washed his hands, and you can’t help but stare down at his bare and highly capable fingers. “Does this hurt?” he says, and when you don’t respond, instead panting through your open mouth, he looks up at you, his eyes very dark.
YOU: You grunt.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.” He presses around the wound in small exploratory circles, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Now *that’s* more like it! Where have you *been* all my life?
INLAND EMPIRE: He had wanted to call you this week. He had picked up the phone on two separate occasions, and had cradled it again, thinking better of it.
COMPOSURE: This could be a problem.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Why is this happening? This isn’t right.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: This is *so* right. Who else would you want to touch you than Kim Kitsuragi?
COMPOSURE: Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh no.
YOU: You startle, folding in half, shielding yourself. “See?” you wheeze out. “All good.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks up at you, startled, then his gaze drops to your leg, then slides over - “Khm,” he says. The corner of his mouth flutters. He rises slowly. “Yes, I think that’s enough for now.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: There is something oddly pleased about his expression.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like the ever-fabled cat who caught the fuck-up-atoo.
SUGGESTION: For *now*?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No, it’s not. It’s never enough.
VOLITION: Let him go, Harry. Now is not the time.
YOU: Whatever influence Kim Kitsuragi has -
RHETORIC: And he can be very, very persuasive -
YOU: - things change. You start to receive more visitors. On Monday, Judit Minot comes over with two small bags of groceries - the makings of sandwiches, a bottle of juice - and helps you lug a few bags of trash to the curb. She also brings you a card from a precinct you don’t remember, full of names that are unfamiliar to you. On Wednesday, it is Jean Vicquemare, who stays standing the entire time, and snaps at you, and who you catch going through your kitchen when you are in the bathroom, looking for alcohol, which he finds, because your leg is not so bad that you can’t limp down to the Frittte two blocks over and return, sweating and limping, with a bottle under each arm. But he brings you several old case files, throwing them on your table. “If you haven’t entirely forgotten how to be a detective,” he snaps.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You start looking at them that evening.
YOU: Kim calls on Thursday. “Just to check in,” he says, but you stay on the phone for over an hour - discussing a cold case of yours, an active case of his, the mating rituals of the phasmid. Kim promises to pick you up on Saturday and drive you to the Jamrock Public Library for research purposes. You also take this opportunity to renew your push for Kim to transfer. He confesses to you, lighting a cigarette - you hear the spark of his lighter, the intake of breath - that he is working on his application, gathering everything he needs.
RHETORIC: He is a thorough man, believing anything worth doing is worth doing right.
REVACHOL WEST: And then spring comes, slowly, then all at once, as if dragged through the streets behind Kim’s Coupris Kineema. You leave your windows open in a futile attempt to coax fresh air into the space. To clean out the rooms.
ENDURANCE: It coincides with your ability to walk further, your leg continuing to improve, and with your return to desk duty in the precinct.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You spend your days reading through your old reports, cleaning out - and off - your desk - and putting up with Jean’s bitter comments and Chester and Mack’s jokes. You hang around Jules’ station listening to the radio, and you haunt the gym in the mornings.
YOU: And in the late afternoon, you spill out of the precinct and into the streets of Jamrock, and you walk -
ENDURANCE: It’s more like a lurch, or a limp, especially on bad days -
YOU: - following the the arteries and pathways of your heart, which is, after all, buried under these city streets.
CENTRAL JAMROCK: You rediscover your heart in the ramshackle neighborhoods, terminating in winding run-down cul-de-sacs, the wooden buildings slanting together, the weight of the next one holding each building up. In the streets lined with neon-lit bars, in the one Frittte on Perdition with the security guard who curses at you and throws a stone to chase you off, like a stray dog. The tiny greengrocer’s on Perdition that sells the best fruit ice cream you have ever had, and the Radio Revachol where you and the clerk get into a forty-minute conversation on disco. You walk down and through the night market on Gregoire with the Commodore in your hand, talking to all the shop owners, the strung lanterns closer and brighter than the stars.
ENDURANCE: You make it down to the river one day - a walk of several kilometers - but then can’t get back, your leg seizing up. You row yourself out to the drug market and buy something that makes the pain in your leg - and every thought in your head - recede like a motor carriage under the surface of the sea, so that you can get back to your apartment.
PERCEPTION: The radio keeps you company at night, when you long for another human voice, when you can’t call Kim and bother him, and you can’t call *her.* You dial through the channels - SAD FM, MIRRORBALL FM, JAZZ FM. WEATHER FM lulls you to sleep and calls you back to the world again each morning.
INLAND EMPIRE: It feels like the Whirling-in-Rags.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It feels like coming to life.
PRECINCT 41: You are in the precinct late one April evening because you don’t want to go home. You are nearly alone; a few officers enter and leave. Jean Vicquemare is down in the stables; Chester and Mack are on patrol, and Judit is home with her family. It is just you, and the dusk outside the domed roof of the precinct, and the few green-shaded desk lamps dotted across the floor. You pick away at a report on your radio computer with your pointer fingers, hearing the keys clack. You’re thinking about getting something to eat. You’re thinking if you go out to eat alone the warm spring night is going to make you lonely, and you are going to go to a bar and drink, and you are trying not to do that.
PERCEPTION: And then you hear the familiar thud of your heartbeat outside your body.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Two combat boots hitting the ground in a swift, no-nonsense walk. Belonging to a medium-weight man, a little shorter than you. The man is pleased with himself and is trying not to show it, but he won’t be able to control himself much longer.
YOU: Your lungs flutter in your chest, a movement that is almost nauseating. “Kim!” you say as he enters the room.
KIM KITSURAGI: His startles. His eyes land on you, then he glances around, and smiles.
SAVOIR FAIRE: He’s looking sharp. Perfectly shined boots, RCM uniform. His patrol cap is in his hand. His cloak swirls around him as he comes to your desk and stops.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Coming from the direction of the Captain’s office.
EMPATHY: With good news.
YOU: “Was that your interview?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It was.”
YOU: “…and?”
KIM KITSURAGI: His mouth twitches.
AUTHORITY: He’s enjoying this.
KIM KITSURAGI: He claps you on the shoulder, his hand squeezing a little. “Approved,” he says. “It will be official in two weeks.” He pauses, then leans in.
INTERFACING: His hand is still on your shoulder, by the way.
EMPATHY: He’s deeply affected.
INTERFACING: And also *very* physically affectionate.
EMPATHY: Touch-starved. These small camaraderly gestures, common among officers, are all he has.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Which is still more than you.
VOLITION: He has convinced himself it is all he needs.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And this is not even the best part.”
YOU: You goggle at him in wonder.
ENDURANCE: You do not know if you can take much more good news.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The 57th has agreed to transfer over the Kineema.”
YOU: You reach out and grab his shoulder as well, squeezing back. “Kim! That’s amazing! How?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Captain Pryce has dirt on *everyone.*
KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know, and quite frankly, I’m not going to look into it. You know what they say: ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’”
YOU: “I wouldn’t look any horse in the mouth. Have you seen their *teeth,* Kim?” You open your desk drawer and sweep all your files in.
KIM KITSURAGI: He winces a little.
YOU: “This calls for a celebration. Have you eaten yet?” When he shakes his head, you say, “Come on, I’ve been relearning all the good spots to eat. Not the kebab place, we won’t subject you to that yet.” You head towards the door, but Kim stops you, a hand on your arm.
KIM KITSURAGI: You are very close in the dim and quiet precinct, his head close to yours. “Detective, I am sure Captain Pryce will say something to you but…he is proposing we partner together. Of course, you are more than free to choose your own arrangements,” he says a little stiffly. “I wouldn’t like to assume-”
YOU: “This is literally the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He tsks. “Now detective, I am sure that is not true.” But he is starting to smile.
YOU: “Okay, it’s the best thing I can *remember* happening to me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Didn’t you say that when you bought speed off that delinquent in Martinaise?”
YOU: “Yeah, but I mean it this time.”
PERCEPTION: And you do, your chest filled with enough light to illuminate the entire precinct.
YOU: Yes, things are looking up for you.
≠≠
YOU: One morning in May, when you get to the precinct - hair wet from the shower, gasping a little, leg burning; you’ve overslept, and you don’t want them to think you’re on a bender - you find Kim already at his desk, talking to Lieutenant Berdyayeva.
