Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All my lovers were there with me,

All my past and future.

And we all went to heaven in a little rowboat.

There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

In a bunker-turned-basement under a sleeping Jamrock North Street, A Radio-Computer turns on.

NOW PLAYING. Its red LEDs tell the empty underground room, to no input, no applause.

No user waiting for it to play, no pale-riddled operator on the other line.

A tape player clicks on and fills the empty room with the muffled sounds of life and laughter spilling outside a Jamrock bar, and a young woman’s voice.

“ԲարևՁեզ, տատիկ, it’s just me. I know you’re probably asleep. Just calling to say hi. It’s late and I’m tired and I forgot to say I wasn’t coming over tonight. Կներեք. It was Noor’s birthday, and we all went out for dinner, and then some of us went on to karaoke and we got home late.  I’ll try to call you in the morning at– uh… merde, al-Fajr is in like an hour, I should just stay up til then and pray it on time for once. Uhm տատիկ, how about I’ll call you before I leave for class tomorrow morning, okay? Good night, Քեզ կը սիրեմ.”

There is a resounding click as the phone call ends, and then the sound of spooling tape. Another clicking sound, the mechanical whirring of a jukebox searching for a song. It finds one, a sad melancholic ballad.

“Я много лет пиджак ношу / Давно потерся и не нов он / И я зову к себе портного / и перешить пиджак прошу.”

More radio sounds, another hiss of tape.

“ The office of the ICP has issued out a Blue Notice for the month of January 51: A missing police officer, DCI Valerie Irene Yorke, formerly of Avonford, Westmidlandshire, Kingdom of Vesper, has been deemed a Person of Interest in an Interisolary Criminal Investigation. She was last seen December 5^th 50 at the Prince of Wales Aerodrome boarding a flight to Lutece. She is not suspected of any wrongdoing, nor is she considered dangerous, but she may be being held under duress. Members of the public are asked to come forward with any leads as to her current whereabouts. ”

“Non, Non, rien de rien/ Non, je ne regrette rien/ Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait /Ni le mal…”

“A major raid on a sub-rosa radio operation in the city of Dresden has uncovered the bodies of at least twelve people, Gottwaldian police report, this raid is part of a new crackdown on suspected human trafficking with the goal of improving the city in preparation for this year’s Football World Cup.”

“愛に傷ついた　あの日からずっと 昼と夜が逆の　暮らしを続けて はやりのDISCOで　踊り明かすうちにおぼえた魔術なのよ I'M SORRY!”

The LEDs letters fade out into darkness. Static crackles and snaps like an arc flash. The street above is quiet.

There is so much blood on Kim’s clothes, that he feels like he’s drenched in it. His senses are overwhelmed by the sensation of damp, slimy skin and the noise of brain wave and heart rate monitors.  There is pain but he doesn’t know where it is coming from, nor does he care.

The door opens. Kim looks up expecting a nurse. Instead, there are two of his colleagues in the doorway Unit Head Jean-Héron Vicquemare and his Partner Patrol Officer Judit Minot. Minot looks at Kim first before the hospital bed, with the dark beady eyes of a career woman, far too used to seeing men like him covered in other people’s blood.

 “Lieutenant Kitsuragi!-are you hurt?” She asks, the concern in her voice registers just as a shrillness.

Kim looks down at himself, the adrenaline has largely blocked out any pain.

“I don’t know.” He says. “I think most of the blood is his.”

***

La Ménagerie, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

08:17 , 21st January '53.

“-tsuragi? Lieutenant?!”

“Hm?”  Kim startled back to reality. He was at his desk in La Menagerie, the upper floor of Precinct 41.

Satellite Officer Vicquemare was here now, staring at him with slightly bemused bloodshot grey eyes.

 “Huh? Sorry? What?” Kim asked.

Vicquemare frowned. “I asked if you wanted a refill?” He gestured at the empty cup on Kim's desk.

“Oh, yes please.” Kim passed his mug back to the other man.

The detective took it and with only a pause and a slight eyebrow twitch.

REFLEXES: C’mon what’s that stupid naming game Lieutenant Dreyfus does when she has a TSD attack. Say the alphabet backwards? No, Name Five things you can see.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) [Challenging – Medium]   It’s cold in the office this morning and your breath keeps fogging up your lenses. Through the haze you can see your desk, number one, its less organised than you typically like it, but familiar at the very least. You look down at your hands, number two, you see a sticking plaster on your thumb where you slipped with a knife making dinner last night. You look around the Menagerie, the green bakelite lamps and wood-panelled office space of the abandoned silk factory. You see Patrol Officer Jolie DeMettrie, number three, doing a rudimentary concussion check on her little sister, also a patrol officer, number four. Ninel looks tired, holding a frozen pack of peas to her split lip. To their right you see Sgt. Torson in far much more clothing that you’re used to seeing him in. Number five.

PROFESSIONALE: Full Uniform, obvious hangover, two female officers in earshot yet and not a sexist comment to hand. Very suspicious.

LOGIC [Medium – Pass] He’s going to a funeral. It could easily be punishment from Acting Captain Berdyayeva to send him as the token cop.

EMPATHY: Or it could be someone he knew. Someone he feels obligated to go for.

“Here, sorry I forgot if you take sugar. You don’t, right?” Vicquemare was back with two cups of black coffee in matching melamine mugs.

Kim shook his head and took the mug in both hands. His head still reeling, his pulse still racing. He took a sip and swallowed.

The coffee was hot enough to blister the outer layer of skin on his lips. He barely noticed.

“Thanks, detective. I apologise, I’m a little out of it this morning.”

“Mhmm, that old bastard giving you trouble again?” Jean asked, pulling up a chair from the desk next to Kim’s. Harry’s desk.

COMPOSURE: [Difficult – Pass]

“Yeah, you could say that. It was bad all weekend, neither of us slept for the last three nights and he got so in his own head about it. I was so tired I acquiesced and gave him the morphine the doctor prescribed, and it worked in that he slept solidly for eight hours, it’s been the pain relief drug of choice for years for a reason, but I don’t feel good about it. I stayed up far too late, just to be sure." Kim gripped the coffee mug for dear life.

“Well, he was never into heroin if it makes you feel any better," Vicquemare said with a callousness to his voice. I think he took a speedball once with that Dora woman in his twenties, and the bitch was so damn near anorexic that it almost killed her. Scared him off opioids for the most part unless you count drouamine and -let's be honest, nobody really does in Jamrock.”

Kim nodded, taking a deep breath in to steel himself. “Thanks… that’s more comforting than it ought to be. Anyway, I’ll pull through with some more caffeine in my system, what do we have on the itinerary for today?”

Vicquemare dropped a file on the desk in front of him.

“Pensioner found dead in her home in Les Sardines, Northside. Neighbour called it in sounds like a botched burglary.”

“Mm. Great. Wonderful.  Nothing like a Monday Morning in Jamrock to ruin your will to live.” Kim muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Jean stubbed out his cigarette into his ashtray which he’d brought over from his actual desk. It wasn’t quite 8:30 am and it was nearly full. Kim had made sure he’d emptied it on Friday, yet here they were again.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Time is a flat circle, boss. One-dimensional.

EMPATHY: He’s as worried about Harry as you are, you may be Harry’s partner, lover, other half but Jean is his co-dependant missing limb, half the time he acts like he doesn’t even like Harry yet you know He’s much less prepared to cope without him than you are. The edges of where Jean ends and Harry begins have blurred over the years, and unlike you, Jean doesn’t have anyone else, you don’t even think he has friends who aren’t coworkers. No partner, no family in Revachol, just a cramped studio flat he shares with his pet cat and a Harry-shaped wound in his life.

Kim checked his watch. “Should we get going? The morning rush should be over more or less.”

Jean nodded, “Uh yeah just let me fill out the paperwork first and I’ll be ready.”

Kim sipped his coffee with singed lips and stared out the window. The morning sky was overcast the cloud cover trapping out the sun.

There came a noise down the hallway.  In the other room, an alarm went off, it sounded almost like a heart monitor going into code.

REFLEXES: Judit’s hands are rough but warm, checking his pulse and under his T-shirt for any wounds not yet obvious. 

“What happened to your hand, Kim?” She asks, there is an open bleeding gash across his palm.

“I don’t remember.” He says, staring at it impassively. The room begins to warp and spin. In the room next door, a cardiac alarm goes off. Kim twists and contorts himself to check Harry’s monitor, but his eyesight blurs and warps the little blue line into nothingness.

“Vic, I think he’s going into delayed shock.” Minot says to Vicquemare, her voice comes as if down a tunnel or a concrete underpass.  Jean like an animal on high alert, a rabbit on guard, does not blink or look away from Harry.

In the here and now, Vicquemare touched Kim’s arm gruffly, without affection, like a teacher jostling a student for sleeping in class.

His expression was as flat and impassive as ever,

“Don’t go away on me again, Lieutenant. I’ll only be another minute or two, and we’ll head out.” He said, a little stern.

Kim nodded,  grateful to break out of the flashback but still uneasy.

PERCEPTION (Hearing): The click of boot heels and something metallic rhythmically tapping. It’s familiar. Someone’s approaching.

To his left Jean hurriedly stood up grabbed his ashtray and all but ran back to his desk to make himself look busy. He made a half-hearted attempt to raise Kim’s attention by kicking him in the back on the leg as he passed him.

Kim looked to the doorway just as a figure appeared,

LOGIC: Ah. The captain.

A grizzled white woman in her mid-fifties stood at full attention in the Menagerie doorway, a Graadian calvary sabre resting in its silver hilt at her hip. She was stone-faced and plain with mousy blonde hair tied up so tightly it pulled her scalp and hairline back with it. She was built like a woman from Mazovian-era paintings of blacksmiths and dockworkers and her minimal eyeliner was applied like the stripes and epaulettes of a decorated veteran.

Kim pushed back his chair reflexively to stand. Behind him he heard Vicquemare and Jolie DeMettrie do the same.

“Don’t bother, officers.” Captain Milica Kramazovna Berdyayeva (Nee -Gorki do not bring it up) said waving the hand not currently resting on the hilt of her cavalry sabre.

She narrowed her eyes at Ninel seated with the bag of peas to her eye, “Officers DeMettrie what happened?”

Ninel shooed off her sister still hovering over her. “I got hit and run, ma’am. Dad’s on dialysis, so Alice took him in the car and I walked to work this morning, a guy on a motor-bicycle blindsided me at the pedestrian crossing North of Tabernacle and Dominion. I’ll be okay. I'd like to string up the guy who got me though.

Jolie tutted softly. “She’s alright, ma’am. I’ll send her to Gottlieb once he turns up to work.”

Berdyayeva inclined her head, and her eyes moved to the wall clock above McCoy’s deck. Her face barely moved when she spoke.

“I have the spare key to the lazaret. Just ask Apricot if you’re in need of it.” She said.

Ninel nodded, with a tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Thanks, Ma’am. We appreciate it.”

Berdyayeva turned on a jackboot heel to stare down Kim.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi, do you have a minute to speak in my…” She stopped mid-sentence and scowled, “I mean, Pryce’s office.”

PROFESSIONALE: That’s right, the radiator in Berdyayeva’s office is being repaired due to a sabre related incident. It makes sense she’d take Pryce’s office while he’s off on family leave.

Kim glanced over at Jean, the other detective inclined his head.

“Yes, ma’am. Vicquemare and I were just going over our case before we headed out into the field but it’s nothing pressing.” He said.

“What case?” the captain asked turning her glare onto Vicquemare.

“A home invasion-related death in North Jamrock, ma’am. An elderly woman. That’s all we have. Minot is on the scene as we speak.” Jean answered calmly.

Berdyayeva’s nostrils flaring was the only visible sign of emotion on her face.

“Well, in that case, it seems keeping you here a little longer is doing you both a favour."

She nodded at Kim,  "Just a moment Lieutenant I need to speak with Apricot first, and she wasn’t at her desk.”

“I’m in here, Captain Berdyayeva, ma’am! Sorry, I was watering the plants in the kitchenette. Do you need me?” Apricot Pidieu called out, appearing from the adjoining room with a green plastic watering can in one hand, and her strawberry blonde curls in rollers.

“Hold my phone calls for the next ten minutes, please. I’m meeting with Kitsuragi.” Berdyayeva said, and her lips drew into a line so thin they almost disappeared.

Apricot nodded hurriedly; a strand of golden hair fell across her face. She looked to Kim and nodded again and then looked away clinging to her watering can.

EMPATHY: [Easy- Fail] She seems upset.

HARRYOLOGY: No way, Everyone's fucking upset right now, genius, Harry's the solvent-based glue holding this little model police station together. He's always been like a shitty alcholic uncle to Apricot, quite literally considering her actual uncle, the late Communications Officer Pidieu was an alcoholic who dropped dead on the job.

“Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.” She responded with a tired haphazard one-handed salute. The water in the watering can sloshed against its confines.

“Right. Lieutenant, with me.” Berdyayeva snapped.

Kim followed silently behind his superior as she all but marched him down the hall.

“Take a seat, I know it looks like Yekokataa in here I haven’t known Pryce to throw away a document in the thirty-six years we’ve worked together.”

“I see,” Kim said, very carefully, because Captain Pryce was also his boss and arguably the top of the ladder when it came to Precinct 41 despite the Décomptage model making Berdyayeva his equal partner on paper. It was a mix of factors: sexism and xenophobia being a big one as the Old Boy’s Club of the RCM had been all afire when Berdyayeva, a Graadian immigrant and worse than that a woman, was given her captaincy.

Also, Pryce was well-known as a charmer, he was debonair and well-spoken with a calm, almost fatherly approach, while Berdyayeva had all the bedside manner of a firing squad, which made it harder to smooth over any public ire regarding the policing of Jamrock. The sword didn’t help much either.

“Can I be of assistance with something, Captain?” Kim asked when the Captain’s silence had stretched too long for him to bear.

She waved off his concern with a hand, she had long slightly upturned fingers like that of a lifelong pianist.

“No, no, Kitsuragi you’re fine. This is just about Du Bois’ current situation.” She said, distracted.

“Ah,” Kim said a low sinking feeling in his stomach like an aerostatic descending. “In terms of his fitness for work, ma’am? Or more generally speaking.”

She looked up at him from her notes for the tiniest fraction of a second and nodded.

“I’d like to hear both. Gottlieb keeps us updated with medical records, but it would pay to hear your impression of things.”

Kim nodded, well aware she wasn't looking at him. He chewed on the inside of his cheek again, carefully titrating his word choice as to show the least obvious concern. “How familiar are you with strokes, Captain Berdyayeva?" He asked, " I don’t want to assume”.

She looked up and him and cocked her head like a bird of prey.  “It’s one of the biggest non-homicide killers of active-duty RCM officers, right up there with heart attacks and substance abuse. To be completely honest with you I’m impressed that the latter didn’t take him out years ago.

“So is he, ma’am, so is he,” Kim said softly. He thought it best to laugh the comment off but he just didn't have the energy.

Berdyayeva smiled, it didn’t suit her. It looked more like an involuntary paroxysm of the mouth.

 “He’s been signed off for the last three months, how is he recovering?” She asked, clicking a pen and flipping through her notepad.

Kim clenched his jaw giving. “Slowly, and not exactly linearly but he is improving.”

Berdyayeva didn’t react, except to write something down in her notes.

“I understand by way of Vicquemare that you’ve moved in with him and his son, what’s the boy’s name again?” She glanced up for a microsecond, her eyes were bloodshot and devoid of any genuine interest.

PASSION: HE’S NOT JUST THE BOY, HE’S CUNO! THERE ARE PLENTY OF FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS IN REVACHOL BUT NONE OF THEM HAVE A PET RAT NAMED AFTER A POLITICALLY DUBIOUS GRAADIAN MYSTIC. HE DOESN’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU MOVE THE POT PLANTS TO AN OUTWARD FACING WINDOW BECAUSE WHAT IF THEY GET JEALOUS OF THE WILD PLANTS OUTSIDE? HE GOT SO FLUSTERED WHEN YOU GOT HIM A PROPER RADIO FOR HIS BIRTHDAY, HE HAD TO GO STAND IN THE BATHROOM AND STICK HIS FACE IN COLD WATER BECAUSE GRATITUDE IS SO MUCH HARDER FOR HIM TO BEAR THAN ANIMOSITY.

“Kuuno, ma’am.  He’s fourteen, and yes. Harry needed help with the tasks of daily living alongside being a single parent l, so I moved in with him to provide an extra set of hands around the house.” Kim replied.

“How has that been? It sounds intensive, you’re a police officer, not a caretaker.” The Captain asked.

“It’s been fine. I have enough medical training to get by and it's less rent for me than my last place. Besides, he’d do the same were it me in his position.”

Berdyayeva made a noise, that didn’t sound like she believed him, but she paused a while flipping through a different file.

PERCEPTION (Sight): Your eyesight may be fading by the day, but you can read your own name from across a desk. That’s your personnel file.

“Do you think caring for Du Bois has affected your performance at 41?” She asked.

Kim clenched his jaw. “No, ma’am.”

“Mm. And How is your mental and physical health?”

Kim tried to remember how to breathe through his nose, but all of a sudden he felt like a bug press-ganged into a policeman's body. His speech came back haltingly.

COMPOSURE: C'mon Kitsuragi get it together.

“Well, ma'am, I won’t lie and say it’s been unaffected but I’m coping with the changes as they come, and I have taken part in all my physical and mental examinations.”

Berdyayeva flicked through some pages in his file. “Your firearm accuracy scores are down from last year.”

PASSION: MOTHERFUCKER!? HARRY NEARLY DIED AND THAT'S YOUR PRIORTY!?

Kim swallowed. “By one mark overall, hardly a steep drop, ma’am. I’m certain Gottlieb would have told you if he saw an issue with my sight”.

She nodded and wrote something down. “Mhm. And how is the kid coping?”

Kim bit his lip. “As okay as to be expected for a fourteen-year-old who has already lost two parents.”

Berdyayeva didn't ask for more context she kept going down her list of things to ask. “And how do you find working with Satellite Officer Vicquemare?”

Kim shrugged. “Fine, he’s a more than competent officer, and we were already friends, so we have good chemistry together.”

“Chemistry?” She snorted. “Décomptage is not a matchmaking service.”

This was intended a joke, Kim guessed after the fact, when she just stared back at him for a little too long, as if she’d expected more of a reaction.

“I know, ma’am. I’m just saying I have no complaints about Vicquemare, although I regret sending Patrol Officer Minot back to a desk role by taking her partner.” He said as calmly as he could manage.

“Minot? Ah, feh.” Berdyayeva made a wet noise of disparagement. “She is only a Patrol Officer and a while off making Sergeant. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Kim suddenly thought about how Judit had visited Harry in the hospital every day since he’d first been admitted, how she’d bought Kim homemade lunches and talked him through every medical procedure like she was talking to her friend or brother.

WELTSCHMERZ: Judit Minot sits in her uniform, her own hand is dwarfed holding one of Harry’s. She stares fondly at the unconscious man, while Kim hurriedly scoffs down a bowl of homemade chicken and vegetable stew.  “

"When Rene had his accident I was god- nearly eight months pregnant with Remy and no one wanted me to know how bad things were everyone acted like I might faint or go into labour if I heard a medical term, but my mother-in-law would come and shoo them off and feed me soup while she took care of Marius who was probably much too small to know what was going on.”

Minot pauses and laughs, Kim looks up at her, curious,

"-Okay, well she made soup d’oignion, but unsurprisingly for my household we were out of brandy and I’m not cruel-hearted enough to make you drink plain hot onion water.” She looks up to shoot Kim a wink.

Kim is too tired to be polite and too shell-shocked to remember how. He just nods. “It’s good, whatever it is, what is this yellow stuff,  potato?”

“It’s called mămăligă, a kind of cornmeal porridge I don’t actually know the Suresnois name, I buy it cheap at the Dacian-Sorbian market. The stew’s my father’s recipe, it’s chicken and peppers. I think traditionally it made with pork but uh that side of my family’s all Yevs so they changed it to chicken.”

“Oh Hanna- uh- Lt. Dreyfus’ family is too.” He says, and then regrets it, did Hanna even want people to know about that? He has been having trouble remembering things lately, the nurse who saw him said it  was likely just stress and lack of sleep.

Judit doesn't react except to smile at her friend's name and nod good-naturedly. "I’d guessed, by the surname and that she knew Gottlieb. Apparently half the Yevreysk community in Revachol knows Gottlieb.”

“His father made pinball machines they were really common in arcades and delicatessens in the 30s.” Kim mumbles, he doesn't remember where he heard that from, probably Dreyfus herself.

Judit looks up from Harry’s chart and smiles, a real human smile with crooked teeth and crinkled eyes. She's pretty, he thinks, not in the way young magazine models were pretty but the way the sisters who raised him looked younger and so much less tired when they smiled.

“Huh. I never knew that. You learn something new every day.” She says and she reaches over to pat Kim's arm.

 “I won’t, Captain,” Kim replied feeling sick and empty.

“Good.” She paused for a long time, and Kim felt his stomach drop through the floor.

“Kitsuragi. Pryce and I have yet to meet with Gottlieb to discuss this formally, and I recognise that you’re not a doctor and your opinion will be biased as Du Bois is your partner and friend but what do you think the likelihood is of Du Bois returning to work, however diminished his capacity in the next six months?"

PASSION: I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE, I NEVER REALLY WANTED TO BE A COP, I WANT TO GO HOME. I WANT HARRY!

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Easy, little buddy, you don't mean that. You're just tired, we all are. Boss has been burning the midnight oil for months.

PASSION: OH DEEP THROAT A GUN AND KILL YOURSELF, YOU SYCOPHANT, WHEN HAVE YOU AND YOUR BOXES DONE KIM ANY GOOD, HUH?

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Hey! Language, kid, don't say something you'll regret. Why don't we all calm down, huh? No need to get feisty.

PASSION: NO NEED TO TALK LIKE A WHITE GUY'S IMPERSONATION OF A YAKUZA EITHER BUT HERE WE BOTH ARE, HUH PUNK?!

Kim took a deep breath in. He had a hunch. He hoped it'd get him somewhere for once.

“May I ask a question first, Captain?”

She sighed and nodded “Proceed.”

“You have Harry’s personnel file in front of you if you don’t mind reading off his closure rate? For me?" He gestured to the file in front of her.

Berdyayeva's lips drew into a thin line once more, she moved forward in her seat and flicked through several pages of files.

“289 solved out of 308 total cases.” She said after a while.

Kim nodded, tenting his fingertips in front of him.

“That’s what 93-94% of cases closed, correct? Making it roughly 15-20 cases a year for nearly two decades. I don’t have a closure rate that high. Lt-Yftr McCoy doesn’t have a closure rate that high nor does Feuerbach. In fact, were I a gambling man I’d bet my wages that there’s not a detective in 41 nor 57 as prolific and proficient as Harrier Du Bois for all his faults and foibles. As you’ve said, Captain, I’m not a medical professional I don’t know his capabilities but, I do believe if he comes back, he could work at 50% capacity for the rest of his career and he’d still be in the top percentile of RCM officers for cases closed, alongside Vicquemare, McCoy, Feuerbach, and myself.”

Berdyayeva considered this, not a single muscle in her face reacted. “He could, certainly, if he comes back. What I’m asking you right now, Lieutenant is: will Du Bois be returning to work at all?”

Kim sighed, He looked down at his hands. The long white scar across his right palm. He tensed every muscle in his body to stop himself from remembering.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I wish I did, truly, but it’s not my call to make.” He murmured.

There was a long silence and finally, the Captain put her hands together resting on the desk. Her expression was unreadable and mask-like.

"Well, then that's all I wanted to ask, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, you are dismissed."

Rue de La Navigateur was in an area of North Jamrock officially called Fauborg-St. Irene though literally no Vacholiere on the street would be able to point to a place of that name on the map. If you asked the way to Les Sardines, however, that was a different matter entirely.

The area got its name from the brutalist concrete housing blocks that had once blocked out the skyline of Rue de La Navigateur, an influx of migrant populations from former Franconigerian vassal states to Revachol in the 20s required quick cheap and ugly, housing that packed several poor refugee and immigrant families into each unit like sardines.

The cheap and claustrophobic nature of these buildings had resulted in multiple often lethal apartment fires in the last few decades that eventually resulted in the original sardine tin style buildings being torn down and replaced with smaller and much less dense rows of townhouses, sending a lot of the previous tenants elsewhere in Jamrock, with a large Meteoran and Messinian community remaining. Replacing dense urban housing with the occasional rug store, tobacconists, and a hair salon.

Kim lamented this fact aloud to his partner as they drove through.

“That’s Jamrock for you even the gentrification is shit here,” Vicquemare said, completely unsympathetically.

“You didn’t find it shit on pure principle?” Kim asked glancing at him out of the side of his vision.

Jean made a guttural Suresian noise in his throat.

“Bof! You’ve been swept away by the siren song of Du Bois’ working-class romanticism, Lieutenant. It’s just a thing that happens in cities. If you’re the poor sods getting shifted out of your house, I imagine it’s miserable sure, but if you’re making money off the brand-new mob front- ahem, I mean- rug and carpet cleaners - it’s probably quite lucrative.”

As Kim drove through the streets he noted three different kebab shops on the same street, each with increasingly large and distracting signs declaring themselves the best kebab joint in Little Meteo. As he stopped at the red light a young couple took this time to have a huge argument in the middle of the road.

Jean snorted at this. “Ah, young love.” He deadpanned.

Kim just beeped the Kineema’s horn at them.  The young man made the sign of the fig and called him what Kim assumed to be the Messinian equivalent of a 'fucking pig.' He elected to ignore him.

“Did you hear from Minot before we left?” He asked glancing over at his partner.

Jean nodded, wiping sleep crust out of the corner of his eye with a finger.

“Yeah, she set up a cordon for us and she was talking with the next-door neighbour who found the body. You want the briefing now?"

Kim inclined his head, "I would If you don't mind."

“Victim’s name is Nadezhda “Nadya” Zakarian, A 70-year-old widow and pensioner, a huge personality in the neighbourhood everyone called her Nonna. She lived alone unassisted for the most part, but she sometimes had her teenage granddaughter staying with her. The neighbour who called it in didn’t know if the girl was around last night. She comes and goes. Jude said the place had been ransacked and it certainly looked like a robbery, she hadn’t looked at the body in any forensic capacity, she just checked for pulse and did the stations. It sounds like she either fell or her attacker pushed her into the shower, and she hit her head. Jude said the shower glass was all smashed up which seems like it would require a good amount of force."

“Is Les Sardines a big spot for home invasions?” Kim asked, eyes on the road.

Jean shook his head, “I mean it’s still Jamrock, the burglary rate is essentially the same but compared to where I live it’s practically a stronghold, this is Meteoran Milieu territory and they’re strict on not shitting where they eat. They also have a penchant for torching police cars so maybe let’s not piss them off, non?"

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Kim muttered to himself, fingers tightening around the Kineema’s levers.

“Yeah, just avoid mentioning the Coalition or the MoralIntern where you can, these guys are a different kind of irredentist. Personally. I like my torso in its current position and not stuffed into a travel case by some gangster with a code of vendetta.”

“Seems reasonable,” said Kim.

Vicquemare snorted. “Alas, Kitsuragi. When have we ever known the mob to see reason.”

Kim ignored that question, he was just catastrophising. That was Jean's favourite Monday morning activity other than smoking himself and his co-workers into early respiratory failure.

"It still seems like a lot more people hanging around for a Monday morning.” He said nodded at the many passersby on the streets.

Jean grunted. “Oh, the local canneries are on strike, maybe they’re picketing here as well.”

“First I’ve heard of a strike,” Kim muttered.

His partner shrugged. “Yeah, well, both the west-side canneries are in 57’s jurisdiction so we don’t really have to worry about it. I think it’s been on for about a week."

“Is there a boycott?” Kim asked.

“Not yet. You’d have to talk to your old colleagues, but it seems pretty on the level so far, none of this Debardeurs shit. Pay raise, parental leave and corporate must put measures into place to stop people’s fingers and balls getting cut off in machinery.”

“Khm, seems fair to me,” Kim smirked.

Vicquemare nodded in his periphery. "Yeah, I prefer my tinned fish without the castration if it can be helped.”

Kim slowed at another crossing to let across a woman with a gaggle of schoolchildren carrying colourful bookbags.

“Must be school Library Day,” Kim muttered to himself. He wouldn’t admit aloud but that had been one of his favourite events at school because he’d never had the money to get comic books otherwise.

Jean made a non-committal noise gazing outside the passenger side window.

One of the children, a little boy pointed at the Kineema excitedly and waved at Kim and Jean before his mother, or teacher, whoever she was, pulled him off the street by the arm. Kim smiled to himself, resisting the urge to wave back.

Enquires Desk Jamrock Library, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

09:12 Monday 21st January '53

Irja Saarinen’s holiday job as a junior librarian in the Jamrock Central Library has been a relatively uneventful one, aside from the two overdoses she’d had to deal with in the women’s bathrooms, and the guy who called up every Wednesday morning at 10 sharp, audibly jacking off.

She was mostly just there to show people where the automotive magazines were or answer historical questions to resolve someone’s argument. She wasn’t usually super on edge, so it still always startled her when she saw the orange blur running at her desk at full speed. Most people had the social skills not to run in the library. This was not most people, and Irja knew this.

She glanced over her shoulder at her co-worker. “Helen, man my phone for me, will you?  The Encyclopedia kid’s back again.”

The kid was fourteen, he was very adamant about this, he had turned fourteen in December. His parents- or legal guardians- Irja wasn’t exactly clear about that- had bought him a new radio and these chunky bass-boosted headphones that he claimed made him look like a DJ.

Irja fucking loved this kid, he was textbook Hyperactive-type ADHD, he swore like her Suruese fisherman grandfather, and sometimes would switch into the third person mid-sentence for no obvious reason. All the questions and terms he asked to look up were about the human brain. She never asked outright why he needed to know all these things – that wasn’t part of her job. She had her suspicions though.

“Hey, kid. Skipping class again, are we? What words have you got for me to look up this time?” She asked, watching this adolescent disaster rustling through his school backpack to put out books and crumpled-up papers.

“G’Morning, Irja, Not-Irja,” he said with a nod at Helen. “It’s only homeroom, Cuno doesn’t need that shit, it's not a real class. Anyway, made a whole fucking list like when they were talking last night.” The boy said “They thought I had my headphones in, didn’t even check to see if I was listening. Rookie mistake. That’s like Detective 101.”

Irja laughed,  “Wicked, can you sound them out for me, and I’ll type them in.”

The boy squinted at a notepad in his hand barely the size of his palm.

“Yeh- Sylvaine Fissure.” He said.

Irja raised an eyebrow “Is that a person’s name?”

The boy shrugged. “No, don’t think so, it’s another brain thing.”

That wasn’t helpful, but Irja powered through, “Okay, I can try a ‘sounds like’ search.”

It took a couple of tries until she came up with something that looked like it could be an answer. Unsurprisingly it was another medical term, to do with the brain.

“The Sylvian fissure also known as the lateral fissure is a fissure- that’s like a line or a division- in the brain separating the parietal and frontal lobes from the temporal lobe.” She read aloud from the RC screen.

“Ok so like it’s one of the squiggles on here, right?” The boy held up his book with its illustrated cross-section of the left hemisphere of the human brain.

“Yeah, uh this one I think.” She said pointing to a line on the drawing.

“What does that bit of your brain do?” The boy asked, his eyes were blue-grey and devoid of any adolescent irony. Irja might as well have been the library herself, to him, he didn’t see all the times when she fucked up, and the gap between fourteen and twenty-five was as big and as wide as the Pale.

“They didn’t include that in the dictionary definition I’m afraid, but from the few neuro-pysch papers I’ve taken I’m pretty sure the Parietal lobe is the one responsible for a lot of language and speech processing.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeh. Makes sense.” The boy said scowling pensively. He scrawled something down in his little book. “If something went wrong in that part, you wouldn’t talk right anymore, yeah?”

“Yes, um, that’s called aphasia, we looked that word up a few weeks back." She said.

The boy nodded, “Right, yeah. Cuno knows that word. Aphasia is the speaking one what’s the moving one?”

“Apraxia,” Irja said gently.

The boy nodded once more, deep in thought. “Yeah. That’s right.” His eyes met Irja’s again.

“Do they know how to fix it?” He asked.

Not for the first time in this job, Irja wanted to reach over the counter and hug him, she wanted to tell him yes, everything would be okay in time.

But that’s not what he was asking, and even then, it just wasn’t true.

“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor, I’m afraid. Just a librarian.” She said.

The kid scoffed. “You’re way smarter than any of the fucking doctors that Cuno knows.”

Irja smiled. “Thanks? I think. You got a bad history with doctors?”

The boy waved a hand in the air. “Y’know them, they all just talk mad baby.”

“Mad baby, huh?” Irja snickered, “Don’t think that’s in my dictionary, kid”.

“I mean, they all talk to Cuno like he’s r-worded, like he’s gonna cry and piss his pants if he finds out what brain damage is, a bunch of white coat cunts. I know what brain damage is, Cuno wasn’t fucking born yesterday.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“You were born last month, December 14^th.” Irja tapped her temple with a finger. “See, I can remember shit too, it’s not just my Radio-Computer over here.”

The kid grunted, offering a rare childlike smile, “Yeah, you’re alright.”

“Does no one at home tell you what’s going on?” She asked curious.

He shrugged. “Nah. It’s not their fault, Cuno’s… fucking… stepdad- or uh-whatever he is -he’s way too busy and shell-shocked to deal with Cuno’s questions. I don’t blame him, shit’s hard on the man. But he’s not any more fucked up than Cuno is, Cuno’s just better at getting on with it. Cuno’s used to losing people.”

Irja repressed another overbearing urge to reach across the desk and hug the breath out of the teen. “Well, I’m here every Saturday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. You know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Irja. They should give you a raise. Anything interesting happening with you?”

That jogged her memory. “Actually, I went to see a guest lecture at the Ecole last week and the speaker was this big bushy-bearded Yev of a doctor who we thought would probably be some boring old academic until told us how once in med school he did so much speed it permanently heightened his sense of smell.”

“Huh. Cuno had that happen once on that yellow crank! Nobody believed him!”

Really? Well, I held one of his books of case files for you, they seem relatively accessible reading, I don’t know how relevant it is to your situation, but I thought you might want to have a look.” She pushed a paperback over the table at him.

The boy squinted at the title. “The man... who mistook... his wife for a hat?”

Irja nodded. “Yeah. It’s about a man with aphasia that case. Here, I can check it out for you if you want. I don’t know if you’ll find it any good but, it’s worth a try, right?”

 “Yeah, hang on, Cuno’s got a library card.” The boy performed a rudimentary pat-down on his pockets, he'd evidently thrown an oversized FALN jacket over his school uniform, it hung off him like a priest's cassock, it had evidently been bought for a much larger adult man.

Eventually, the kid produced his library card and slid it cooly over the desk. Irja took it off him to scan.

“Do you have any other questions, Cuno?” She asked as she worked.

“Uhm. No. Cuno’s got t’do homework… Fuckin school isn’t enough now the fuckin shrink’s making Cuno fill out forms about his ‘feelings.’” He made a wet noise of pure disgust. “Did you have any other books like this one?” He tapped his handy 'Youth Encyclopedia of Anatomy- Vol 4: the Brain and Central Nervous System.'

Irja tucked some stray hair behind her ear. The phone rang on Helen’s desk, and her coworker answered it on autopilot.

“I had a look but most of the writing on ischemia is in Medical Journals, which aren’t as good in the diagram department. You want me to renew that for you?”

“Mhm.” He pushed the book over the counter at her. Irja scanned it and handed it back.

“There you go, kid. Good for another week.”

Cuno slipped the book under one arm, his acne-speckled face serious.

“Cuno will probably have more questions this time next week, thanks for the books Irja…”

 The boy smiled, his two front teeth were crooked, but they were clean enough that it suggested someone had made him brush them in recent memory. His clothes were warm enough for the winter weather and he didn’t seem to be starving.

Irja held on to that thought, for the rest of her shift. Someone out there was looking after Cuno. Irja had seen enough orphans and street kids in her nearly three decades on Elysium to know not everyone was as lucky.

Rue de Navigateur, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

09:20 Monday 21st January '53

Judit Minot was maintaining the police cordon outside number 4, a demure little terraced house with pink and brown brick walls and a tiny metal fenced front step with just enough room for a skinny blackthorn tree and a post-box, the police tape was draped over the metal fence stakes like a party garland.

In front of the Patrol Officer, a white woman in her mid-thirties with a small child on her hip leant against the fence speaking softly to her. The woman had evidently been crying her mascara had formed twin black raindrops dripping down her blotchy red face.

“One moment, Madame.  My colleagues are here.” She said gently, patting the woman's arm.

“Morning Jude, ca va?” Vicquemare said sliding out of the Kineema like a plastic shopping bag caught on a gust of wind.

“Better than some, Vic, Lieutenant,” Judit said quietly. “Madame Zakarian is in the bathroom, it’s the third door down the corridor on the left. I closed the bathroom door because she has two cats, and I didn’t want them disturbing the scene. Is there anything you need from me?”

“Do we have a positive ID already, officer?” Kim asked.

Minot nodded. “Yes, the neighbour discovered her, and there was only one old woman living there. She gave visual confirmation, and there are photos all over the place, it’s pretty cut and dry there, sir”.

Kim opened his notebook to a new page and started writing this down. “What about next of kin?”

“Her husband died four years back. Leukaemia the neighbour said. She has an adult daughter who lives in Vesper. I have a phone number for her, but no luck calling yet. No word on the granddaughter either except it didn’t sound like she’d been home in a while.”

 “Any witnesses?” Jean asked.

Judit shook her head.  “Not yet, one of the men in number six said they heard some loud banging around five in the morning, but he didn’t think it suspicious at the time- they typically leave out the garbage on Sunday nights for collection anyway and sometimes animals try to get into the bins.”

“Thanks for running all this groundwork for us, Minot,” Kim said, only briefly glancing up at her from his rapid-fire notetaking to offer a rare and fleeting smile.

Judit smiled back. “You’re welcome, sir, I prefer it to desk work, but if you’re done with me here, I might go down the road to get a coffee, I’ve been fighting off a migraine since yesterday and only caffeine seems to help. Do you two want anything?”

“Mhm, Merci, you know my order.”

“Of course. What about you Lieutenant?”

Kim shook his head, he hadn’t slept at all, and he was really running on caffeine alone, but something stubborn deep within him didn't want to take any more charity, and he didn't want to make Minot the sole breadwinner for two sons and a disabled husband pay extra on his account,

“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks, officer. I’ve had far too much already.”

“Right." Judit looked back over her shoulder and gestured to the crying woman by the fence. "The woman over there lives in unit two. Her name is Cosima Deter, the little boy is her son, Otto. He’s three. She’s very fragile right now, so please be nice.” That last bit was added with a pointed look at Vicquemare.

Jean scoffed, aggrieved. “I can be nice! Hey, Kitsuragi back me up here!”

Kim was too busy writing the neighbour’s name down. Vicquemare spluttered and scoffed.

Judit just laughed and shook her head maternally.

“I'll See you in a bit, sirs.”

Jean nodded, "à plus, Jude."

The neighbour Cosima Deter was a white woman in her mid to late thirties.  She had long curly brown hair that stuck in clumps to her wet, mascara-streaked face.  She apologised profusely when Kim and Jean appeared Kim offered her a clean handkerchief to keep, and the little boy on her hip made a grab at it. Mme. Deter thanked Kim and dabbed at her eyes first before offering the damp fabric square to her son who seemed to settle after having been given a ‘toy’.

“Mme. Deter we’re terribly sorry for your loss. I'm Lieutenant Kitsuragi and this is my partner Satellite Officer Vicquemare, our colleague has briefed us on the situation, and we will be going in shortly to investigate and examine Mme. Zakarian’s body. Are you alright standing out here?"

“We can come over to your place when we’re done if that helps. To save you having to wait outside with the kid.” Vicquemare added.

The woman sniffled. “Thank you, officers, I’m just very shaken and I’m worried about Amal. She’s only sixteen. Until fairly recently she’s been living with Nadya and working when she can, but I think at the end of last year she got into an alternate schooling program that started a few weeks back she’s only been coming home to stay on Saturday and Sunday."

“Amal?” Kim gave his partner a quick glance to check he was also taking notes.

“That’s the missing granddaughter, no?” Vicquemare chimed in.

Mme. Deter nodded, idly fiddling with the sleeve of her son's winter coat.

“Yes, Amal Kasemi. She was living rough before Nadya met her working with CTH and she took hers in. I don’t know the details, but I know she had a problem with drugs and now she’s on this religious thing she started covering her hair! She’s got such beautiful hair- I don’t know officers, I just worry the girl is easily misled.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: Les Corps des Travailleurs Humanataires is an Interisolary Organisation of Dolorian Aid Workers. They have a soup kitchen in downtown Jamrock not far from the precinct. They do good work but it’s a bandage over a missing limb in terms of any actual state-enforced policy to aid the poor and the homeless.

Jean seemed to take this in and shot Kim a sideways glance. “Do you think she’s likely to come back this morning?” He asked

“No. I mean, I don’t really know. I hope for her own sake she’s just at school.”

“Do you remember what time you discovered the body; Madame?" Kim asked flicking back through his notes, "I believe the Emergency Line logged the call at about seven?”

Mme. Deter nodded again. “Yeah, that sounds right. Nadya’s routine is like clockwork, I’ve lived next door to her for three years now and she’s normally up with the birds. I have three kids; the boys are three and five and they’ll be knocking down my door if I’m not up by half-six fixing breakfast.  I was out hanging up the washing at about seven and I noticed her back door was open. I went in and knocked on the door and I got no response, so I went around the back and in the open door just to let her know it was open, but the place was a mess, smashed glass and photos knocked off the wall. I kept calling for her and I didn’t get a reply. When I found her on the bathroom floor, I thought she’d just had a fall..." The woman's voice faltered.  "Dei, H-her hands were still warm."

"Take your time, Madame, we realise this is difficult to talk about," Kim said gently.

Mme. Deter swallowed hard. "I just can't believe someone would do this to Nadya. She was the neighbourhood's grandmother. My kids knew her better than their actual grandparents."

"I understand that ma'am, this sounds like quite a shock." Jean added, his voice unnaturally emotive, “Just one last question and we'll let you alone. When you went inside the house and discovered Nadya, you're sure there was no sign of Amal?”

The woman shook her head. “No, I checked her room, it was tidy, and her bed was made up nicely like it hadn’t been slept in in some time.”

Kim and Jean exchanged a look.

PROFESSIONALE: That's not good, aggravated robbery resulting in homicide is one thing, but if a minor goes missing in those circumstances, that's a inform Searchlight and raise a all-hands call kind of scenario.

JUVENILE: Assuming the kid isn't the one responsible, that is.

"Thank you for your time, Madame Deter." Kim said we'll come over and see you once we're done inside."

Vicquemare was the first into the house, he held the cordon up for Kim to duck under Kim did so easily.

The house smelt stale; a fading smell of jasmine perfume lingered in the entryway. Kim glanced around, there was the staircase to the second floor, a dresser covered in the accoutrement of daily living, a decorative bowl held some loose change and unopened mail all addressed to Mme. N. Zakarian, most were bills from what Kim could tell.

This morning’s mail had been hastily shoved through the slot in the door and fallen onto the carpet.

The Satellite Officer bent down and picked up four envelopes.

“Anything interesting?” Kim asked.

Jean just inclined the envelope in his hand.

“I can’t read text that small from here, detective,” Kim said sharply.

“Oh. Right." Vicquemare sighed.  "There's a handwritten letter addressed to the victim from a Dr M Shaumian post-marked from Oranje. A Charity letter addressed to Monsieur and Madame Zakarian probably asking for money. The last two look like notices of upcoming payments.

Jean opened one of the letters and unfurled it. He made a face. Kim squinted at the writing. It was an unfamiliar script, curly shapes on straight lines, some were identifiable to Kim who could read Graadian with relative fluency and it was obviously formatted like a letter, with a letterhead a greeting and a sign-off, but the vast majority of the text was completely foreign to his eyes.

“I don’t recognise that script, do you detective?” He asked.

Vicquemare shook his head. “Let’s keep looking.”

Kim nodded and headed further down the hall where things became more obviously dishevelled.

The house was heavily decorated with photographs, a family photograph of a smiling older couple and a dark-haired young woman standing proudly in her university cap and gown. There were desert landscapes, wedding photographs and several ornate stone monuments carved in an alphabet Kim didn’t recognise.

The couple in all the photographs were the same, a short sturdy woman with olive skin and long hair she often wore plaited and a wiry thin man with the posture of a former soldier curly black hair and dark bushy brows in more recent looking photographs he’d acquired at pair of square tortoiseshell glasses He often looked a little uncomfortable in photographs next to his grinning wife like he wasn’t quite sure what to do and where to look.

“Watch the glass,” Jean muttered.

“Looks like signs of a struggle to me,” Kim replied stepping over another broken photo frame.

This one was a colour shot of the Katlan Aurora. Also knocked down was a blue ceramic tile of white-painted lungs bisected by a golden chi-rho. A religious Dolorian symbol that was as old as the founding party. It had smashed into three jagged pieces, but its image was still visible as well as some text written in blue underneath in an alphabet Kim couldn't quite make out.

A fat and fluffy tabby cat chirped and darted out from the open door on the right. It wended its way around Jean’s legs. The satellite officer bent down to pet it.

“Oh, Hello. Are you a witness?”  He said, the cat sniffed at his hand and then at Kim’s boots tentatively and unimpressed with what it saw and smelled, it skittered off down the hall.

Kim glanced into the room where the cat had come from it was dim with only some lighting coming through the closed curtains. A wooden dining table and chairs and a hutch cupboard with all its drawers open revealing plates and other crockery decorated in photos and memorabilia.

Vicquemare had followed him in without a word and started him by letting out an unexpected snicker. Kim turned around

“Oy, Kitsuragi you did R.E in school, right? Is this heretical?” He held up a little ceramic figure of a sandy-coloured cat on its hind legs in a white gown with painted lungs in yellow paint.

Kim cocked an amused eyebrow. “I don’t believe the law says anything that implies an Innocence has to be a human.”

Vicquemare chuckled. “They should consider  Souris for the next one then, she’d be the innocence of loyalty and rude awakenings”

Kim smiled. Souris was the detective's pet cat. “You’d not give her up that easy, Officer.”

“You’re right she’s the best excuse I have besides work for not having to visit my my family.”

Kim snorted, “A foolproof plan no doubt.”

He checked the kitchen it was largely untouched an empty bowl of what had possibly been porridge and a coffee-stained cup sat in the sink from breakfast, rows and rows of jarred preserves sat on a wooden shelf above the fridge.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) Each jar has two dates written in marker. The refrigerator itself is covered in brochures and instant photographs most of them featuring a teenage girl with tan skin and cystic acne scarring wearing a hijab, some looked like the kind of photo booth pictures you could get in arcades or pinball halls. Often, she was posing with other girls her age, many of them also hijabis. she seemed happy enough in all the photos Nadya had kept. Across from those is a yellow sticky note listing names and phone numbers. The RCM’s Non-Emergency line, Pest control, a plumber named Spiro and a business card for a Tamsyn Isdale-Plame.

JUVENILE: The latter bears the crest and logo of the Department of Youth Social Services, a group we are all too familiar with. Perhaps this was a caseworker or the last social worker who came to make a quality-of-care check.

 Kim noted these down.

“Someone was definitely looking for something, there’s a TV and radio in here and no signs they tried to nick them, by they did go through her record collection,” Jean murmured.

“Cash maybe?” Kim suggested, “Documents they could reskin as fakes?”

“There was some change in the bowl on the hallway- not much, maybe five real? But you’d think if you were desperate enough to burgle an old woman, you’d take all you could get.”

“Do you think they were looking for something specific?” Kim asked.

“I’m not sure yet, I’m just used to airing my logic aloud for the benefit of that big lug of yours,” his partner said smirking.

“Oh good, it’s not just me he has that effect on, then”. Kim said with a small smile.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Don't think of Harry too hard, big guy. You'll see him tonight, just acknowledge it, put it away and move on.

Vicquemare shook his head, “No, it’s compulsive. Jude hates it, she thinks I’m insulting her intelligence.”

“She’s welcome to try working with him herself, when or if he gets back,” Kim said with a shrug.

“And what leave you with me? That’s hardly a trade.”

“Khm, We did alright last week,” Kim muttered.

Vicquemare scoffed mockingly. “Ah, yes, the cartel of teenaged solvent huffers, they’ll be teaching that one at the Academie before the year is out, no doubt.”

Kim ignored him. “This cabinet has been rifled through much like the ones in the dining room," he gestured at the cupboards under the sink.

Jean nodded, “Mhm, what on earth were they after here? You think a pensioner's got medication worth taking?”

Kim shrugged, “She could have had Drouamine or codeine cough syrup maybe.”

He looked out from the kitchen, through the dining room,  into the small cramped living room,

It was sun-faded and outdated in decorative style. There was a sofa by an old black and white television set an armchair in the corners and a series of bookshelves, the majority of the books were written in Graadian, and a few were in the unfamiliar writing system they’d seen on the letter from Doctor Shaumian.

On the coffee table was a photograph ready to be properly framed, the matting board and frame already laid out. Kim picked up the photograph it was a group shot somewhere in Jamrock Central, near the river. An older version of the woman in the hallway photos, Nadya Zakarian, no doubt, and her teenage hijabi granddaughter Amal posed with a Seolite family in traditional northern cultural dress.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) The family consists of a married couple, a short woman with a bob cut, glasses, prominent cheekbones, and a huge grin. Beside her is a dapper, thin and wiry man with neat salt and pepper hair, and who you assume to be their daughter: a tall young woman maybe a couple of years older than Amal,  nineteen or twenty. She has dark hair pinned back beneath an elaborate filigreed silver circlet that hangs down in two drapes on either side of her face. She is wearing matching ornate earrings and a medallion, and she isn’t smiling. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA: They are all wearing winter kimono common for the Shōgatsu the new year celebrations of the Kitajin people of Northern Seol but the silver headdress and delicately beaded jewellery that the mother and daughter wear seem to come from somewhere else entirely. Nadya is holding a bag of mandarin oranges, a traditional New Year’s gift. Amal is holding a patterned paper envelope.

VOLTA DO MAR: You had a great aunt on your father’s side who sent you a card every new year until she died, with it she’d include a tiny, patterned paper envelope with Revacholian currency.  Until you were twelve and considered old enough to work under the table, it was the only time you had anything to spend.

“Ah, bon?” Kim heard his partner mumble. He looked up from the photograph.

“What is it, detective?” He asked.

Vicquemare was wielding a brown paper folder like a banner of war.

“See the seal on this file? It’s the Signal Corps of the Suresian Army. It says it’s declassified but why it is here?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The Signal Corps of Sur-Le-Clef covers both the Communications and Intelligence of the Suresian Arm é e de Terre. Vicquemare’s late father and three siblings were all in the Arm é e, only his older sister. Ad é la ï de-Valentine Vicquemare is still in, a Commandant in the Signal Corps.

“What kind of documents?” Kim asked.

Vicquemare shrugged, showing him the file. “Not sure, it’s just an empty folder.”

PERCEPTION: (Sight) [Abysmal - Failure]

“Ah, I can't quite see.  Is there a serial number?” Kim bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste metal.

His partner pointed at some squiggles that might have been Ancient Meteoran for all Kim could tell.

“Yes, up here… I’m going to have to call Adé again, aren’t I?” Jean pinched his nose bridge, with a long-suffering Suresian grunt of despair.

Kim ignored the theatrics and pretended to be checking through his notes. “Again? Have you called her recently?”

Vicquemare nodded. “I called her and Maman for New Year’s, Louis-Charles was there too, with his family. But twice in one month, they’ll think I’m on death’s door.”

“Do all of your siblings have double-barrelled first names?” Kim asked, looking up amused.

“Ugh, Ouias. Louis-Charles, Adelaide-Valentine, Prosper-Olivier, and Jean-Heron. Disgustingly twee of my parents, I know.”

“Prosper-Olivier?" Kim covered a smirk with the back of his hand.  "You can’t be serious, detective.”

“Oh, I am.  Unsurprisingly, He went by Jules, his middle name for most of his life. Got the bright idea to desert and play communard down in Semenine in his early twenties, MPs found him trying to teach locals how to defend themselves, he got the firing squad for his trouble”

EMPATHY: Yikes. That's rough. We know how that feels.

PROFESSIONALE: Moving along, nothing to see here, stick to the case.

Kim hurriedly cleared his throat. “R- Right. Any idea what might have been in that file?”

“Telegram or radio transcriptions most likely. Maybe it went along with the old woman’s tape collection, I’ll take it into evidence and maybe look it up on the database first to save me from talking to my sister. Have you found anything?”

“No, she was framing a recent photograph, perhaps last night or at breakfast time. Just her, her granddaughter and some friends celebrating Seolite New Year.”

“Is that the same date as our New Year?” Vicquemare asked.

Kim nodded, “She might have only now got the photos developed.”

Vicquemare nodded, seemingly processing this“Well, we’ve got signs of a struggle, signs the intruders were looking for something. Should, we take a quick look upstairs before we go into the bathroom and deal with the body?”’

Kim held back a sigh, his bones hurt he was so fucking tired.

FITNESS: Lying propped up on one elbow to watch Harry's breathing, hours at a time, that'll hurt a guy your age.

COMPOSURE: We've been through worse, just keep on moving.

"I think so, yes.”

Vicquemare gestured for him to go first. “After you, Lieutenant. Age before beauty.”

Kim snorted and shook his head.

 The upstairs was made more cramped by the unit’s low triangular roof, it felt more like part of a cabin than a residential home, upstairs there were two bedrooms sharing a tiny avocado-tiled bathroom with a sturdy built-in bathtub.

“I can take the kid’s bedroom if you want to check out the master bedroom?” Vicquemare suggested.

Kim just nodded; he opened the door that was straight ahead of the staircase. The door had already been partially ajar when they came upstairs.

A wave of warmth hit him from a ticking radiator underneath the outward-facing window. The curtains had been opened and the floral bedclothes put back neatly, a red and white patchwork quilt spread over top.  On the left bedside table, there was a half-empty glass of water and several blister packs of medication. The Monday morning doses were all missing.

LOGIC: So, the neighbour was right, she regularly gets up early and had gotten up before the attack occurred.

Kim checked the digital alarm clock on the opposite side table. It was set for 4:30 am. Early but Mme. Deter had said that was to be expected. He made a note of this and then went through the medications checking if there was anything obviously missing. There was a pill bottle of oxycodone, controlled release tablets just sitting there with the lid unscrewed amongst the others, prescribed to a Mme. N Zakarian.

PERCEPTION (Hearing): You can hear soft chirping noise at the door.

Kim looked to see a different cat this time, sandy-coloured fur with dark ear tips and socks. It blinked indignantly back at him.

“Oh.” He muttered to the empty room. “Hello.” The cat narrowed its eyes. “Go talk to the other police officer, he’s much better with cats.”

The cat did not move.

Kim checked Nadya Zakarian’s bedside drawers and her dresser.

He found nothing unusual, a pile of spiral-bound notebooks filled with handwriting in that unfamiliar alphabet that kept popping up, and many more cassette tapes, clothes, jewellery, makeup, an instant photograph of her granddaughter and that Seolite girl from the New Year’s picture downstairs, a meticulously clipped out article about one Yeva Zakarian winning a prestigious photography scholarship to study abroad in Vesper. He noted these down.

There came another chirp from the cat before it strolled off down the hall. Kim followed it to Amal’s bedroom, where Vicquemare stopped inspecting the contents of a trash bin long enough to scratch the animal behind the ears.

“Any luck?” Kim asked.

His partner shook his head. “Not much here, I don’t think the kid has slept here for a couple of nights at least, what about you?”

“The victim probably got up about 4:30 this morning. Other than that I’m not sure. There’s a bunch of writing in the same alphabet we saw in the letter.”

Vicquemare pursed his lips. “I think it’s Haykian. Zakarian is a Haykian name, the -ian ending it’s like their patronymic.”

“Right. Said Kim, quirking an eyebrow.

The satellite officer gave a tired little sigh. “My landlady is a Madame Aslanian, she was born here but her late husband was from a well-to-do Haykian merchant family”.

ENCYLOPEDIA: A marginalised ethnic community from the Bragratuni Highlands there’s a small but prevalent Haykian diaspora in Jamrock, many of them live together in small communities in North Jamrock or in the Eminent Domain they are distinct from other Graadian-speaking Zemylaki due to a shared language and culture. There’s a little old Haykian woman you know of who sells apricot preserves and rose-scented pastries outside of Liberation Park in the summer.

“Did you check the upstairs bathroom yet?” Kim asked.

Vicqumare shook his head. “No, not yet. The girl had Narca and Vivitrol on her bedside table.”

“Oh? Narca I’m familiar with, but not Vivitrol.”

“They prescribe it for alcoholics, it’s supposed to help you reduce your intake by making drinking less enjoyable. It’s also an opioid antagonist like Narca but it’s much longer acting, it won’t do much for overdoses.”

Kim clicked his pen idly, “The neighbour did say she had a drug problem. Were they proscribed to Amal?”

“Miss Amal Kesami, yes. That would suggest she was at least in some formal rehab programme or at the very least her condition was being monitored by a doctor.”

“Did you get a prescribing physician's name?” Kim asked.

Jean retrieved a pill bottle from his pants pocket.  “Uh, Doctor A-M. Lemaire.”

Kim wrote this down. His partner moved into the bathroom, and Kim followed after him.

PROFESSIONALE: You can run that name through the RC back at the precinct, it should give you a clinic or hospital number to call and check.

“Any signs the intruders even came up here?”

“Not in the master bedroom, no. The victim had oxycodone tablets on her bedside table, legally obtained on her end, but that would have a decent price on the black market. It didn’t look like any had been taken.”

Jean gave a Suresian shrug “Depends on the type and the dosage and stolen pills are often cheaper because they’re traceable but a month’s supply of 10mg pills? That could net you a couple hundred.”

Kim gave the medicine cabinet a quick sweep: mouthwash, medical gauze, eyedrops, sanitary pads. Nothing obviously damaged or missing.

“Bin is empty.” His partner noted- he sounded almost bored. “I guess that means we should get to checking out the downstairs bathroom now if there’s nowhere else to check.”

Kim sighed. “I agree. Do you have gloves, detective?”

“Yep.” The other man replied, drolly popping the P.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

Kim opened the bathroom door, steeling himself for the crime scene he knew that he’d find within. He took a deep inhale and stepped back as the door swung out, in his ever-fading peripheral vision he felt rather than saw, Vicquemare cross himself.

Madame Nadya Zakarian- a grandmother, mother, neighbour, widow, a formerly complex and emotional human being- lay face up on the linoleum floor. Her knees were bent, and her bare feet had spasmed against the bottom of the bathroom sink cabinet. Her arms had come up as if in mid-fall she had tried to right her balance, though it was more likely just the natural occurrence of rigor mortis setting in.

Kim let out the breath he was holding. Another week another dozen corpses or so. It could wear on the nerves, the amount of death he’d gotten used to seeing.

“Shit,” Jean muttered with a sombre shake of his head. “Poor old bat.”

Kim shot him a glance but didn’t say anything. He stepped delicately over the corpse as the bathroom was rather small and she’d fallen diagonally. Her head still rested against the metallic lip of the shower door, the floor and her clothing studded with little diamonds of broken shower glass. Kim tentatively poked at one with a gloved hand, it was bullet-sized and not very sharp, it had likely been tempered, but it still was infringing on a safe field autopsy.

“Safety glass looks like,” Vicquemare added still standing on the other side of the body by the door, he was swapping his woollen winter gloves for a disposable rubber pair.

“Mhm” Kim grunted. He dusted off enough of the glass to take the woman’s rigid hand in his and checked her radial pulse for completeness’ sake.  Robotically he lifted her already closed eyelids with a fingertip. Her eyes were a deep dark brown but showed the first signs of corneal clouding suggesting she had been dead for hours.

“Minot said she already did the stations, no?” He asked.

Vicquemare nodded,

Kim let go of the dead woman’s forearm. It drooped slightly then held in place. He noted this down.

PROFESSIONALE: Rigor Mortis is in full force, the room isn’t particularly cold likely due to the coal fire in the laundry room powering the radiators. Rigor mortis at room temperature should peak at four to six hours post-mortem.

Vicquemare was watching him, his eyebrows furrowed. “I imagine rigor mortis wasn’t as pronounced forty minutes ago. “ He said.

Kim nodded, “The Corneas are starting to cloud- which assuming she didn’t have a glaucoma puts us in the four-hour range.”

“Estimated time of death was what five-ish this morning?” He gestured for Kim to tilt his watch so he could see. “10:44 So nearly five hours. I mean the rigor mortis is more advanced than I’d expect for that, but it was a pretty cold night.”

“It’s not cold in here though, she started the boiler before she died, and the radiators are all on,” Kim observed aloud.

Jean nodded, “True, but old age and poor circulation will expedite the process.”

Kim inclined his head. Moving his preliminary inspections over to the woman’s face.

EMPATHY: She’s an old woman, a grandmother, a mother, her skin is leathery and her eyes and forehead are marked with years of laughter lines.  

A dried trickle of blood ran from the woman’s nostrils to her upper lip.

“Nosebleed could be from the head injury.” He muttered.

Vicquemare scribbled something down in his ledger. “She evidently fell with enough force to break the shower glass; I wouldn’t be surprised there was instant brain damage.”

Nadya Zakarian wore her long dark hair in two Suresian braids. She was dressed in everyday clothes, light cotton pants, a blouse, and a distinctive green and white Ubi sweater.  Her lips were still blue, and her face was beginning to sallow, but her expression was neutral, no grim masks of death here. She just looked like a sleeping older person with poor circulation.

Across from him, Kim heard Vicquemare squat down, flicking through his ledger and case files. “Ah, Putain, I forgot to refill my forms. I used the back of my last autopsy form on Friday to draw a map for Torson. Do you mind playing assistant today?”

Kim shrugged. “Of course, not. Just a moment.”

He squinted at the back of the woman’s neck where it had contacted the metal. “The skin isn’t broken, despite all the glass. There looks like a deformation at her C2 and C3 though, and a hematoma, those are likely the blunt force.”

“The impact plus any resulting Contrecoup injury would have rendered her confused, if not outright unconscious pretty quickly.”

“If it’s a completely closed head injury- which it looks like to me, it would have caused an increase in pressure, add a brain bleed to that and the outcome isn’t good. If there was damage to the vagus nerve death would have been instantaneous at the very least.”

“I hope for her sake it was,” Jean said flatly.

Kim nodded, sitting back on his haunches and regarding the corpse. The old woman didn't move. He sighed.

“As do I. The alternative is slow and unpleasant.”

Field Autopsy Report- Attending Officer's Copy

Assistant: K.K 

Field Case no .: JV-2101520926

Name: Nadya Zakarian 

Age:  70 (Born November ‘82)

Ethnicity/Race:  Graadian

Sex:  F 

Date of Death:  21.01.53

Body Identified by:  Cosima Ann Deter (Friend and Neighbour) Photo ID provided.

Coroner Case No.:  N/A

Evidence of Treatment:  Neighbour moved body to check pulse and breathing. Stations of Breath performed by Patrol Officer JM. No other treatment. Treatment has not affected lividity in a pronounced way.

 

External Summary:  

Clothes and jewellery: 

• Jonquil Brand, cotton stretch pants with drawstring tie, brown, size 42
• Jonquil Brand, long-sleeved cotton blouse, cream with pearlescent buttons, Size M.
• Hebrides Brand wave-pattern Knitted Ubi Isle sweater in forest green, size M.
• Light blue, cotton women’s briefs, tags cut off.
• Odile Brand, brassiere. Tan, size 75C.
• Golden wedding band right ring finger
• Golden engagement ring, three stones, two white (diamond or zircon), one green (emerald?)

Tattoos: N/A 

Weight: ~70kg 

Height: ~150cm 

Hair: Long curly, Dark hair, with some grey, worn in twin braids. Somewhat Damp. Likely washed before death.

Eyes: Dark Brown, starting signs of cataracts. Post-mortem corneal clouding

Preservation: Intact. Recent death (<4h), no visible animal damage. Rigor mortis beginning to peak in extremities.  

Lividity: Pooling in forearms and legs in contact with floor, livor mortis visible but not fixed. Suggesting ETD between 2 and 5 hours.

Description of Injuries:  1. Due to a fall C1-C3 contacted the glass shower door and metal lip of the bottom of the shower. Evident swelling around C2 and C3.  Hyoid Suspension intact. Possible that a fracture in C2 and C3 lead to paralysis and respiratory failure. C. Unclear

2. Swollen bruised lump at back of the head (Occipital region) where contact was made with the shower door, visible hematoma. If whatever caused it caused inter-cranial damage it would have meant brain death in under three minutes, otherwise C. Unclear.
3. Epistaxis, minor, ceased after death. Possibly due to head trauma. A. Non-lethal.

 

Scars:

• Large lateral surgical scar across the abdomen below the navel (as seen in surgically assisted delivery or abdominal hysterectomy)
• two smaller incisions on opposite sides of the pelvis along inguinal ligaments – suggests gynaecological surgery possibly salpingectomy.
• Scar on right arm from top of radius down about 10cm. Shows signs of sutures possibly from a broken arm or carpal tunnel surgery.
• Burn scarring and discolouration on both hands and forearms, old.
• No obvious major self defensive wounds despite sign of a struggle, some recent small knicks on hands that could be from attacker oe could be cat scratches.

 

Internal Examination:

Summary  

Respiratory System:   N/A

Hepatobiliary:  N/A 

Toxicology: N/A not believed to have been on any substances.

Serology: N/A 

Cardiovascular: Poor circulation, likely due to victim's age and fitness, has left prominent cyanosis in the lips and extremities which have yet to change much post-mortem.

Gastrointestinal: No purge postmortem. Environmental evidence suggests the victim ate a light breakfast prior to death -probably too recently to be digested.

Chapter Text

Move along
There's nothing left to see
Just a body
Nothing left to see

A couple more for breakfast
A little more for tea
Just to take the edge off
Just to take the edge off

Move along
There's nothing left to see
Just a body
Pouring down the street.

Harbourside, GRIH, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

??:??,  21st January '53

A woman watches the early dawn over the GRIH from her apartment window, she takes another reel of tape from the canister and spools into onto a reel-by-reel player, she glances at the width. 9cm standard speed recording.  She presses play.

A hiss, a hum. Cheerful steel drums and gospel piano. She takes a sip from a mug of tepid coffee, the grey-pink sky is turning yellow in the cracks between the cloud like one of those Seolite broken bowls stuck back together with a fine line of gold.

No, I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away.”

The woman hits fast forward and skips a couple of minutes to check the song is over. There’s a radio fade-in stinger.

“This is Radio (Radio) Caroline.”

Another song starts playing, just a blues acoustic guitar.

“I caught you knocking at my cellar door,
Come on baby can I have some more?
Ooh, ooh, the damage done”.

She hits fast forward again until she reaches the end of the tape and then rewinds. She picks up the case and notes the reference number and the contents in a notebook.

Tape 219- Dated 03/49

 Vespertine Pirate Radio – Late Night Folk Show, Mostly Music with female host during interstitials. Roughly nineteen minutes.

She puts the tape reel back in the canister and takes it over to a filing cabinet. She drops the tape in a drawer and downs her coffee.  She picks at a flake of sunshine yellow nail varnish on her right hand. The discoloured band of skin where her wedding ring used to rest has faded into the surrounding skin tone.  She snaps a hair tie against her wrist and picks up another tape.

There is no whisper on the wind, no shivers, no Volta do Mar, no Fernweh, no connection.

The apartment is bare and damp. She feels numb. She spools the tape onto the reel-to-reel.

She snaps the hair tie against her wrist and presses play again.

Les Sardines, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

08:42 , 21st January '53.

After ensuring Madame Zakarian was safely bagged in the bathroom where she fell, Kim and Vicquemare took a last look around the house.

The laundry room contained the coal-burning furnace that was sputtering away keeping the house warm. A storage cupboard had contained boxes of tapes, bric-a-brac and photograph albums which had not been rifled through.

Kim took a small blue album that Nadya had handwritten Jan-Sept 52 on the inside page. Hoping it might give them any other family members to contact, then they tried the door to the basement which was padlocked shut.

“Maybe the neighbour has a key?” Jean suggested aloud.

Kim nodded. “We need to speak to the other neighbours too, in number six. But let’s get back to Madame Deter first.”

Jean nodded, crouched down to offer his hand to the fluffy tabby cat who had reappeared.  The animal meowed and licked his bare hands with a little pink tongue. “Someone at least needs to feed these two tonight, unless we get a hold of Amal.”

 Kim nodded, flicking through his own notes.

“Am I right in assuming the assailant entered through the front door and exited through back through the laundry, leaving the door open for Mme. Deter to see?”

“It certainly seems that way, the struggle at the front door, suggests perhaps the victim struggled with the attacker before running to the bathroom to hide, where either she slipped and fell or was pursued and pushed.”

“No signs of struggle on the hands or arms though, in a scenario like that you’d expect defensive wounds,” Kim said

His partner shrugged. “Perhaps there wasn’t enough time between any injury and her death for proper bruises to form, or  maybe she had a weapon?”

Kim looked back over his shoulder and raised an unconvinced eyebrow.

“What kind of weapon does a 70-year-old grandmother keep to hand?”

Vicquemare considered this for a moment. “Something non-lethal and easy to swing, most likely." He said. "A bat or a truncheon She has a daughter and a teenaged granddaughter, either one of them could have one of those fold-up self-defence batons that girls like to carry on a night out.”

“Mhm,” Kim grunted, not entirely convinced. “I’m gonna go double-check the entryway, I thought I’d photograph the damage before it gets messed around by Processing’s lackeys.”

“Knock yourself out.” His partner muttered, much more interested in the cat than any detective work.

Kim moved out back into the hallway, he made a mental note that the photographs that had fallen down had all been close to the staircase, and took a photograph of the broken ceramic Chi-Rho tile and its unfamiliar writing.

PROFESSIONALE: Vicquemare has a point there then, if the victim was upstairs and heard someone come in and scrounge through the table in the entranceway, she could have come down and surprised them.

LOGIC: But why assume an intruder? Why have a weapon to hand? Surely, she’d be more likely to assume it was her granddaughter coming home, or one of the cats making a racket.