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: She doesn’t even look at you. “Du Bois. Nice of you to join us.”
[-1 morale]
1) “I know what it looks like, but there was this really interesting segment on Pale-clouds on the radio, and I lost track of time-”
2) “I can’t work under these conditions.”
3) [Say nothing.]
YOU: You say nothing, nodding and trying to keep your gasping for breath to a minimum.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim glances at you, taking your measure swiftly and accurately. And then quickly - so quickly you almost miss it - he gives you a reassuring wink.
[+1 morale]
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: “- as I was saying, there was a dead body discovered at the base of Jamrock Tower. Looks like a jumper. He was called in by the keeper this morning. She sounded pretty torn up.” She makes a face.
EMPATHY: She has little patience for women who are rattled by dead bodies.
AUTHORITY: This broad is tough as nails.
RHETORIC: If you call her a broad to her face, she will *literally* murder you.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Not what the word literally means!
HALF LIGHT: Oh, yes it is.
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: “How’s your workload, Lieutenants?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He stiffens his shoulders, straightening himself up even more.
SAVOIR FAIRE: The man’s posture when faced with an authority figure is *exquisite.* You could take a page out of his book.
KIM KITSURAGI: “We have nothing overly pressing on our plates.We can investigate immediately.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Despite your *repeated* assurance about what a *cool* detective he is, he’s still worried the 41st will find him lacking.
LOGIC: Man, if they didn’t fire *you,* they’re not gonna fire *him.*
EMPATHY: Somehow, he doesn’t find this argument reassuring.
YOU: You convince Kim to stop by the Perdition Street Frittte for stale breakfast pastries and coffee. He accepts the bear claw you offer him, then makes you eat outside the Kineema. The two of you lean up against it, feet propped on the running boards. You spray crumbs as you talk, and Kim looks on, indulgently. The mid-May sun is warm and you turn your face to the sky, closing your eyes. When you open them again Kim is looking at you, something strange and unreadable on his face.
YOU: What is it?
EMPATHY: Hard to say. He looks away hurriedly, and it is lost.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You have crumbs,” he says, and when you run your hand over your chops and mustache, he says, “here," and brushes your chest with the flat of his hand.
COMPOSURE: Something flushes in your chest, your face.
LOGIC: The May sun. It’s very hot. Almost scorching.
JAMROCK TOWER: Breakfast finished, you drive on to Jamrock tower, which stands on the small island in the middle of Jamrock Lake. The tower is old and made of stone, with a heavy, crenellated top. The waters are dark this morning, and the sunshine glints off them like a broken mirror.
PERCEPTION: The sun is rising in the near-cloudless sky. It’s nearing 8 AM. It’s going to be a beautiful day.
SHIVERS: Outside a nearby deli, a woman drags a chair out on the sidewalk. She crosses her legs and settles back, opening a glossy gossip magazine. Out at sea, the small brightly-colored fishing boats sit gently on the water like toys. An old beggar-woman sits on a curb, singing. An empty hat-box before her she is hoping to fill. And tonight, for many - although not all of these people - dancing.
KIM KITSURAGI: A bridge extends from the near side of the lake to the island in the middle. “I don’t think that bridge is rated for driving,” he says, and parks the Kineema.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The tower is approximately 23-some meters tall. As you approach on foot across the bridge - which is definitely not rated for vehicle traffic - you can see at the base of the rocks a darkened and crumpled thing.
HALF LIGHT: A sinking feeling in your chest.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Come *on,* Harry. Man up. This is your job, isn’t it?
RHETORIC: Besides, the lucky bastard got off the ride. Isn’t that what you wanted not so long ago?
JAMROCK TOWER: The tower becomes more impressive the closer you get to it. The door is massive, made of heavy wood, with an iron ornamentation on it. Thick moss grows on and between the stones of the tower.
SHIVERS: This tower has been here for a thousand years. It may not have many more left.
PERCEPTION: Overhead, a shishkebab of skuas wheels shrieking through the sky. The light glitters on the water and hurts your eyes.
THE SUICIDE: You examine the dead body, noting your findings to Kim. You can hear the steady scratching of his pen as he writes. “Mondial - late thirties or early forties. Death due to blunt force trauma consistent with a fall from a great height.” You pick up his hands, looking at them one by one. “No sign of a struggle. Dead at least twelve hours, maybe more.”
YOU: You squat down and turn the man’s head towards you, looking into eyes clouded over like mist coming in from the sea. “Do you have anything to say to me?”
THE SUICIDE: He does not. Not all the dead speak to you, and this one has nothing to say.
JAMROCK TOWER: You and Kim bag the body, leaving it at the base of the tower. You enter the tower, which is dark, despite a few lights strung overhead, and surprisingly small, and cold. The sunlight never reaches in here, not at the bottom. There is a set of stairs spiraling up into light.
YOU: What kind of place was this?
HALF LIGHT: A prison.
YOU: You lean back to look at the stairs as they twist and spin above you.
ENDURANCE: You sway, dizzy, and are caught by the capable and warm shoulder of your partner.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says, and lands a hand on your shoulder. “I think the keeper’s room is there.” He nods to a beam of light just under the stairs.
JAMROCK TOWER KEEPER: “Hello?” you hear a young woman’s voice ask. “Is there someone there?”
JAMROCK TOWER: You step into the room, which is warmer than the rest of the tower, no doubt thanks to a space heater that is plugged into an outlet that does not look up to code. The room is small, and cozy enough. Posters have been gummed to the walls - a young woman with a guitar and a cloud of hair, a trio of boys with heavy makeup and pale faces, a musical theatre show about, apparently, leeks. A small hot plate balances precariously on a stack of books. A loom sits on the table with a textile half-worked on it. There is a folding screen half-open which does little to hide a small bed, sink, and toilet.
INLAND EMPIRE: This is someone’s entire world.
YOU: You wander over to the loom, looking at it while Kim introduces the two of you.
JAMROCK TOWER KEEPER: The woman introduces herself as Maggie, the hired keeper of Jamrock Tower. She is in her late twenties, thin and blonde, and clearly upset.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Is she capable of pushing a man out of a window?
HALF LIGHT: All women are capable of murder.
AUTHORITY: No more time for idle chit-chat. Go right into it. Find out what happened. What her connection is to the dead man. Maybe she can tell you something useful.
EMPATHY: The girl is clearly upset. Talk to her.
YOU: “Do you like working here?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Yeah, I suppose so. Sometimes the tours can get a little repetitive, but…I have plenty of time to myself to do what I want. And, hey, free rent.”
YOU: “How does a person get a job like this?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans in close. “Leaving the RCM so soon, detective?” he murmurs into your ear.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “There was a flyer on the Jamrock Public Library bulletin board. “Be a part of history!” She spans her hands out before her. “And, well, I was sick of working at the Frittte, so…I just. I don’t know. Stepped into a new life, I guess.” She laughs, a little self-consciously.
VOLITION: You know all about that.
KIM KITSURAGI: "I imagine it gets lonely, yes?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: Something passes over her face.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Perhaps like the shadow of a large tower. MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “It’s not too bad. I get a lot of school tours in the nicer weather. And some regulars. History buffs, birders. Artists. There’s this couple that I think is having an affair here every Wednesday. I don’t mind being alone. I have lots of things to do. Sometimes,” she says, and looks around briefly, as if she thinks someone might overhear her, “I go swimming on the really slow days. Early in the morning,” she says quickly, “when no one’s around. I go to JCC too. Just a few credits. I don’t know what I’m going to do, yet. Maybe nothing.” She offers you a brittle smile.
YOU: “JCC?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans over. “Jamrock Community College.”
EMPATHY: It is less about the classes and more about the sound of other human voices saying her name.
YOU: “Regulars?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She nods now, suddenly sobering up. “Like Glenn.”
YOU: “Glenn…?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She nods to the edge of the tower. Then, her lips quiver.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Miss, I know this is upsetting, but can you tell us how you found him?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She nods, wiping her nose. “I came in around six - that’s when I always come in - and saw something at the base of the rocks. I thought it was, I don’t know, a dead animal. Sometimes they wash up.”
YOU: “In a lake?”
SHIVERS: Stray dogs drown. The wild deer that roam the wastes will drag themselves here with broken legs.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She nods. “So I came in, I put my stuff away, I made myself some tea-”- her breath hitches. “I didn’t-” her voice cracks. “Hang on,” she says, muffled, hands over her face.
YOU: You look at Kim. He looks back at you. He looks uncomfortable.
EMPATHY: And a little sad.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “If I knew it was him - or anyone, I wouldn’t have waited-”
EMPATHY: She blames herself.
YOU: “I’m sure it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She nods, taking a shaky breath. “I went out and saw that it was Glenn and called right away.”
1) “Did you know him?”
2) “How did he get in here?”
3) “What do you think happened?”
4) "Can you tell me more about the tower?”
5) “Are you okay?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I’m fine it’s just, you know.”
HALF LIGHT: You do. You never get used to death.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “My boss wouldn’t let me cancel the tours today. I have one at eleven and another at two…” She looks at you mutely.
SUGGESTION: Begging you to take the body away.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim checks his watch. “I think we can have the body removed by then, miss,” he says reassuringly.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Oh. Good.” She sounds a little faint.
EMPATHY: She doesn’t sound like she actually means it.
YOU: “Unless you want us to leave it here so your tours get cancelled. We can do that for you. We can hook you up.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim looks at you sharply, but doesn’t say anything.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER:”No, I’d rather not have to see him.”
YOU: You execute a little bow. “Your wish is our command.”
1) “Did you know him?”
2) “How did he get in here?”
3) “What do you think happened?”
4) "Can you tell me more about the tower?”
5) “Are you okay?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Yes. I mean, a little bit. His name was Glenn - I’m sorry, I think he told me his last name, but I don’t remember it.” She presses her lips together. “He was really interested in history. He was writing a book on the tower. He always showed up with a notebook. He knew all kinds of facts about the tower that made my tours better. All sorts of weird history. He’d usually come over at the end of the day when I was closing up. Around five," she clarifies.
ENDURANCE: Long days.
EMPATHY: Her voice is soft with fondness. There’s something here. Push it.
YOU: “Did you spend a lot of time together?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She flushes. “Sometimes. Not - not recently.”
YOU: “Why not?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I don’t know.”
1) “Did you know him?”
2) “How did he get in here?”
3) “What do you think happened?”
4) "Can you tell me more about the tower?”
5) “Are you okay?”
YOU: “How did he get in here?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She hesitates, then says, “I let him in last night. I used to - oh, you’re not going to tell my boss, are you? I used to let him lock up on nights I go to class. He said he got his best writing done at sunset. He’d go up to the top of the tower, to Queen Marguerite’s room and write for a bit. The key was always where I told him to leave it when I came in.”
1) “And last night?”
2) “Did he stay often?”
YOU: “And last night?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I went to class. It was night when I got back. I didn’t see him there.”
1) “And last night?”
2) “Did he stay often?”
YOU: “Did he stay often?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Once a week or so.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He makes a note in his notebook and she tracks it with quick eyes. “That is quite frequent.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She does not respond.
1) “Did you know him?”
2) “How did he get in here?”
3) “What do you think happened?”
4) "Can you tell me more about the tower?”
5) “Are you okay?”
YOU: “What do you think happened?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I don’t know, maybe he fell out of the tower…? There’s a big window up there. There isn’t any glass. It was damaged during the revolution.”
RHETORIC: She says this with the assurance of one to whom the revolution is just a story in a history-book.
KIM KITSURAGI: “There aren’t any bars in the window?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She shakes her head. “It ruins the view.”
YOU: “Do you think it was intentional?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She sucks in a sharp breath. “You mean-”
YOU: “Suicide.”
COMPOSURE: She almost seems to relax. “I don’t know. I - I guess, maybe. I don’t know why he would do that, though. He said - I don’t know if he was *happy.*”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did he ever mention any trouble with work? A wife, a partner?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She shakes her head.
1) “Did you know him?”
2) “How did he get in here?”
3) “What do you think happened?”
4) "Can you tell me more about the tower?”
5) “Are you okay?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: Unconsciously, she straightens up, adopting a different tone. “Oh, the Tower of Love. Three centuries ago, this tower was built by King Filippe the First as a sort of astronomy viewing tower. Or a clandestine meeting place for his young gay lovers. It’s hard to say.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Why not both?” he murmurs. He scratches something in his notebook.
AUTHORITY: Ah, the wonders of the monarchy.
SUGGESTION: Must be nice.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Sometime after the tower began to be used for political prisoners. Troublesome cousins, bastard heirs to the throne, that sort of thing. Filippe the Insane imprisoned his first wife, Queen Marguerite, here. She was penned up here for a dozen years. The King gave her everything she wanted - ladies in waiting, fine clothes, musicians - but, as you can see, it’s a small tower. After a decade, stories started to come out that Queen Marguerite would lure young men up into the tower for a night of love before throwing them out into the waters of Jamrock Lake down below.”
RHETORIC: Women.
YOU: “You’d think she’d run out of lovers.” MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “You would think,” she says, and smiles. “Queen Marguerite was apparently quite beautiful. Guards, fishermen, musicians, members of the royal court…you name it. They say she was upwards of around seventy men by the end.” RHETORIC: *Men.*
1) “And then what happened?”
2) “Why did she do it?"
3) “So this place is totally haunted, right?”
YOU: “And then what happened?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “One man escaped. A guard that could swim. He told everyone, but no one believed him…three years later there was a drought. When the lake waters receded, they found a mass of skeletons at the base of the tower. They stormed the castle and burned her alive.”
1) “And then what happened?”
2) “Why did she do it?"
3) “So this place is totally haunted, right?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “They called her ‘Marguerite the Insatiable.’ Some say it was revenge against the court that exiled her. Others said she was possessed, or just as mad as Filippe was. They were cousins,” Maggie says, and gestures around her ear in the universal symbol for *crazy.* “Most people agreed she killed them because she didn’t want to be caught. The punishment for royal infidelity was death. For the women only, of course.”
INLAND EMPIRE: Or maybe she just wanted to be loved.
YOU: Good thing I’m done with that forever.
SUGGESTION: Right…
SHIVERS: At the bottom of Jamrock Lake - trapped in fissures, nestled amongst rocks, floating gently on deep-lake currents - are still a dozen bodies. Fish play in and out of their eye sockets, which are permanently wide in expressions of pleasure.
1) “And then what happened?”
2) “Why did she do it?"
3) “So this place is totally haunted, right?”
YOU: “So this place is totally haunted, right?”
KIM KITSURAGI: A noise beside you. The shuffle of nylon as he leans very close to whisper in your ear. “Detective, are you sure this is relevant?”
YOU: “Totally.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “That’s definitely one of the draws of the tower. Glenn thought so. *I’ve* never seen a ghost,” she says hastily, “and I live here. Sometimes people say they hear footsteps on the steps, like a man climbing to his doom. Some people, when they’re out on the lake, say they see a woman in a white dress walking in front of the window up there.”
PAIN THRESHOLD: She is young and she is in a white summer sundress, her hair like gold spilled around her head. She is laying in the grass - and you are leaning over her, holding your breath. It is the very first time, which can never, ever be returned to. Her eyes are very wide, something like trust, and disbelief, and love.
HALF LIGHT: Something to throw yourself out a tower over.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “But it’s just stories. Still, they keep people coming in.”
INLAND EMPIRE: It makes her a little sad. She’d kind of like there to be a ghost.
EMPATHY: It would be less lonely that way.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She laughs a little. “My friend says that’s why I’m getting so into textile arts. I’m thinking of taking up embroidery next. She says it’s Marguerite’s influence.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. How very altruistic of her.” He turns to you. “Detective, if that is all your questions…?”
YOU: “Maggie…Marguerite…”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. It’s part of why they hired me.”
EMPATHY: He tucks his notebook into his jacket pocket and waits patiently, hands behind his back.
VOLITION: He would wait forever for you.
YOU: You tell Maggie to call you if she thinks of anything else, handing over your cards. Then, you and Kim climb the steps to the top room of the tower, a dizzying climb in a narrow stairway. At a few points, you have to duck or turn sideways. You hear Kim’s breath behind you coming short and harsh.