REFLEXES: At 4:30 am? We’d be on high alert.

PASSION: YEAH, BUT SHE DIDN’T HAVE BEAT-COP BRAIN PRIONS LIKE WE DO.

COMPOSURE: Ignoring their archetypical childishness, PASSION has a point. This is a normal civilian woman, a kind old lady who everyone loved, what reason did she have to be on the defensive? Did she have TSD? Did she have a fear of burglaries?

LOGIC: We don’t know yet, we can’t confirm or deny anything until we have further information.

“You good to finish up here, Kitsuragi?” Vicquemare asked. “Get the body and run?”

Kim looked up fanning the developing photograph in one hand.

“Yes, I’m done,  and the Kineema’s trunk should be clear enough to fit the body bag. Do you mind if we bring along Officer Minot for the next part, if she’s back from her coffee run?”

Jean cocked his head to the side like a glum parrot in a pet-shop window. “No, of course not, why?”

Kim gave a tired shrug heading back down the hall. “Well, Madame Deter next door is understandably upset by all of this, Judit is a calming presence in a way you and I are not.”

Vicquemare snorted at that. “Oh, I am well aware of our shortcomings Lieutenant.” He said holding the bathroom door open for Kim.

Judit came back by the time they'd finished getting the body into the car.

She passed Jean his coffee and offered Kim a macaron in a paper bag, which he took with a small smile.

EMPATHY: She wanted to include you, don’t take it as pity or mothering. It’s meant as a tiny token of kindness and respect for a superior officer.

PERCEPTION: (Taste) The little sweet dissolves instantly when you take a bite, it’s the traditional almond flavour light and sugary. It tastes like the yearly Midwinter party at the maison les enfants, it tastes like the Financiers Yves would sometimes bring home from the bakery by the Universite. It tastes like the Godfather cocktails your friend Etienne used to make when you and Harry would go out for Karaoke and drinks with Hanna and Sgt. Maxim.

Kim felt the sensation of being gently moved, Vicquemare having given up on rousing him from another Proustian reverie had just put a hand in the middle of his back and pushed him forward until Kim had distractedly hobbled over to the neighbouring unit.

“Oh,” Kim mumbled. “My apologies, officer.”

His partner shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it after years of working with Detective Neanderthal.”

LOGIC: He means Harry.

PROFESSIONALE: Obviously, Minot is neither a detective nor a cavewoman, and it would be exceedingly unprofessional to call her one to her face.

HARRYOLOGY: Harry isn't a caveman either, he's just big and easily distracted. He can be incredible at his job if he's focused. It's likely undiagnosed ADHD, you've noted how similarly Cuno reacts to things when he's not medicated. It just seems too consistant to be stupidity or laziness.

“As much as I respect Du Bois, I’m not convinced that's a high enough bar,” Kim said, his lips twitching.

Vicquemare snorted. “I don’t think we have a bar anymore at 41. You’d have to fuck up in a novel or prolific way for anyone to notice. Maybe if McCoy decided to off all three of his ex-wives in one go, Pryce would write him up an official warning."

“Vic.” Minot said, in that monosyllable tone that really meant ‘Reel it the fuck in.’

“What?” Jean chirped back. “I’m joking, obviously.”

She shot Kim an apologetic look and elbowed Vicquemare hard in the ribs.

“Stick to your day job, sir. No one’s laughing.”

“Genius is never appreciated in its time.” Jean harrumphed as he held open the gate into Unit 2’s front garden.

A faded child’s ride-on car sits discarded to the side of the path some slush covering its plastic seat.

ENDURANCE: [Challenging – Fail] Your gait falters for a moment, blue green and red microdots bloom like fireworks across your vision.   The last bits of colour in the world fade out even more than the snow and grey winter sky have caused already.

REFLEXES: [Legendary -Pass] You right yourself quickly enough holding on to the fence and taking a practised and automatic deep breath. Hold it, now twenty seconds.

FITNESS: Did we actually drink water today, or just coffee? We’re normally pretty good at remembering. Perhaps Harry distracted us.

“Lieutenant?” Vicquemare asked, turning back.

“Let’s just focus on the case, shall we?’ Kim said, releasing the breath he was holding and adjusting his glasses.

“I fear the Patrol Officer’s headache is contagious, perhaps it’s the cold.”

FITNESS: Your parasympathetic nervous system is kicking in, bringing your vision back, and the headache dips away.

“Madame Deter?” Judit called out, rapping her knuckles on the front door of Unit 2.

Cosima's voice came out muffled.

“I’m in the Kitchen officers, the front door is unlocked, please come in. Schmetterling, kannst du den Tisch abräumen?"

“Warum? Mama, ich zeichne!” A little girl's voice replied.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Sounds like Walder. Walder covers a variety of dialects in Gottwald and Königstein, as well as border towns in Sur-Le-Clef. Yevsprech the language of the Mondial Yevrem that Lt. Dreyfus and her family speak is based on Hoch-Walder.

Kim heard Cosima Deter let out a sigh. “Die Polizisten brauchen einen Sitzplatz.”

”Waaaaaarum?” The girl whined.

The three of them entered the joint kitchen-dining room area, Cosima was washing up dishes from breakfast. The girl who Kim assumed to be her daughter was sitting at the dining table kicking her feet against the chair legs, a drawing pad of paper, aquarelles and crayons spread out in a fan across the table from her.

Judit stepped forward to address the child, she peered over to look at the girl’s artwork.

The little girl drawing at the dining table looked to be about eight. She was wearing leggings and a warm woollen sweater. She had much darker skin and thicker, more tightly curled hair than her mother or younger brother that had been lovingly styled into little twists each with colourful neon bubble stoppers on each end.

Kim hazarded a guess that, her father was of Aeropaganite or Semenese descent. She had dark brown eyes that lit up with an all-too-familiar childish determination.

“Hello, those are nice colours, what are you drawing?” She asked,

The little girl looked at her mother first, then Kim and Jean before back to Judit

“Mio from Demonman Tenshi.” She murmured.

The drawing was hard to make out from where he was standing it looked to be a vaguely humanoid figure in a pink jumpsuit with unnervingly large eyes and bright green hair.

Judit nodded still smiling. “Oh right, isn’t that one of those cartoons from Seol? My sons like those too.”

The girl seemed to warm slightly at that she nodded nervously fiddling with one of her twists of hair.

“Mio’s my favourite because she can kill people with her laser sword.” She said.

Mme. Deter cleared her throat. “Schatzi, geh ein bisschen in deinem Zimmer spielen.”

She glanced between her mother and the two policemen, opened her mouth with one final retort.

“Wa-“

Cosima Deter pointed a finger in the direction of the doorway the officers had just come through.

“Jetzt, Thekla!”

The little girl, Thekla,  scowled, but she grabbed her drawing pad and her aquarelles and stomped off down the hall.

Her mother pinched her brow with a thumb and forefinger. 

“Sorry about that, officers, please take a seat. Let me just check the boys are behaving themselves and I’ll be with you.”

“Of course, madame,” Vicquemare said pulling up a seat at the dining table.

“Take your time,” Judit said, still managing to keep up a smile. Which dropped noticeably

Kim took the seat across from Vicquemare, and Judit sat beside him.

“Do you know any Walder, Kitsuragi?” Jean asked.

“A little, Hanna’s family speak Yevsprech which is very similar.”

Judit’s eyes lit up, but she didn’t comment. Her lips twitched and that was it.

EMPATHY: She and Lieutenant Dreyfus are pretty fast friends, both being female officers with a similar background, and the lieutenant stands up for her when she gets spoken over in a way you and Vicquemare never have.

PASSION: She thinks you and her are really cute together, which is pretty funny because you're not convinced you have any obvious chemistry outside of being a man and a woman which is all most heterosexuals seem to need,  plus the nature of your good-natured bickering paints most of your interactions come off as downright insane to outsiders.

“Mhm. How is the old ball and chain these days?” Jean asked.

“I think she’s alright," Kim said, smoothing out a dog ear in his notebook. "I know she tried to call me on the weekend, but I was overrun with Harry's problems I let the calls go to the answering phone.

Vicquemare's lips twitched. “Bet she didn’t like that.”

Kim just shrugged, not giving him any reaction to milk.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Minot give his partner a dour look.

“I’m sure she’ll understand, sir, maybe give her a call on your lunch break.” She said gently, patting Kim's shoulder.

Kim nodded, “She’s an adult and she knows what’s going on with Harry. There’s not much either of us can do about it.”

“What about you?” Viquemare asked.

Kim cocked an eyebrow at the other man, “What about me?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Kitsuragi, look at yourself, you’re dead on your feet.”

“Vic, it’s not his fault." Judit butted in. "He has enough to worry about at home."

Kim gave the patrol officer a nod of gratitude.

“Thank you, Judit. Look, I know I’m tired, but I can’t do much about that except get through the day and hope I sleep solidly tonight.”

Vicquemare looked to Judit and back to Kim, Kim could see him deciding to give up on the matter.

“Alright, do say if you need a Peptide or something, Gottlieb gives that shit out like breath mints.”

Judit sighed.

Kim flicked back through his notes, hoping for a change in topic.

“I’ll certainly consider it if the sleep deprivation gets that bad, but right now, I think two people in my household with a history of stimulant abuse is plenty.” He said.

Judit nodded. “I think that’s smart sir.”

Vicquemare barked out a sharp bitter laugh. “Dei knows I’m doing enough for the both of us.”

PROFESSIONALE: You’ve known for a while Vicquemare has an amphetamine problem, but you’ve never heard him bring it up. It’s not like Harry was when you met him, it’s marginally more functional, perhaps they were first used to treat lethargy a side effect of his many different depression medications. You’ve never felt the need to broach the subject because he doesn’t let it affect his work but also because as close as you work with Vicquemare you’re his colleague not his friend.

Judit growled deep in the back of her throat, like she was struggling to contain the roar of a much bigger much angrier animal. Jean looked at her amused she averted his gaze.

“I do wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” She said stone-faced. She sounded almost disappointed but there was something else under the surface.

EMPATHY: [Godly- Fail] I don’t fucking care, man. I’m too tired to know what tiny twitch of facial muscle corresponds to which abstract concept. None of that shit makes sense half the time anyway.

Kim didn’t know what to say to either remark, but luckily for him, Cosima Deter took that moment to return back from the other room.

“Sorry about that. They can be a handful those two.” She said, putting a child's plastic sipper cup in the sink.

Minot nodded. “Of course, Madame, two kids under six is a lot of work, let alone two boys.”

Madame Deter chuckled at that. “Can I get you officers anything? Ah, I believe we have Coffee, water, Orangina.”

“A glass of water would be good, madame, if it’s not too much trouble,” Kim said. His temples were pulsing now like the Kineema’s subwoofer.

He could take all the help he could get.

“Of course.” Cosima Deter smiled, almost appreciative to be given a task. She fetched Kim a clean glass and filled it with a pitcher from the fridge. She set it down for him.

“Thank you.” He said and took a sip. It was likely a placebo but the pulsing slightly faded.

“How are the children coping with everything?” Judit asked, testing the waters.

Cosima sighed, staring down at her hands, and picking at a hangnail. “I haven’t told them, yet.” She said.

Kim and Minot exchanged a look. Minot gestured to wait for the woman to continue talking.

“I told Thekla someone burgled Nonna’s house, but I haven’t broken the full news yet. It’s going to be hard. She’s the closest thing they have to grandparents. I’m not on good terms with my folks, I cut them off after Ibrahim and I found out I was pregnant with Thekla.”

“They never met her?” Jean asked, somewhat surprised. Jude elbowed him again, less subtly this time.  

Mme. Deter laughed drily. “It’s fine. I don’t mind the question. My parents are racists officer. I’m not going to talk around that fact nor do I make excuse for their beliefs. I tried to talk them out of it, but not everyone’s mind is up for changing. They chose hatred over me and my family, that’s on their heads. My daughter has no need of people in her life who cut her humanity up into fractions of pure blood. Every bit of her is worth loving and protecting, and if she grows up to be even just a quarter of as wonderful a person as her father was, I’ll have done my job.”

“I’m sorry, I meant nothing by madame”. Vicquemare mumbled,

“No one ever does, officer. Her teachers don’t know any better and I’m sure the people in the street who aren’t sure if she’s my child are just concerned for her wellbeing. It was at lot easier when I could just point to my living Black husband. but it’s coming up to six years now since Ibrahim passed so I have to do the best I can to protect her on my own.”

“Sorry if this is a difficult question ma’am,” Kim said choosing his words carefully. “But was that in Walder or in Revachol?”

“Here, I mean, not- here this neighbourhood here. Here as in Revachol.” She grimaced. “We lived in Coal City; he was a taxi cab driver. One night he didn’t come home. She swallowed hard; her calloused fingers braced against the tabletop. “The RCM said it was a carjacking.”

PERCEPTION: (Hearing) Her voice which is naturally quite breathy sounds strained and it warbles over the last four words, but it doesn’t break.

EMPATHY: Nothing Tougher than Jamrock Tough, or so they say. You’ve lived in Jamrock all your life, and you’re no longer convinced this is a good thing.   

Cosima cleared her throat, focusing on one of her daughter’s errant pencils left on the tabletop. She picked it up to fiddle with.

“I moved to Les Sardines with my ex, the boys’ father four years ago. He worked at the cannery; I was a clerk in the video store. Thekla was five and Nadya was the closest thing she ever had to a grandmother. Now I’m the only one left to break the news, She’s eight and a half now, and far too smart for her own good. I feel she might understand more than I’d like her to, especially when I let her take the day off school.”

“What about the boys? Did they know Nadya very well?” Judit asked.

 “They did, but Otto’s too young to understand, and Alois is at the age where he doesn’t really understand death. He’s still wrapping his head around leaving kindergarten this year. I’m not really worried about them as much. Toddlers are resilient, but Thekla’s old enough to know her Dad’s not alive, she’s old enough to hear kids at school talking about local gang shootouts.”

She sighed dropping the pencil it clattered dully to the floor. She put her head in her hands.

“Do you want to take a break, madame?” Kim asked,  concerned. “We have a couple more questions but you can take a time out if it’s too much.”

 “Remember you can ask us to stop, if you need a break or if you want to check on the kids,” Judit added. “And I’d be happy to stay with you when you tell Thekla if you’d like. I can answer any questions she has”.

Cosima Deter nodded, tucking some hair behind her ear “That’d be good, thank you. I’ll be alright, I might put another pot of coffee on.” She pushed back her chair and moved over to the kitchen area where she took a filter coffee pot and emptied out the congealed dregs down the sink.

As she was refilling the coffee pot. She turned and gestured between Kim and Vicquemare “I-I take it you officers examined the…the body?”

“Yes, we will be sending her on to Forensic Processing, to determine the cause of death but it’s obvious she hit her head hard enough to shatter tempered shower glass, so we at least have reason to believe that death would have been instantaneous.”

Cosima’s jaw squared tight. “Oh- that’s some small comfort at least.”

“Have there been any other burglaries that you know of in the area?” Kim asked.

Cosima laughed bitterly, putting a new filter in the pot, and spooning in coffee grounds before returning it to the hotplate.

 “Unfortunately, yes, officer, we’re not exactly well patrolled here, and if some baby-faced fail son of un Caïd wants to steal poor Matthias’ syringes and insulin, well he’s shit out of luck I’m afraid.”

She returned to the table once more.

“Matthias?” Kim prompted.

Mme. Deter blinked. “Oh? Have you not spoken to him yet? Monsieur Unterholen in number six, lovely man, horseshit taste in football teams but what can you expect from the Sachsens.”

“Oh, I believe I spoke to his partner,” Judit answered. “He was in a hurry to go to work, so it was only a brief meeting.”

“Did they say anything?” Cosima asked, raising both eyebrows.

“Just that he heard some noise around four or five but he thought it was just animals getting at the bins.”

“Ah, Schießdreck.” Cosima Deter hissed through her teeth.

The three officers froze and exchanged wary looks. “What- what is it??” Vicquemare asked.

“I forgot to put the bins out last night.” She started to laugh, that kind of incredulous laugh that usually indicated someone was about to go into shock or experience a mental break. All three of the officers present went on high alert. Madame Deter seemed to pick up on this.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just my damned luck though, isn’t it? I’ll ask Matti if he minds taking it to the landfill.” She waved a hand in the air. “Carry on, it’s been a long morning.”

“Do you know of anyone who could want to hurt Nadya or Amal?” Kim asked moving down his list of questions.

“I mean I don’t really talk to Amal all that often these days, I know she had a drink and alcohol problem when Nadya took her in, but that was under control last I heard. Nadya was beloved by the neighbourhood. She collected tapes, made preserves and baked a lot and she had a part-time job at the CTH charity shop. I can’t think of anyone who would take offence to her. I mean I’d suspected a robbery; did you notice anything missing? Uh, they have a television set, it’s rather old I think Vardan got it second hand but other than maybe jewellery or silverware I don’t think Nadya had a lot of valuables. Did they take her rings? I didn’t check when I found her.”

Kim flicked back through his autopsy report.

“She had an engagement ring and a wedding band on.” He said. “There were signs of a burglary, yes, but we couldn’t determine what if anything was missing.”

“Oh- and the door to the basement was padlocked, would you know where the key is?” Vicquemare cut in.

Cosima frowned. “Oh, no I don’t but I think Nadya once told me her coworker had a spare key for the house and the basement. I would feed the cats whenever they went away, and she told me if I ever misplaced the house key to talk to a Ms Gala. I don’t know her surname, sorry.  I think it’s Seolite or maybe Samaran? She works at the CTH charity shop too and her daughter and Amal are friends.”

“Whereabout is this charity shop?” Vicquemare asked, Kim waited pen poised to take the address down.

“Oh, it’s in walking distance only a couple of blocks away, on Place de la Mairie, it’s volunteer-run so they don’t usually open until ten-thirty or eleven. They should be open later today if you want to visit?”

Kim wrote this down and glanced across the table at Vicquemare, “We could certainly check it out?”

Jean nodded; he didn’t seem overly bothered either way. “If you don’t have any questions of us, Madame. We should go and speak to Monsieur Unterholen, and see if he has anything to add." He glanced over at Judit, "Jude, did you want to meet us by the car when you’re done?”

“Minot nodded. “Yes, sir. I don’t think we’ll be very long.”

Kim knocked on the door of unit number 6 Rue Le Navigateur.

“Be with you in a second officers.” A man’s voice called out with a Walder or Koenigstinian accent.

The door opened, and behind it was a muscular white man dressed in jeans and hurriedly pulling on a short-sleeved polo shirt. He was sandy blonde with brown stubble, stubble he’d evidently just finished shaving.  He was quite good-looking. Kim even noticed that Jean stood up just a tiny bit straighter.

"Sorry about that I just got out of the shower, how can I help you; I think your colleague spoke to my partner before he left for work, I heard him talking to a lady officer.”

Kim nodded. “Right, Patrol Officer Minot. Did she ask if you heard anything this morning?"

The man “Yes, I believe my partner told her, we heard a loud noise. We thought it was an animal getting at the bins.”

“You didn’t go out and check?” Vicquemare asked.

“I was half-asleep and it was below freezing last night, Officers. “He ducked his head back in behind the door. “Our thermometer says It’s still only 3 degrees out there now.”

“It is January,” Jean said flatly.

The man, Monsieur Matthias Unterholen, Kim presumed, rubbed his freshly shaven face with a hand towel, and sighed.

“Not a very happy start to the year is it.” He scrutinised a speck of his own blood on the towel and tapped at the corresponding nick on his jaw. “Poor Oma. She was a lovely woman, very kind, very friendly. And for there to be another burglary, we were only burgled a few weeks ago.”

“Cosima Deter did say you were burgled recently,” Jean said.

The man nodded. “Yeah, December 22nd.  It was a real pain in the arse. I’m a diabetic, they stole a fortnight’s worth of insulin and most of my disposable syringes, as well as the usual shit: cash, cigarettes, a bottle of Baijiu we’d got as early new year’s present from my in-laws. We reported all of it, but the officers couldn’t do much about it.  He scowled. “I hope the alcohol made them shit their livers out at the very least.”

“At 50% alcohol per volume, it’s not exactly going to do them any good. “Vicquemare intoned.

“Could you tell us what time last night you heard the noises last night, Monsieur Unterholen?”

The man shifted his attention to Kim, whom he’d barely looked at before. Kim felt the other man give him a slow look over.  His eyes dilated.

UNDERGROUND: Hah. Still got it baby.

“I’d say about four or five in the morning officer. I was only half awake, but Yubao, my partner was up getting ready for work. His alarm went off at five so it must have been just past that.”

“What does your partner do?” Kim asked.

“He’s a history teacher at the Ecole L’Interisolaire in Grand Couron. Tutors in the afternoons.” Matthias said, scratching his stubble.

“And yourself?” Kim asked.

The man stretched his back out. “I work nights usually, I’m a bouncer at a bar in Jamrock proper.””

“Oh, that’s our stomping grounds.” Vicquemare chimed in, “What bar?’

“The Green Carnation on Purgatory.” The man said. “It’s relatively new maybe four or five months. But it’s better than my last job at the betting shop”.

UNDERGROUND: You know that its new because you went there in the opening week with Harry and some friends maybe a week or two before he had his stroke.  You know exactly what kind of bar that is and worse than that, he knows that you know. It’s a game of unspoken homosexual chicken, whoever draws attention to it first, loses.

“Ah, that’s what they turned the old strip club into.” Said Jean who also knew what kind of bar it was and had just elected not to play this silly little faggot game.

“Oh yes, after that murder last year, with the body stuffed into the big doll – sorry what’s the Suresnois word? In Walder, it’s a Schaufensterpuppe- literally a puppet you put on display in shop windows.

“A mannequin.” Kim offered impassively. “It’s from the Oranjese.”

“Yes, that’s the one!”, Matthias made a face. “Y’know, I usually try not to think about what happened to those young women when I’m at work, it harshes the atmosphere, you know? I don’t know how you guys do it.”

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Legendary – Fail]

PASSION: hey. kill yourself.

REFLEXES: Excuse me?

COMPOSURE: [Very Easy – Pass] Ignore them, it’s an intrusive thought.

LOGIC: You’re tired. You’ve been Compartmentalising a lot lately. You’re thinking about Harry and Cuno, while you have a case to work. It’s easy to get overwhelmed at times like this.

“Is there anything I help you officers with?” Matthias asked smirking. Kim realised he’d been staring at the man for longer than was socially acceptable.

“Yes, sorry, can you think of anything that could have drawn someone to burgle Madame Zakarian?” Kim asked.

Matthias frowned. “No,  No, I mean, she has-had a phenomenal tape archive, but I don’t think she was particularly wealthy. It seems particularly cowardly to target an older woman living alone.”

“Tapes," Kim said. "People do keep bringing that up.”

“Yes, it was her late husband’s pride and joy, cassettes, video, reel to reel, records, you name it. Last spring, I traded her some of my old tapes from back home for some Tsoureki and her homemade apricot jam. Here I thought she was the one getting ripped off there, but she reacted like I was paying in diamonds.  It was mostly just stuff ripped from the radio; music, news talk that kind of thing. I used to work night shift security back home and I’d just tape a bunch of local radio stations and listen to them at work on… uh das Ghettoblaster… You know it’s like a radio cassette?"

“Whereabouts is home?” Vicquemare asked, rubbing his gloved hands together to get enough movement back in his fingers to keep.

“Sachsen for the most part. I lived just outside of Dresden.” Matthias said.

Vicquemare nodded “Ah, I heard they’re getting the next Interisolary games.”

Matthias smiled, a flutter of national pride crossed his face and then evaporated. “You heard right, it’ll be nice to see the hometown on television though I warn you it’s as much of a shithole as Revachol is in places. 

“Turns out air strikes don’t do much for the property values,” Kim said drily, stepping back into the conversation.

The man laughed.

“Afraid not, Officer. Hey if you find Amal can you let her know our door is always open for her. I’m sure Cosima at number two said the same already. She’s a tough kid but she needs all the support she can get. Yubao’s sister’s a counsellor uh if she wants to talk to someone professionally, we’d be happy to help pay for it, uh, one moment.”

He passed Kim a business card it was cream coloured with a small logo and large type it said:

 Jeanne-Marie Yanfei Huang.

Licensed Psychotherapist

He pocketed it and nodded.  “Thank you, sir, we’ll pass it on.”

The handsome young man gave a goofy salute that was so reminiscent of Harry that Kim did a double take, but he was too late the door slammed shut to keep out the winter chill and the man disappeared back inside.

“C’mon, Lieutenant,” His partner said, wearily, pulling at his bomber jacket sleeve.

“I’m freezing my balls off out here. Let’s at least get the Kineema’s heater on before we do any debriefing.

Kim nodded wordlessly. He felt around in his jacket pockets for the car remote.

Minot was waiting by the Kineema, doing a little side-to-side shuffle, likely to keep the blood circulating in her extremities.

“There you are.” She said, relieved. "The wind’s picking up, can we get inside?"

Kim unlocked the Kineema and gave the snow tires a quick over before he climbed into the cab, automatically moving to start the ignition sequence, and putting the wipers on to shed any excess snow or ice.

“Give it a minute to warm up officers.” He muttered.  In his periphery, Jean nodded.

“At least the corpse won’t smell at this rate.” He said.

Judit chuckled darkly. “Thank Dei, for small miracles.”

Kim pulled out his notes again and flicked through.

His partner was watching him like a hawk. “Any suggestions on where to next, Lieutenant?”

 Kim tapped his lips with his pen in thought.

“Well, we need to get a key for the basement, and we need to find Amal. We’ve got that social worker’s phone number for a start.” He winced his eyes were fizzling again.

“Are you alright, sir?” Judit said, leaning in from the backseat in between the driver and passenger side. “I have aspirin if you need one.”

“Ah, yes, officer, that would be good, thank you. I’ve got a water bottle here if it’s not completely frozen. It’s just a headache, probably the change in air pressure. I’m sure I’ll be fine if we keep moving.”

He took the pill Judit passed him and then held his bottle closer to the radiator for a bit until when he shook it he could at least hear the liquid sloshing inside.

He took the pill, bitter and uncoated and washed down with cold water.

COMPOSURE: [Medium - Pass]

“Am I not moving fast enough for you detective? You’ll have to forgive me I’m not gym teacher fit.” Vicquemare asked.

Kim struggled to hold his gaze. “You’re fine, detective. Perhaps I should have taken you up on that coffee offer, patrol officer, The exhaustion just compounds on me when we sit still. I’ll be fine though, I’m fine to drive.”

His partner nodded. “If you give me the caseworker’s card then I can call on the way. The CTH charity shop is about three blocks away according to the neighbour, but they don’t open until 11. Judit, do you want us to drop you somewhere?”

“If you can drop me at a light rail stop, I’ll head back to the precinct. Remy has a half day today so I have to pick him up from school and drop him over to my in-laws on my break, so I’ll take all the office time I can get.”

“We need to drop the body to Processing eventually, might as well do it now and stop in at the precinct after to drop off the paperwork. The earlier we get it in the faster we’ll get an autopsy report, in theory. Do we need next of kin permission for this one, detective?””

Vicquemare shook his head. “Not sure she has any unless we can get a hold of the daughter, Amal may be known as her granddaughter but they’re not legally related.”

“A minor can’t veto an autopsy either,” Judit said softly.

Jean nodded.  “I’m pretty sure in this case it gets left up to the coroner, one less thing for us to worry about.”

"Right," Said, Kim, backing the car out and back onto the residential street.

Jean picked up the radio receiver and adjusted the frequency.

"This is JV and KK to Station, come in Jules, over."

Jules Pidieu the radio Communications Officer picked up. "Receiving you officer, state your message over."

"I need to make a call, I've the number here can you patch us through?"

"10-4. Read it out over." Pidieu replied.

Jean read out the telephone number there was an excruciatingly long pause before they heard the sound of a telephone line.

The woman who answered had a regional Vespertine accent. Kim couldn’t place it, but it wasn’t Received Pronunciation.

“Hello, Youth and Child Services, Revachol West Office. This is Tamsyn speaking.”

Viquemare readjusted the “Allo, is that Ms. Tamsyn Isdale-Plame? This is Satellite Officer Vicquemare with the RCM, how are you?”

There was a barely audible huff of annoyance. “I’m fine, officer. Would you mind holding for one moment?”

“Sure,” said Jean, resignedly letting his head drop.

There was a pause before there came a muffled woman’s growl.

“Amelie if you absolutely must smoke indoors can you at least open a bloody window? Some of us are trying to quit, it’s very hard to focus!”

Kim caught Judit’s eye in the rear-view mirror. She was barely covering her mirth with the back of her hand.

“Sorry about that Officer-uh- Vicquemare was it? Could you spell that for me please?”

“Ouias. V-I-C-Q-U-E-M-A-R-E. and that’s from Precinct 41 in Jamrock Central. ”

“Great.” She said, with a suspicious amount of cheer.  No one ever responded positively to the 41^st’s involvement.

EMPATHY: It’s a customer service façade.  If she fields a lot of telephone calls in her job, she’s likely working off an automatic script. She’s hardly revelling in a call from the police.

PASSION: Like we do when we have to call the bank, or the optometrist.

“May I ask, which of my clients, this this call pertain to?” Tamsyn asked, confirming Kim’s suspicions.

He didn’t comment on it, instead focusing his attention on the road ahead.

“One Miss Amal Kesani of Les Sardines.” Jean replied unenthusiastically.

The was a pause on the line, the sound of typing stopped.

“Amal? I haven’t heard from her in a while.” There was something in her tone, not concern exactly, more like trepidation.

PROFESSIONALE: You know that feeling. It was in the look Vicquemare gave you before you opened the Zakarian’s bathroom door this morning. It was in the look Lieutenant Dreyfus gave you when you wished her luck giving testimony in court today when you dropped her off at work. There’s a world-weariness to the average Vacholiere, whether you were born here or an immigrant the wheel grinds them all. Cops and Legal Professionals like Miss Isdale-Plame feel a lot of it.

“How long is a while?” Vicquemare asked, he wasn’t even trying to hide his tedium now.

In the back seat, Judit made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat.

On the line, Tamsyn rustled some papers. “Uh, so our last meeting was on December 15^th.  Just over a month ago. She was doing well in recovery, so we’d changed to meeting every other month, is everything alright?”

Jean readjusted his grip on the radio receiver, Kim glanced across the cab at his partner as they idled at an intersection.

Vicquemare’s fingernails were digging into his trouser leg.

“Her grandmother is dead, and the family home was burgled.”

There was a muffled intake of breath on the line. Inside the Kineema, the three police officers sat in silence waiting for the centim to drop.

“Oh, God! Holy Golden Breath…Is Amal alright? Was she hurt? Her grandmother- you mean Nadya’s dead?”

Jean nodded despite the fact the woman couldn't see him. "Yes, Nadya, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news. We believe Amal was not home when it happened and we’re trying to get a hold of her, would you have her address on file?”

Tamsyn audibly swallowed. “Uhm- Yes, Of course, officer, please hold a moment.”

They could hear her scrambling about and muffled sounds of office chatter.

“Hey, if you’re going to the copier before the meeting do you mind printing me three blank 5150s, thanks, you’re a star. Hm? Oh, I am, just finishing up a call – got the RCM on the phone. No- don’t you dare keep Duplessis waiting, ha! Antonucci gives his apologies by the way. No, no, excuse I just think he didn’t want to come in. Amelie, please can you open a window or something? you’re killing me over here.”

Vicquemare rolled his eyes, tapping a rhythm out on his thigh. There was another pause, Kim took the Jamrock Central off-ramp

“Sorry for the wait Officer, are you still there.” Tamsyn asked.

“I am.” Jean replied flatly.

“The address I have listed for Amal, is Number 4 Rue de Navigateur, Fauborg- St. Irene.” She said.

Kim muffled a laugh into the crook of his elbow. In the backseat, he heard Judit chuckle quietly.

“That’s where I just was, madame. It’s her grandmother’s house. Amal was not there."

There was a pause.  The woman coughed awkwardly.

“Oh…um, right… well, that’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid.” Tamsyn said.  “Uh… Have you tried the mosque? She spends most of her time there if she’s not working or at her grandmother's. Actually, I’m about to go into a meeting but if you’d like before I go, I can call the women’s dean at the madrasah to double-check that she made it to class and then call you back would that be alright, it shouldn’t take long?”

“That would be great thank you,” Vicquemare said, and the call terminated. He hung up the receiver.

“Thank Dei, the future of Revachol is in such capable hands.” He deadpanned.

Kim snorted.

In the backseat, Judit sighed.

“C’mon officers, she sounded young and overworked. Give her a break.”

Vicquemare rolled his eyes. “I did – Jude you heard me I was completely genial.”

“You were sarcastic” Minot replied.

“That’s just my voice. I’m clinically sarcastic. Not even electrocution can cure it, officer.”

“Should have tried a few more volts.” Minot muttered, “I hear Réunion’s got a therapy chair you could try out.”

Jean-Heron Vicquemare’s face split into a garish harlequin’s mask of a grin; he turned around in his seat to give Judit the doigt d’honneur with a middle finger.

In his rearview, Kim caught Judit smiling and shaking her head.

“D’you hear this shit, Lieutenant Kitsuragi? She’s all sunny and sweet at the office and then I have to put up with this for 40 hours a week.” Jean barked.

Kim just chuckled, checking his mirrors before turning back to address Minot.

“I’m much more concerned that Minot has to put up with you.”

She laughed. “I’m fine, sir. I have an elder brother and two sons. Vicquemare is just the synthesis of both.”

The radio squawked, startling Vicquemare, who hurried to answer it.

“Vicquemare, come in Station, over?”

Pidieu answered, glum as ever. “10-2 Officer, you have a returning call, are you free to receive it, over?”

“Affirmative, 10-6.” Said Jean robotically.

“Patching it through, 10-10.”

“Hi, Officer Veek-mar?” It was Tamsyn again.

Jean’s nose crinkled up but his voice didn’t break. “Vicquemare, speaking.”

“Okay so like, I called the Mosque and spoke to Halima the girl’s dean at the school there and she said Amal was fine as far as she knew, She’s in class right now. She personally saw her at breakfast and then heading into morning services with some of the other girls her age, she suggested if you want to talk you could come around lunchtime, so she’d not have to pull Amal out of class.”  

“Oh, okay, thank you. Is that the big mosque in Jamrock Central?” Vicquemare asked.

“Yes, on the corner of Jardins and Saint-Jerome. She said just show your badges to security and they’ll let you through.”

“Right. Thank you for that Tamsyn.”

The woman smiled down the phone, Kim could hear it in her voice.

“You’re welcome, sir. Please let Amal know she can call me whatever she needs, I’ll do my best to help. This number is probably for the best, though, Les Petits Rats have done a number on my copper wiring at home.”

“Understood, Miss, we’ll pass that on. Good day.” He hung up, and let out a groan of annoyance, “Are we there yet?"

Kim shot him a sidelong glance. "Ten more minutes officer, you'll live." He said.

Vicquemare let out an exhausted Suresian sigh. "I haven’t had a cigarette in an hour, make me wait any longer I’m going to start twitching and seizing like Du Bois.

Kim didn’t react, very deliberately and purposely, he moved his eyes back to the road and didn't look away, his hands gripped the Kineema’s levers, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

Minot wasn’t so serene, she all but barked like a terrier.

“That isn’t funny, Vicquemare, don’t joke about that.” She said firmly.

Vicquemare snorted. “Grow a spine Judit.”

“I have a purposely functioning spine, thank you," Judit retorted, " I have a purposely functioning mind and two perfectly functioning lungs, which is why I don’t find such jokes funny.  Have some fucking tact, Vic, you know how K- how we all are worried about Harry.”

“It’s fine,” Kim said, because that was what you said when you needed the situation to stop without you committing vehicular murder-suicide or worse losing composure in front of your workmates.

“It’s not fine!” Minot snapped.

Kim clenched his jaw. “I said it’s fine, Patrol Officer.”

Minot looked back at him with a look of such plain hurt, he instantly felt guilty.

EMPATHY: She was just sticking up for you, Kim, she’s always been on your side.

Kim winced and looking back at the street ahead, he tried to catch her eye in the rear-view mirror but she sat as starched and ironed as her uniform, looking out the window. Her hands were tightly clenched in her lap.

Kim sighed. “I’m sorry, Judit. I didn’t mean to snap. You did nothing wrong. You’re right, we’re all worried about Harry and we’re all under stress, let’s just get back to the precinct.”

There was an awkward silence that stretched on for several minutes, Kim ignored it. He was good at ignoring things. No silence could be awkward enough to make him break. He’d been a gay binoclard in public high school, he’d worked at Juvie. You couldn’t fuck with Kim Kitsuragi he was damn near unfuckable.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Hm, I think perhaps you meant a different word.

COMPOSURE: No, no, let it pass. He knows what he meant.

PASSION: COULD BE DOING WITH MORE FUCKING AROUND HERE… IT’S BEEN A COUPLE OF MONTHS.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Easy- Pass] Alright kid, I warned you about rocking the boat, six hours in the subconscious.

PASSION: NO! YOU CAN’T REPRESS ME I’M THE ID! I’M THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE!

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Yeah, yeah. Tell it to METAPSYCHICS and the Reds.

“How’s Cuno liking that Radio of his?” Minot asked, tactfully changing the topic and bringing Kim back to the present. Her voice was calm but too hard to read any other tone.

“He was overjoyed when he got it, I don’t know if he’s figured out much except listening to radios and random broadcasts he finds. Hanna was going to come over to show him how to apply for a callsign and get set up with an Amateur comms permit.”

“Oh yeah, I remember she said she was into that. Funny, it’s not the hobby you’d expect her to have.” Judit replied.

“I guess it was an alternative for someone who didn’t go the Petit Rat route as a kid. Her parents had an old radio leftover from the Commune, she taught herself how to build them and take them a part. She was going to be a radio operator, but she didn’t pass the exam, so she enlisted with Clemenceau.”

“Clemenceau… was that his surname?” Judit asked, her voice gentle. “She’s only ever mentioned him as Izaak in passing.”

“Yes, Izaak Clemenceau, he was a Patrol Officer. They had been friends since they were kids, dating since they were thirteen. I don’t know if Hanna had any interest in the RCM until he enlisted.” Kim said carefully.

“But look at her now,” replied Minot.

Kim gave her a tired smile. “Yeah, I don’t go in for religious stuff, but I like to think he’d be proud…” He paused. “Don’t tell her I said any of this officer, she’ll milk it for weeks.”

Jean snorted, he wound down the window to smoke his aforementioned cigarette and stuck his head out like a dog. An unkempt stray Suresian bloodhound.

Kim didn't comment, was past the point of chastising him, besides the brisk winter air kept him alert and awake.

The Kineema cab lapsed into a less uncomfortable silence for the remaining drive home.

La Ménagerie, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

10:43,  21st  January '53.

Kim and Viquemare parted ways with Minot in the Precinct's garage. Kim stopped to double-check the Kineema's snow chains.

It was very cold out, it paid to keep the Kineema in working order, that was just basic safety practices. Kim told himself, as he crouched down by her tyres.

PERCEPTION (Sight): Some of the chain fragments on the rear tyres had come a bit loose, Kim checked the chains with his hands, two were adjustable without tools three wouldn't budge.

SPEED FREAK: COME ON BROTHER BREAK THOSE CHAINS OF SLAVERY DO YOU WANT US TO SPIN OR TO SPEED?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Neither is very good in a Jamrock winter, you'd be at risk of getting stuck in the ice. If there are issues with the cable chain layout there are motor-rally racers who practice in winter using Traction wheels, which sound very impressive in theory. Yours (and Harry's) current favourite racer Pierre Hawthorne uses red and white painted chains to match his car's livery.

WELTSCHMERZ: "And Hawthorne coming up just around the side of Van der Pol and Ninov." The radio comes blasting down the hall at volumes loud enough to shake the headboard of the bed against the wall. Kim jerks upright awake, to realise he dozed off in the armchair again. Cuno emits a sound like an air raid siren, and barrels up the stairs towards the bedroom. 

"LET'S  FUCKING GO PIERRE!"

Kim groans and gets up to check. He checks Harry first. He's starfished out again, but his snoring is deep and even. He's been sleeping on his affected side again and just kind of lolled onto his back.  He's not obviously in need of anything.  He turns his attention to Cuno outside in the hallway.

"Hey, Cuno. What are you screaming about?" He asks softly, through a crack in the door.

Cuno blasts the door open. "HAWTHORNE FUCKING MADE FIRST PODIUM AT THE LAURENTIDE 500!"

Kim blinks. "Oh, that is good news, but can you please not yell so loud? Your father's just got back to sleep."

The boy's excitement fizzles out instantly. He steps back and scowls at Kim.

"Yeh, cuz that's all we're allowed to care about now, right?"  Cuno says. "Fuck Cuno, for giving a shit." he stomps back downstairs to his radio.

Kim lets him go and goes back to his armchair in Harry's room, he feels numb and alone but that is becoming the new norm.

Harry is snoring evenly.

"Problem down there, Lieutenant?" Vicquemare asked, snapping Kim out of a reverie again. He looked back down at his rear tyres.

LOGIC: The looseness is minor, they should hold until tonight.

"No, I'm fine, I was just checking the chains," Kim said.

"Shall we go then? It's fucking cold."

PROFESSIONALE: Lieutenant your partner is concerned about you, and he's no longer bothering to conceal it.

Kim just went on, he tried to ignore it and headed towards the Precinct Lobby.

Communications Officer Martine Labriola was manning front desk communications when he entered.

“Hi, officers.” She said smiling. Kim looked up to realise that Vicquemare had been shadowing him like a sad stray dog.

“Hi Martine, any calls?” Kim asked.

Martine nodded, glancing first in his partner's direction.

“Vic, Berdyayeva asked to see you for something when you got in, she didn’t say what she seemed in a mood, Kitsuragi, your girlfriend rang. She said it wasn’t urgent, but she’d not had any luck getting hold of you otherwise.”

Jean groaned but nodded throwing up his hands. "Fine, I'll do it now."

Kim gave the communications officer a smile.“Thanks, Martine.  I’ll give her a call in a bit. We logged a case in with Processing I've got the processing receipt and coroner number in case any next-of-kin come calling.” He offered her some papers.

Labriola took them and rubber-stamped them all with 'received' and the date.

“New case or existing.” She asked.

Kim adjusted his glasses. His eyes hurt today.

“New. Zakarian. Z-A-K-A-R-I-A-N. Initial N for Nadya.” He said.

 Martine took this down. “Homicide or Otherwise?”

Kim pulled a face and made a vague 'it's complicated' gesture with his hands.

Martine smirked, a fire engine red lip curling up. "Is it a both day, today, Lieutenant?"

Kim sighed and nodded. “It's a both, Martine, Put it down as Homicide for now.”

Martine nodded and typed his info in. “Great, that’s all filed, sir”

Kim nodded back, “Good... and um, thanks.” Martine, his fellow officer, gave him a condoling look

“How’s Harry doing?” She asked.

FITNESS: Your body aches from clenching every single muscle extremely hard every time someone asks that.

Kim just tried to smile.

"He’s okay right now, had some ups and downs. He’s at Physio which usually helps.” He said.

“That’s good to hear, I miss the big guy. He’d been doing so good sober.”

Kim just nodded awkwardly. “He had, yes… I’ll go call Dreyfus, thanks for your help, Martine.”

He headed upstairs, dipping into the kitchenette to pour himself a coffee.

He plopped back down at his desk and slapped his notes and pen down with his loose forms.

McCoy was there flirting with a woman Kim had never seen before.

Ninel DeMettrie was slumped across the Menagarie's threadbare couch in the corner by the copier machines.

Someone had rolled up a patrol coat for a pillow and tucked it under her head, probably her sister.

Kim moved to automatically dial an extension number into the telephone, he waited for the click of the line and then he heard someone pick up on the other end.

“Searchlight Revachol West, Lieutenant Dreyfus speaking.” Lt. Hanna Dreyfus sounded equally bored and tired as Kim felt.

“Dreyfus, it’s me, you rang earlier?” He said.

There was a pause. Dreyfus sighed. “I did, yes.  Are you doing okay?”

Kim bit his lip. “People keep asking me that like I’m supposed to have an answer. You saw me this morning, you know I'm not dead."

“It was a ten-minute drive and Harry and Cuno spoke much more than you did. What’s up?”

  “Well, it’s a Monday so Jean and I are working a burglary turned homicide case in Les Sardines which is as grim as it sounds.” He paused and lowered his voice, “I am okay, I’m just very tired, Hanna. I’ve not slept at all; to be honest I’ve barely slept since Friday.”

He heard her sigh on the other end. It was such a familiar sound.

“Okay, fuck that, I’m breaking you out of the murder box. Are you free at one? I'll buy you lunch."

FITNESS: Oh food, yeah, we've barely had anything since breakfast apart from coffee and a single macaron. Her strong- arming you might be for the best here, so you remember to eat.

“Uh… well, we’ve got to go back to Les Sardines for a few things but we should be back by then," Kim said. Then he muffled the receiver and leaned over to speak to his partner. "Vic, Am I free at one?”

His partner cocked an eyebrow. “You should be, but she might have to scrape you off the desk at this rate.”

Hanna laughed down the line, evidently overhearing this.  “Tell him I’ll bring a snow shovel. I’ll swing by 41 and leave my bike, we can walk to Minh’s. For the love of God don’t fight with me over this.”

“Okay,” said Kim. He just wanted the day to be over.

Hanna sounded confused. “What?”

“I said 'Okay'." He replied. "As in, yes, I’ll see you at one.”

Dreyfus made a noise in her throat. “Oh…okay… Right. No, sorry, are you not feeling well? You’re supposed to argue with me.”

Kim groaned into his hands. “Golden Breath, Lieutenant, you just told me not to!”

“Well yeah, but that’s never stopped you before, are you sure you’re doing okay? you just sound …" She sighed.  "I don’t know, off?”

“I told you, I’m tired, Hanna. It’s a Monday morning, I haven’t slept and I’m at work, I don’t know what else you expect me to say.”

Kim heard her pause. “Nu, you’re right, just don’t overwork yourself I’ll see you in a bit… we can talk more then.”

“Yeah, bye,” Kim said, and he hung up, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes.

Vicquemare tutted sitting down at the desk beside him. "Women, Kitsuragi, I thought I warned you about them"

Kim snorted. "I didn't need to be warned, officer. women are in fact a kind of people, people that we protect."

Viquemare blew a raspberry. "I think that's a myth." He joked.

Kim cracked a smile, "Perhaps... Lt. Dreyfus, however, is something different entirely."

Vicquemare laughed at that. "She is indeed, she's a lioness, nearly as bad as the Captain."

Kim held up his open palms "Not going to comment there, detective. I like having a pension and health insurance."

Jean just snorted. "I'm ready to head back to Les Sardines if you are, and the charity shop be open by now."

Kim nodded, glancing at his watch it was very nearly 11 am.

Les Sardines, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

11:31 , 21st January '53.

The woman behind the cash register of the CTH office nearly dropped the pastry she’d been eating when Vicquemare and Kim entered.

There were no other customers, just a few racks of secondhand clothes and a table at the back with kitchenware and old magazines.

Jean held up his gloved hands in a gesture of peace. "Sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to frighten you."

The woman held up a hand. “It's okay, police, one moment.”

She set her snack down with a sigh and muttered to herself in a language Kim had never heard before. Her accent was heavily Graadian but what part he couldn’t tell.

PERCEPTION (Sight): She looks ethnically Seolite or Samaran, maybe. In her late forties with dead straight dark hair and dark brown eyes. She’s only wearing a t-shirt, and light slacks, not exactly dressed for the winter weather.

LOGIC: You don’t exact have the ear to recognise any of the Seolite languages other than the big two and Samara has over 600 different languages. It could have been any of them.

The woman got up and disappeared into the shop's back room and then reappeared wearing a pair of wire eyeglasses.

“How can I help you, police?” She asked, though this time Kim recognised, that what she was saying sounded much closer to the Graadian "polcijia."

He glanced around the shop, there were no customers around to overhear.

“We came here to talk about one of your workers, a Mme. Zakarian." He said.

The woman nodded, her crow's feet crinkled. “Nadya Zakarian, I work under her yes, is there a problem?”

Kim glanced over at his partner and gave him a barely noticeable look. Can you do this, detective? I'm not feeling up to it.

PROFESSIONALE: Vicquemare gets it, he's tired too, and you're one of his more dependable partners in recent history. He comes in with backup.

“I’m sorry to tell you this miss but she died early this morning,” Vicquemare said

“Who? Nadya? N-No… are you sure?” The woman stiffened, and her eyes grew wide.

“Yes, madame. Her body was identified by her next-door neighbour.”

 The woman sat herself back down in the chair behind the register, her body folding it on itself like it was suddenly to heavy to hold upright.

“No…Oh my God, what happened? " She covered her mouth with a hand, and a strained sob faded out of her throat.

We don’t know yet ma’am. We believe an intruder was trying to burgle her house and in the process of hiding she fell and hit her head.”

“Oh. Oh no. Mother Dei. That’s horrible” She cried into her hands. "I don't know - I don't know what to say."

“You can take your time, Madame, I realise this is a shock,” Kim said gently

The tears that sprang from the woman’s eyes seemed genuine she sniffled and clumsily dabbed at her face with a tissue.

“No, no, I’m okay, I’m okay—h-how can I help?” She said

Kim looked at his partner again. He didn’t deal well with people crying, like nails on a blackboard it made his neck hair stand on end.

Vicquemare just shrugged unbothered and turned to address the crying woman.

“We were told by her neighbour we should talk to a Mme. Gala about getting the key to her garage.” Vicquemare said.

The crying woman sniffled a bit more and she nodded. “Well, yes. That would be me, Galina Kuzmin-Asanuma. Uh-I-h-have the key in my purse in the back I can get it for you one moment. She took a ragged breath in, stood up and moved to change the shop’s open sign with one saying, “Just stepped out - be back in five.”

She turned back as if in a daze and shook her head, deep in thought.

“I- I only saw her on Saturday, she’d made tapes of my daughter’s music recital, so I could send them to my husband's parents in Seol. Is Amal, okay? I mean I’m sure she’s as shocked as I am- but was she hurt?”

“She wasn’t home at the time. We’re going to go to speak to her after this we understand she’s in class right now. It sounds like she has strong community support,” Kim said carefully.

Gala nodded. “Oh-oh, that’s good, the people at the mosque have been very good to her. Her flatmates are such nice girls too." She fanned her face with her hands as if embarrassed by crying.

"I’m sorry officers, I’m a little shocked right now is there anything you need from me, other than the key?”

“We’re just asking everyone who knew her whether she’d been worried about anything before her death – it can help us determine if the burglary was planned or impulsive.” Kim said.

“She didn’t mention anything at home being bad, then she talks a lot, sometimes I just tune her out if I’m focusing on something work-related it can be difficult when her accent is – was very thick in Graadian. It could be hard to parse.” Gala shook her head.

“You both speak Graadian?” Vicquemare asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m from Sakhatusk but I went to school in the Republic. Her family were Haykian she was a refugee from the-“Her lips curled into a strangely friendly-looking snarl. “From the genocide. I’m not going to speak around it with pretty words like the politicians do, her people’s struggle and mine are the same.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: [Difficult-Fail] Sakhatusk? We’re not familiar with that name maybe it’s in Iguanija or an autonomous zone in one of the smaller states.

VOLTA DO MAR: The Haykians you know at least. All the more signs point to that alphabet you didn’t recognise this morning being her native tongue.

Jean looked up mildly surprised.

“Sakhatusk, that’s in Yekokataa, non? I didn’t realise people still lived there these days.”

The woman pulled a face of unveiled frustration mid-wiping her eyes.

“Yekokataa, peh. What’s so catastrophic about it? Forty years ago, some men from the republic came to ‘discover it’, but we were there already. My grandfather and many others tried to warn them about the permafrost. They didn’t listen and the entire party died within the month. Such hubris isn’t the land’s fault, Officer, how would you like it if they renamed your home after some horse’s ass who went and made himself into an icicle?"

Vicquemare tilted his head to the side slightly. “I’m from Jamrock, madame. It’s horse-ass central here.”

Gala laughed despite herself.

“Okay, Touché. There is some ecological damage sure, but much like here all our devastation is man-made. The Graadian military tested out their bombs and their pale experiments right on our doorstep and of course there were the oil drillers and the gold miners, later the forced labour camps, not the death camps though those were over in Murman. I’m from the western side of the Isola. Our language is quite distinct though from the Graadian they speak in the Republic. It’s closer to what they speak in southwestern Samara, but I went to a republic school so I ended up speaking Republic Graadian as my first language. My husband is Seolite so our daughter speaks Graadian and Kitago at home and Suresnois out with her friends. That's the immigrant experience for you."

ENYCLOPEDIA: The Kitajin are the peoples of the northern parts of Seol, originally a general term including many different peoples in the north it came to be a specific cultural term, for those who spoke Kitago and for those whom the Imperial family originally descended from. Kitsuragi is a Kitago name, from your father’s side. Your Kitajin grandfather left the Pale-riddled Isle of Ezojima for Revachol nearly a hundred years ago. The immigrant experience indeed.

 Gala blinked still wiping at her eyes.

“Dei, I can’t believe she’s gone. Was it quick, do you know? I hope she gets to be with Vardan again. She missed him terribly.”

“That would be the late M. Zakarian, correct?” Kim asked, more than to avoid the first part of the question than wanting to know.

“Yes, yes, he was a lovely man, a bit of a binoclard though, God bless him.  He was a librarian for years. They were both quite into archiving local history. Nadya once said that before Yeva came along, they had long made their peace with never having kids of their own, so their archive was a way for them to leave a physical legacy.”

“Yeva, is their daughter, the photographer in Vesper?” Vicquemare asked.

“Yes, she’s made quite a name for herself. Pretty amazing woman. I don’t know the full details just that she was orphaned as a baby and Nadya and Vardan met her through her work here, they adopted her when she was six or seven."

Kim considered this. “Would you know who Tamsyn is? We found her card on the fridge and spoke with her on the phone.” He asked.

“That’s Amal’s old case worker, right? I never met her, but Nadya mentioned her sometimes. She seemed quite good. Amal liked her, and she hated everyone, or I guess she used to when she was doing drugs. She’s doing better now, a mixture of having a supportive community and the doctors getting her on Valium. ”

Jean made a strange noise in the back of his throat and sighed, “How old is Amal again?”

“Sixteen. She looks a lot younger though, she’s quite a scrawny thing.”

“The Valium though, do you know what that’s for?” Vicquemare asked.

The woman shrugged. “She had a very difficult childhood, officer.”

Jean winced and shook his head, but he changed the subject, deliberately Kim thought.

EMPATHY: Something's up there, check with him later if you need to.

 “Do you know what we’ll find in the basement? Anything to look out for?” He asked.

“Oh, the basement’s where she keeps her tape archive. You need the key. One moment please.”

She disappeared into the shop's back room again.

“Problem, detective?” Kim asked.

Vicquemare looked at him and sighed. “Valium’s a sedative, an anxiolytic sure but not an antidepressant or antipsychotic.”

“And?” Kim cocked an eyebrow.

Jean made a strangled sound in his throat. “Treating a kid’s drug addiction by giving her a different drug addiction without addressing any of her symptoms isn’t a long-term solution. Typically, replacement therapy is supposed to move to something less harmful. I don’t know if Valium is the right answer If she was doing amphetamines, it’s not a stimulant but a sedative and it can be as addictive and the withdrawals are not dissimilar to peptide withdrawals and you know what those look like, detective.”

EMPATHY: There lies a part unspoken here: “As do I.”

“Ah. Right.  Benzodiazepine overdoses are often reversible though.” Kim said,

Vicquemare winced. “As are opioid overdoses should they put her on heroin instead? She’s sixteen, she’s got her whole life ahead of her to fuck things up.”

Kim thought about this, “I suppose so, I'm no psychotherapist”

As they were talking a young woman appeared through the charity shop's front door, tinkling the bell. Despite the sign saying the shop was closed.

She was much younger than Gala: in her late teens or early twenties. She had long straight black hair with bangs and heavy purple and red eye makeup in harlequin diamonds like the face paint of a circus clown. She was dressed in what Kim could only describe as human doll clothes, both officers turned to look at her with some surprise, she looked like an avant-garde musician or a theatre performer.

Under all her petticoats and makeup, however, the young woman looked a lot like a taller Gala with softer features. Kim recognised her as the young woman alongside Amal in the New Year’s Eve photograph. She looked at Kim first, then Jean, and she scowled at their uniforms.

“Мама, здесь полиция!” She said.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: You know Graadian, but even if you didn’t, you’d probably be able to figure Politsiya out. “Mama, the police are here.”

Gala returned from the back room and pressed a small key into Vicquemare’s hand.

Kim glanced at it. It hung off a keychain of a smiling cartoon frog on a lilypad.

“I’m right here Kagamin." Gala said, "Don’t yell. Here you go officers, it should open the padlock. She keeps- kept an inventory in a filing cabinet the top drawer on the right as you come in, you could use that to see if anything was missing.”.

“Mama please, what’s going on?” The young woman asked confused.

Gala’s friendly expression dropped, she took her daughter’s hand in hers, her knuckles showed the start of rheumatoid nodules on her thumbs and middle fingers.

EMPATHY: The room is thick with tension and grief; the girl doesn’t pick up on all of it but she knows enough to know something is wrong. You never have a good reason for police officers to turn up in Revachol.

VOLTA DO MAR: You pick up a crackle of something. The smell of rust, incense, and gunpowder. A tall bespectacled man carries a sleeping child on his back home from a festival. His daughter. It’s a late winter night and everyone is tired and full of soba and hot amazake. Her mother stops them in the middle of the street to diligently make sure her daughter’s gloves are on properly, and she gives the girl’s hand a fond squeeze. You are momentarily overcome with the nostalgia sense of being carried, half-asleep safe and warm, and very loved.

“Надя Закарян мертва.” Nadya Zakarian is dead. Gala said, still clinging to her adult daughter’s fingers with a sense of quiet desperation in her voice.

Kagamin, if that was her name,  dropped her mother’s hand and stepped back in shock.

“What?! No-Are you- Wh-What happened?” She hissed,

Gala sighed and gestured vaguely towards Kim and Jean. “Officers, this is my daughter, Kagami. She’s at the Université but they’re on break until the first week of February.”

“Hello, Miss. I’m sorry to be the bearers of bad news,” said Kim.

The girl scowled. “Yeah, Hi, can someone please explain what happened to Nadya?”

“Her home was burgled early this morning; she was awake, and we believe she slipped and fell hiding in her bathroom from the intruder,” Vicquemare said, coming to Kim's defense.

“The Intruders didn’t kill her?” the girl asked.

Kim shook his head. “We don’t know anything for certain yet, miss. We know she died from head trauma, that’s all we can say until the death certificate is filed.”

Kagami frowned. “Where’s Amal right now? Is she hurt?”

Kim felt his back tense. He took a sharp breath in.

“No, she’s unharmed. She wasn’t home when it happened. We believe she’s at school. Her dean was contacted and confirmed she’d been at morning services and had breakfast at the mosque before going to class. We’re going to inform her after this.”

Kagami looked increasingly uncomfortable; she smoothed out her strange ornately frilled miniskirt. She glanced over at her mother,

“Папа в офисе?”

ENCYLOPEDIA: “Is Dad at the office?”

Gala nodded, replying in Suresnois. “I think so, If he’s not attending the picket, he should be at the office.”

“I’m gonna call him,” Kagami said, and she disappeared into the back room without another word.

Gala sighed deeply and moving back to her seat behind the register, she wrote something down on a pink sticky note and passed it to Kim.

 “Officers, this is my home telephone number, please if Amal needs anything or you have any further questions please call us, any time. My husband is probably busy with negotiations for the strike, but Amal is like family to us. I’ll try to be over there tonight if I can, Kagami too.”

Kim pocketed the number. “Thank you, Madame, and once again we’re very sorry for your loss." 

Jean held the front door for him as they stepped into the freezing sting of the street outside.

“Well?” Jean said expectantly.

“Well, what?” Kim asked. “We informed the coworkers and got the key. Either we go check out the basement or we go talk with Amal.  One’s an awful lot closer and I promised Dreyfus I’d meet her at Minh’s at one.”

“Yeah,” Jean gave a shuddering sigh. His breath vaporised and carried up on the winter air like smoke.

He grabbed his cigarette case from his coat pocket. “You can wait in the car if you want.” He gestured at the case. “I’ll only be a minute or so.”

Kim nodded and climbed back into the Kineema, turning the ignition on to start up the engine and the heater with it.

Alone for the first time today, he felt out of place.

PASSION: You used to like being alone, late night walking home from the precinct or a bar. Watching other people interacting. Doing a crossword, re-reading your notes.

REFLEXES: You liked being alone, not lonely. Things still feel wrong with Harry not beside you. Vicquemare is cordial and proficient, but you don’t worth the same way together.

VOLTA DO MAR: The glow Vicquemare’s cigarette ist the warmest colour on the street outside. It’s a Monday morning in Jamrock, passersby hurry wrapped in winter coats and hats. No one wants to linger anywhere at this time of year. The sign in the CTH charity shop, is changed back to OPEN, but Gala Kuzmin Asanuma sits alone in the store. A tissue in her hand, muffling her tears.

Chapter Text

Troubled words of a troubled mind
I try to understand what is eating you
I try to stay awake, but it's 58 hours
Since that I last slept with you.

What are we coming to?
I just don't know anymore?

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite
That beams me home.

Les Sardines, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

12:15 , 21st January '53.

The basement as they’d called it was an old air raid shelter, much older than the new townhouses in Les Sardines.

It was big too, big enough that Kim supposed it had originally been built to hold an apartment building worth of residents.

“Seems older than the rest of the street,” Vicquemare said over his shoulder as they headed by flashlight beam down the stairs and into the bunker proper.

“It extends far beyond the current property lines,” Kim agreed, “Must have been part of one of the original towers.”

The other man pulled a face. “Great, we can add Asbestosis to the list of occupational hazards.”

Kim snorted. “Just try not to inhale anything too deeply, officer. We should look around all the same. This place looks like a damn record store."

The room was not unlike any other antebellum bunker in Jamrock. Though some attempt had been made to give more domestic touches: a hand-made rug covered up the bare dirt and concrete and the walls had been brightly painted on, by different people, some paintings stopped less than a metre from the floor, likely the work of children. Kim crouched to inspect them closer.

“Flashlight, officer, if I may?” He was hit by a beam of light, so quickly that it startled him, but he recovered quickly. He looked back towards the wall again.

There were various sizes of handprints drawing of stick figures and crudely drawn animals on one section and a stylised drawing of a cartoon magical girl on the other.

 Jean moved the light away and Kim had to scurry over to not get left behind,  he moved over to inspect the central table,  covered in wires, cassettes, and various tape players. Including a cheap Samaran-produced boombox with a cassette player, not unlike the one Cuno had at home.

Jean hit a switch on the wall.

Kim squinted as the bare fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling finally began to turn on, the audibly sputtering old generator that powered the basement was in no hurry to start up.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) Now in the light you notice up by the back wall on the central table there is a bizarre and largely incomprehensible arrangement of wires attaching a tape recorder with the rotary phone electrical taped to it, and a switch that lifts the receiver off the hook to ‘answer it’ into a microphone.

Kim frowned. “Is she recording her phone calls?”

Jean didn’t reply he just moved and pressed a button on the recorder a tacky clunky thing. It had a new mass-produced plastic casing with Seolite gallium LEDs, next to a reel-to-reel like the one they used at the precinct, which itself sat next to an old wartime-era phonograph.

A message started to play: It was a woman's voice and not a vocoder.

“You have sixty-six saved messages the last saved message was on 0126 January twenty-first fifty-three”.

LOGIC: That’s this morning, maybe three or four hours before the estimated time of death.

“Vraiment?” Jean muttered. Kim hurriedly grabbed his notebook and pen.

A woman’s voice came out of the tinny speakers, young, friendly speaking casually.

“ԲարևՁեզ, տատիկ, it’s just me. I know you’re probably asleep. Just calling to say hi. It’s late and I’m tired and I forgot to say I wasn’t coming over tonight. Կներեք. It was Noor’s birthday, and we all went out for dinner, and then some of us went on to karaoke and we got home late.  I’ll try to call you in the morning at– uh… merde, al-Fajr is in like an hour, I should just stay up til then and pray it on time for once. Uhm տատիկ, how about I’ll call you before I leave for class tomorrow morning, okay? Good night, Քեզ կը սիրեմ.”

“The errant granddaughter, Amal,  I assume,” Kim murmured aloud.

“What language is that in the middle?” Vicquemare asked.

Kim shrugged, “it could be Haykian, I’ve never heard it spoken.”

Jean just grunted and pressed a button on the recorder.

The was a shrill beep. “Message saved Next message received at 16:34 January eighteenth fifty-three. “Hi Nadya, it’s Misao Asanuma, the girls had asked me to take them Ice skating in Couron tomorrow morning and I thought I’d double check that was okay with you because I know what those two can be like once they’ve come up with a plan. Just let me or Gala know if you’ve got something else on.” There was another beep, Jean moved to pause the machine.

“The woman at the shop, Nadya’s coworker-“ Vicquemare began.

“That was likely her husband yes," Kim said, inspecting the green file cabinet closest to the door.

“That’s where they had one of those signs,” Jean said pointing at a discoloured diamond on the concrete wall.

“Signs, officer?” Kim asked.

“The bomb shelter ones, “Mind your head, mind your step, mind your own business.”

Kim blinked. “Oh, right.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The slogan is familiar one of those little wartime phrases people still like to tout, especially cops.

 “Harry stole one to put up in La Menagerie for a bit. You’re roughly the same age as him, right? You must have been around for the end of the Commune?"

Kim nodded.

“I don’t remember much of it, we had air raid drills at school and in the orphanage growing up lots of kids were political orphans like me. I think I was in my final years of primary school when they tried to get us to do nuclear weapons drills. Even then we knew it was stupid, no one in La Domaine would survive the fireball if someone nuked Martinaise. The coalition wasn’t going to bomb us once we were under MoralIntern command. It was all a bunch of post-war hot air.”

“I remember hearing about that, it was before my time but I’m plenty familiar with the grand Suresophone tradition of traumatising schoolchildren for fun and profit.”

Kim chuckled wryly. “Oh, yes. It was incredibly good at that.”

He paused to watch what his partner was doing, Vicquemare had casually looked around at the tapes strewn over the tabletop, the room’s eery artificial light reflected off the plastic cases. 

“Did you find that inventory Mme. Asanuma mentioned?” He asked.

"Oh, she said it would be in a green filing case by the door." He glanced back at the metal cabinet he'd passed that matched that description.

He moved over and checked through the drawers until he found a battered notebook and a clipboard inside. The Notebook was labelled, "Donations". The clipboard seemed to be some kind of form. He passed the latter to his partner.

“Here. You might do better reading it than me.”

“Bon.” Jean flicked through it.

Kim turned his attention back to the table.

He picked up a cassette that still had a tape in it. He squinted at the label.

RNA Test Recorded circa May 51 –Voltaire.

Kim took the tape.

“Any idea what RNA is?” Kim asked, “I’m assuming they don’t mean genetics here.”

“Réseau National d'Alerte?” Vicquemare posited looking up from his clipboard.

ENCYLOPEDIA: The name of the national early warning system in both Sur-le-Clef and Revachol, though each country had its own rules and regulations, and Revachol was required to follow all MoralIntern channels first before using their own.

“Could be, I thought it was a band.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jean muttered.

Kim shrugged, he popped the old tape, back in its case and using the index finger sorting method he picked out a tape at random and put that in the reel-to-reel player. Checked it was fully rewound, and then -

A man’s voice spoke into a crackling microphone. He sounded like he was trying very hard to annunciate using overly formal Sur-Le-Clef Surenois. “

“Okay – uh this is a test of the civilian radio emergency warning test. It’s currently 11:58 on the 1^st of March 49. The testing commences at noon. The is SJL Agent Voltaire speaking.”

In the background, there was the sound of people talking and laughing in another room. Muffled like catching the chatter inside a bar from the street.

The man’s overly contrived manner of speech dropped immediately and his natural working-class Jamrock accent broke through. “Oi, Mesdames, keep it down I’m recording a broadcast.”

There was some more mumbling, but the voices faded out all except for one, who continued talking, just quieter.

‘Agent Voltaire’ Sighed into his microphone.

“You’re not a madame Charlie, but I still need you to shut up.” He muttered.

There was some dead mic and a sharp squawk of radio feedback for several seconds then the sound of an actual formal radio presenter Kim recognised from a local daytime radio show.

“-’ issuing a reminder to the public that this is a drill. Do not panic, and if you have children let them know not to panic either. This is Radio 210 and it’s noon in Jamrock Central."

There were less than a few seconds of air-raid siren before Kim felt a force like a belt sander down his spine and all the air left his lungs. He felt himself stumble back dropping his pencil.

WELTSCHMERZ: In a forested outcropping on the very edge of the Eminent Domain, two boys lay supine side by side like matchstick corpses. They don’t move, both boys stay memorised by the alien radium glow of the numbers on one boy’s wristwatch.  JJ’s breathing is laboured but Kim lungs groan like two sad party balloons, the only air he feels is hot and raw clawing its way out of his young throat like a dragon’s fire breath.

The cold dry air thick with pollen from the pine needle bed beneath them, ruptures a minor blood vessel in Kim’s nasal passageway and blood begins to trickle down his face and some drips down into his throat and making everything tastes of rust and iron.

He doesn’t say anything until the other boy’s watch ticks over another minute and they both tense up at an imagined impact, a cartoon mushroom cloud they’ve only seen in comic books, or in scaremongering pamphlets warning about the dangers of proposed nuclear power stations.

JJ is the first to get his breath back. He’s a chubby kid, but he’s much fitter than Kim, his tiny lungs less ravaged by juvenile asthma and tuberculosis. He scrambles through his backpack to pass Kim a ratty rag that might have once been a gym towel in another life.

Kim takes it gratefully and pulls himself into the tripod position, a hand to his dripping nose breathing in and out through pursed lips.

“F-f-four minutes isn’t as long as I thought it was.” He says finally, gasping for air.

JJ shakes his head sombrely. “We’d never outrun the bomb, but I figured we’d at least be able to make it here.”

Kim looks around at the scraggly pine and birch trees, someone much taller than him has carved the initials Д and И in a tree.

“Why here? It’s so far from the house and school, we couldn’t get back in time.”

JJ kicks at some dirt and a pinecone with his heel. “We’re further away from the cycle here” he says.