HALF LIGHT: He doesn’t like this.
JAMROCK TOWER: Your leg aches by the time you come out onto the top room of the tower. It has been redecorated in an approximation of Queen Marguerite’s room, and the walls are hung with threadbare tapestries. A large four-poster bed sits in the dark corner, and a music stand sits by the window. On the wall is a pair of crossed rusty weapons.
YOU: “That’s a nice, um, a nice-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He turns. “A halberd,” he says, coming over to look at it. “A Franconigerian copy. Not authentic.” When he sees your mouth open, he says, his ears flushing, “I told you, I was *very* into Franconigerian knights for a time.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Kim would make an excellent knight. You should tell him that.
YOU: “Kim, you’d make a *great* knight.”
KIM KITSURAGI: For some reason, his ears flush further. He does not respond.
PERCEPTION: The open window lets in the spring breeze. It is cold this far up. Far away, a bird wings by, a dark speck in the sky.
JAMROCK TOWER: The room itself is dim. The kind of room that looks best by candlelight. The lover on their knees above you, looking down. “Darling,” they say, fingers brushing the back of your face, “Harrier.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim goes to the window and looks out, hands behind his back.
HALF LIGHT: He’s too close to the edge.
YOU: You go over to him. “Do you think it was suicide?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s the most likely option. As long as our keeper is telling the truth. It’s possible our deceased let someone else into the tower, but…” he shrugs.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: But you’re not likely to know. There are *so many* unsolved cases. It’s disheartening.
YOU: “Why would he want to kill himself?” You lean on the windowsill next to Kim, your shoulder brushing his.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Who knows?” he says. “Money troubles? Troubles in love? Depression - the lure of the edge-”
YOU: You lean out further, looking down.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Wow. It’s, likely *really* fair down.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Twenty meters or so.
ENDURANCE: You feel suddenly dizzy.
INTERFACING: A hand in your jacket pulls you back. “Officer, are you quite done?”
YOU: Nodding, you let Kim pull you back. Once you are away from the brink, he puts his hands behind his back.
KIM KITSURAGI: In the shadows, his eyes are difficult to make out. “We should go remove the body, so we do not traumatize countless schoolchildren.”
1) “*I* can count them. It’ll be about 22-25. Class sizes in Jamrock are fairly high-”
2) “You’re right, let’s go.”
3) “It’ll be good for them.”
4) “Actually, I think we should sit on this bed for a minute. I just have a feeling.”
YOU: “*I* can count them. It’ll be about 22-25. Class sizes in Jamrock are fairly high-”
KIM KITSURAGI: A smile. “Of course. Your arcane gym teacher knowledge. I wonder what you were like. No, I can see it.” There is a strange look on his face, almost one of amusement. “Still, we should finish here.”
YOU: You nod, and follow him down through the tower and out into the spring sunshine.
≠≠
YOU: You are having a bad night. It is a rainy evening in mid-May, cold in a way that reminds you of winter. Of Martinaise. The rain has slackened to a fine mist, which flares out around the streetlights, ghostly and strange.
ENDURANCE: You walk the streets of Jamrock, head down, hands shoved in your pockets. Attempting to avoid the lure of the neon lights, the music spilling out from bars, the clouds of cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You want a drink. You’ve wanted a drink for *days.* You’ve wanted a drink for your entire miserable fucking existence. You came out of the womb wanting a drink. Your mother was an alcoholic, did you know that? Some things run in the blood. Like, alcohol, for example, which could be running through your blood right now, making the streetlights beautiful, making your skin fit your bones agin.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: If the river was whiskey - and you were a skua -
HALF LIGHT: You’d dive to the bottom and be gone forever. Forever and ever, Harry-boy.
YOU: You’ve been trying not to drink too much. You’ve settled on a system that mostly work for you, or rather, works for you on the nights you are drinking. You allow yourself to drink four nights a week, on good weeks. Tuesday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Tuesday because it’s always the suicides.
SUGGESTION: Friday because you’ve been so *good,* Harry.
LOGIC: Saturday because it’s *Saturday*.
ENDURANCE: And Sunday because they are long and slow. You are waiting to go into the precinct. You are waiting for your life to begin again. You are waiting for the hours to pass and the sun to track its limited way across your basement apartment. Sometimes you go for a walk to stave it off, walking until your leg locks up and you have to drag it, limping, back to your apartment, or to a bar nearby, where you sit for hours and let the sunlight pass by outside, until you are recovered sufficiently enough to limp home.
VOLITION: But tonight is Monday. It’s hard. It’s always hardest after a few days on.
YOU: Do I have to keep doing this forever?
VOLITION: Yes. Unless you give up.
HALF LIGHT: Or die.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Don’t think of it as *giving up*. Think of it as *indulging* yourself. Favoring your true nature. Not living a *lie*.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim will be so disappointed.
YOU: You have not shown up drunk to work yet. Not since your first day for courage, your third day also for courage, and your twentieth day because of the case the day before.
VOLITION; Which is good. That’s *good.*
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Which *sucks.* God, this *sucks*. You’re such an asshole, Harry.
YOU: Since today is Monday, you walk instead of drinking, head down, letting the mist catch in your hair, curling it in the damp. You walk down to the river and along it, eyeing the bright movements and the voices calling back and forth at the drug market with envy. You stay well away from Boogie Street.
SHIVERS: You are not the only one restless tonight. A stray dog loops his rounds, his nose to the pavement. A man races up the 8/81, hands on the steering levers, looking far ahead into the fog. Two men struggle with the body of a third, finally dumping it into the river, where it sinks slowly.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You and Kim will find in three months.
ENDURANCE: You’ve walked for three hours, and are now limping home. You can’t bear to be in your silent apartment where the lamps don’t reach all the way into the corners. Where the radio doesn’t quite fill the space.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your leg aches, an awful cramping pain clutching up into your groin and down into the hinge of your knee. But that’s nothing compared to the ache inside you. The way all you can think about is a drink.
PERCEPTION: You hear, before you in the mist, an old woman’s voice, cracked in song.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: One half of your heart calling out to the other.
PERCEPTION: - dear love, I’ve done you wrong, now I must set you free -
DRAMA: That’s real *art.* Hear that pain in her voice? She *understands* it.
YOU: You follow the voice to the dark and looming doorway of a health food store of dubious quality. The store is, you think, mostly a front for drugs, although you have not yet been able to convince them to sell you anything. In the doorway is a pile of dark clothing; as you come out of the fog, your heels clacking on the pavement, the woman’s voice breaks off and the clothing turns to look at you.
STREET ARTIST: She is an old and heavy-nosed old woman with a creased face. Her long gray hair is loosely and messily braided. There is a pile of belongings behind her, likely all she owns in the world. As you approach, she resumes singing. - I saw a lonely lonely man just looking back at me -
DRAMA: Oh my god, that’s *you.* Does she know you?
VISUAL CALCULUS: Does she know anyone? Look at her eyes.
PERCEPTION: They look far, far past you. They have not seen anything in some time.
YOU: You come to a stop a meter away from her, and she trails off, looking up at you.
1) “You know, loitering is an arrestable offense.”
2) “You didn’t have to stop. I liked that. What song is that?”
3) [Say nothing. Fall to your knees and weep. Maybe she will hold you.]
YOU: “You didn’t have to stop. I liked that. What song is that?”
STREET ARTIST: “You did always like that one. It’s called ‘Moody River.’ It’s an old Mondial song. What happened to you?”
YOU: “Me?”
STREET ARTIST: “Yes, you. I haven’t seen you - well.” She laughs, a cracked rusty thing like an ice jam breaking loose. "You haven’t been around in months. It is you, right?” she says with sudden suspicion. “You sound different. And you’re walking funny.”
YOU: “Different how?”
STREET ARTIST: “You’re not slurring, for one. And you’ve got a limp.”
HALF LIGHT: And she’s blind, and old. Are you really going to take this from her?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Who are you to disobey an old ominous crone? Go get drunk right *now.*
1) “You’re right. I should start drinking again.”
2) “Do I know you?”
3) “Oh, I know this one. You say, “‘and you’re ugly, too.’”
4) “I got shot.”
YOU: “Oh, I know this one. You say, “‘and you’re ugly, too.’”