Kim blinks. “So?”

“There’s less smog. Here we can look up at the sky. My Gran always said no matter what happens they can’t take that away.”

Ten years old, Kim Kitsuragi pinches his bloody nose and tilts his head up towards the sky. Above them soars a single gull through a patchwork of cloud and forget-me-not blue. Perhaps it’s the hypoxemia or perhaps it’s the blood loss but for a second, he lets himself imagine it as a ICM fighter plane defiant, and resplendently alive.

“Ok that’s enough of that,” Jean snapped slamming the stop button on the boombox. He looked at Kim with a rare genuine concern.

Kim held up a palm for him to wait. He gathered his breath and his composure until he could speak again.

PASSION: Whatever happened to JJ? He was a good friend.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: He’s alive, unlike many of your contemporaries, or at least he was when you last talked five or six years ago. Got a job in auto-manufacturing, a couple of kids and a well-meaning but somewhat domineering wife, a Mirovan former gymnast.

Kim turned his attention to the various boxes, crates and old school cubbyholes lining the  that had been refitted to hold archives

“Khm, I think that answered the question.”

“Heard those sirens before?” Vicquemare asked.

“It’s Jamrock, detective, who hasn’t? I didn’t expect them to startle me.” He muttered bitterly, ears turning red.

Vicquemare nodded. “Take a moment, if you need to, I’ll keep looking around.”

Kim nodded back; the tips of his ears reddened.

 “That tape does introduce a new acronym however SJL. Does that mean anything to you?" He asked, keen to move on.

 “-Sais pas." Vicquemare shrugged, “It could be a radio station, a company or a political party or it could just be a kid aspiring to work for any of those.”

“It’s hard to tell from just three letters,” Kim murmured in agreement.

Jean nodded. “We can run it through the RC when we get back, see if anything picks up but to be honest lieutenant, I don’t think an amateur radio hobbyist is much of a threat here,”

“You’re right, officer, we don’t even know anything about the perpetrator yet," Kim said.

Jean nodded once more. “What else should we be looking for in here?”

“I’m not sure, tapes, notations, records?  Does anything look out of place here?”

Jean shook his head. "No... if the perpetrators even managed to get in, they knew what they were looking for."

“Is there a full inventory on that board?” Kim asked gesturing at the checkboard.  Perhaps Mme. Zakarian kept notes about new additions."

Jean squinted at it and pointed at part of the form.

“Here, it says:

11/01/53 – SJL brought in their New Year stash plus a plastic bag of miscellaneous tapes from 49. The young lady -Nico the butcher’s eldest- said they needed to clear out more room for a new roommate, so they’d be in touch if they had any more donations. Working on sorting the first bag now.

17/01/53 – I have finished the first bag will get around to sorting the older bag after the weekend. It’s so cold right now, I can’t work long down here without my hands seizing up. The Cannery Union voted to strike a week or so ago, I hope those kids are doing okay. They don’t have much money at the best of times, I think the young lady works in a café, I might send a food parcel with Misao as a thank you.

19/01 – Still haven’t had time to look at the '49 bag. Got the Asanuma’s tapes made so he can send them to his folks in Seol. Kagami is such a talented musician; it seems like a difficult instrument to play. I really should dust off the old duduk at some point, I don’t think I’ve played it since I was Amal’s age. We have some old records of much better duduk players in storage somewhere.”

“I don’t see any Fritte! Bags, do you?” Vicquemare asked once he had finished reading.

Kim shook his head; he took the siren tape out and set it back in the tape. There were some scattered on the tabletop, he picked one up and squinted at it – it read “SJL21- 51-Call to Flaubert’s Sister K”, as did the punch-card-sized transcript it lay on top of.

The tape player clicked and the tape began to whir. Kim tried to read along.

Speaker: “April 17^th 51. Callsign RV-SJl-021. SJL Baudelaire recording, Flaubert present." (Clears Throat)

(Equipment feedback)

Baudelaire: CQ CQ CQ Marine-November-Echo-Victor-nadazero-novenine. (Clears throat) This is is Romeo-Victor-Sierra-Juliet-Lima-Unaone-Bissotwo, over ”

Operator: SJL-21, Repeater Esperance-three-three-one, monitoring. Repeat to confirm.

Baudelaire: This is SJL-21, SJL-21, receiving you loud and clear, Esperance-331. I’m calling to connect MN-EV09, MN-EV09. “

Operator: Understood, you are aware that calling a Marine-Naval designation means your call may be terminated at any time if the frequency needs clearing, and any conversations may be recorded by Naval-Communication?

Baudelaire: SJL-21 to Esperance 331. Yes,  I understand. (Clears throat) Is the frequency clear for me to call now?

Operator: Standby, while I confirm. there’s been an ongoing entropnetic cloud near Kittâl there was a fleeting storm overnight, and the connections have been bad especially on the coast.

Baudelaire: Ah, c’est la gris. SJL-21 standing by.

Jean hit pause.  “Fascinating.” He deadpanned. “But hardly relevant.”

Kim nodded. “Yet more SJL ‘Agents' and they’re all named after writers: Voltaire, Baudelaire, Flaubert”

Vicquemare smacked his lips in annoyance. "Sounds more like a bunch of école normale kids playing pretend as spooks.”

Kim didn't disagree.

PERCEPTION: (Hearing) "Agent Baudelaire" spoke with an androgynous voice, and had cleared his throat often.

PROFESSIONALE: Kind of an annoying thing to do on live radio.

EMPATHY: He wasn't nervous, he sounded quite confident with the protocol. It's more that his voice was physically hoarse.

LOGIC: Perhaps a teenager still undergoing a pubescent voice drop? That makes it unlikely for them to be a government agency or formal radio station.

ENCYLOPEDIA: A government agency wouldn't be using a repeater to contact a military vessel, at least not unencrypted on a public frequency.

“They certainly could be, I doubt this SJL group is particularly formal or organised,  but the fact is the victim knew them,” Kim said.

Jean shrugged, unbothered.

“She knew a lot of people, Lieutenant. It looks like half the neighbourhood kids have drawn on her walls. Shall we interview them all?’’

Kim bit back a bitchy remark. Instead, he took a breath in, looking around at the concrete walls and their varied art and graffiti.

On one section of wall, partially covered by shelves of tapes and a dusty projector there was a portrait of a smiling woman. She was in her mid-forties, with long dark braided hair, sun motifs on her golden earrings, at a slightly uncanny face, although Kim guessed that was more an artistic issue than an identifying feature.

“Officer, that painting?” He pointed it out.

Vicquemare followed his finger with his gaze and blinked at the portrait.

“What about it? Is it of Nadya? I don't know. Probably. We’re under her house, after all, this is her collection.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) [Godly - Pass] You strain your eyes in the still quite dim light to make out what looks like a signature in the bottom right corner of the painting. It hurts but you can just make it out.

FITNESS: Golden Breath, cut that out or we're getting another tension headache tonight.

“It’s signed... two Seolite characters which I can't read and four letters, maybe initials: A.K.K.A,” Kim said, adjusting his glasses to try and soothe the discomfort.

Vicquemare laughed bitterly. “Great.... more fucking acronyms. Is this a homicide or a crossword puzzle?”

Kim laughed at that despite his exhaustion and now sore eyes.

“It must be a homicide because I usually enjoy crosswords and this morning has been grim.” He said.

Jean smirked and the too lapsed into silence. It wasn't as comfortable a silence as either man would have had with Harry, but it wasn't petty hostility so that was something.

“Amal Kesani, her initials are AK, AKKA could be a pen name,” Jean suggested after a while.

“Mhm, Perhaps,” Kim murmured checking his watch.

“Am I boring you Kitsuragi?” Vicquemare asked his expression was hard to read, and Kim was too tired to care if he was offending him.

“No, I'm just aware that I need to be back before one to meet up with Dreyfus. It’s currently 12:26 so we should probably wrap things up in the next ten minutes."

Jean squinted at him in concern again, in a way that Kim was getting accustomed to, "And why does lunch with your...paramour  take precedence over the investigation?"

Kim bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that warm salty blood began to reach his tongue. He coughed and swallowed it.

"It doesn't." He hissed. He took a breath in and softened his tone. "But we have done the autopsy and delivered the body to processing. We've interviewed three suspects and contacted Amal's caseworker. We can try Amal herself at the mosque after lunch, we can afford to take a break."

Jean scoffed. "Did DuBois ever take breaks when you were putting in fifty-hour weeks last year?"

Kim didn't take the bait, "I'm not talking about him." He paused, sticking his gloved hands in his pockets and breaking Vicquemare's sharp and uncomfortable eye contact, 

"I don't want to dwell on my personal matters at work, detective. I don't mind working long shifts, sometimes a day runs long and you put in some overtime, that's the nature of the job, but I have Harry and the kid to think about too, I need a break or I won't eat until I get home."

Jean looked at him with a steel-faced squint that Kim was starting to get used to.

HARRYOLOGY: It's a look Harry used to give you sometimes too, when you first started working together like he hadn't quite figured you out.

PASSION: WE DIDN'T LIKE IT, IT FEELS LIKE BEING BACK AT SCHOOL, LIKE WHEN THE OTHER BOYS WOULD SNIFF YOU OUT AS SOMETHING WRONG, SOMETHING ALIEN AND STRANGE.

Viquemare just shrugged. "Bien. I don't see anything broken, or even obviously missing in here except maybe a plastic yellow Frittte bag of tapes." He gestured with the clipboard in his hand.  "It's in the inventory here and the donations notebook Nadya said she hadn't gotten to them on Saturday, and no notes on Sunday. I suppose, that it might just turn up in the house later."

Kim considered this. "She seemed quite Dolorian judging by the House Decor" Kim said, thinking aloud. "Perhaps she didn't like to work on Sundays."

"Maybe," Vicquemare shrugged. "Either way I'm happy to discuss the possibilities somewhere that doesn't slowly deplete in oxygen over time. If you'd like to head back up I'd be fine with that."

PERCEPTION: (Sight) There's plenty of ventilation down here, there are several dormant desk fans and a large exhaust extractor fan connected to vents overhead, besides the doorway you came it wasn't a very tight seal.

LOGIC: It can't be, this place is as old as you are.

FITNESS: Besides we know what hypoxia feels like anyway, and this isn't it. He's just psyching himself out.

Kim snorted. "I don't think you're at risk but I'm happy to go up to the car, it is a little stifling in here"

His partner just nodded and gestured for him to lead on. Kim considered taking the tape recorder from the elaborate phone recording apparatus but decided against it and headed back towards the door and the steps to ground level.

Precinct 41,  Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

12:56 , 21st January '53.

Someone called out to Kim and Vicquemare as they left the precinct garage.

"Oy, Kitsuragi, Vicquemare!"

Kim reflexively turned to his name, a female officer was standing down below the bridge on ground level, by the public bike racks securing a well-cared-for but quite old bicycle with a chain lock.

PERCEPTION (Sight): She is a tall and gangly white woman with short curly hair, a prominent broken nose and thick square glasses. She's wearing the RCM Officer's pantsuit uniform and a Lieutenant's kepi instead of a bicycle helmet. She has a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

PROFESSIONALE: Probably not the best look safety-wise for a police officer. She should wear a helmet.

Jean leaned over the bridge railing to greet her.

"Oh Lieutenant Dreyfus. Ça va?" He called down.

Dreyfus waved back.

"Still kicking, Vic, yourself?" She said.

"Much the same, unfortunately."

Dreyfus smirked. "Good to see you've left your partner in one  piece." She nodded towards Kim.

Jean laughed. "Well, you know, I know you're rather fond of him."

Hanna Dreyfus turned her attention to Kim. Her jovial expression faltered, replaced with genuine concern.

EMPATHY: There's no nicer way to say this: you look like shit, Kim, and people can tell.

PASSION: Hm, that's bad, hey! Maybe you should [REDACTED]

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Difficult - Pass] Now, now. Easy there, tiger.

Kim nodded a greeting at her. "I'll just go drop off some evidence with Labriola, Hanna, meet you at the front steps in a minute."

"Hey, take your time, I could do with some nicotine." She replied, still looking more than a little worried about him.

"Alright," Kim said and gestured for Vicquemare that he was planning to head into the precinct.

Minh's Cafe,   Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

13:14 , 21st January '53.

Kim came back from the restaurant bathroom to the booth he and Dreyfus had taken up by the front window. His usual booth, or Harry's rather. This place was his haunt originally after all. The place was quiet for lunchtime, only a group of students hung around in the front by the door, some of them taking up the bar seats others splayed over a table.

Dreyfus was talking to Lillie the waitress who had shaved one side of her head since Kim had last seen her. She looked at Kim with sad dark overlined eyes before, taking his order too and hurrying back into the kitchen with little of the typical banter she reserved for Harry.

Dreyfus rested her chin in her hand, "So..." She said, awkwardly.

“You’re not wearing your Nagan.” Kim blurted out. It was something he'd noticed on the walk over and he didn't want to talk about Harry or his feelings right now.

ENCYLOPEDIA: The Lieutenant typically carried a modified antique Nagan, a Graadian military revolver that had been her mother's service firearm.

EMPATHY: She's always seemed overly attached to it.

PROFESSIONALE: It is a pretty cool gun to use for patrol. Cooler than your Armstice, for sure.

Hanna blinked, there was an almost comedic beat of a pause.

“Huh?" She touched her hip automatically, before relaxing.  "Oh, yeah. I haven’t been wearing it since we started back after midwinter. I guess after Kierkegaard -you know- the constabulary decided to crack down on non-patrol officers carrying a service weapon and they required a psych test which… I elected to relinquish my weapon instead of failing. it’s back at my Dad’s place." She smiled but it came out as more of a grimace.  "Call it part of my New Year’s resolution.”

Kim cocked an eyebrow. “What? You resolved to fail your psych exam?”

Hanna glared at him over the top of her glasses frames. “No, Kim. I resolved to stop self-sabotaging."

She looked down at her hands idly picking at a burn scar on her finger.

"Yeah, It turns out if I can’t shoot myself or someone else in the head the impulse to do it doesn’t carry the same weight. It’s like having booze in the house for an alcoholic, you’re a lot less likely to relapse if you relieve yourself of the opportunity." She said, her voice was hard to read, and she didn't look Kim directly in the eye. Which he preferred, in all honesty.

Kim didn’t say anything for a very long time. He clasped his hands together and braced them against the tabletop. Hanna took the nonverbal hint and elected to change the subject.

“How has Harry been? he seemed quiet on the way in this morning.” She asked.

Kim sighed. Here it comes again.  He thought. His upper body felt completely numb, his eyes ached and he felt an itch on his ankle.

COMPOSURE: [Medium- Pass] It's alright, just say your bit and get through it.

“Bad. He had an episode on the weekend."

"An episode?" Hanna asked, "What kind?"

Kim shrugged despondently. "I- I don’t know how to describe it."

Hanna held his gaze. "Just give it a try, I'm trained in first aid remember, I've seen some shit too."

Kim idly bit some loose skin off his lower lip, trying to modulate his voice, choosing his words carefully.

"Well, it's not a depressive episode, as he was already depressed, and I could tell the aphasia was frustrating him a lot last week,  but on Friday night he started having these fits where he was alternating between crying and laughing it was more like a panic attack than anything else I’ve seen but I stayed up with him just trying to keep him calm and lucid where possible."

"It wasn't another seizure, right? You said he's had a few of those before."

Kim shook his head. "I don't think it was a seizure in the grand-mal sense. More like paroxysmal attacks of emotion. It lasted a couple of hours I think eventually he just went to sleep but I didn’t want to after that. I called his nurse in the morning, and she said she didn't think it was anything to worry about, it was common with brain injuries but still told me to report it to the neurologist."

Dreyfus seemed to consider this. "That could be a seizure, it could be mood swings brought on by the ischemia. Though if the nurse thinks it's normal, I'd take her word for it."

Kim shrugged once more. Anyway, on Saturday, we didn’t do much, I took Cuno to the record store and Harry and I went grocery shopping. Saturday night he couldn’t sleep and tried to cook in the middle of the night without waking me up - Cuno luckily intervened- because he doesn’t have the dexterity to fry an egg right now with the ataxia. I gave him morphine last night hoping that we’d both get to sleep but I couldn’t. I just lay there listening to him to ensure he was still breathing.”

Hanna reached across the table and took both his hands, cleaving them apart so she could interlace her fingers with her own. Despite his initial discomfort with the touching, Kim let her. 

PERCEPTION (Touch): Her hands are calloused and sweaty, marred with cigarette burns, and wire-thin cuts. Years of fist-fighting have left two of her knuckles permanently misshapen on her right hand. Her fingers tremble and twitch against yours it feels like trying to hold a butterfly or an injured baby bird.

EMPATHY: She doesn't rub it in, but Dreyfus isn't much better off than you are right now. Her regular eyebags are sunken in, she's finished the entire litre bottle of water Lillie brought you only a few minutes ago, her features are slightly jaundiced, her sclera a yellow-cream instead of their usual bloodshot pink.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Lithium Toxicity is a serious often fatal side effect of the medical applications of the element, however, the withdrawals are not much easier on the body. Tremors, dyskinesia, kidney trouble, gastrointestinal distress, dizziness, ataxia and vomiting are just some of the symptoms.  This doesn't even touch on the issue of increased mood swings and suicidality which the lithium may have been keeping at bay.

Hanna caught him staring and smiled. She looked tired but if she was in distress she was managing it well. Her voice was firm, almost forceful. But Kim found it much more reassuring than if she’d bombarded him with overly emotional syrupy sympathy.

“Let’s just break things one task at a time. What do you need to do after work today?” She asked.

“Uh, pick him up from the clinic, look at the notes the nurse left and start dinner. Cuno should get home about six he’s got rugby after school.”

Hanna nodded. “Okay, I get off at half five, I have to babysit the boys tonight, but I can drop over groceries after work if you need anything.”

“Kim shook his head. "No, we’ll be fine until at least Wednesday.”

“Okay that’s good what else do you you need help with – how are you guys doing with laundry?”

Kim thought about it. “I was going to do a load tomorrow Cuno’s rugby kit is usually disgusting afterwards.”

Hanna chewed her lip in thought. “Okay...Well, I’ll come over and help with that tomorrow night then. I’ll bring more of Sara’s chicken soup too, it freezes well. Is there anything you think that Cuno would want?”

“’500 reàl and an ounce of crystal’ has been his current go-to answer whenever I ask him,” Kim said with a mirthless chuckle.

Hanna let out a goat-like bleat of a laugh.

“Hah! Funny, kid. Well, I don’t have either of those spare, but I do have 7 grams of some very milquetoast herbe and some cigarillo papers.”

“Probably better not to encourage the adolescent with addiction issues to take up more substances, but I might take you up on that if you’re offering.”

Hanna smiled, it seemed fairly genuine. “Hey, fair enough. It’ll certainly help you sleep it might help Harry while we’re at it, who knows.”

“Probably better for him than the opioids have been.”

There was a pause as Lillie brought over their meals. Dreyfus thanked her, asked for some more water then immediately stuck a forkful of her pomme frites in her mouth. Kim wasn't feeling as hungry as he had when they came in, but he tried his Phở all the same.

“Yeah… Is Harry..uh... okay to take opioids these days?" Hanna asked after she'd finished chewing.

“They help him sleep and calm the allodynia, if there are other issues, he hasn’t brought it up with me, or hasn’t been able to.”

“Have you spoken to his nurse?” Dreyfus asked.

Kim shook his head. “No, I need to call Roxana I meant to call this morning, but this case has just had me busy. His doctor said that given his condition addiction isn’t very high up in her list of concerns, and suggested if I was concerned about the risk of dependence then I just shouldn’t give him any.”

“Easy for a doctor to say when he doesn't have to deal with withdrawals, he  gets to go home at the end of the day and sleep through the night.”

“Yeah,” Kim snorted, but the mirth sounded hollow, he shoved his glasses up his face rubbing at his eyes. His lenses fogged over from the heat of the soup broth.

He sighed again taking them off to wipe on his pant leg.

“What?” Hanna asked through a mouthful of mayo and fried potatoes, she was watching him like a hawk.

Kim just heaved his shoulders. He spooled up a ribbon of noodles and waited for them to cool.

“Berdyayeva blindsided me this morning. Asking if he’s fit to return and I had nothing to show her.”

“Ah. What day is it today the twenty-first? And Harry had his stroke in October, nu?”

REFLEXES: Autumn leaves and plastic refuse crunch underfoot, you hear a noise like air flooding out of the mouthpiece of a balloon. He stumbles, but you manage to move to catch him in time. The kid you were interviewing is gone into the night. He lets out a noise that isn't speech but should be. A crackling sound like an arc of electricity: "K-K-K-K-K-" He's trying to say your name.

COMPARTMENTALISATION:[Challenging - Pass] Easy, easy. We're not there. It isn't happening.

“October 18^th 52. We just passed three months."  Kim said when his capability for speech returned to him. If Hanna noticed she didn't say anything.

“Well, there’s her problem." She said, "The Constabulary caps extended paid leave at three months maximum. Medical or otherwise.”

Kim nodded. "I know, she wants to know if he’s able to come back in a reduced capacity or… I guess the unspoken implication there is if he’s not back soon he’s not coming back at all, and we need to find a replacement.”

“I don’t know Cpt. Berdyayeva but she might just not want to come outright and ask you if they should issue him a change of duties or a pension. You’re both highly prolific and respected officers and the whole thing sucks. It’s possible she’s worried they’ll lose both of you if Harry retires.

“Hanna, I’m forty-five, that’s hardly retirement age, most cops don’t retire even if they get shot. ”

“Yeah, but you’d be well in your rights to request a transfer. Shit like this makes people reconsider their priorities.  Besides, Berdyayeva isn’t stupid, your lazaret has likely been keeping tabs on him too. She’ll know he’s at risk of another stroke and I know for a fact there’s very strict rules about officers who get diagnosed with a TBI, since I’m one of them, but none of this is what you want to hear is it?”

“No. I want to eat something and go back to work with as little conversation as possible.” He mumbled, using his soup spoon to excavate some bean sprouts hiding at the bottom of the bowl.

Dreyfus sighed and shook her head, but the corners of her mouth still upturned in amusement.

"Kim, you know you don’t have to do this alone, right? I know how you are - I’m quite the same with work but I’m not wearing a wire you can talk about it, I mean,  if you want."

PASSION: FINALLY SOMEONE FUCKING GETS IT!

PROFESSIONALE: Don't listen to her, Lieutenant. We're fine, more than fine, even.

“Dreyfus please, there’s nothing to talk about. Harry’s alive. People at the precinct talk about him like he’s dead and gone, but he’s back home limping around the place rearranging the cups and- remembering disco music from forty years ago better than he does my name or the kid, I’m just not sure I’m capable of being both his caretaker and his partner.”

“Well yeah, I mean it’s a huge change and just because it didn’t kill him doesn’t mean it didn’t change both your lives. You’re allowed to grieve that”.

“Lungs, Hanna, give it a rest. You’re not my therapist. Can’t we have a normal conversation, just this once?”

“Oh, spare me that bullshit, Kitsuragi, you don’t have a therapist because you rebuffed my every suggestion to get one, so no, I’m not gonna talk about work or the weather to soothe your anxious masculinity. You’re my friend and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, my boyfriend, my partner, I’m not giving you another stick to beat yourself with. Besides, we both know Harry would have dropped dead on the job at 50 if they let him. Retiring early might extend his life. Stopping patrol work certainly saved mine.”

“Don’t say that” Kim scowled. She was right but he didn’t want to hear it now.

 “Look, we’ve all got to play the cards we were dealt. You and I both chose to enlist, we’re cops, and most days it feels like we’re too far gone to ever go back to being real people. Now I’m too disabled for anyone else to want me.”

Kim frowned noodles halfway to his mouth. “You’re not disabled, Hanna, you’re bipolar.”

She rolled her eyes, an exasperated noise uncurled from deep in her throat.

“What the fuck do you think a disability is, tête de nœud? I have a brain injury, I’m visually impaired, and I’m mentally ill. I’m disabled, Kim. So’s Harry, so’s Vicquemare, I mean fucking hell, so are you, Kim.”

“Me?” Kim exclaimed.

VOLTA DO MAR: Wind rattles the cafe window beside you. Outside a man's umbrella turns inside out in the gale. Inside Minh's is strangely quiet, like people speaking mutters not wanting you to hear. Lilie takes the coats and scarves of a couple who take the booth behind you, Revachol wears her winter finery like her inhabitants wear down jackets and knitted scarves and hats, and now in the warmth of the cafe bar they shed them again.

One of the students at the front called out to ask about the jukebox. Which Kim realised, was what the place was missing. It was too quiet, normally Minh was blasting the hits of the 30s at questionable volumes.

"It's broken." Minh Tran the man the myth the legend, replies from behind the counter where he has been doing something inscrutable with a butcher's cleaver and a coconut.

"Want me to take a look?" The student asks.

Minh shrugged, "Sure, just don't  go crying to the building inspectors if you give yourself a shock."

Kim looked back at Dreyfus, who didn't seem to be paying this little exchange much mind. He finished his mouthful.

"I don't think I have any deficiency that would consider me disabled, technically or otherwise. My vision passes quarterly certification and It doesn't affect my professional life, if that's what you were implying." He snipped.

Dreyfus looked at him plain-faced and exhausted. "I'm not picking on you, Kim. The legal disability threshold for visual impairment is 6/18 and I happen to know your eyes are much worse than that. You also have TSD which you refuse to look at nor do anything about, you refuse accommodations out of fear of weakness, and that’s your prerogative but I won’t let you take me and Harry down with your Dolorian bullshit.  Harry talks down on himself sure, but assuming his aphasia and fine motor coordination improves over time – he’s good with kids. He could go back to teaching part-time, maybe not something as physical as gym, but he’d make a great art teacher.”

“You think people would hire him?” He asked.

Hanna shrugged, pushing her empty plate to the side and wiping her greasy hands on a disposable napkin, “They should! We may be a shithole proxy state, but employers can’t discriminate against the disabled not outwardly anyway, maybe he’d not be up to teaching full-time, but he could do part-time or coach a sports team.”

Kim just grunted, deep in thought. Dreyfus took this as her cue to keep talking.

“Look, you could get a different job if working 41 got too much. I wouldn’t blame you either. From what Jude says Vicquemare’s like if a lead balloon had an amphetamine addiction. I wouldn’t want him as a partner."

"He's not that bad," Kim said hurriedly, it was a lie but he didn't like bad-mouthing a fellow officer, especially concerning his mental illness, which he wasn't in full control of.

Hanna quirked a bushy brown eyebrow.

"Yes, he is." She replied with no vocal inflection, leaning far enough towards him that Kim could make out individual pores on her nose and cheeks. "You just don’t want to quit,  because you’re a forty-five-year-old man with a praise kink and an immobilising phobia of losing control."

Kim gave her a look, starting to bristle in self-defence. "Because you're such a paragon of policing yourself, Lieutenant?"

Hanna barked out a laugh. It wasn't one of humour. "No of fucking course not, I won’t leave either because I’m a spineless faux anarchist who would have probably offed herself or been left to rot in a psych ward were it not for this job. Besides, I like the missing person part, it’s the RCM bureaucracy I hate."

“You sound like you’ve thought this through before.”

“Of course, I do, when I’m manic it’s all I think about for days at a time,” she said with a bitter laugh. “What else could I have been? What else would I be now? Who would that Hanna be? Would I like her more than me? Can I get sufficiently fucked up to unlock the ability to time travel, you know normal girl stuff.”

“I’d rather just be Kim for a while. I don’t think I’ve ever had much time for that.”

“Well, if you wanted to take some leave from work - I’d support you. Hell, get out if you can I’d say! Fuck the police.”

Kim laughed, face in his hands under his lenses pushing his glasses up his forehead.

“I mean, I still need to pay for his treatment, and if something happens to Harry, Cuno’s care falls to me I signed the paperwork as Harry’s domestic partner, not his colleague.

“Oy gevalt, that poor kid. Look, If the worst comes to pass and something happens, we can get married. That way we can pool our income and Cuno can still get the RCM dependents benefits.”

“You can’t be serious?” Kim hissed.

“Can’t I?" Hanna  frowned,  "I wasn’t aware you got to decide that for me.”

Kim tripped over his words. “No- it’s just- You screamed blue murder at your father last time he brought it up.”

“And? He was nagging you. My father doesn’t get to decide my life for me, we’re two consenting adults.”

Kim went quiet for a while, “You’d agree to that? just for Cuno’s sake?”

Hanna made a little shrug.“Sure, I would.  It’s not just for the kid, it’d offer us both the professional cover, it’d get me out of Sara’s hair and it’s not like we’d need a wedding, I still have my old engagement ring it’s not like we’d have to pay out of pocket. All we’d need to do is go to the records office and pay about eighty real for a civil certificate."

"Golden Breath, Dreyfus! I wasn't talking about the cost," Kim said, frowning.

Dreyfus sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Look, I’m nearly forty, Kim. When you’re a woman in your forties people have all kinds of expectations of you, you’re an embarrassment or a disgrace if you’re unmarried and childless and I may be uninterested in marriage in the traditional sense, but it still can be tiring to constantly address it. I know who I am, and I know who you are, but sometimes I’d like to fade into the background. Just be some middle-aged woman, with a husband I like and a boring office job that doesn’t make me want to swallow lead."

UNDERGROUND: We can appreciate that, right dearheart? All of the constant fraternal posturing about tits and guns and ass, the rampant misogyny and the glorification of violence in the police force, everyone who disagrees is marked a brown nose or a faggot. You have more in common as a homo-sexual and an aromantic bi-sexual that you do have that separates you.

PROFESSIONALE: Plus, it's no secret that Pryce is a family man. He might be more favourable towards a married officer with his shit together than say McCoy with his three ex-wives and a burgeoning collection of substance addictions.

Hanna braced her twitchy fingers against the booth tabletop and stared down at them, a curl of hair fell into her face.

"Doesn’t that sound… I don't know, fine? I’m not opposed to domesticity; I just don’t go in for the old lie that romance is so much better or holier than friendship. You can still do whatever and whoever you want and so will I, we’d just pool our resources and people would leave us alone, just a couple of milquetoast married middle-aged cops, nothing special."

EMPATHY: Not sticking out, not on the edge all the time. Safe and Sound and Boring.

“I mean I guess it’s something I’d have to discuss with Harry, but I will say I'm not completely opposed to the idea. Wouldn’t you rather ask another Yev though?” Kim asked.

Dreyfus snorted mid-drink and doubled over coughing and pinching her nose. “Eugh-what?! No? I wasn’t exactly planning on inviting my Rabbi to officiate my violet tax fraud marriage. It’s just a civil certification, we’re allegedly a secular society here, besides, my family like you Kim. They wouldn’t be upset. I think most of the time they're just happy I'm still alive. Besides, Haven’t they been bothering you about it for the last few months?

“Your father has, both Julie and Sara Malke were more tactful in their implications,” Kim said with a smile, he was quite fond of Hanna's sisters.

Hanna shrugged good-naturedly. “Well,  Harry’s not on death’s door or anything. If he’s out of inpatient care and pottering around at home that’s a pretty good prognosis, we don’t have to work out anything without consulting him.”

“I know. He’s alive and he’s breathing he’s the same man he ever was but when his memory goes or he gets frustrated, I don’t know what to say or do- It doesn’t help that he’s been snubbing Jean’s offers of help” Kim sighed into his hands. “Can we talk about something else, anything else”.

“Sure… uhm… well, I‘m on a mandated two weeks off lithium until the hyperflexia and tremors stop, which sucks but I’ve done it before, so I know what to expect. Poor Sara Malke’s got some stomach bug, but the boys and I have managed to avoid it. Oh! And as for work we found Daisy over the weekend, or I mean we’ve identified her at last. The case should be closed by the end of the week so that’s a load off my shoulders.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: Daisy was a nickname, for an ongoing infant Jane Doe case. Dreyfus had named her after the floral-patterned dress the child had been discovered in.

“Oh, that’s good news, you must be relieved,” Kim said.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not good exactly seeing as now I have to go to a baby’s funeral which is I think most sane people’s idea of a bad start to your week, but the constabulary agreed to pay for her new headstone so that’s a plus.”

“Any idea what happened, I mean the coroner ruled misadventure not homicide, didn’t they?” He asked.

Hanna nodded. “Yeah, poor little thing drowned in maybe a handbreadth of water, they think she tripped into the storm drain.”

“And no one reported her missing? How long has it been?”

“Eight months. She would have turned three in April.”’

“Did she not have parents?” Kim asked. He was well aware that most normal children did.

Hanna screwed up her nose. “Eh, not legally, the mother gave birth in Juvie, kid was made a ward of the state and sent to a relative’s house. The current theory we’re operating on is the relative took her in to receive the childcare benefit and didn’t keep a close eye on the kid. She got out and no one reported her missing under fear of losing their money.”

“Did you find this relative?” Kim asked.

Hanna nodded again. “Yep, she was already in police custody awaiting trial for child endangerment and threatening a bank teller with a switchblade. She had four other kids in her care. I’ve interviewed the two older ones who were understandably very upset about the whole thing. Dead kid cases are always rough, but I’m just glad it’s closed. I was quite attached to little Daisy.”

 “What was her real name? I mean if you can tell me legally.”

Hanna's mask slipped for just a second. For the briefest glimpse of time, Kim saw tears, reflecting himself in Hanna's dark bloodshot eyes.

“Oh. That’s the saddest fucking part, Kim. Her given name was Dolores.”

Precinct 41,  Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

14:24 , 21st January '53.

Kim found Vicquemare at his desk dealing with a precarious tower of papers and case files.

Jean didn't look up from it as he came in.

How was your lunch date?" he asked. Kim nearly did a double take to check he was the one being addressed, but La Menagerie was relatively empty.

"I suppose it counts as a success since she didn't make me pay for it." Kim deadpanned.

Vicquemare laughed. "A free lunch is never free, Lieutenant.”

"What about you, any news here?" Kim asked.

EMPATHY: Maybe don't bring the paperwork up first he seems a little... haggard right now.

"I got through to the Mosque but they wouldn't let me speak to Amal, we have to speak with the girl's school Dean in person." He said

Kim nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. They'd want to protect their student's privacy. What's all this?"

He gestured at the piles of papers littering Vicqumare's normally neurotically tidy desk.

A side effect of his chain-smoking and amphetamine addiction was a compulsive need to order things to stave off a craving.

"Oh, Judit's gone home, Ninel's stuck vomiting in the Ladies' room, guess who gets their paperwork?”

Kim made a face, "Is Officer DeMettrie okay?"

"She has a concussion, but she's too fucking stubborn to go home. Not even Gottlieb can make her leave." Martine Labriola piped up from the copier machine in the corner.

Kim shook his head in resignation.  He gestured at his partner.

"Give me half of that pile, we can see how much of it gets done in an hour or so and after that, we can head to the mosque."

Vicquemare didn't object he just thrust a notebook's width wad of forms in Kim's direction.

"Knock yourself out." He said drily, then paused, "Perhaps that's the wrong choice of words given Ninel's current state."

Kim chuckled, "I don't think you can get a concussion from constabulary bureaucracy. A migraine, however."

"Yeah tell me about it, I need a cigarette. Do you want me to open a window. I think it's stopped slowing outside."

"I don't mind either way, actually I was going to call Harry's nurse while I still remember," Kim said.

"Mm, that the physiotherapist woman, the Zsiemsk?" Jean asked.

"Roxana? She's Silesian, Slonska she called it,  but I don't think they've had their own state for a while, much like Revachol herself"

Jean just grunted in acknowledgement, any interest in conversation disappeared as Martine dropped off even more papers on his pile.

Kim returned to his desk and set down the papers Vicquemare had given him.

He picked up the phone receiver and dialled out.

A bored younger woman answered. "Hello, Saint Marron, non-Emergency desk, how can I help you?"

“Hi. I'm trying to contact Nurse Vašek in the Neurology Department, I believe her extension is 783."

“Putting you through, sir, Hold one second please.”

There was a whirr and a click and then a long boring pause.

Kim drummed an aimless pattern on the tabletop.

There was a hiss and another click as someone picked up on the other line. “Hi, is that you Kim?”

Kim blinked, surprised. “Uh, yes, Hi Roxana. Are you screening your calls?”

The nurse laughed on the other end. “Pah! No, as I left the ward Harry just said. I bet that’s Kim calling, and he was right!”

Kim smiled. “I see... Don’t tell him that, it’ll go right to his head.”

Roxana laughed again. “Hey, he’s earned it! He’s been working hard today.”

“Is everything okay? I don’t know if he told you, but we had a rough weekend.” Kim said, choosing his words carefully.

There was a pause, Roxana's cheery tone didn't dissipate, however.

“I gathered that, yes." She said, "He’s not as quick with the jokes.”

“Yeah, I fear that might be the morphine I gave him to sleep.” He said finally.

Roxana hesitated. “Just standard morphine or Extended Release?” She asked.

“Just a Standard IV dose 10mg – at about eleven last night,” Kim said.

Roxana was smiling again, he could hear it in her voice. “Oh, no, Kim honey, that’s nothing, he has the drug tolerance of a Samaran elephant, and immediate release morphine doesn’t stay in the body much longer than 24 hours if it’s used regularly, he’s not been lethargic or any more impaired than usual. I think he’s just depressed. He seemed more worried about you and Cuno than anything else."

Kim let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. “That’s a relief, do you mind if I speak with him?” He asked.

“Mmhm." There was a plastic rattling sound as if she was moving the receiver.  "Harry phone for you.”

“Was I right?” Kim heard Harry say.

Roxana chuckled. "He said not to tell you, or it’d go to your head.”

A familiar laugh came down the phone line. Kim felt his jaw unclench and his shoulders relax, just a little bit.

“Hey, you know, maybe my head needs it!” Harry yelled down the receiver.

“You know Roxana has other patients who might get phone calls right?” Kim teased.

Harry laughed again. “None of their puh-puh-puh-partners call as often as you.”

“Oh, am I bothering you by calling so often?”

“No…" Harry chuckled. "You’re fine. Hi. How’s work?”

Kim sighed, “Well, Monday’s body day so you can probably guess.”

“Ugh, sounds g-great - Is Cuno with you?” Harry asked.

REFLEXES: The hair on your forearms and the back of your neck stands up. You know the feeling instantly but it doesn't feel any less discomforting.

COMPOSURE: Keep it together, it's not his fault. It's nobody's fault.

Kim tried to keep his voice soothing and neutral.

“No Harry, he’s at school. We dropped him off this morning, remember? Winter break is over.” He said gently.

There was a long pause on the line. “Oh…I... Uh,  sorry… I…um…”

“You forgot, That’s okay," Kim said, voice as calm as he could manage.  "Cuno is at school right now and he’s going to rugby practice after school you’ll see him tonight.”

“Mm… buh-buh-buh... Ngh. Dei’s Tits, sorry I’m getting stuck a lot today.”

“It’s fine. Can you try rephrasing using a word without the b sound?” Kim asked.

“Mhm...Cuno’s safe right?” Harry replied.

HARRYOLOGY: Ah, this was a recent post-stroke Harry fixation, he needed reassurance that people he cared about would be safe without him there, ostensibly to protect them but Harry wasn’t exactly in peak physical fitness, and his Villiers was locked up in the precinct armoury. But still when he was upset or when his memory failed him, like an emergency alarm was ringing he’d go through the checklist in his head is everyone okay?

EMPATHY: He worries about the kid as much as he used to, maybe even more, because he forgets he already asked.

“Yes, Cuno’s safe, he’s at school,” Kim said trying to keep his voice gentle despite his exhaustion, Vicquemare was watching him from his desk, a pale and distant look on his face as if he recognised that particular platitude and dreaded it.

“You’re safe?” Harry asked. He sounded younger, but also very tired.

Kim nodded and then realised the man couldn't see him.

“Yes, I’m safe, Cuno’s safe Jean’s safe. We’re all safe here, I promise.”

“Okay. Good. And you’re working… you're at work?”

“Yeah, I’m at the precinct,” Kim said.

“Okay. I’ll talk um- I’ll talk to you later then.”

Kim smiled, almost reflexively, because he knew what that meant.

EMPATHY: Despite the odds, Harry does seemingly remember not to say ‘I love you’ if Kim is calling from the precinct, where comms might listen in. He may not always know why. There are times when he might not even be able to associate your name with your face. But he knows that he loves you. He knows that his partner Kim will pick him up at the end of the day. It’s not easy of course and there are blips but whatever memory damage he sustained. The trust and the affection of your relationship are not so easily buried.

“Okay. Talk to you later, Harry.”

"He forgot the kid was back at school again."

"Yes, it happens. It's to be expected." Kim hissed coldly.

"Do you want another coffee maybe before we go?"

"God, yes," Kim murmured rubbing at his face with his hands. "Also a cigarette but I think I can wait until after work for that."

Masjid Jāmi' Jamrock,  Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

15:05 , 21st January '53.

The local school was letting out as Kim and Vicquemare approached the Mosque's adjoining office building. There was the familiar screeching and chatter of small children, two boys dangled off the building's welcome sign, conversing in accented but understandable Suresnois, mostly bragging about how high they could climb.

The two officers signed in as visitors and were escorted by a teenage boy to an office that bore the nameboard,

“Hi RCM, my name is Halima, I’m the girl’s dean at the school here and I run the outreach program Amal came to us through, my husband works with the boys. Come in and take a seat, Walid, I don't need an attendant but can you leave the door open, please?

"Are you sure, Maman?" The boy who'd been escorting them paused in the doorway "I can wait here..."

"Did something about that seem uncertain to you, habibi?" Halima asked, with an edge to her voice.

The teen wavered, his metaphorical tail between his legs. "No...I'll just... go back to the front desk."

"Thank you. Excuse my son, officers. He's in a protective phase. Sorry, about the timing I imagine you got right into the school rush, did you find parking okay?" Halima asked.

"Yes, it was fine, madame, it seems very lively here. How many students do you have?” Kim asked.

“Eighty in the lower school just under fifty in the upper school," Halima said, "We teach from preschool to baccalaureate levels. We don’t have the money to fund professional or trade courses so most of our students go elsewhere for those but there are no other schools in Jamrock that function as both a state school and a madrasah. Obviously, due to ZoC Secularism, we can’t legally include religious education in the same classes as we prepare for Le Bac but we do have religious education and study sessions available to everyone regardless of age or gender, there are multiple classes non-Amani can join.”

“Do you have a boarding hall as part of the school? We were told Amal spends her weeknights here.” Vicquemare chimed in.

“We don’t have an attached dormitory as such but several of our female students share apartments in a building on the corner. Think of it as a halfway house for local Amani women – most people who stay there are either students or new arrivals to Revachol. Some are women fleeing abusive relationships some are converts with no other living family, and others like Amal are struggling with homelessness and or substance abuse. As far as I know, Amal spends the week there and the weekend after Jummah with her grandmother, there haven’t been any problems. It’s a dry house, no drugs no alcohol, they get hot food twice daily and we try to help with expenses when we can.”

Kim nodded. “Okay, and you told my partner on the phone that Amal had gone home after learning the news."

Halima nodded. "She did, yes."

"Do you know who told her? It's no trouble, we just want to make sure she's well-informed."

"I believe it was her youth social worker, she said that you had been in contact and was concerned that Amal would react badly if she found out after everybody else."

EMPATHY: That's a little unprofessional but it makes sense at the very least. Gala mentioned Amal had a history of being unpleasant and reacting badly when she was using, this is no doubt a huge upset to her.

JUVENILE: Assuming of course she wasn't involved in her grandmother's death, or the robbery.

"I see. How did she react?” Kim asked,

Halima smiled tightly. It didn't reach her eyes.  “I don't know. I wasn't there when she got the call. I know she's at least in the company of family friends and roommates, so she's not at risk tonight. Of course,  you are welcome to look around here if you need and I will answer any questions, but I would ask you to leave Amal alone today so she can process her grief, she is a vulnerable young woman who has a bad history with the police. I am happy to help mediate a formal interview with her later, but you need to give her some time. She is not done growing, she has very big emotions and she has already lost both her parents and a brother incredibly violently. Each one of those things deserves its own time and space.”

PASSION: Poor fucking kid.

Jean nodded sombrely. “We understand ma’am, whatever help you can give us with this matter is fine.”

Halima nodded. “Good. I'll let Amal know you were wanting to speak with her, In the meantime, do you know if there are funeral arrangements to be made? Madame Zakarian was not Amani otherwise we would offer to handle the funeral outright. I’m not sure of her religious beliefs I believe she like many Haykians in the area was Dolorian Orthodox. Not that diminishes her in any way, she was so very dear to our community, and she will be very missed. We have a Saqarah fund, and we’d be more than happy to cover funerary costs on Amal’s behalf."

"Oh, that's very kind," Kim said because he wasn't entirely sure what else to say.

Beside him, Vicquemare nodded. “I believe we are waiting for her daughter to arrive back from overseas, but we’ll certainly pass that on.”

Halima nodded. “Oh, of course, the famous photographer. Feel free to give her my business card. You may take one for yourself too, it’s what I do instead of handshakes.”

Kim took one from the desk and pocketed it in his jacket. He and Vicquemare said their goodbyes and headed out onto the street once more, which was still cold, and a lot less full of children now.

"Back to the precinct, I suppose?" Vicquemare asked.

Kim nodded, his back hurt and he wanted the day to be over already.

"Alright, but I think it's my turn to have a cigarette break if you don't mind."

Du Bois-De Ruyter Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West, ZoC.

19:48 January 21st '53.

Kim turned off the kitchen element and moved the soup in its pan to the back burner.

“Cuno, food’s ready.” He called out.

It was dark out and he was starving. The house smelt of roasting garlic and fried onions.

Harry was tapping out a little rhythm on the dining tabletop. It was a comforting sound, a reminder he was still there.

“Yeh. Be down in a minute.” Cuno's voice came muffled from his bedroom.

“It’s ready now.” Kim replied, setting down Harry's bowl in front of him.

There was a loud thumping sound from upstairs. “I said I’d be down in a fuckin' minute!"

Kim sighed. “Okay, your loss.” He muttered.

He turned to his partner and raised an eyebrow at him.

“He’s in a mood today. Did he say anything to you when he got home?”

Harry nodded; the right side of his face had a familiar look of parental concern.

“He fought.” He said. His spoon trembled sending bits of minced garlic flying onto the table mtop.

Kim frowned. “At school? That’s first I’ve heard of it. They normally call me.”

Harry swallowed his mouthful and carefully aimed his shaking spoon to get another. Eating by himself, was a point of pride once he'd got that back no one was allowed to help him. Consequently, Kim had to vacuum a lot more.

“After school. The girl, Uh, the angry girl – with the -with the Puh-puh-pipo.”

“Ah, Cunoesse." Kim said pushing back his chair and getting himself and Harry something to drink.

“Yeah, her. It sounds like it was bad-bad.”

“Oh… should we tell Tuulikki?  She didn’t hurt him, did she?” Kim asked.

Harry shrugged and tapped his right hand to his chest. “Only here.”

“The Chest? The solar plexus?” Kim prompted.

Harry gave him a funny look. “Lungs, Kim.”

“Oh, right,” Kim said putting Harry’s kvass in a plastic mug before handing it to him.

“I’m not exactly rife with  girl-related advice, you know.  That’s going to have to be your department,” He said.

Harry shrugged. “Mm, I know. We were talking- b-buh-before.”

“Mhm?” Kim prompted, "Is he okay?"

“It was difficult. He gets mad when I can’t speak right.”

Kim shook his head. “He shouldn’t. He knows it’s not your fault.’

“No. but it’s all a puh-p-part of the wheel, I can’t get too mad.” Harry mumbled.

“The Wheel?" Kim prompted again, he was used to the aphasia causing his partner to forget or missay a word, most of their conversation required some patience and guessing games.

“No. Not wheel, argh!"  Harry gestured with his free hand in a shaky rapid circle, nearly knocking his mug and bowl over.

“Whassat?” He asked,

Kim steadied the man’s mug and plate “I don’t know, Harry, a Circle?”

Harry made a face. “Ehh, s'close.”

“Sphere, globe? Axle?” Kim suggested,

“No, no, no. None of those.” Harry rested his head in one hand.

“Fucking cunt shit bugger damn!” He hissed. Kim let him gather his composure.

“It’s close to a circle?” Kim murmured. He considered this for a second. “Oh! a Cycle?”

Harry pointed at him with an unsteady finger. “Yes! Cycle! What was I saying about cycles?”

“You were talking about Cuno,” Kim said, turning the extractor fan on in the hopes it might defog his muggy lenses.

REFLEXES: You notice movement in your periphery, just enough that the boy's arrival doesn't startle you as much as it does your partner.

“What behind Cuno’s back and everything? Wow real fucking classy pig.” Cuno was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking more of a mess than usual, likely due to rugby practice Kim hoped not an unsanctioned juvenile fight club.

“Ah, there you are, here you can serve yourself,” Kim said. He'd long since given up on having the boy wash his hands before every meal. Some battles needed to be lost to win the war.

Cuno was in a hurry to fill his bowl, splattering the hob with tourin d'ail doux. Kim was too tired to chastise him.

“Mhm, Cuno's taking this to my room.” He said.

“No, come eat at the table with us, please,” Kim replied sternly.

The boy looked at Harry at the dining table and raised a ginger brow.

“And get food spat on me by your adult baby over there? No thanks.”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Kim snapped but it was too late, Cuno was gone.

“D-don’t leave your buh-buh-b-bowl in your room, kid,” Harry called out after him.

“Yeh, I won’t.” the boy replied from several rooms away.

Kim sighed and threw up his hands.

“Okay. Fuck it, I guess it’s a romantic dinner for two.” Kim growled, setting down his bowl of tourin down opposite Harry.

“Leave ‘im. He’s right.” Harry mumbled into a spoonful of soup.

Kim swallowed a growl deep in his throat.

“No, he’s not.  He’s being cruel and spiteful because he’s scared. He’s fourteen yes, but he understands exactly what to say to hurt you. That is not right.”

Harry waved off his concern. “Mm-mm. That’s not it. Not all of it. There’s a small p-p-popcorn of truth in it.”

“Harry please, let’s not talk about the kid for now, it’s stressing you out. How was the physio?”

“Eh, you know…. Kind of…Sharp.” His partner said, with a goofy half smile.

“Sharp? As in painful?” Kim asked.

Harry shrugged his right shoulder. “Sort of it- was very-Ngh- c’mon fucking buh-brain- uh very…angry. No. Shit!”

HARRYOLOGY: No one hates Harry getting stuck on words more than he does, it makes it very hard to get annoyed with him. He's trying so hard all the time, it must be exhausting.

“Frustrating?” Kim suggested.

Harry pointed at him to indicate he was right.

“Yes! Thank you! Frustrating. I’m buh-beat. She wore me out like a fuckin saddle.” Harry said shaking his head.

Kim chuckled. “And here I thought you’d be into that.”

Harry took a while to register the joke and then he grinned like anything, shooting Kim a wink.

“Heh, I wish. This was very unsexy.” He said.

“Did Jean call? He said he was going to.” Kim asked.

Harry nodded, his hands were shaking he set down his spoon and just dropped them into his lap for a bit.

“Yeah. For a buh-bit. He also gets frustrating.”

“Frustrating? Or Frustrated?” Kim asked.

Harry just looked at him deadpan, “It’s Jean.”

“Mhm,  tell me about it," Kim joked, "I have to work with the guy.”

Harry just grunted in response. “He- it hurts him more, that I’m n-not my- not myself.”

“It hurts him more than what?” Kim asked.

“More than it hurts me.” Harry said.

PASSION: oh. oh big guy. he's thought it all out, he's not stupid.

“Oh. You’re probably right there. I did tell him you do better at face-to-face conversation right now. Kim said.

There was a lapse in conversation as both men continued to eat in silence.

“K-K-Kim…” Harry stuttered after a while

“Mhm?" Kim took another spoonful of soup.

“C-Cuno’s not okay… Jean’s… Jean… How are you?”

COMPOSURE: Kind of a loaded question there. Keep it together.

“I’m tired, Harry. I’m very tired, but other than that I think I’m okay with things as they are right now, I know they’re out of all our hands. I got to see Dreyfus at lunch and that was nice, but work was fairly grim and Cuno isn’t helping.  Perhaps I should ask Tuulikki to speak to Cuno- or maybe she knows a child psychotherapist who likes a challenge.”

“Mhm. I still think Cuno is right to be angry.” Harry mumbled.

Kim didn't have the energy for this. “Bullshit.”

Harry squinted at him, in mild annoyance. “No. Just Listen. I took Cuno out of there- out of that puh-place. He came here and what buh-becomes me?”

Kim chewed his lip. “I-okay- just give me a second to parse. You took Cuno out of Martinaise, yes, because his father was going to prison for possession and assault. What conclusion are you drawing from that?”

“We did that, to his duh-dad,” Harry said, audibly upset.

“What arrested him? Yeah so, he’d stop abusing his son and breaking the law.” Kim said cracking an eye open. "That's our job, Harry."

“No, Kim listen, drugs are everywhere, and abuse is everywhere. We arrested him, just b-buh-because we liked the kid. It’s the –“ he made the circular gesture again.

“The cycle.” Kim murmured, “he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes again. “Keep talking, I’m still listening.”

“Cuno got on the puh-puh-police radio yeah?” Harry said.

“Yes, it was something he enjoyed – is that so bad?” Kim asked.

“No, not b-bad. Just… unwise. I stole a son to make a cop.” Harry said matter-of-factly. “The cycle will continue forever, if, if we don’t stop it.”

Something about this rubbed Kim the wrong way.

“What? No! You adopted the kid because you wanted to help him, he would have ended up in foster care or an orphanage otherwise and you can take my word for it, Harry, you are so much better than an orphanage”.

“He needs a dad, not whatever I am now.” Harry mumbled, staring down at his good hand in his lap.

Kim reached across the table to touch the other man's arm. “You are his dad; you know that; he knows that.”

“Not right now.” Harry mumbled.

EMPATHY: Roxana's right, he does sound depressed.

Kim took a long sip of water trying to choose his words carefully.

“Harry, he’s only fourteen, and he’s lost his parents, he’s ADHD and dyslexic with a history of substance abuse and now he’s coping with a big sudden change at home. He has access to medicinal doses of stimulants but it’s not enough to get euphoriant effects. So he’s struggling with feeling like shit all the time with minimal coping skills.  We’re all trying to deal with this in our way, you most of all. No one’s forcing him to enlist as a J.O. the second he turns fifteen. He’s his own person. Maybe he’ll end up a  rugby player or DJ like those rave kids, you’d love him either way.”

“He’s a k-kuh-kid, they think guns and fighting are cool, even and they don’t understand, they don’t understand they- fuck!"

Kim stood up and moved behind the other man wrapping him in a hug and resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Harry reached for him with noticeable deliberation to his movements. He was the stubbornest man dead or alive and it started to show in bursts of finer motor control almost always when someone was nearby. Like he was hoping the doctors would give him time off rehabilation for good behaviour.

“Relax, you’ll choke if you’re not careful”. Kim said,

“’m done eating.” Harry said.

“Okay, that’s good.” Kim moved to take the other man's bowl and mug.

“Is he mad? Buh-Because of me? Be-Be-Be-Because of my buh-brainfuck?” Harry asked, his voice was hushed and small.

PASSION: Mother Dei, it hurts to see him when he gets like this.

“No of course not. Kim sighed “Look, you’re tired, I’m tired, Cuno’s tired. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“Are you ended?" Harry asked.

“Huh? Oh. Yes, I’m finished eating. How’d you go?”

“Slurping's so much fuckin’ work, you’ve no idea.”

“Ah, well, you’ve made a valiant effort. Those films we got have to go back at the end of the week, do you want to choose one to put on?”

"Yeah...H-hey Kim?"

"Mhm?"

"Thanks..."

"You're more than welcome."

Harry had chosen some low-budget crime thriller to watch and the two men had curled up on the couch. Next think Kim knew he’d  woken up on the sofa, the TV was showing the end of tape stripes and outside it had started to snow again. He lay there without his glasses on for a second trying to piece reality back together.

Outside the neighbours' dogs were barking, in the kitchen Harry was singing.

He was surprisingly coherent when he sang singing had come back much much quicker to him than normal speech of any kind. He wasn't very good but then he never had been, where he lacked in tune he made up in gusto and sheer enthusiasm.

"Did-did-did-did you see the frightened ones?
Did-did-did-did you hear the falling bombs?
Did-did-did-did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter
when the promise of a brave new world unfurled beneath the clear blue sky?"

Kim got up and stuck his head into the adjoining doorway.

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table again. Working on something.

“Hey,” said Kim, just to get his attention.

“K-K-Kim, hi,” Harry said with his droopy smile. “Was I too loud? You were sleeping.”

“No, you’re fine. I’m just getting old. I missed the end of the movie.”

“Well, spoilers buh-buh-but they got their guy and it all worked out in the end. Always does."

Kim chuckled; he peered over Harry's shoulder. He was working on something on paper, but Kim couldn't quite see.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“That damn woman makes me do homework like a fucking schoolboy.” He said gesturing a the drawing in front of him.

“Oh?” Kim smiled putting a kettle of water on the stove to boil and sitting down beside Harry.

“That damn woman” was almost exclusively what Harry called his nurse Roxana, whose name despite not including any bilabial stops seemed to trigger his speaking difficulties, she was a boon in their lives and Harry was fond of her despite his frustration with constant therapy and treatments.

He was using graphite pencils with an adaptive grip to make it easier for him to hold and give him more control over his lines. He struggled drawing with a point and had adapted to shading everything with the side of the lead.

"How did you get back over here, did you get your pencils out by yourself?" Kim asked.

FITNESS: He shouldn't be walking too far unaccompanied. We shouldn't have dozed off.

"Cuno helped," Harry mumbled, "He knows where stuff is."

He’d known Harry to draw occasionally before the stroke, he wasn’t exactly a grand master, but he wasn’t bad at art. He’d picked up pencil and ink drawings with sobriety mostly he drew sea birds and landscapes around Jamrock.

This attempt wasn't bad either, an old postcard scene of Martinaise.

“Take it to the humpty-dumpty centre, Kim, it’s modern art.” He joked leaning back in his chair and squinting.

Kim couldn't help but smile back. “It’s good, your perspective is improving a lot. D’you want tea?”

“Yeah.  Are you sure you’re okay? I thought d-d-d-dozing off was my thing.”

"Me? I’m fine, just tired." Kim mumbled and it wasn't a lie.

Harry sighed. "Always tired, It’s me, right? Doing the tiring?

"Some of it, sure. It’s not your fault."

"Still tiring,” Harry said with a crooked smile.

Kim snorted. "Harry, life is tiring. I still intend to keep living it.”

The other man smiled his goofy lopsided smile. “Mhm…y'know I still love you even when my words get messed up, yeah?”

Kim's ears flushed. “I know that. I- I do know. I love you too.”

“I’m sorry yesterday was…buh-buh-bad. I’m sorry you’re tired of me-buh-because of me.”

Kim waved off the concern, moving to pour hot water into two mugs and drop a teabag in each.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to be so sorry all the time.”

“Jean was worried about you on the ph-ph-ph-" Harry's face twisted into a scowl of frustration. "oh fuck me sideways- you know what I mean."

“On the phone, yes." Kim said gently.  "He never said anything to me about it.”

“Course not. You’d b-be snarky about it.”

Kim snorted, the idea of Vicquemare being overly concerned with his emotional well-being seemed laughable.

“Please, I'm sure, he’s had worse.” He said.

“Mhm... M-Maybe you should have a few days off. We could take Cuno down to Laurentide or something.”

Kim sighed. “Harry, I’d love to but, we can’t afford that, not with your medical costs.”

“Yeah, guess not. Did you talk to Hanna today?” Harry asked.

“Yes, at lunch. She’s off her meds for two weeks, so she looked about as tired as I felt.”

“Shakies?” Harry asked.

“Huh?” Kim blinked at him "Can you repeat that please?"

“She got the shakies? -the medicine she’s on makes you shake like a d-dog.”

LOGIC: Oh! He means the lithium withdrawals.

“Lithium, yes, she was showing signs, so she has to give it a rest.

Kim set down two cups of peppermint tea on the table. “This one’s hot, okay?”

“If I try to wash my b-bruh-buh- agh, fuck. – this thing.” Harry gestured at the brush. “If I try to wash it in the tea stop me.”

“Will do. Dreyfus' coming over tomorrow night by the way she’ll bring dinner and help with the laundry.”

Harry nodded, starting on another artwork with visible concentration, “You know, I won’t ‘member.” He muttered.

Kim shurgged. “Maybe not, I’ll tell you again tomorrow. Multiple times.”

Harry grunted. He seemed to be struggling with something. He set down the brush, and straining he managed to fling his left arm upwards, so it hit him right in the face.

REFLEXES: [Pass – Legendary]

Kim reached out just in time to catch Harry from slipping sideways in his chair and knocking over either his paintbrush cup, his tea, or both. 

“What are you trying to do?” He asked.

Harry’s speech came out garbled, but he managed to gesture with his good hand at his dropping left eye and made a stabbing motion. His surrounding muscles his right arm and shoulder started to twitch spasmodically.  Kim just stayed put holding him in his seat. The movements rippled outwards up his arms like a wave, but they were over in a matter of seconds, and Harry gave a low groan, eventually he gestured again to his eye and made a stabbing gesture.

“Is the stabbing an action, or do you feel a stabbing pain? Don’t move if it’s the first one. Lift your right hand for the second.”

There was a pause and wincing. Harry lifted his right hand and held up three fingers.

LOGIC: You said not to move at all if it was the first option. Ergo, He means the second one.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Proprioception is the internal sense of one’s movement and bodily positioning.Due to the ischemia in Harry’s Posterior cerebral artery, sometimes there’s an error in receiving those readings from the central nervous system.

FITNESS: You quite literally wouldn’t know your ass from your elbow.

COMPOSURE: Oh, have some dignity towards our situation.

“I’m here, detective,” Kim said, and then his voice fried off into nothing. This wasn’t the place for “detective” He was using his work voice at home. He bit his lip and tried again, in his ‘boyfriend’ voice.

“Harry, do you know where you are?”

Harry tried to speak again. He thrashed in his chair frustrated. Kim put a hand on his forearm trying to soothe him.

PERCEPTION: (Touch) You can feel a pulsing under the skin of his arm, muscles contracting and releasing rapidly.

Harry’s good side of his face remained fixed on Kim, a look of desperate frustration in his eye. He let out another garbled sound. His left foot stomped on the kitchen linoleum a wave running up from his left hand down under Kim’s touch up his shoulder into the working side of his face.

HARRYOLOGY: Something is wrong, not in the now-usual way either. He’s trying to get through but he can’t right now.

EMPATHY: You can feel the frustration coming off him.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The motion is reminiscent of what doctors call a Jacksonian March, a type of partial seizure

REFLEXES: Okay, Partial Seizure.  First Aid:  Keep him still, loosen clothing and stay with him, until it ceases.

Kim moved the table back from Harry and while trying to keep him steady in the chair he counted under his breath to check how long he was seizing.

Harry slumped in his chair finally and jerked up as if suddenly awake. “upstogoki-“ He slurred.

Kim steadied him. “It’s okay. I’m here. Try to breathe. Are you hurt?”

Harry managed to shake his head no.

"Do you want to go upstairs? Kim asked gently.

“Mm. Upstogoki-“ Harry muttered, the words scrambled. He growled in his throat, and his left leg kicked the table leg.

Kim tried to soothe his thrashing.

"Okay, hey. We can go upstairs if you want. Thumbs up yes, thumbs down no.”

Harry put his thumb up. He was breathing heavily but otherwise seemed quite lucid.

Kim helped him up from his chair and at a glacial pace towards the stairs and up them.

“Kim…” Harry said, pausing to grab the railing on the upstairs landing.

“Yeah?” Kim answered.

“Kimkimkimkimikmkmkmmkm.” He mumbled.

Kim kept him moving slowly into their room helping Harry sit down on his side of the bed, propped up by pillows.

 “Hi. That’s me. Do you need something?”

Thumbs up.

“Okay. Do you need water or meds?”

Two thumbs up. One right thumb one after another.

“Okay, if you can’t talk can you gesture if you have any pain, so I can check there’s no gaping wound. I’d prefer for you not to bleed to death in the bedroom.”

Harry closed his right eye and gave a thumbs up that turned itself into a finger gun. Before gesturing around his head and neck area and doing a thumbs down.

Kim caught himself smiling in the bedroom mirror, he stopped and considered it with a sense of dull relief. Despite how tired he was, and what condition Harry was in, the bastard still made him laugh.

PASSION: YOU HAVE TO GIVE US OUR DUES, KIM. WE KEEP YOU ALIVE TOO. WE’RE NO DIFFERENT THAN THE LUNGS OR THE HEART OR THE SOUL. IT’S PASSION THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO KEEP THE BODY RUNNING. PASSION IS THE ONE KEEPING THE LIGHTS ON HERE, KIM.

Kim bit the inside of his lip and checked the other man for injuries.

“Alright, head and neck look fine, I can’t see any blood or bruises. “Now, what has the sommelier recommended for tonight?” He joked, taking the latest leaf from Roxana’s little yellow prescription pad. What day was it again?

ENCYLOPEDIA: January 21^st ’53. It’s a Monday.

“Monday, right.” Kim squinted at the handwriting.

PERCEPTION Sight: Roxana’s shorthand was always obtuse, but Kim was getting more used to reading it. “KK, 10mls IM Morphine at midday, 12:18 exact. more in six to eight hours depending on level of pain (previously 3) but if you’re concerned about apnoea, just give him 6. He’s a heavy sleeper. Avoid taking any benzodiazepines or drouamine with this, and keep an ear out for breathing abnormalities, but not at the expense of your own sleep!  RV.

“Alright, here come the questions.”

Harry rolled his eye at him. Kim grinned.

 “Don’t you just love them?”

Harry gave a thumbs down.

“Okay, One to five with the pain level?” He asked pulling the medication box from his bedside table.

Harry held up three fingers.

“Okay, and just checking that that’s number three?”

Harry nodded. Kim wrote this down on his yellow pad.

“And any new pain or numbness?”

Harry shrugged. It was hard for him to tell.

 ‘RV - Gave him another 6 mg morphine at 8 pm. Had eye, head and neck pain come on after what looked like a minor focal seizure of his non-affected side, no loss of consciousness, just speech and coordination. I checked him over for injuries nothing obvious, KK.'

He’d send it along with Harry in the morning.

“You’re in luck, Roxana says you’re still allowed to get the good stuff,” Kim said preparing his syringe.

Harry gave him an exhausted thumbs up, he rolled until he was lying face down on his pillow.

“Nuh-nuh-nice.” He wheezed out.

Kim smiled again, “One shot of the poppy for you. Roll over a bit, I’m doing your right shoulder.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry purred.

Kim snorted and shook his head. “None of that right now, first I’ve got to stick you with this thing.”

Harry grunted with laughter. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that.”

Kim bit back a laugh, wiping the injection site. He double-checked his dose and his needle. Nothing looked wrong no obvious gas bubbles. He injected Harry, disposed of the syringe and waste, and gave him a plaster when the site bled a little.

“Ok, you’re good to go, down to disco,” Kim said putting his medications and syringes away.

Harry tugged at Kim’s t-shirt. “Kim.”

Kim set the medication box back down on his bedside table.

“What is it?”

Harry pointed at his lips. Still lopsided but the right side of his mouth was miming a pout.

He snorted, “Uh huh, yeah, I guess you’re allowed one of those.” He leaned in to kiss him.

“Gotcha,” Harry said clinging to his T-shirt with his good hand.

Kim smiled. “Have you? You know you had a minor seizure earlier?”

“Yeah. It felt weird… like falling in a d-dream.” He gave a lopsided Expression, “Buh-b-b-b-but it’s okay now.”

Kim sighed, rolling back onto his side of the bed. He double-checked the medication case was put away safely and locked from praying teenaged hands.

EMPATHY: It’s not that Cuno wants to get morphine to sell or anything. The kid has a dopamine Deficiency that affects his self-control and he’s a fourteen-year-old struggling with the state of world that adults fail to cope with, now you have a access 20mg vial of pure oblivion. Is it really so morally repugnant for a young, traumatised adolescent not to want to deal with this right now? Have we not felt the same?Doesn’t insentience sound nice?

JUVENILE: We’ve seen it before, in kids younger than fourteen ini Juvie. Jamrock doesn’t leave many options to her youth, if you’re parents are dead, in prison, or otherwise not always around what coping skills are there for a whole class of children who at ten and eleven have already had friends die in cave-ins in La Royaume or as gophers in a besmertie shootout?

PROFESSIONALE: There are drug laws for a reason, you and the lock on that box are one of the only things keeping that kid from an unclaimed unnamed grave in an abandoned building in the Pox

EMPATHY: Isn’t that…I don’t know…fucking awful?

PASSION: YES! I THINK IT IS!

COMPARTMENTALISATION: C’mon guys can we lighten the mood a little here?

Harry was lying with his face in the crook of Kim’s shoulder. “Hey.” He mumbled wiping his whiskers on Kim’s neck. His good hand starting to wander. Kim slapped him off.

“Stop that! Honestly, I don’t know where you get your stamina from.”

“Dumb luck and above-average cock.” Harry murmured, lolling onto his affected side again.

“Oh really? You think it’s above average?” Kim said propping him back up, with a snort.

Harry grabbed at him laughing. “Kim C’mon, I missed you. Stay until I buh-buh-buh-black out at least.”

“I can do that. You’ve got fifteen minutes until the morphine starts to kick in”

“That a challenge, baby? I can finish in five I’m not puh-puh-puh-proud.”

“Not tonight, you need to get some rest.”

 Kim laughed pressing his face into the other man’s chest. Harry pulled him closer.

HARRYOLOGY: His speech seems to be improving, he seems relaxed, and his good eye is tracking you. Unclear if he’s actually horny or just teasing. It was hard to tell that even before his stroke.

“So d’you,” Harry murmured.

Kim disentangled himself from the other man and leaned over to press a kiss to his nose.

“I will, I just want to check Cuno’s alright and finish locking up.”

“Mhm. Don’t let him leave his dishes in his room. One rat and two puh-puh-pigs in the house is enough.”

“Are you ready for bed, Cuno?” Kim asked, knocking on the teen's closed door.

“Yeh, give us like five more minutes to finish this chapter.”

Kim opened the door and stepped in,

Cuno was coiled up in the corner of his bed and the wall, his feet against the wall his back on his bed a paperback in his lap that he appeared to be reading.