STREET ARTIST: She chuckles. “You know I can’t argue that point. But you sound handsome.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: She winks a sightless eye at you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You are brother and sister.
1) “You’re right. I should start drinking again.”
2) “Do I know you?”
3) “Oh, I know this one. You say, “‘and you’re ugly, too.’”
4) “I got shot.”
YOU: “I got shot.”
STREET ARTIST: “Doing what?” She leans forward in sudden concern.
YOU: “Trying to stop a war.”
STREET ARTIST: She grunts. “Damn stupid thing to do.”
RHETORIC: You want to disagree with this, but the twinge in your leg leaves you unable to.
1) “What’s your name?”
2) “How do I know you?”
3) “How long have you been here?”
4) “Tell me a secret.”
YOU: “How do I know you?”
STREET ARTIST: “We live in the same city. We live on the same street. For the most part.” Her head is cocked at you.
YOU: "I forgot everything. I had a, you know." You gesture to your head.
LOGIC: She can’t see, jackass.
YOU: “Little amnesiac episode.”
STREET ARTIST: “Really?” She looks at you, then nods, as if hearing something that you have not said. “You’re not lying.”
DRAMA: We would never.
1) “What’s your name?”
2) “How do I know you?”
3) “How long have you been here?”
4) “Tell me a secret.”
STREET ARTIST: “Delilah.” She extends her hand. You bend over and shake it.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Good handshake, surprisingly strong. Cold hands, thin fingers. You rub your knuckles after you let go.
YOU: You sit down on the pavement beside her with a grunt. You rub your leg in silence a minute, then offer her a cigarette. She takes it, and you light it for her, watching the light illuminate her face. You light your own and breathe in.
PERCEPTION: The smoke hangs in the misty air, water droplets pearling on her gray hair.
1) “What’s your name?”
2) “How do I know you?”
3) “How long have you been here?”
4) “Tell me a secret.”
YOU: “How long have you been here?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “On this street? I don’t know. Two, three years. It’s hard to get around. I used to travel a lot more when I was younger. I get sick of staying in the same place. I’m a wanderer. But it’s hard, like this.” She gestures at her eyes. “When you’re poor, anyway.”
YOU: “And nobody bothers you?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “I’m under copper protection, ain’t I?” She winks a sightless eye. Then she frowns. “You didn’t get fired, did you?”
YOU: “Not yet.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “You won’t,” she says abruptly. “The city needs you.”
SHIVERS: I NEED ALL MY CHILDREN.
1) “What’s your name?”
2) “How do I know you?”
3) “How long have you been here?”
4) “Tell me a secret.”
YOU: “Tell me a secret.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “You and your secrets,” she says. “How many more cigarettes you got, boy?”
YOU: You look in your pack. Eight left. You’re broke until payday, which is tomorrow afternoon.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s not enough!
VOLITION: It could be.
DRAMA: Lie to her. She can’t see them.
YOU: “Eight.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “I’ll take six.” She holds out a hand.
VOLITION: You hand them to her.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Two cigarettes to last nearly 24 hours? This is inhumane.
DRAMA: Just pretend you’re Kim Kitsuragi.
DELILAH: She tucks them away somewhere, still sucking on the one in her mouth. Then, expelling a stream of smoke, she says, “She talks to me too.”
YOU: “She?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: She taps the pavement with one finger and smiles. “La Revacholiere," she says. “You’re not the only one. How lonely that would be.” She gathers herself in, arranging her coat around herself. It is a long process that leaves her almost entirely covered. “Go home, boy. Some of us have to work in the morning.”
AUTHORITY: You have been dismissed.
YOU: You get to your feet, using the doorway to help you up. You stumble when you put weight on your bad leg. “Do you need anything? Are you cold? Hungry?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “More cigarettes,” she says. “And a bottle of Pale-aged whiskey if you’ve got it.”
DRAMA: Some new music. She has all the old songs in her head, but she likes hearing new ones. A scrap from a passing motor carriage, a young punk carrying a boombox. The two of you used to talk music late into the night, passing a bottle back and forth.
YOU: Is that all I can do for her?
LOGIC: What are you going to do, invite her back to your apartment? She won’t go. Besides, you shout in your sleep.
YOU: “Goodnight, Delilah.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “Night, Harrier,” she says, and keeps her head turned towards you as you go.
CENTRAL JAMROCK: And you go on through the streets, deep into the fog, until just the sound of your shoes on the pavement accompanies you. Far behind you, you might hear someone singing, but it’s faint, and long ago. You head home, because that is, at least, somewhere to be.
≠≠
YOU: Once you discover the existence of the Jamrock Drive-In - via a radio ad on SAD FM - you invite Kim to catch the double-feature with you on Friday.
LOGIC: This is because you can’t just *walk* into a drive-in, and your car is at the bottom of the sea.
PAIN THRESHOLD: A fact with Jean Vicquemare spares no pains to point out anytime the words motor carriage, driving, sea, car, ocean, crash, or sinking are mentioned.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Let them try to *stop* you from walking into the drive-in.
SUGGESTION: It’s *also* a sneaky way to spend some more time with Kim. Surely he cannot resist the opportunity to spend time in his Coupris Kineema.
PRECINCT 41: He cannot. You both work late, finishing up some paperwork. It has been the first truly hot day of the year, and the sweat dries on your back even as the open windows in the precinct let in the cooling air. It is darkening by the time you leave, grabbing dinner at the nearby kebab shop before heading to the drive-in.
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: The drive-in is nestled in the center of the Jamrock Landfill. The road through the landfill climbs up and up manmade hills, through garbage patches and vent-holes leaching methane into sky. Greater, though, are the empty and vast spaces, waiting to accept the cast-offs of your life and the lives of those in Revachol.
INLAND EMPIRE: Some of these things are yours, Harry. Things long lost, things forgotten.
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: You follow the line of other motor carriages into a wide-open space, where two vast movie screens stretch to the sky. Beyond, the city lights. Beyond that, the sea, and beyond that, the Pale.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim parks near the back, leaving the Kineema at an obnoxious angle to prevent anyone else from parking too close. All around you, motor carriages are settling in - turning off their headlamps, voices buzzing through the air.
SHIVERS: Couples crowd into back seats, heads tipped together. Hands fall on thighs, arms go around shoulders.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim turns on the radio, tuning to the station for the drive-in.
YOU: You lean forward into the front of the Kineema. “Kim, you’re gonna come back here with me, right?”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant carefully does not react as your moist breath hits his neck. “It would be a little cramped back there, detective.”
1) “But what if I get scared?”
2) “We’re partners, Kim!”
3) “We’re friends, Kim!”
4) “I don’t want to be lonely.”
YOU: “But what if I get scared?”
KIM KITSURAGI: You see his mouth twitch in the rearview mirror. “Fortunately, I don’t think either film is a scary one.”
HALF LIGHT: The entire world is frightening. The man who does not recognize that is a fool.
1) “But what if I get scared?”
2) “We’re partners, Kim!”
3) “We’re friends, Kim!”
4) “I don’t want to be lonely.”
YOU: “We’re partners, Kim!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, detective.”
1) “But what if I get scared?”
2) “We’re partners, Kim!”
3) “We’re friends, Kim!”
4) “I don’t want to be lonely.”
YOU: “We’re friends, Kim!”
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes widen.
EMPATHY: Friends…? he thinks.
COMPOSURE: You’ve thrown him off balance.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Yes. Well.”
1) “But what if I get scared?”
2) “We’re partners, Kim!”
3) “We’re friends, Kim!”
4) “I don’t want to be lonely.”
YOU: “I don’t want to be lonely.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He meets your eyes then in the mirror.
YOU: “Please, Kim?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He seems to waffle, then nods shortly. “You will have to move over.”
REACTION SPEED: Incoming!
KIM KITSURAGI: He slips out, opens the rear door, and climbs in beside you. You are close in the backseat, his shoulder pressed against yours.
PERCEPTION: You can smell him. Motor oil and pine needles. Traces of sweat.
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: The movie begins. The first one is a Dick Mullen, which opens with an exciting train chase sequence.
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans over to whisper in your ear that he’s seen it before. “I’m sure you have too.”
YOU: You shiver.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: If we have, we don’t remember.
KIM KITSURAGI: His knee bumps yours, and he moves it with a murmur. When, ten minutes later, you call the plot-twist of the movie, he leans back over again. “I thought you said you haven’t seen this before.”
YOU: “What can I say? I’m a detective god, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A huff. His knee rests against yours again, and this time, he does not pull away.
VOLITION: It is, for some reason, extremely difficult to focus on the rest of the movie.
LOGIC: Maybe you *have* seen it before.
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: You watch the moon rise high above the movie screen, and behind it, the throbbing glow of the city on the horizon.
PERCEPTION: The Kineema windows are half-open, bringing in the warm spring air, the sounds of other people around you - duplicated radios and talking and laughter. Gasping, from the next car over.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Now *this* is more like it. Go on. Take a *long* look.
YOU: You straighten up, pressing to the window. “Kim, I think those people are-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He pulls you back by your jacket. “That is entirely their business, of course.”
YOU: “But Kim, in the middle of Dick Mullen?” you say helplessly.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Perhaps it is an aphrodisiac.”
1) “That makes sense. Detective work always makes me horny.”
2) “Some people have no shame.”
YOU: “That makes sense. Detective work always makes me horny.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A strange choking sound next to you in the dark.
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: The next movie, it turns out, is a Messinian period drama with some extremely inauthentic outfits.
KIM KITSURAGI: In the flickering lights illuminating the cab, you see Kim suppress a yawn.
HALF LIGHT: He hates you. He’s wishing he wasn’t here.
ENDURANCE: He’s tired. This workload is more than he’s used to. In the GRIH, he had two cases a week. Things like vandalism, petty robberies, missing persons.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Unlike the 41st precinct, which is a *MAN’S PRECINCT.*
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And also Judit.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Yes, and also Judit.
ENDURANCE: Just this week you climbed three chain-link fences, chased two suspects - and their couch - on foot, and chased one in a motor carriage.
DRAMA: Also, the movie’s just not holding his interest.
YOU: "I have an idea to make this more interesting.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He watches as you lean forward, wedging yourself into the front seat. Your groping fingers find the radio dial - you spin - spin -
PERCEPTION: There it is. SAD FM. The tightly-tuned strings of pure heartbreak filter gently through the car.
YOU: You sit back heavily next to Kim, pressed against his warm and story side. “There. That’s an improvement.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A flicker at the corner of his mouth. “It is, yes.”
JAMROCK DRIVE-IN: The soft melancholy of SAD FM filters the nonsensical actions of the beautiful princess in a new light. You find yourself entranced as an O.O. song - one of their acoustic ones - overlays a dramatic bathhouse scene with a hidden assassin. Kim is quiet beside you, his breathing slowing, then deepening…
INTERFACING: And then a weight falls to your shoulder.
VOLITION: Don’t move.
ENDURANCE: Kim has fallen asleep on your shoulder.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You stay perfectly still for the next twenty minutes as the princess makes a series of ever-worsening decisions, all accompanied by sad rock music.
YOU: I know exactly what that’s like.
INTERFACING: Kim’s breath puffs slow and even over your neck, his side rising and falling against yours.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It feels - good. A great weight coming off you, your breath slowing in time with his. All those delicious chemicals fluttering through your system…
ENDURANCE: You find your own eyes growing heavy…and closing…
HALF LIGHT: A clarion bell rings through your fuzzy skull, resounding off bone to crash into soft, tender brain matter.
YOU: You wake suddenly into confusion. A dark night full of stars. A soft breeze on your skin.
PERCEPTION: The sound again.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: A car horn.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim jolts upright next to you, hand reaching under his jacket. “What?”
YOU: “Shit.” You rub your face. “I think we fell asleep and missed the movie.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah.” He glances at you briefly, then away. It is hard to tell in the night, lit by car headlamps, but you think his ears turn red.
YOU: You rub your face to check for drool.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Spotless. Savvy’s got you, kid.
YOU: “It’s okay. I don’t think we missed much.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Still, Kim straightens up, leaving your side.
COMPOSURE: Pulling himself together. And away from you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You are cold.
YOU: “Hey Kim, let’s blow this ice cream bear.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What?” You are still close enough that his disbelieving puff of laughter brushes your skin. “What did you say?”
YOU: “Is that not a thing people say?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. No, it is not a thing that people say.” His eyes glitter.
YOU: “Oh. Well, maybe they should.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Good luck with that, detective.” He gets out, climbing back into the front seat. His eyes flick up to the line, then to the switch that turns his siren lights up.
AUTHORITY: He is considering abusing his powers.
SAVOIR FAIRE: God, he’s so *cool.*
YOU: “Do it, Kim!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I don’t think so.”
VOLITION: He has already let himself go once today. He will not do it again.
YOU: Still, you find yourself wishing he would.
≠≠
YOU: The TOWER OF LOVE case sits on your desk in the closed drawer.
INLAND EMPIRE: The case continues to trouble you. It seems as if it is a clear suicide, and yet - and yet -
HALF LIGHT: It’s not. You know it in your lungs.
INLAND EMPIRE: And there are the dreams. You continue to have the same dream of the dead man. You are him, and you are in Jamrock Tower, and Dolores Dei keeps bringing you more books, piling them up on the desk before you. You keep taking them from her, piling them up around yourself. Building a tower. The tower of *love.* There is a noise below, sharp and urgent. A skua’s cry, or a child in pain. You get up and go over to the window. There is a girl down there, and you lean out to call down to her. You feel Dolores Dei press herself, fleetingly, to your back. The incredible sweetness of her body. The scent of apricots. Then she says, “What are you doing here in the tower of love, Harry? You don’t belong here.”
And then she pushes you.
You fall, a sickening swooping feeling -
- and then you wake up. Sweating, spinning.
YOU: The third time you have this dream, you get out of bed, heart racing. It is early in the morning. Too late to go back to sleep, too early to go into the precinct.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Across the city, Kim Kitsuragi is also awake. He has had his own bad dream, although there was a lot more blood in it.
YOU: You call him.
KIM KITSURAGI: Two rings. Then his voice. “Kim Kitsuragi.”
YOU: “Kim, THE TOWER OF LOVE wasn’t a suicide.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay. An accident?”
YOU: “Murder.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you have any proof?”
YOU: “If we talk to the right person…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay.” You hear noises in the background. The sound of hot liquid being poured. The sound of a door opening, as if to a balcony. “So it’s a murder. We have two possibilities. The first - it was random. The second - it was premeditated. The first could have been anyone. The second - perhaps someone who knew him.”
YOU: “Or, three, someone possessed by the ghost of Marguerite the Insatiable, or four, it could have been *actually* the ghost of Marguerite the Insatiable.” You tick off your fingers, phone held between your ear and shoulder.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Or, five, the Insulindian phasmid.”
SHIVERS: A long unfolding of limbs against the dawn. The whisper of reeds. The sigh of the sea.
YOU: “Kim.” A hushed voice of reproach. “She would never do that.”
KIM KITSURAGI: You can *hear* the smile in his voice. “Of course. What was I thinking?”
YOU: “Kim, I think we need to go to the Tower.”
JAMROCK TOWER: When you and Kim reach the Tower, the sun is just beginning to rise, orange and heavy, staining the horizon with pink.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It’s going to be a beautiful day.
YOU: You leave the Kineema parked on the far side and walk across the bridge. The Tower rises above you, dark and old into the sky.
PERCEPTION: Something catches your eye. A flutter in the open window. A movement of white.
YOU: You catch Kim’s arm and point up, silently.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The keeper,” he says. But there’s a question to his face.
JAMROCK TOWER: Maggie is waiting for you in Queen Marguerite’s room. She sits at the window, looking down.
YOU: What does she see?
VISUAL CALCULUS: Sky. Skuas. The rocks below.
INLAND EMPIRE: This isn’t right. She’s wearing a green coat. Where did that come from?
LOGIC: Maybe she changed when she saw you coming.
INLAND EMPIRE: No - that’s not right.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Officers,” she says, and stands.
HALF LIGHT: Kim’s hand goes to his gun, then pauses, hovering there.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “It’s a little early for a tour, isn’t it?”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Her voice trembles just a little bit.