"What’re you looking at?” Kim asked, surprised.

Cuno barely looked up at him. “This? S’for school.”

“Oh…Okay…Don’t stay up too late.”

“Mhm...oh, uh Bino?-ergh… Kim.”

“Yes?” Kim prompted.

The boy scrambled like a cat, rolling onto his side with a flurry of limbs. He popped upright again, sitting cross-legged on his bed.

He squinted at Kim.

REFLEXES: God, I hope the kid doesn't need glasses.

“Your Trigat camera how much was it? Cuno wants one.” Cuno asked.

Kim blinked. “Oh? What for?”

“The hustle, man, you know, Cuno’s always on that fucking grind.”

Kim was too tired to dispute that. “Uh, 57 paid for my camera. I think it was just over a hundred real. The film ampoules cost about 20 real for three. It gets quite expensive but that’s instant colour cameras for you.”

“Fuuuck me, you know Cuno doesn’t have that big-pig money…”

Cuno flopped back onto his back with a groan.

Kim sighed. “Do what you will, just, don’t make me or your father an accessory.”

“Hang on, are you telling Cuno to steal a camera?” The boy asked.

“No, I’m telling Cuno to keep his head down and his mouth shut.”

There was a peal of adolescent laughter, rasping and coughing. “Yeah, Y’alright Bino.”

Kim smirked. “Oh, I know I am, how are you?”

Cuno made a face. “Cuno’s right as rain, close the door, won’t ya?”

Kim kept waiting, just standing sullenly long enough to unsettle him. It was a trick he’d learnt in Juvie, and it worked like a charm on Cuno.

The boy’s face curled up like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “What? What d’you want me to say, pig?’

“Hm? Oh Nothing, I was just unsure if you’d finished talking.”

The boy deflated, too tired to duke this one out. “Cuno’s alright. I mean, it sucks talking to him right now, but Cuno’s not mad at the big guy he can’t control it….” He paused, and dog-eared his book, setting it down in his lap.  “Dunno, it’s just… sometimes. It’s just it feels like everything went to shit all at once and Cuno didn’t even get a day off school.”

Kim covered a smile and nodded instead.  “That’s fair, you’re probably entitled to a little time off here and there.”

PASSION: Oh, come on Kim we can be a little bit cooler than that.

PROFESSIONALE: No, don’t say what you’re going to say Lieutenant, that’s below you.

Kim paused… “Dreyfus is coming over tomorrow night and she said she’d bring dinner and herbe cigarettes, “I’ll double check with Harry, but you can probably have some if you promise to only smoke it at home with supervision.”

Cuno squawked with adolescent delight. “Dealing weed to a minor Lieutenant? Have we finally reached our crooked cop plotline?”

Kim didn’t react. “It’s from her nephew,  so we’re talking Ecole student grass at best.” He added drily.

The boy made an exaggerated face of disgust. “Ough, fuck off! Cuno’d rather smoke a car air freshener. Nah, you go ahead and smoke lavender with your fake girlfriend, Cuno won’t stop you.”

“Goodnight, Cuno. You’ve got school in the morning remember, don’t be up too late.”

Cuno nodded, pulling his book back up over his face. "Yeah, night. Night to the brick shithouse too.”

Kim covered up a smile with the back of his wrist. “I’ll tell him.”

Chapter Text

I am up in the clouds.

I am up in the clouds.

And I can't, and I can't come down.

I can watch but not take part,

Where I end and where you start.

Where you, you left me alone.

You left me alone.

 

 Boogie Street, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

08:29, 22nd January '53.

It's a chilly Tuesday morning on Boogie Street, a woman sits at a table by the window, alone, in a kissatsen-style teahouse. She’s dressed for the weather, but she still looks out of place. Her clothes are too office-worker, too middle class. The waitress, a young woman dressed in the establishment’s “traditional style” uniform of a green patterned komon with plain black hakama comes to take her order. 

The woman orders in softly accented Seolite.

"レヴコウリア セット を一つお願いします"

She’s not a natural speaker but her tone and pronunciation are perfectly serviceable.

The waitress who looks barely out of high school nods.

“ドリンク は何にしますか” She asks. 

“煎茶,をください” says the woman.

The waitress scribbles this down on her notepad, bows, and leaves.

It’s quiet outside on Boogie Street this morning, but the teahouse is thrumming with a busy mix of older Seolite and Safrese men and local Université students, the two groups sit at opposite sides in relatively peaceful coexistence.

The woman puts her face in her hands once the girl is gone. She snaps a hair tie around her wrist.

“Get over yourself already.” She hisses to no one, or maybe herself.

 The woman sighs and picks up her shoulder bag from the floor. She takes out a portable cassette player and a selection of tapes, the player comes out with its headphone cords all tangled. She grimaces and snaps a hair tie around her wrist.

She reaches into her bag for a plain, mass-produced, write-on 8-track tape.

The case reads “VBC 12/03/50” in black ballpoint pen. In the back behind the counter, there’s the loud steaming noise of the waitress heating milk for another Université student’s café au lait.

She presses play.

 She doesn’t care to double check where the tape is wound to, so it starts in media res of a radio interview, the radio host interviews a guest, both Vespertine-speaking men. The interviewed man sounds very emotional, his voice flakes and splinters like thin balsa wood.

“It’s unfathomably hard, but I keep going on in the hope someone somewhere knows something we just take one day at a time,” The man’s voice falters again.   “Our son is very brave, but he’s been through so much at only six and frankly there’s no amount of paternal love and affection that will stop him from missing his Mum.”

“And if the public has any information about her whereabouts, who should they call?” The host asks.

“Um if they’re on Mundi they can call the Met’s 24-hour toll-free reports number out of hours or they can call the Greater Avonford Police Station and talk to the cold case department between 9 and 6 Monday to Friday. If you’re interisolary you can call the ICP’s public tip line and preface your tip with 514-VIY-VSP, and I believe the Blue Notice reward still stands, the ICP hasn’t been in touch saying it was repealed at the very least.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr Yorke.”

The woman quietly clears her throat. Tears drip down her cheeks onto a paper placemat decorated with winter plum blossoms.

Interview Room 2 , Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

10:26, 22nd January '53.

Two young women were waiting in the Interview room when Kim came in.

One was familiar dressed in less garish clothes than she had been when Kim and Vicquemare met her yesterday, Kagami Asanuma was dressed in an over-starched black pantsuit with shoulder pads and a lacy ruffled blouse. Her makeup was less clownish and more goth kid at a funeral, with heavy black shadow and messy eyeliner. Beside her sat a younger woman, well she looked more like a girl, if Kim was completely honest.

PERCEPTION (Sight): Amal Kesani looks to be about thirteen or fourteen and very sickly.  Her skin tone is a warm sandy brown on the visible parts of her hands and wrists but the blood has drained from her nose and cheeks leaving her face a sickly taupe. She is dressed in a plain, white abaya under a shabby winter coat. The coat looks second-hand, probably military surplus judging by the shade of navy wool.  Unlike Kagami Amal wears no obvious makeup or jewellery, and her hair, ears, neck, and shoulders are covered with a soft white hijab. She looks exhausted, but she waits in stoic silence. Her hands clasped together on the tabletop.

EMPATHY: Her hands are trembling but not from fear or grief. It's a specific kind of tremor you recognise well.  She is nervous about being around the police, yes, but that's not her biggest concern right now, the way she fiddles aimlessly with the tails of her headscarf, making small nervous movements with little deliberateness.

REFLEXES: You know that feeling, your brain recognises it too. Sending an electrical pang to the nicotinic receptors in your peripheral nervous system. Lungs, it’s not even noon, but we could really go for a cigarette after this.

COMPOSURE: No. We’ve got plans for tonight. It’s just a craving. Suck it up.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Challenging – Pass] Just breathe boss, focus on the task ahead.

“Uhh… right… Shall we begin?” Amal asked, glancing from Kim to Patrol Officer Minot and back to Kagami.

Kim also looked to Kagami who glowered back at him.  Kim didn’t crack he was used to Juvenile threat displays.

“If you wish to smoke, miss, you may.  there’s an ashtray on the table behind you," he said to Amal, gesturing towards a green glass ashtray, likely left behind by the last officer interviewing in the room.

Amal sighed in relief. “Alhamdulillah….  I haven’t exactly slept well; I’m sure you can imagine."

“Of course,” Kim murmured.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a crumpled packet of kreteks- dirt cheap and potent clove and nutmeg-scented cigarettes from Siigay. She put one to her lips and lit it with a match from a matchbook in her pocket.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Kreteks are popular with teenagers, they’re cheap, strong and much like with menthols the cloves provide a more pleasant taste scent that covers up the usual tobacco smell.

UNDERGROUND: That and likely also the fact that clove oil has anaesthetic properties leads to a popular theory that smoking kreteks could numb the throat in such a way that the gag reflex would be suppressed during oral sex. Or at least that was the rumour when you were a teen.

REFLEXES: That’s not how it works. I mean, it won’t make things worse, but it’s not any more effective than lidocaine.

“Miss, are you alright to begin, do you need anything else before we start?" He asked,

Amal shook her head, "Kagami is here, you brought a female officer, and I can smoke. I'm as good as I'll get right now."

Kim nodded, and looked to Patrol Officer Minot, wordlessly suggesting she begin.

Judit smiled back, but the gesture didn't reach her eyes. She seemed tired too, and her makeup was uneven, there was a much heavier application of foundation on the right side of her face than on her left, and she wore a carpal tunnel brace on her left wrist.

PROFESSIONALE: Now's not eaxctly the best time to draw attention to that, Lieutenant.

Judit cleared her throat. "Do you mind double-checking the spelling of your name and putting down your date of birth for us?” She asked Amal.

Amal set her lit cigarette snug between her lips before taking the pen and ledger from Minot. She fiddled with her coat pocket and pulled out an ID card which she slid across the table. Minot took it, checked the details and then passed the ID to Kim, for him to check.

PERCEPTION (Sight): You squint at the smiling young woman on the ID card. She is wearing a purple-grey coloured hijab and plum lipstick. She still looks quite young for sixteen, but she also seems about a decade less tired.

“Do you want my ID too?” Kagami asked.

Kim shook his head “That's okay. Just stating your details on the record will suffice.”

Kagami nodded. Her posture deflated a little. “Alright. Has my client had her rights read?”

Minot looked at Kim with barely hidden amusement at the ‘client’ comment but she played along nonetheless.

 “No, she’s not being detained under the Wayfarer Act both of you are free to terminate the interview at any time. You retain full legal rights under ZOC law. That includes the right to legal representation and the right not to self-incriminate.”

“Interview of Amal Zuhra Kesani, date of birth: 22/07/36. Officers Kitsuragi and Minot presiding. Miss Advocat, could you state your full legal name, date of birth and occupation for the tape recording?"

“Kagami Kuzmin Asanuma, 31/05/34, law student.” Kagami stated.

Minot nodded and gestured to Amal to begin. “You may start when you’re ready, Amal. Take your time.”

Amal nodded taking a long drag on her kretek.

“Forgive me, officers, it’s been a difficult day and I try not to smoke at school or the mosque it’s disrespectful- I must make do with the nicotine pastilles. Doctor’s orders, I nearly died coming off the drink, you see. If my Tatik didn’t know emergency first aid, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Your Tatik, is that what you call your grandmother?” Judit asked gently.

“You only have to answer questions relevant to their case, everything you say is admissible as evidence,” Kagami murmured.

Amal gave her friend a look of annoyance.

“Relax, Kagamin. I know the drill. Yes, Tatik or Tati is grandmother in her language. Hayaren. She taught me some phrases here and there. She’s very proud of her culture..." Her voice faltered, and she hurriedly sucked down a lungful of clove-scented smoke.

“I’m sorry. I should have started from the beginning. I was born in Al-Shami on Iilmara, but my family were displaced by the war when I was eight. My father and elder brother were forcibly conscripted before they could get out, my mother killed herself a year to the day we arrived in Revachol. My little brother and I then went into the foster care system, how’s that?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Al-Shami is the current name for what was once the seat of the Parthian Empire a kingdom with a history older than the entire isola of Isilunde, famous for art, poetry and allegedly the origin of the first-ever legal system. Now an absolute theocratic republic, ravaged by many wars uprisings and foreign invasions in the name of resource extraction, Al-Shami is known for Amani guerilla movements, human rights abuses and casting out many of her Dolorian residents as political refugees to seek shelter in MoralIntern-protected states.Something the MoralIntern loves to use as proof of why their Dolorian-flavoured rules-based secular democracies are the better means of government.

EMPATHY: She takes another stern drag on her kretek, but her affect doesn't flake or falter as it did when discussing her grandmother.

JUVENILE: A childhood displacement, a forced conscription and a suicide are delivered with the same dispassion as her name and birthday. She is not going to let you crack her. She knows better than to let a weakness be left exposed.

WELTSCHMERZ:

There was an awkward silence in the hospital room, punctured periodically by the whirs and beeps of monitors and Harry’s gentle snoring.

Kim watched the doctor leave, stoned-faced. His back hurt, and he was vaguely aware that he hadn’t eaten much more than black filter coffee and vending machine protein bars all days. He checked his watch.

21:52. Visiting hours ended at 10.

"We should probably get going before visiting hours close, I can drop you back to Tuulikki's." He said to the teenager seated besides him.

The boy didn’t meet his gaze. "Why?"

Kim raised a bemused eyebrow. "Because that's where you're staying?"

The boy stared down at his sport shoes. "Why can't Cuno stay here with him?"

Kim sighed, it was late, he was tired. Harry wasn’t conscious to step in and defuse Cuno like he usually did.

"The hospital only allows one person to stay overnight per room, and they don’t let minors stay unaccompanied. You know that.”

“But it’s bullshit.” The boy whined, his hands balled into fists in his lap.

“I didn’t make the rules Cuno. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride.” Kim stood up and gestured for the boy to join him.

Cuno stood firm shaking his head. “Can’t you just drop me at home?”

Kim elected to ignore the first-person slip-up. They happened when the boy was upset.

“By yourself? It’s not safe.” He said, trying to keep the tiredness from his voice. It wasn’t the boy’s fault things were the way they were.

Cuno wasn’t budging, his cheeks were growing ruddy with frustration.

“Grigoriy’s there.” He said.

Kim raised an amused eyebrow.

“Grigoriy is a rat. You’re fourteen. I can’t leave you home alone without another human. ”

“Oh, so you’re a racist!” The boy snapped.

“I-What?” Kim bit his cheek hard. “Look, kid, Grigoriy isn’t a sufficient temporary guardian, he cannot use the telephone in an emergency.”

Cuno scowled at him real disdain growing in his beady eyes, he got up from his seat trying to make himself as big and as imposing as his weedy teenage frame could handle it.

“So? You’re no fucking polymath yourself either, binoclard.”He snarled.

Kim sighed again. “What is this about, Cuno? What’s wrong with Tuulikki’s?”

The boy crossed his arms across his chest. “Nothin. Cuno’s no beef with her.”

“Then why do you not want to go back?” Kim asked straining not to snap.

“Cuz, I wanna stay here!” Cuno said, his voice rising.

Kim just ignored it. “You can’t right now, kid. I’m sorry.”

The boy just stood there his expression scrunched, and his face growing as red as his hair.

“Who the fuck are you to tell the Cuno what he can and can’t do yer just some pig fucking his dad!”

A nurse stuck her head into the hospital room.

“Officer, do you mind keeping it down, visiting hours are ending soon.”

Kim nodded, wincing apologetically, “Yes, of course, my apologies. We were just leaving.” And calmly with years of practice under his belt, Kim looped an arm around Cuno’s collar, to get him in an armlock, and wrestled him out of Harry’s room and into the hall.

Cuno fought back, and failing to regain control of his arms, he growled like a feral animal and  bit the exposed part of Kim’s forearm with the full force of his adolescent jaw.

Kim winced, “God-fucking-damnit, Cuno!”

“Get your fucking homo hands of the Cuno, fucking grabbing him like a sack of fucking potatoes, I said I’m not going!””

Kim ignored it and quickly pulling the kid back into wrestling hold he managed to drag the objecting boy towards the elevator.

“Let go of me f*g, I’ll rip you to death with me fangs!” Kim just ignored him, striding calmly down the hospital hallway towards the elevator.

“Help! Help! Cuno’s being trafficked, He’s tryna get me to a secondary location!” The boy yelled struggling against his grip.

“Easy.” Kim murmured, releasing the boy as the elevator door closed, he inspected the Cuno shaped tooth marks on his forearm and  sighed. “So do you want to get takeout, or have you fully committed to cannibalism?”

Cuno was too busy thrashing and growling. “You fucking pig piece of -w-what?”

Kim gave him a blank look. “You must be hungry.  You can’t have had much except vending machine food and whatever they gave you at school. I was going to get something if you wanted to come along.”

Cuno narrowed his eyes. “You tryna bribe the Cuno, sika?”

Kim didn't know what a sika was, and frankly he didn't care either. 

“If it’ll save me from needing a rabies shot, yeah.”

Cuno considered this. “…throw in a sika-siga and it’s a deal.”

“Huh?” The elevator door opened to the hospital car park.

Kim exited the lift, Cuno quick behind him, Kim glanced back over his shoulder at him."I don't know what that is."

The boy held up two fingers in a v to his lipss imitating a smoker. 

“ Tupakka. Papirósy . Cuno knows you’re packing.” He said.

Kim looked around, the car park was empty except for them and half a dozen silent  motor-carriages.

He cricked his neck.  “Sure, fuck it, knock yourself out. Just leave one for me.”

He pulled his cigarettes and disposable lighter from his inner pocket and passed them to the kid.

Cuno took a cigarette and lit up, before passing the pack and lighter back to Kim.

“Wanna buttfuck mine?” He asked when Kim took his own cigarette out.

He blinked at the boy. “Khm, they still call it that, huh? I’ll pass, thank you. My lighter works fine.”

Cuno seemed to relax, he leaned against the metal car park fence that faced out towards the heart of Jamrock.

He gestured at the cigarette in his mouth. “What are these? They taste like Speculaas.”

“They’re just some cheap Suresian brand, nutmeg flavoured.” said Kim.

Cuno didn’t reply for a while he just kept smoking.

“Hey Bino?”

“Mm?” Kim grunted.

“Where’s Cuno gonna end up if H-ha- if -he doesn’t get better?”

Kim was silent. For a second his skin prickled, the memory of what it felt like, getting passed around from place to place like an inconvenient pet until he went back to the children’s home back to being seen as furniture, seen as a name over a metal-frame bed and a face in the cafeteria line.

Cuno was vulgar, sometimes cruel, and terse, but he was a person too.

“I think you’ll stay with me; I mean, you don’t have to if you’d rather go with Tuulikki, but legally I’d be your guardian. Harry and I sorted that out so you wouldn’t have to change schools or leave all your stuff behind again.”

“Oh.” Cuno said softly. There was a soft gust of cold air and Kim could have sworn just for a second  the boy smiled.

Cuno threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it.

“Are you allowed rats in your building?”

Kim smiled, savouring the nicotine rush.

“What my landlady doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Amal’s eyes shifted to her friend beside her.

Kagami nodded back. “You're fine. Just stick to the facts like you’re doing and remember to breathe.” Her voice softened a bit when talking to her friend, but she was still incredibly blunt.

Kim pushed the box of tissues across the table. Amal pushed them back dispassionately.

“Thanks, officer, but I’ll cope.  I’ve retold it so many times I don’t even feel it anymore."  She took another drag on her cigarette. Kagami held up two fingers in a V-sign, and Amal gently set her cigarette between her friends’ fingers.

 “What can I tell you about?" She asked, "I wasn’t at home yesterday morning I was at my apartment and then masjid; it was my roommate’s birthday on Sunday, so we celebrated it together. We got home late so I left an answerphone message to tell her I wouldn’t be dropping in.”

“She has two friends who will swear affidavits to that alibi.” Kagami, said gruffly, expelling clove-scented smoke. “Noor Sadiqah al-Khatib, and Aisha Maghrebi. Noor is twenty-two and works in retail, Aisha is nineteen and teaches at the Amani school. I have their details here.” She pushed a typewritten sheet of paper across the table.

Kim took it and grazed his eyes over it briefly.

PROFESSIONALE: Names, phone numbers, addresses. Might come in handy later, possibly.

 “Thank you, Miss Asanuma, that’s very helpful.” He said he slipped the paper inside the case file he'd brought along for the interview for Judit to read from.

“Maitre Asanuma, please." Kagami scowled back. "Don’t talk like you know anything about me.”

Kim didn’t even flinch, he was used to this level of backtalk this was easy mode compared to Juvie. Beside him Minot covered a laugh with a cough.

JUVENILE: She’s putting on airs out of insecurity. Call her bluff. Assert your authority.

“I’m afraid, Madame, that according to the record as of a few minutes ago, you’re a law student. I’m certain you’ll be entitled to that address upon graduation, but you’ll have to make do with a civilian title until then. Now-“ He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Amal.

“So, Miss Kesani, or do you prefer Madame?” Kim asked deadpan.

Amal’s lips twitched but she seemed too tired to commit to a smile. “Uh, either, I don’t care.” She said.

“Right. Do you know if your grandmother’s place was ever targeted by burglars before?” Kim asked, carrying on with the interview.

Amal shook her head. “No, our neighbours were though. Monsieur Untermohlen had some of his insulin and syringes stolen last month.”

“And what valuables do you think your grandmother might keep in the house? As of right now, we can’t tell if anything has been stolen. The television, the radio was all left untouched.” Minot asked.

“I mean we’re not super well off, but she was getting a pension from the MoralIntern for working the People’s Pile and working part-time. I get a token amount from youth services, and I also work when I’m well enough. I haven’t been back to the house yet, I mean if her jewellery wasn’t missing. There are probably some records or tapes in her collection worth a bit and there are the meds sure. she takes those for chronic pain. She has-had-fuck- osteoporosis as well as a lot of immune system issues stemming from getting cancer in her early thirties. She was taking her supplements and drinking more milk than I ever thought necessary, and the doctors said she was fine, she would have been twenty years cancer-free this autumn.”

“Twenty years? That’s incredible.” Judit said.

“Mhm, longer than I’ve been alive. It was a malignant ovarian cancer that spread, brought on by her volunteering after the People’s Pile incident. She had to have a radical hysterectomy, and that’s why she and Vardan couldn’t have kids on their own. I mean Yeva is their daughter, just not by birth.” Amal sighed, taking her cigarette back off Kagami.  “She’s still more formally related to her than I am.”

“You’re under eighteen, there must have been a formal arrangement with Youth Services that she was to act as your legal guardian.” Kim said, “Even runaways have legal rights as minors.”

Amal shrugged, “I guess, she never mentioned anything like that.”

“We always can call Tamsyn and ask,” Kagami said gently.

“Do you mind telling us who Tamsyn is for the record?” Judit asked.

“Oh, yeah, uh, My caseworker with youth services. Tamsyn Isdale-Plame. She’s alright, y'know for a welfare cop. It helped that she’s an immigrant herself.  I don’t need to see her that often these days. She’ll just take me for coffee once a month so we can catch up, check my chips and that I’m going to the meetings and taking my medication, that kind of thing”.

“Meetings? What kind of meetings.” Kim asked.

“Addiction Support or whatever it’s, it’s like a kiddie version of Al-Anon. It's the same program but highly simplified and secularised. Most of the kids are younger than me but I met one of my roommates through it which brought me to where I am now.”

Kim nodded, taking notes. "Right, before that How long did you live with Madame Zakarian?"

“Four years give or take a few months," Amal said.

"How did you meet?" Judit asked softly.

Amal tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. "She worked with CPH, and when I was homeless I would go to their kitchen to get out of the cold and maybe get a meal."

"Was that the one on Dominion?"

Amal shook her head, "I tried to avoid Central if I could. There was too much competition, so I stuck to Jamrock North people seemed less jaded there."

"I take it Nadya was one of those people?" Kim said, watching the girl's body language caving in on itself like a collapsed roof.

Amal blinked at him for a few quiet seconds.

"I guess she was, yes. I was one of the youngest people there not in a family group maybe she took pity on me, maybe she needed a distraction as her husband had just died. I don’t remember much about that time of my life."

Judit made a soft sympathetic noise in her throat. "Because it was traumatic."

Amal blinked again it reminded Kim of a horse,  she seemed to take a long time to show any emotion, like she needed to get it down perfectly first.

"No ma'am, because of the alcoholism. Those memories are sandblasted, along with lots of my childhood and much of my rena; function. I didn't have much clarity left when Nadya found me, I didn't want to be conscious. So frankly, I  don’t care if her taking me in came from pity or loneliness I’m just glad she did it.”

“You’re incredibly astute for your age,” Kim noted. Beside him, Judit nodded in agreement.  

Amal laughed a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

 “Thank you? I guess. This isn’t my first go around, I’ve done this before, for a friend who overdosed, and for my mother when I was ten.”

EMPATHY: She doesn’t sound very thankful. Her affect is flat and blunted, she doesn’t seem to feel much of anything, at least not close to the surface. You recognise it.

PASSION: The Mask.

COMPOSURE: It seems very physically draining for her, but her expression doesn’t crack. She has no desire to show you a display of open keening or a beating of the breast.

PASSION: You see her. She doesn’t see you.

“I don’t see how this line of discussion is prescient to the case, officer.”

“Oh, ease off, Kagami, It’s fine. I didn’t get much of a childhood, sir, and I’m used to talking to the police like this. Besides, I don’t have time to feel the grief in its entirety, I have to go to work this afternoon so unless you want to be an accessory in me physically beating the next customer who tries to remove my hijab, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my customer service voice.

“Legally, officers, that was a joke,” Kagami murmured, struggling to hold in a smirk.

“Where do you work? Can you not get leave for compassionate reasons at least?”  Minot asked, frowning.

“It’s a cashier job at a supermarket, they probably wouldn’t let me off if I was the one who died.” She shrugged, “Besides, I need the money more than ever, I doubt I was in Tati’s will, Misao-san is technically her executor, and he didn’t know if I was covered or not. So, I probably have no legal claim to the house or anything in it. It all goes to Yeva or charity. As far as the law cares blood and marriage are the only kind of relationship that matters.” She sighed but squared her jaw hurried and swallowed it.

“Are you aware of an organisation called the SJL? Some of their tapes were in your grandmother’s collection?” Kim asked.

Amal paused and then shook her head.

“Doesn’t ring any bells, she has a lot of tapes. Several thousand at least. I don’t know all of them.”

Kim nodded writing this down. He looked to Kagami who gave him a shit-eating grin and then averted her eyes/

“Is there anything else you think we should know?” Officer Minot asked.

“Uh, not really. Can you think of anything?” She said, turning to Kagami.

Kagami’s face was stony as ever. She shook her head. “Nothing prescient. But if you stick to the case and the case alone, you’ll be alright. You’re doing very well; I know you’re shattered.”

Amal nodded, “Yeah, um, I mean we’re still waiting on Yeva, the way things are right now we’re trying to have a funeral by the end of the week. I don’t think my Tatik had any enemies and if you say the only thing missing were tapes then I dunno, maybe you could try and see which tapes they took? I don’t know much else that could help. I can pass your details on to Yeva when she gets her but give her some space, she’s gonna be picking up a lot of other people’s messes.”

“Of course, miss. Is there anything the RCM could do to assist you and your family?”.

“No,” Kagami said flatly before Amal got a word in edgeways.

Amal glanced at her friend warily.

“I don’t know, what kind of services does the RCM provide in these kinds of situations?" She asked.  “I’m seeing my usual doctors and my counsellor, the mosque’s saqarah fund is covering the funeral, the cremation, and the additions to Vardan’s headstone. Yeva will deal with the legal stuff when she returns.

“You’re okay with the necessities? Food medication, clothing, shelter?” Minot asked.

Amal nodded fiddling with the fabric at her neck smoothing it down.

“Yeah, my rent covers food and board, I’m in mourning for the next forty days so I’m saving money on new clothes and cosmetics. If I can get a few extra shifts, I should be right, Kagami’s mother has been cooking a bunch of food for me to freeze.”

Kagami snorted, ducking her head. “Ugh, I’m sorry, it’s how she processes bad news. I expect she’ll have a big dish of kierchekh for you by the day's end, I saw her out bartering with the neighbour for red currants this morning.”

“It wasn’t a complaint; I like her food; she always makes everything pescetarian for me because most local fish don’t need a halal certification. Honestly, your family has been lifesaving.”

 She turned back to Kim and Judit. “Her Dad offered to become my guardian ad litem if needs be, but he’s busy with the strike right now.”

Kim nodded glancing at Kagami, “Your father is Misao Asanuma, miss?”

“Yes, what of it?” Kagami snapped.

Kim raised a placid eyebrow.

“Nothing just double checking." He turned his attention to the other woman. Amal,  Is there anything else you want to ask us about your grandmother’s Case?”

Amal's eyes were dark and wet, this time she didn't avert her gaze when Kim's eyes met her.

“Was she in pain?”

Kim and Minot exchanged a look.

PROFESSIONALE: A question you get a lot but it doesn't get any easier to answer.The truth is almost always yes, but very few actually want to hear it. 

FITNESS: You've been glass bottled more times than you can count, it hurts like hell, but only if you stay conscious.

ENCYLOPEDIA: If the estimate cause of death was right, she'd have only time to feel the fear of losing balance, the head injury meant she was out before she even knew what happened.

Kim tried to find a tactful way to phrase it.

“We don’t have the official cause of death yet, but my partner and I performed the field autopsy, and the sheer force required to break tempered shower glass means she was likely unconscious before she hit the ground." He said, keeping his tone sombre. 

Minot nodded, coming in again with the backup support, like an ace volleyball spiker.

"The Lieutenant's right, Miss. She likely had no idea what happened.”

Amal seemed to take this in. She nodded, her eyes growing wet.

“But you don’t know if it was accidental or homicidal yet? She asked.

“No, we don’t, and we likely won’t know until we get an official autopsy report, I’m afraid.”

Amal flinched as her filter-less kretek burnt down against her fingers.

 “Ow, shit.” She mumbled and hurriedly stuffed it out in the ashtray.

Kagami gave her a look of mild concern.

 “We can finish here, you know? Don’t overextend yourself.”

Amal just shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

PERCEPTION (Sight): Her black eyes are distant and glassy, but her pupils are the normal size for the room’s natural lighting, her skin is still greyish, but some blood has returned to her cheeks there’s a jagged white scar that you can just see peeking out from under the edge of the elastic hair cap she wears underneath her hijab.

JUVENILE: She doesn’t seem to be intoxicated or evidently under the influence

EMPATHY: She looks young, overwhelmed, and very tired.  

“We do have resources available if you are afraid of this triggering a relapse.”

“Excusé-fucking-moi?” Kagami hissed. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Leave off, Kagamin. If they talked to Tamsyn already, they already know. I’m alright, I’m just really tired. I don’t think I’m at risk to myself or others, the cigarette helped. I don’t feel any of it yet, maybe it’ll hit me later, but I don’t know. When my mother died- I was the one who found her body and I remember things being a lot worse than this, this time around I don’t feel much of anything.”

“That sounds very normal in reaction to such sudden grief,” Minot said gently.

“I know, officer, as I said I already have a psychiatrist I can talk to. I’m still sober, I’m not a suicide risk but if even I was suicidal what could the RCM do about it? Give me a hotline to call or Institutionalise me?" She shook her head.

"That seems more like a treatment for your discomfort than mine. Materially speaking, it doesn’t do anything. At least nothing more than prayer or medication.”

Her voice fractured but she held strong. Kagami gently touched her arm.  Only then, did Amal relax and ease off the offensive.

“Are there any other questions?” Kagami asked,

Kim looked down at his notes, not because he was searching for any written answer, but because he wanted to gauge the two girls' reactions.

JUVENILE: Amal is crying now, but she barely seems to notice she just sits up straight head held high, not cracking, not giving up anything she didn't want revealed.  Kagami's nostrils flare in frustration,  she sits holding her friend's free hand. She seems to want a fight but knows that not what Amal needs right now.

“I don’t think so, do you, Lieutenant?” Judit said,

Kim opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

He frowned. “Yes?” He called out. “The room is in use.”

Junior Officer Tillbrook’s voice answered, “You have a visitor sir, he says it’s urgent.”

Kim groaned and looked at Judit.

“Excuse me, Officer Minot, are you alright to conclude?"

Judit nodded. But it didn’t matter, as the visitor just barged on in.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) A well-dressed man of Seolite or Samaran descent, dark thinning hair thin silver wireframe eyeglasses and a hint of five o'clock shadow. He walks with a simple wooden under-the-armpit crutch the kind you tend to associate more with old Polio wards than modern plastic and metal forearm crutches, it’s barely noticeable though, his stride is confident, the crutch moves as if it was always a part of him.

He immediately turned to address Kagami in Kitago.

“かがみちゃん、 なんをするんだ?"

The teen crossed her arms across her chest defensively.

"えと、 とうさん おはよう.”

The older man stared her down his expression completely placid.

Kagami who hadn’t even flinched through police interrogation hurriedly looked down and away.

“ごめん” 

The man tutted drily amused and made a ‘bit more’ gesture stretching out the distance between his thumb and forefinger.

Kagami scowled. “おとうさん, すみません.”

The man glanced at his watch and sighed before he switched into Suresnois, his voice was smooth and pleasant like a jazz singer or a late-night radio host,

“Ah, well, you’re forgiven. Next time though, please ask me to come along, I can always make time for it, strike, or not. It’s more important that Amal isn’t being denied her right to an actual practising lawyer nor is she left unattended with men she’s not related to. " His face softened into something kind and paternal "Have you been treated alright, Amal?"

“I have, yes, Monsieur Asanuma. Kagami has been a great help.” Amal said, smiling.

Monsieur Asanuma nodded, appeased. He offered Kim a hand to shake.

Kim shook it, still somewhat puzzled.

The man passed him a business card from his lapel pocket before offering his hand to Judit to shake as well.

PERCEPTION (Sight): The text is elegant dark green ink on a cream paper:

MAITRE MISAO KUZMIN ASASUMA

浅 沼 操 くズミン

Мисао Кузьмин Асанума

Confédération Nationale du Travail - Revachol / Syndicat International des Travailleurs - Branche Graade

Legal Advocate/Consolidator

VOLTA DO MAR: Three names, three languages. Three different Misaos walking around in one body.

PROFESSIONALE: The man is thin and quite tall much like his daughter. He seems pleasant and confident, He is dressed like a lawyer, albeit one leaning his weight on the interview table. Perhaps his leg injury unsettles his balance?

ENCYLOPEDIA: The SIT also known as Les chats noirs or 'the bumpies' from an old Union song: "Bump me into Parliament" is an interisolary labour syndalicalism groups. They had much more of a political sway in the twenties and earlier but the current liberalist climate of the Moralintern has largely kept them tied down with privatisation and legal red tape.

Misao Asanuma put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. He gave a wry- almost proud-smile.

“My kid, do her job, officers?” He asked.

“She did, quite admirably,” Judit said smiling watching this whole interaction play out.

The lawyer nodded. “Well then, I suppose that means I’m not upset.”

“Upset?” Kim asked.

Kagami visibly squirmed in place. Her father withdrew his hand and stepped aside to give her more space.

Kagami got up and pushed her chair back. “It’s alright, we finished the interview, can’t we just go already?”

Her father grabbed her sleeve to stop her from making a run for it.