EMPATHY: Get her *away* from the window.
1) “Actually, I find mornings are the perfect time to learn!”
2) “Maggie, we know you did it.”
3) “Maggie, we know you didn’t *mean* to do it. I think you were possessed.”
4) “Well, it’s suicide, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know.”
YOU: “Actually, I find mornings are the perfect time to learn!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You do seem to be a morning person. And a night person. Really, an all the time person.”
1) “Actually, I find mornings are the perfect time to learn!”
2) “Maggie, we know you did it.”
3) “Maggie, we know you didn’t *mean* to do it. I think you were possessed.”
4) “Well, it’s suicide, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know.”
YOU: “Maggie, we know you did it.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
YOU: You step closer. One step. Two. She edges away from you.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Away form the window.
1) “Actually, I find mornings are the perfect time to learn!”
2) “Maggie, we know you did it.”
3) “Maggie, we know you didn’t *mean* to do it. I think you were possessed.”
4) “Well, it’s suicide, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know.”
YOU: “Maggie, we know you didn’t *mean* to do it. I think you were possessed.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Possessed? By who?”
YOU: “By Queen Marguerite.”
HALF LIGHT: You’ve hit a nerve.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “God! I am so sick of hearing about Marguerite. Glenn was always on about her. I used to say he loved her more than he loved me.”
1) “I get it. Some women are impossible standards to live up to. As a matter of fact, my ex…”
2) “I thought he was writing a book.”
3) [Say nothing.]
YOU: You say nothing.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “Okay, I lied. We used to be - we were lovers. For six months. He was coming here for a few years before that, but…”
INLAND EMPIRE: An autumn night. She is sitting on the bed, watching him write. He gets up, he sits beside her, a strange light in his eye…
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “But he ended things a month ago. Said it wasn’t - I wasn’t what he wanted.”
YOU: “What did he want?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I don’t know. Queen Marguerite, apparently. All I know is he was gone. And I was alone again.” She turns wild, pleading eyes on you. You step closer to her. She backs up again. “It gets so lonely here at night. And in the mornings, when it’s all foggy, and you can’t see anything else, can’t hear anything but the skuas. It’s so *creepy.* I hate it here. I’m trapped. I know how Marguerite felt, okay, but I don’t care.”
YOU: “Maggie, what happened that night?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: She takes a shuddering breath. “He came back. He wanted to be *friends.* he said he missed me.” Her face crumples.
PAIN THRESHOLD: I love you. Dora, come home.
YOU: “And you couldn’t do that?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I thought I could - I thought it was better than nothing. We came up here…it was like old times. And I couldn’t. He was standing at the window looking down, and I came over to him, and I kissed him-”
HALF LIGHT: Dull horror fills you. You know this one.
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: Her voice cracks. “I thought maybe being here again would remind him.”
YOU: “But it didn’t work.”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “No.” She pushes her hair back. “He stepped away. Closer to the window. He said he couldn’t - that he didn’t love me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim watches the two of you. He has been moving closer, very slowly, as the girl talks, fixed on you.
1) “You did the right thing.”
2) “And then what happened?”
3) “Love is stupid.”
YOU: “And then what happened?”
MAGGIE THE TOWER KEEPER: “I don’t know what came over me. I wanted to scare him, I think. I went to push him - just a little - but then he fell…”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Maybe she didn’t know her own strength.
INLAND EMPIRE: Or someone else lended their own.
PERCEPTION: There is a flutter of movement across the room -
VISUAL CALCULUS: The bed-curtain moves in a slight spring breeze -
REACTION SPEED: Several things happen at once. Maggie lunges for the window - Kim reaches for his gun - you grab Maggie.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: The movement throws you off-balance, and you feel the abyss yawn beyond.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim shouts, something that is lost in the roar of your ears.
HALF LIGHT: Maggie is fighting you know, scratching your neck with her nails, striking at your face.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Eyes watering, you overpower her, wrestling her away from the window. She shudders in your grasp, then goes still.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim comes alongside you, breathing fast through his nose, pulling out his cuffs. She offers little resistance.
YOU: After reading Maggie her rights, you allow her to call and cancel her day tours, then call in for backup to take her back to the station.
JAMROCK TOWER: You stand and look back at the tower, heavy and gray in the sun, which has now fully risen.
YOU: “We seem to investigate an awful lot of murders.” You pull on your chops.
KIM KITSURAGI: “In the murder wing? Yes.” Kim smiles, then nudges your shoulder with his. A reassuring pressure already grown familiar. “Cheer up, detective. Maybe the next case won’t be a murder. Maybe a nice robbery, or a forgery, or kidnapping…”
YOU: “Something to look forward to.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He laughs, something warm and soft and rich and familiar, and it fills your lungs like spring. He turns back to the Kineema. “See detective?” he says. “No ghosts here.”
YOU: You turn to look at the tower behind you.
JAMROCK TOWER: The tower is dead. There is no movement.
PERCEPTION: Except - at the top of the tower, something white flashes before the window.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: As if someone is looking down. Watching you.
YOU: You raise a hand in a wave.
JAMROCK TOWER: And then it is gone.
≠≠
YOU: The end of May comes, and with it, your birthday.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You wake on the 26th of May with the knowledge that it is your birthday. You had broken into Gottlieb’s medical records during one of your checkups and had discovered your file, which listed all sorts of interesting facts about yourself. Birthday - May 26. Prior injuries: two gunshot wounds, four stab wounds, one broken bone. Numerous minor injuries. Late-stage alcoholism. Methamphetamine addiction. A list of other potential mental issues that made you ill to look at.
YOU: Still, at least now you know when your birthday is. You stretch under the sheets, searching for a cool spot.
PERCEPTION: The fresh spring air comes in over your skin. You can see a glimpse of blue sky just past the pavement in the upside-down view of the window over your bed.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It is a good day to have a birthday.
ENDURANCE: Your forty-fifth.
YOU: You dress in your favorite paisley shirt and your yellow disco flares - both auspicious choices - and go into work. You had prepared for the fact that no one would remember or acknowledge your birthday, so you are not upset when there are no balloons or cards or celebratory shots. Kim doesn’t say anything, just greets you with his usual quick smile over his desk.
COMPOSURE: Despite this, you start to feel a little down. Around ten you get a call for a robbery at a nearby pet shop; when you go out, the owner has no idea what you’re talking about.
YOU: You’re about to demand to see the backroom, to see what, *exactly* this woman is hiding, when Kim puts a hand on your arm. “Khm,” he says. “Maybe we should get back to the precinct.”
HALF LIGHT: This was a false call. Somebody wanted to get you away from the precinct for a reason.
PRECINCT 41: When you go back, taking the stairs three at a time, breath tearing in your lungs - Kim walking a more sedate pace behind you - you slam open the door to make out -
VISUAL CALCULUS: A party. A small one, centered around your desk. The H-A——Y BIRTHDAY banner has seen better days -
INLAND EMPIRE: Someone - there is no telling who - repurposed those P-P letters for something undoubtedly nefarious.
VISUAL CALCULUS: - and the balloons are small, half-filled ones from a retirement last week, but there is a cake, and Chester is making everyone put on paper hats - which have also seen better days. But it is a *party.* For *you.*
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans into your ear. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he says. “I wanted to say it earlier, but Officers Torson and McLaine insisted on it being a surprise.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Despite everything, you are still their brother.
[+1 morale]
YOU: You join everyone clustered around your desk, your face hot with excitement and the attention, to see a small cake sitting there. Strawberry, apparently, as Jean Vicquemare tells you, your favorite.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I didn’t think you’d make it.” He toasts you with his coffee cup.
1) “I’m like a cockroach. I never die.”
2) “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
3) “I didn’t either.”
YOU: “I didn’t either.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He meets your eyes - one clear gray, the other clouded, like the mist hanging heavy at the waterfront in the morning - then looks away.
PRECINCT 41: Everyone stands around your desk and bullshits for a half hour, talking about THE GUYS ON A COUCH’s latest location - on top of the Jamrock Bridge, like *on top of* on top of - and the latest rumors of La Puta Madre. Torson and Kim are talking, very animatedly, about the Kineema. Jules even comes out from his booth briefly to snag a piece of cake and clap you on the shoulder. The party breaks up when several phone calls come in - a real robbery, and a motor carriage accident, and a missing persons, and the officers go their separate ways. But you carry something light and hopeful with you through the remainder of the day.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim suggests knocking off a little early that evening, and you agree. The two of you go to a Mesque place you’ve discovered - he refuses to let you pay - and eat at the tightly-packed counter, watching people out the windows. Your elbows brush every time either of you goes to take a bite.
SHIVERS: The streets are full of people under the shining sun, walking rapidly - the bare legs of women, a couple with their arms around each other, an old man moving slowly, head down. Summer is coming soon.
VOLITION: You did it, Harry. You made it another year.
YOU: “I’m forty-five.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A venerable old age.”
YOU: “Watch it.” He smiles, turning his face away from you, as if to hide it. “When’s your birthday?”
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes glitter at you. “Not for awhile.”
YOU: “Come on, aren’t you going to tell me?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m sure you’re capable of finding out, detective.”
YOU: Kim walks you back to your apartment, only a handful of blocks away. The light is fading, shadows lengthening on the street. The streetlamps are about to turn on. The horizon is orange, deepening to a dark, rich blue. You unlock the door and swing it open. “Do you want to come in, Kim?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He pauses, his brows furrowing slightly. He says, slowly, “I should get home. It’s getting late.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Late?? It’s only eight! Come on, man. *Live* a little.
YOU: “We could play Suzerainty?”
SUGGESTION: He wants to come in. To sit on your couch and watch you in the lamplight. Listen to your radio. To listen to you talking about something - anything.
YOU: Then why won’t he?
VOLITION: It’s not appropriate.
YOU: What?
KIM KITSURAGI: “Goodnight, detective. And - happy birthday.” His eyes are soft and dark.
SUGGESTION: You know, it would be the easiest thing in the world to put an arm around his waist and pull him close.
INLAND EMPIRE: He would look at you just like this, with these soft, dark eyes.
YOU: And then what?
SAVOIR FAIRE: No. *Clearly* you have no idea what you’re doing. It’s not time yet!
YOU: For what?
EMPATHY: Answer him. He’s waiting for you. Starting to worry that he’s disappointed you.
HALF LIGHT: Good. He has.
YOU: “Night, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods once, then turns to go. The Kineema is parked back at the precinct; he has a several-block walk in the deepening spring twilight.
YOU: You go into your apartment and turn all the lights on. Fuck the electric bill. It’s your *birthday.* You try to settle down with MIRRORBALL FM and the latest MAN FROM HJELMDALL book from the library, the one you saved for just this occasion -
DRAMA: The one with the very-scantily clad woman on the cover, barely restraining a disturbing muscular unicorn -
YOU: But you can’t focus. There is something buzzing underneath your skin. Something like radio static, or Pale interference.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You *know* what’s missing. Come on, Harry. Is it really your birthday if you don’t have a birthday drink?
VOLITION: Just one. You could do just one.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You should call her. It’s your birthday. She’s thinking about it too, you know. Today weighs heavy on her like a stone in your pocket in the sea.
SUGGESTION: Call Kim instead.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s not home yet. He’s driving, the windows down, out through the Pox. Hands on the levers like he’s trying to outrun something.
SHIVERS: Seven blocks over and three blocks down, a woman sits in a doorway, face turned towards the sea.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Drinking it is.
YOU: You go get a birthday drink. Just one. The boiadeiro bar three blocks over where you don’t seem to have gotten kicked out in your previous life. You lean on the bar and avoid your eyes in the mirror, and you drink. And then, because it’s your birthday, and you’re weak, you have another. And when you’re full of that light bright feeling, the one you get early on in drinking - the one you’re always trying to chase - you palm a matchbook off the bar and leave while you still can.
YOU: You stop into a Frittte and buy an extra pack of cigarettes. You walk through the darkening streets, which are still warm, brushing against all the denizens of Jamrock.
PERCEPTION: And then you hear it. - and if drinking don’t kill me, then I don’t know what will -
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: She sits on the edge of the curb, elbows on her knees. Her clouded eyes stare off towards the sea, but she turns to look at you as you approach. She is wearing heavy boots that are coming apart at the soles. One is unlaced, dragging precariously on the ground.
YOU: “Delilah.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: She smiles. She is missing a few teeth, and she has one of the loveliest smiles you have seen. “Harrier. Happy birthday.”
INLAND EMPIRE: Is this how people feel around you?
YOU: “How do you know that?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “You know how."
YOU: You rummage around in your pockets, pulling out the cigarettes, matchbook, and a piece of cake triple-folded into a napkin. “I saved you some cake.”
PERCEPTION: The neat white-and-blue icing is now smeared into an unrecognizable mess. You surreptitiously wipe some of the pocket-lint off with your jacket. “The icing’s a little smeared.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “Can’t see it anyway,” she says cheerfully. She takes it from you, eating it quickly with ravenous bites.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The last time she had a piece of cake was twelve years ago.
YOU: You look down at her, the lamplight making strong, harsh shadows on her face. “When’s your birthday?”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “Just missed it,” she says around a mouthful of cake.
SHIVERS: The 24th of May.
YOU: “Fuck!”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “That’s okay.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: She is, you see, a little drunk. No, she is a *lot* drunk. There is an almost empty bottle of gin beside her.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Go on. Take a little. She might not notice, and even if she does, it’s your *birthday,* Harry.
VOLITION: Don’t do that.
YOU: You don’t do that. Instead, you kneel before her and tie her bootlace for her, tightly, so it doesn’t trip her up. And you untie and do the other one, too. You glance up during it to find her face turned towards you.
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “I can still tie my own boots, you know.”
YOU: Something hard and thick knots in your throat. You nod once, which she cannot see.
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: “Let me feel your face,” she says. “See if you got any older.”
LOGIC: That is unlikely.
EMPATHY: She has not touched someone in so long. Someone’s fingers accidentally brushing hers as they drop some change into her cupped palm, pulling away rapidly as if burned. A young man helping her up in the street as she had fallen, drunk, on the ice. Small children dared to touch her as she slept.
YOU: You sit down beside her on the curb, feeling it cool through your pants.
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: She reaches out slowly to your face.
HALF LIGHT: Run. Hide. Do not let her touch you.
YOU: You stay perfectly still, trembling, as her cold soft hand touches your face. She lands on your cheek first, then down - “good,” she says, smiling, and pats your chops. “I like these.” You don’t speak as she keeps going, touching briefly your crooked jaw, the bridge of your nose, your orbital sockets.
INTERFACING: She is the very first person to ever touch your face.
INLAND EPMIRE: False. Just two months ago, there was another.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi wets a washcloth again in a bowl of cool water, wrings it out, and puts it on your forehead. He brushes your greasy hair back. A drop of water trickles down your cheek; he swipes it away with a bare thumb, studying your face as you toss your head and mutter something in your uneasy slumber.
YOU: You stay there, trembling.
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: Finally she sits back, dropping her hand in her lap. “You are different,” she says.
INLAND EMPIRE: What part of you died in Martinaise? What part of you was reborn?
1) “No offense, ma’am, but how well did you know me?”
2) “I died in Martinaise.”
3) “I’ve been reborn.”
YOU: “I died in Martinaise.”
STREET ARTIST DELILAH: She nods once, sharply. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says.
YOU: The two of you watch people go by, your legs in the street, some of them glancing at you, many of them not. You talk about music, and what happened to you in Martinaise, and a story of her childhood, long-ago, which sounds half real, and half-imaged.
INLAND EMPIRE: As so many are.
YOU: Eventually it is full night, the sky dark except for the Coalition airships, and the moon high above. Delilah has long since lapsed into the slow, even breathing of alcohol-assisted sleep. You rise slowly, moving her gin bottle back behind her, out of the street.
CENTRAL JAMROCK: And you go home, following the lamplights which lead directly to the apartment which is yours, after all. The night is beautiful, and fresh, cool with a breath of the river’s familiar rankness. Breezes come to you from elsewhere, from the rest of the city. It is a vast city, after all, still so unknown to you.
PERCEPTION: A breeze ruffles your hair. You close your eyes and turn your face to it, breathing in.
SHIVERS: And the city breathes back.