“No, Kagamin, it’s not alright, I could lose my bar accreditation if they knew you were attempting to use it, unlicensed." He paused and turned his attention to the other girl, his expression softened. “Amal, honey, l have the office car right now, I can give you a lift home if you’d like?”

Amal nodded. “Yes please, I need to go home to get changed for work.”

Misao Asanuma cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his daughter’s ear.

She glanced down at the floor.“心配したよ. ごめんよ.”

Her father sighed. “わかりました, まだ敬語を使ってください。警察署です”

“やつばらをわかりませんよ!” The girl hissed. 

Misao Asanuma let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.

“Yatsu? C’mon, Kagamin, sometimes it’s like you don’t know if you’re a ronin or a delinquent. I don’t think you’re either, you’re a smart kid, but you need to learn to stop and think sometimes, self-confidence isn’t a bad thing, within reason. Here, why don’t you girls go wait in the car? I won’t be long.” 

He chucked his keys to Kagami, who caught them on reflex. Her cheeks and ears were flushed red.

 EMPATHY: Embarrassment. She’d rather her father just yelled at her than be calm-voiced and quietly firm. 

JUVENILE: This is something you’ve seen a hundred times before. She’s punchy and sensory seeking. The kid came here looking for a fight.  She wanted you or him to go on the offensive and he didn’t give her the release of yelling back because he knows that’s a much more effective punishment.

 “Are we free to go?” Kagami asked, turning her ire onto Patrol Officer Minot.

“You are, yes.” She said with a small smile.

Kagami nodded, and clumsily linked arms with her friend.

“Great. C’mon Amal.” 

Misao Asanuma clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“待て, My badge, please.” He held out his hand.

“Right, sorry,” Kagami muttered grudgingly. She rummaged in her pockets and passed her father something laminated the size of a driver’s license.

Misao Asanuma checked the badge, nodded once at his daughter, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Kagami and Amal left the interview room. Misao Asanuma's friendly expression turned cold.

“She’s nineteen, officers.” There was a sudden hardness to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You didn’t think the ZoC had gotten so desperate as to admit a teenager to the bar after a year of study? Did you not check ID when they came in?”

We didn’t need ID from Kagami, just Amal, I booked her in as moral support, not a lawyer. Miss Kesani is legally entitled to have a friend with her both for emotional and religious reasons.”

“Well, yes, that’s certainly true, but you’re the first of your force I’ve met to allow it.”

Kim sighed and glanced over at Minot for backup. She gave him a small sharp nod.

“We’re sorry to hear that, Maitre Asanuma. But as ZoC enforces Laïcite any accommodations for Amani, Yevrem and other religious minorities end up being down to the officers attending- consequently we can’t guarantee accommodations based on religious freedoms that are not enshrined in the law.”

“Regardless, She’s on the record as a law student, not a formal lawyer. As Amal’s legal advocate, you’re welcome to listen to the tape. I don’t believe a bar accreditation was ever even mentioned.”

"I see, well, in that case, I’ll be on my way, Thanks for your time, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, Patrol Officer Minot.”

“Mhm. Good morning” Kim replied cooly.

“Did he just thank us for our time?” Judit asked, amusedly when the interview room door swung shut.

Kim snorted. “Yes, they do that, lawyers. Probably just embarrassed that his daughter was trying to commit identity fraud.”

"Still, I think she’d make a good lawyer assuming she gets the actual accreditation for it.’ Judit said.

Kim gave her a fleeting smile. “I hope she does. She’d be even more of a pain in the ass as a criminal."

Kim went back to the Menagerie and his desk.

“Fancy stepping out for a spell Lieutenant?” A voice asked, Kim looked up to see Vicquemare standing over his desk nursing a black coffee.

“I only just sat down do you have something in mind?” Kim answered.

“I was going to call my sister about the military transcripts and other documentation we found at the house yesterday, I’d rather not use the workline, so I was going to pop home for a bit. You’re welcome to tag along.

Kim glanced at the paperwork surrounding him. “Ah, well that’s fair. Yeah, I could use a change of scene.”

“How did the interview go?” Jean asked.

“Pretty standard, except for some light identification fraud.”

“Oh?” Jean raised an intrigued brow.

“The Asanuma girl stole her father’s legal accreditation. She didn’t try to use it with us, but he showed up to chew her out about it,”

Vicquemare snorted. “Oh wonderful, but the granddaughter seems solid?”

Kim sighed. “Yes. She seems traumatized, grieving, and exhausted, but I don’t think she’s a person of interest. Why stage a burglary if you have a key to the house? Why kill your legal guardian if you know without her you could be sent back into the system?  She didn’t know anything about the missing tapes.  She was very sober, to her detriment no doubt. I don’t think we got much out of it other than corroborating the timeline of events.”

“Nothing about this SJL we heard about?” Vicquemare asked.

Kim shook his head. “She didn’t know, she’d not heard the acronym. I think her friend recognized it but she’s a law student and her dad’s a lawyer, it’d be like interrogating sheet metal.”

His partner nodded. “Mhm, fair enough. Perhaps we should speak to Asanuma senior sometime.”

Kim made a face. “Perhaps, I imagine he’s busy negotiating the canneries strike. He’s a union suit after all.”

Vicquemare rolled his eyes “Ah, a very lucrative time for him.”

“I’d imagine so, yes." Kim elected to change the subject. "How was your morning?”

“Interesting," Vicquemare replied. "It sounds like Red and Torso chuckle-fucked their way into uncovering a sub-rosa operation.”

Kim raised his brows. “Really, in Jamrock? Whereabouts exactly?”

“Eastbound, you know that shitty overpass by the tip near the coal city offramp?”

"Vaguely, yeah,” Kim murmured

“Under the overpass itself in a shipping container.”

Kim shook his head, “Always the damn shipping containers. Are ICP getting involved?”

“Yeah, sounds like it. Breath knows I wouldn’t want to touch that with a bargepole.”

“No, me neither. Was it an active operation?”

“I don’t know, they mentioned a body, singular. Adult male, Silenced .22 to the temple, execution style. Mack reckons it’s a Madre psyop.”

PROFESSIONALE: The silenced .22 would certainly give you that idea as well. You don't concur with Torson on much, but it's not a huge leap of logic for him to make. La Puta Madre isn't the only organised criminal syndicate either, there are others with different MOs different calling cards.

“Hm. Yeah, I’d agree with Torson, the MO sounds much more like besmertie to me, could be drug-related. I thought these operations were more… artistic… in their violence.”

“Ouais. It’s an audio medium, most of the shit people claim are snuff shows are just faked for the same effect. Maybe you’ll get a hitman with a flair for the dramatic here and there but why bother going out and murdering civilians when you can fake it en masse?  Actual commercial snuff media is rare to the point of becoming an urban myth.”

“Harry and I once booked a guy who made himself a nice little photo collage of his work. But even then, it’s rare and he was targeting the unhoused and sex workers, not middle-class schoolkids or whoever the sub-rosa fearmongering is aimed at these days.”

“Yeah, Miller and Jude had a serial rape case where the prep considered himself an amateur videographer. Nasty shit, certainly, but still not a snuff film. I don’t know the situation in Vesper and Gottwald I think they had a couple of real cases but even then, most are gang-related, the recording operation is more of a hobby, like our victim.”

“I doubt Madame Zakarian has any snuff tapes in her collection. She seemed the law-abiding type.”

“Mhm. Shall we go? We can stop by Minh’s afterwards if you want?” Jean asked.

Kim nodded, “Fine with me, just let me finish up here.”

“Mhm. How was Du Bois this morning?”

“Ah, okay, I think. He was talking to Hanna with only a bit of confusion. He’s doing better than he has been. Had a minor focal seizure last night that worried me some, but he seems okay this morning. The aphasia is still bad, and he had trouble remembering where things were.

Vicquemare shrugged, "Sounds like situation fucking normal for him."

PASSION: Oh fucking [Redacted] yourself  you miserable old bastard.

EMPATHY: Come on, Kim he doesn't mean anything malicious by it.

Kim sighed. “Yes, he used to drink a lot and now he has a major brain injury, you'll excuse me for not laughing."

Vicquemare scoffed, "Oh, Lighten up, Lieutenant we can't both be the miserable one."

"Keep your gallows humour to yourself, then, that way it won't spread."

The silence stretched into discomfort. Vicquemare cleared his throat.

"How's the kid holding up?" He asked.

Kim shrugged "He's okay, except that he wants an instant camera, and I don’t think we have that kind of money right now.”

“An instant camera? Like your Trigat?" Vicquemare asked.

Kim nodded. “The Constabulary paid for mine, but I don’t think I can get away with charging for another just to give to the kid.”

Jean grunted. “I don’t know, they’ve seen worse. Our Dei-blessed Coupris 40 for one."

Kim winced. “Exactly. They’ve reason enough to be mad at Harry and by extension me, I’d rather not push the envelope any further than that.”

Vicquemare Residence, Rue Tabernacle, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

12:09, 22nd January '53.

Vicquemare’s flat on Tabernacle was a dingy cheap little place: a joint kitchen and living room, a darkened bedroom with the door cracked open to allow feline entry and exit, and a bathroom smaller than many of the solitary confinement cells in the juvenile penitentiary Kim once worked in. The flat didn’t get much sunlight, relying on the mazut-fuelled radiator system that hummed and gasped and groaned through the walls, trying to keep the winter outside at bay.

Viquemare suddenly nervously animated made a show of picking up some of his laundry strewn over the threadbare sofa. He seemed twitchier than usual, much less relaxed than you’d expect for someone within their own home.

“Sorry it’s a pigsty,  I don’t have the mental capacity to give a shit anymore, really Lieutenant, you should count yourself lucky I show up to work fully clothed.”

Kim chuckled drily, “Thank you for your service.”

“Sit wherever’s clean, you’ll have to forgive the hole in the wall, that’s a Dubois original, one of these days I’ll have to fill it in myself because Dei knows my landlady won’t.”

“Ah,” Kim said, noticing the fist-shaped hole in the plaster. “Maybe she sees it as a feature?”

Jean gave him an unamused look, “Oh I’m sure it’s downright, couture.”

A little grey cat came trotting into the room, her ears flicking back and forth. She sniffed at Kim’s boots with some interest before winding her way around Jean's legs.

Vicquemare reached down to pet the animal, she sniffed his fingers and then decided to give them a testing bite. Jean swatted her off, a bead of blood pooling on his index fingertip.

“Get off! There’s food on your plate, mimi, you won’t get any meat off these bones.”

“I’ll put her on speaker once I get through,” he said, gesturing at the telephone receiver.

Kim nodded. “Take your time, it’s not like we have many other leads right now.”

PERCEPTION (Sight): There’s an old television set and bookshelf, beside you on the sofa is a side table on there there’s three framed photographs, a cracked photograph of Jean and Harry in their uniform, Jean in a riding helmet, Harry in a beaten up looking kepi. Besides that, is an official precinct 41 photograph dated ’49 before Kim’s time, there are a lot more unfamiliar facing, and Lt-Yftr H. Dubois is listed as absent. The third photograph is of three small children dressed up for a Midwinter festival parade, one of the girl’s has won one of those carnival games and she holds up a large stuffed toy elephant her sister and brother bundled up in winter clothes, looking away at something or someone off camera.

“My nieces and nephew,” Jean murmured, following Kim’s gaze. “It’s an old photo. Madeleine must be nearly twelve by now.”

Kim just nodded wordlessly. Souris chirped at him from the floor, he bent down and gave her an awkward pat. She licked his glove.

Jean busied himself by dialling a number. It took a long time for someone to answer.

“Could I speak with Commandant Adélaïde-Valentine Vicquemare, please? It’s her brother calling from Revachol. Thank you.”

He put the speakerphone on, so Kim could also hear the shrill beeping hold tone.

A woman answered, her voice low and gruff. “Allô? Vicquemare speaking?”

“I am indeed,” Jean replied coolly.

There was a pause on the line and a muffled exhale.

“Golden Breath, Is that you, Jean? Why are you calling me at work, who died?”

 “Don't fret, it wasn't anyone you’d ever heard of, Adélaïde,” Jean replied.

Adélaïde-Valentine Vicquemare sighed into the receiver. It was audible she didn't find her little brother's snark funny or charming.

“I’m at work, what do you want? I'm not lending you any more money. Don't fucking try it with Maman, either, we all know you're just going to spend it on pills again. ”

Jean's mask of depressed indifference didn't shift, but his voice hardened.

“No, it's something for work. I need you to run some numbers for me,”

His sister scoffed. “Whoopty-shit. I’m not your fucking secretary, connard.”

Jean palmed his face.“Wait! Don’t hang up -at least let me finish my fucking sentence, non?"

He groaned, gesturing wildly in the air. "-Dei’s tits I know actual murderers with less of a hair trigger than you.”

“Spit it out then.” came the terse reply.

“My partner and I are working a homicide-

Adélaïde cut him off mid-sentence. “Partner!? Feh, I’m not helping that vile harlequin of a man.”

Jean just closed his eyes.

“It’s not Du Bois, Adé.  I haven’t been partnered with him for nearly two years now." He threw up his hands again.

"Dei woman, do you just tune me out whenever I call? He’s not even working anymore; he had a stroke. ”

EMPATHY: There’s a matter-of-factness to his voice that you can understand, the need to stick to the facts of the matter, the need to medicalise your language. If Jean was to acknowledge the very true fact that his best friend didn’t always recognise him, it would be too much to bear. Especially in front of you, and his big sister.

“Serves him fucking right,” said Adélaïde.

Vicquemare growled. There wasn’t another word to describe the guttural animalistic sound that clawed up his throat.

Kim looked at the other main with genuine alarm.

“Look, I don’t give a gilded fuck what you think of the man, I certainly can’t make you care in a way that matters but if you prefer me alive to dead, keep your thoughts on Du Bois to yourself.  I need to run two numbers from the NCD alright? We don’t have access to it at the precinct. It’s for a homicide case. Please, can I just ask you for that without the editorial? Then I’ll fuck off and you don’t need to hear from me again for another ten months."

There was a pause on the line, another sigh. “Are they tape codes or transcript codes? - the database sees them as different.” She asked.

“I think transcripts, as that’s what we found them on." Jean looked back over his shoulder at Kim and reached for the documents.

"Lieutenant, do you mind passing me the folder?" He asked.

Kim passed it over without a word. Jean kept talking. "-They’re both stamped declassified. From July 49. The transcripts seem to have pages missing and we have yet to ascertain whether that’s part of redaction or theft.”

“We just use typewriter blackout typically," Adé said,  "So, it’s unlikely they’d separate any of the original pages even if the entire text is redacted. I get pages looking like a modernist painting on the regular so if there are pages missing someone probably took them.”

“You catch that, Kim?” Vicquemare asked looking back over his shoulder again.

Kim nodded. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“Who are you talking to?” His sister asked, it was hard to tell if she was amused or concerned.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi, my current partner." Her brother replied. " I’ve got you on speakerphone so be nice. Can I read you the number now please?”

Adé sighed. “Ugh, yeah go ahead.”

Jean read out the number code from the military transcript folder they’d found in the Zakarian house.

Adé Vicquemare took it down.

“Okay, so by ear alone I can tell you that’s from the Head Office here in Lutece." She said, "The ending code 9316 is a modifier suffix, for those we use A1Z26.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: A1Z26 is a simple substitution cipher, typically used in telegraphs and phone numbers where letters need to be encoded as numbers. Each number is replaced with its corresponding numbered position. So 9-3-1-6 might be ICAF.

LOGIC: [Difficult -Pass] No-, I think, it’s 9-3-16. ICP.

“ICP,” Kim muttered.

“Huh?” Viquemare turned back around.

“9316 stands for ICP. It was the same at Processing”.

“Oh, Adé did you catch that?” Jean asked.

“I did, yes and the Lieutenant is quite likely right. If a case was passed on to them and by extension the MoralIntern, then Dei knows it’ll be redacted within an inch of its life. Half the time they aren’t even hiding anything pertinent they just do it to hold the information hostage from us, they want to be the biggest dick swingers of crime and punishment. " She sighed for what felt like the hundredth time in this brief phone conversation.

"Frankly, you should probably just let them. Surely, you’ve got enough on your plate playing policeman over there in your little militia?”

“We’re not picking fights with the brown suits; we’re just following up on evidence at the scene of a burglary and possible murder. Can you please run the numbers for us?”

Adélaïde-Valentine Vicquemare sighed into the receiver again, in a dogged Suresian way that perfectly echoed her younger brother.

“Give me both of them now and I’ll head downstairs to the RC, run them and call you back.” She said.

Jean gave her the other number and she hung up without another word.

Vicquemare set the receiver back down and rubbed at his face with both hands, before turning back to face, Kim.

“Sorry about that. She-uh, she and Harry never got along. They were both too stubborn, too divorced.”

Kim nodded. “I understand, detective.”

Jean sat beside Kim on the sofa and didn’t speak for a while he just picked anxiously at his hand.

Souris chirped at him. He tapped his lap and the cat jumped up eagerly.

“You don’t have siblings, right?” he asked Kim without eye contact.

Kim shook his head. He was still close with the sister of his late ex but he didn’t feel like divulging that level of information, even now he still felt the need to clam up about his personal life, even with the one man at the precinct who knew about him and Harry.

“I’d say you’re lucky but maybe that’s tactless of me, given the circumstances.”

Kim just smiled politely. “She certainly seemed... very brusque.” He said.

The other man laughed. “You think so? I’d say that was her being civil.”

“Ah," Kim sat scrunching his nose. "Remind me not to run afoul of the Signal Corps next time I’m in Sur-Le-Clef, then.”

Jean fumbled in his pants pocket for his crumpled pack of cigarettes, the movement seemed to bother Souris who lithely jumped down and padded off into the kitchen.

Vicquemare gestured vaguely with an unlit cigarette in his fingers.

“Do you mind?” He asked.

Kim shook his head. “It’s your apartment.”

Jean leaned back, and lit up, some of the stress visually fell off his gaunt frame but Kim could tell without asking that the nicotine hit was much less than what he expected.

“She’s not that bad, Adé. She’s just… you know what it’s like after decades on the force. It changes people, rarely ever for the better. The military’s no different. Our family’s been in for generations.”

Kim inclined his head. “I’d say that’s by design for the RCM, we are modelled on the Commune’s military.”

Jean nodded. “My grandfather was in the ICM. Maman swears up and down he was just a pencil pusher in the propaganda department, but my brothers found some pretty solid evidence of him being Politburo.” He took a long almost meditative drag from his cigarette. “I for one don’t think they’d have made such a public spectacle of his execution if he’d been a simple bureaucrat.”

VOLTA DO MAR: In a shopping plaza in the Old Town, An old man is unaware he’s having his watch and pocketbook stolen. A pretty young blonde stops to ask him directions to the Place du Marche Light Rail Station. The square he stands in is called Place du Royaume now, it used to be Place de le Revolution, but the name was changed not long after Jean-Francois-Claude Valentine and six of his comrades were publicly guillotined in the square, a threat of warning against any further would-be insurrectionists by the new coalition government and her INSURCOM forces.

His daughter, Marie-Louise Vicquemare, could not return to Revachol in time to see her father before he was killed as she was heavily pregnant with her first child, a daughter who would be named Adélaïde-Valentine in honour of her late grandfather. Nowadays loose tare and muddy sludge from last night’s snowfall cover the well-worn flagstones. There are no signs of the six men who lost their lives here, no memorial plaque or even stray bullet marks. Just an old man getting pickpocketed and a couple arguing outside a women’s atelier advertising real Ubi Sunt woollen sweaters.

Kim didn’t know what to say to that. Jean didn’t seem to care either way. He sighed.

The telephone rang. Jean jumped up as if stung.

“Vicquemare speaking?” He answered on autopilot.

Adé Vicquemare did not open with a greeting.

“You owe me for this one, my bitch of a XO was following me around the place the whole time. Look, I double-checked that both are free to share with you since they’ve been redacted and the clearance level is Level Two on the Joint Security Council, does the RCM have a clearance level?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The JSC is the MoralInterns Official Security Body. They dealt with state and corporate secrets, espionage, strike-breaking, counter-terrorism, that kind of thing.

PROFESSIONALE: Anything over level two is almost certainly spook shit, but police officers are technically able to view documents with a level three clearance if required for a case.

“Lieutenants and up are covered up to level three. Kitsuragi and I both covered by that.”

“In that case, I don’t think I’ll be in the shit for sharing these but still try to keep the details confidential, ouias? You know how the brown suits are with their petty bureaucracy, don’t do anything internationally prosecutable with it and you’ll be fine.”

“Of course, merci mille fois.”

“Qu’importe. The first one corresponds to an interview of a Vespertine Police officer regarding a sting operation, it’s heavily redacted but seems standard stuff, you can look it up in the Moralintern database if you omit the first five and last four digits."

Kim made a note of this it was good information. Adé kept speaking.

"The second one is a Vespertine Police-Moralintern joint panel review of an officer KIA. The personal details of the officer in question are redacted to shit and so are the names of their partner and those sitting on the panel, I don’t think there’s much to glean there. An undercover agent got caught and got his shit kicked in pretty severely, that much wasn’t redacted. Died of his wounds two months later." She made a soft Suresian noise of amusement. "Sounds like someone really fucked it somewhere. I don’t know how that helps your case at all. ”

“That’s for us to figure out, right Lieutenant?” Jean asked.

Kim nodded, then realising Commandant Vicquemare couldn't see them he added. "Of course."

“Thanks, Adé, Next time I see you I’ll buy you a round,” Jean said.

His sister harrumphed. “I’ll hold you to that. Do you think you could get time off in May?”

Jean's expression paled, and he softened his voice. “May- You mean for the-for Papa's anniversary?”

“Yeah, Louis is in Yeezut from March til August, and I’m on duty fifty hours a week. ”

Jean sighed. “Mhm, I can try. My Captain is out on family leave right now and his replacement is a little reluctant with leave requests. It may pay  to wait until Pryce gets back to ask.”

“I know how it is,” Adélaide muttered gruffly. “But Maman would like to see you in person. She’s been so melancholic lately about all her sons falling through her grip.”

“She has you and Louis,” said Jean.

Adé scoffed. “I’m not a son, I’m an eldest daughter which is less of a child and more a kind of sentient furniture and Louis is too busy cheating on his wife with every nineteen-year-old volunteer he lays his eyes on to care about attending memorials.”

Jean sighed. “I’ll try to be there to look after Maman, you deserve some R&R.”

“Thanks… and uh…you can bring a friend if you’d like.” She said.

“There’s no one to bring, unless you mean Souris and it’s hard enough to get her out of the flat to the vet,” Jean replied.

“No one at all, Jean?” His sister sounded sad all of a sudden, not mad or disappointed just sad.

“We can’t all be as proficient at marriage and divorce as you are, Adélaïde.”

“Peh! Eat glass. I don’t know why I bother sometimes.” His sister spat.

Vicquemare smiled. “I’ll call you when I find out about May, give Maman my love.”

“Sure, whatever.” There was a pause. “Non, Wait, Jean?

“Yeah?” Vicquemare asked.

“Ah, rien. Just look after yourself, please? don’t do anything stupid.”

“Mmhm, au revoir.” He hung up the phone and turned back to Kim.

“Sorry about that, but at least we got the information. She is good, my sister, you have to have things you still know are good in this world, otherwise there's nothing left else to live for."

EMPATHY: He isn't saying this to you really, it's more like he's trying to convince himself of the fact, that he does have something left. The fact that his sister read him like a book without even laying eyes on him has thrown off his groove. He thought he was doing better or maybe he’s lost the ability to tell if he’s doing worse.

We can head back to the precinct after this unless you have anywhere else you want to go.

I was wondering about that organisation that kept coming up with the SJL.

Oh right, I asked Martine to run the acronym and we got some hits but nothing that seems relevant here: south Jamrock Library that closed in thirty-six. So, it’s not that. What else- Uh, Séverin Janvier-Lacroix - some dead courtier from are Franconigerian era."

“Khm, I doubt it. I don't think they'd have had tape recorders back then”.

"No, that's true. The other hit was The Society of Junior Lawyers?"

Kim narrowed his eyes and considered this somewhat. “Could be, but I doubt they'd be calling themselves agents if it was just a bunch of law students messing around.”

Jean nodded, "Mhm. That’s what I thought also. Those three were all I could find on the precinct database under that acronym.

 Boogie Street, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

14:31, 22nd January '53.

 Vicquemare had been in a foul mood ever since he'd spoken to his sister that morning. Patrol Officer Minot had been sympathetic about this in the kitchenette at lunch and suggested Kim give him some 'Horse time' until he got over it. She wasn't entirely clear what this meant, but he had noticed that his partner tended to spend a lot of time in the stables when he got like this.

Kim had taken on her advice and offered to try and catch Misao Asanuma at his law office on Boogie Street to ask him some questions. It wasn't a make-or-break thing, just an interview. Kim quite correctly guessed that his partner would be happy missing out on yet another interview, and just quietly, Kim appreciated the time off from him.

VOLTA DO MAR: The office building that Misao Asanuma listed on his card shared space with an acupuncturist and several psychics. It was an old record company's building, the company had long since gone under in the New, leaving concrete and rebar skeletons in the still-beating heart of Jamrock that was the Boogie Street markets.

Kagami Asanuma opened the door dressed very differently than he’d seen her before, her heavy makeup and strange fluorescent fashions were gone, and she looked much younger and much more tired bare-faced in a green kimono with black hakama, her long hair was tied back in a bun, she blinked at him, and her body language locked hard like she was trying to take up the entire doorway to block Kim out.

“You’re the cop from before. Katsuragi.” She said flatly.

“It’s Kitsuragi, and yes, I am, is your father in? I did try to call ahead.” Kim said.

“He’s in, but his secretary is helping the strike efforts. Take your boots off, I’m afraid Amal took the guest slippers home and I’m kind of in a rush to go to work, are you okay without them?”

Kim nodded, unsure what a law office needed slippers for but not interested enough to ask.

“Oh, yes, it's fine. Where do you work?”

“Boogie no Kissatsen.” She replied. “It’s a teahouse a block away in little Seol, it’s an ugly little hole in the wall but the Baa-chan who runs the place is friends with my parents and in the evenings so homesick businessmen will slip you a fifty real note for the virtue of being pretty, speaking Kitago and pouring tea correctly, you know what a kissatsen is, right? A teahouse-café.”

Kim nodded. “I do, miss, yes.”

“Right –父さん、あの警官が来ました。.”

Misao Asanuma’s voice answered. “Okay, Send him in.”

 “Mhm, It’s the door at the end of the hallway.” 

“Right, thank you.” 

“Mhm. いってきます !”

Her father's voice came echoing down the hall again.

“はい, いってらしゃい!

Kim followed the voice down the hall to a closed wooden door that bore Asanuma’s nameplate.

He knocked before trying the doorknob.

"Ah Lieutenant Kitsuragi please come in.”

Kim opened the door to a warm office with a space heater blaring. Surrounded by large bookshelves full of legal tomes sat Misao Asanuma at his desk.

“Sorry to bother you for the second time today, Monsieur,” Kim said.

Misao Asanuma waved his hand. “Oh no, it’s fine, come in take a seat. Can I offer you a drink?"

Kim took a seat and shook his head. "No thank you, tempting as is, I am still on duty."

"Oh, of course, It sounded like Kagami was running late for work again, I promise she can be a nice enough kid when it suits her. I think Nadya’s death has shook her more than she’s willing to let on.”

“I can understand that I understand your families were close,” Kim said,

“Yes. She and my wife got on very well, I think often Gala feels left out or that Kagami overwhelmingly chooses her Kitajin heritage over her mother’s side, Nadya was both Graadian but not, both my wife’s people and the Haykians have been through a lot you know?" He shrugged, "Anyway, how can I be of assistance, Lieutenant?’

“I was wondering if you knew of an organisation called the SJL? they came up a lot in Nadya’s transcripts,”  Kim asked.

Misao sighed massaging the crease of his brow with a finger. “Lungs, is there a problem those kids aren’t tangled up in?” 

“You know of them?”   Kim asked.

“Yeah, they’re just a group of local kids. Local to North Jamrock. Boogie street delinquency is way above my pay grade. “

Kim narrowed his eyes. “By kids how old are we talking? Children? Teenagers?”

Misao chuckled, “No, no, I mean not anymore, they’re probably all in their early to mid-twenties now. Two of the young men work at the cannery, I saw them on the picket line this morning. I don’t think they’re malicious, detective. They’re just… you know…  a group of working-class young adults putting on airs of being libertine revolutionaries."

"Revolutionaries?" Kim prompted. "As in agitators?"

"No, more as in a handful of twenty-something cannery workers who read Mazovian theory as a brief escape from the fish guts."

EMPATHY: Faces flash to mind immediately: the Ravers from Martinaise, Cindy the Skull, Lillie Thi Tran and, oh I don't know? One Harrier Du Bois?!

HARRYOLOGY: From the handful of things your partner has told you about his youth, he would have fit right into this 'society' if it weren't for a blonde with more money than self-preservation instincts.

COMPOSURE: Easy, don't cave to his  dialectics and disarming humor, he’s still a lawyer. Give him the eyebrow, that should do it.

Misao laughed, he seemed largely unaffected by Kim's flat affect and his powerful left eyebrow.

"They ran a tape bootlegging operation in university, that's about as subversive as they got really, but that was four or five years ago now that’s how I met them.

"Oh?" Kim prompted.

Misao nodded smiling fondly. "I defended them pro bono in a copyright dispute. Call it nepotism if you want, but their ringleader's father is a friend of a friend. Union guy, nice enough, his son’s a complete dipshit, but that's not a crime surely?"

"Not one we'd have the manpower or prison space to enforce," Kim replied drolly. He liked this guy, despite his best efforts not to let himself. He was straightforward and maybe a little too thick with the charisma, for a police statement, but it was a welcome change for Revachol where most people he tried to interview either fled or pulled a knife.

 Misao Asanuma wasn’t being intractable, he wasn't rude or hostile, and he didn't seem to be throwing up major red flags either. He had the attitude of someone you'd talk to waiting in line at the bank or a hotel bar,

"Exactly. Look I'm happy to tell you what I know about the SJL but I'll be clear, they're not murderers. I don't know if you're familiar with the Seolite concept of the Chūnibyō?”

Kim shook his head. “I’m not, no.” “It’s a slang term for middle schoolers, you know, that part of adolescence where kids get grandiose delusions of being a space pirate or a gangster, the SJL is like the adult equivalent they have delusions of being a disruptive Mazovian political chapter but they're just four twenty-somethings who live together in Les Sardines. I can’t say I’ve spoken at length to them in a year or so, but they’d never mean any harm to Nadya, she loved them to bits.

“We have reason to believe a bag of tapes was stolen from Mme. Zakarian’s library. It was specifically a bag of tapes the SJL donated. They’re not currently under suspicion themselves but we need more information.”

“Ah, okay. Well, I’d prefer for my peace of mind if you didn’t turn up to the picket to interview them, if the company gets wind of police involvement with strikers, they’ll take that rumour and run.”

“It’s against RCM policy to get involved in labour disputes unless there’s a criminal act involved. You said there was four of them, are they all involved in the picket?”

“No, just the two young men, the girls would be fine, and they’re certainly the more rational members of the group. I believe Kass works in a café in Les Sardines, I couldn’t possibly guess what kind of grift Charlie’s up to. Last I heard she was freelancing as a photographer in Couron.”

“Can you give me their legal names, please?” 

“Sure. Kassandra Papadopoulos and Marie-Ange Lemaire, just don’t call her that if you value your glasses unbroken, she only ever goes by Charlie and her right hook is nothing to laugh at.”

Kim’s lips twitched, “A tomboy?”

“Something like that, I feel like I’m probably too old and too straight for all the new terminology. Charlie’s just Charlie.”

UNDERGROUND: He uses feminine pronouns, but Charlie is a unsex name, it might pay to scope out their whole deal before you accidentally out a kid at work.

“Understood. And do you know what SJL stands for?”

Misao Asanuma stubbed out his cigarette in a half-full ashtray, He gave a tired smirk. “Société des Jeunes Libertins. The Society of Young Libertines”

Kim raised an amused eyebrow. “I see... Khm…Nothing about that implies amateur radio to me.”

Misao laughed. “No. If I can speak plainly, Kitsuragi. It sounds like an underground sex club. It's not the name I'd have picked either, but we're all entitled to our freedom of expression are we not?"

Kim nodded, “That's certainly true.” He wrote this down in his notes.

“Do you think this case constitutes homicide?” Misao asked after the silence stretched out too long for his comfort.

Kim looked up at him over the top of his glasses frames. “You’re the lawyer here, Monsieur Asanuma. We don’t have an official cause of death yet, either it’s accidental or it’s homicidal. If someone is pushed and dies from the fall, would you call it a homicide?”

“It could be, there’s certainly a victim. It’s been a while since I studied criminal law but assuming the ZoC uses standard coalition practices of law, murder or manslaughter aren’t off the table, even if she wasn’t pushed it’s still possible to argue criminal negligence or involuntary manslaughter. ”

Kim nodded.

“But from what you know right now, are you certain there was a burglary?" Misao asked.

“As opposed to what? Did she rip up the place herself? It’d take a degree of sustained rage or suicidal intent for someone to bash their own skull in, and there’s no evidence of Mme. Zakarian having any such issues. ”

Misao winced at the violent description,

“No, I don’t think that’s very likely – unless there was a serious gas leak or something and I’m sure you’d have noticed that. I just find it strange the only things missing were tapes. I was at the Zakarians’ place often. Gala and Nadya worked together, and Amal is our daughter’s best friend. I knew Nadya, I know she took pain medication that would make a decent amount on the street, she didn’t trust banks because she lived through a genocide and if her jewellery was all left untouched, there were still electronics, silverware, cash and copper wiring but you’re saying they were all left alone?”

“Correct, yes. Both the change in the bowl by the door and the medication in Nadya’s room were untouched. It did look like they knew what they were looking for”.

“May I ask in general non-classified terms what the stolen tapes were of? You don’t have to disclose anything you can’t currently share.”

“It was a bag of mixed tapes from ‘49, we think Nadya had been sorting them she had a few bags to go through from the SJL in recent years.

“49, that’s what- Breath- four or five years ago-“

Kim nodded“Her husband died in 49, could that be related?”

“Vardan? No, he died of blood cancer, as I imagine most of his peers involved in the clean-up of the people’s pile will do eventually.”

“Amal mentioned something about that. Nadya also had cancer because of it.”

“Yeah, Her’s was one of the first linked cases in Revachol. Ovarian cancer that spread very quickly leaving her unable to have kids.” He scratched his nose. “Revachol’s only ever had the one nuclear powerplant right?”

“In terms of civilian use? Yes. The ICM had a handful of nuclear power aero and watercraft but like everything else in the commune they were held together with spit and a prayer, so I wouldn’t count them as feats of engineering.”

“We have three on Seol. There used to be a fourth one on the coast where I grew up.”

“Used to?” Kim asked.

 “There was a big earthquake that triggered a smaller tsunami, it caused a criticality incident in one of the four reactors and a coolant tower collapsed.”

“Ah, Lucky number four.”

Misao laughed, “God yeah, give the press a pun like that and they’ll milk it dry in a week. ” He paused. “Oddly, I was just talking to Nadya last week about that disaster, and she was telling me about what she remembered from her time in Faubourg.”

“Were you in the area when it happened? The incident in Seol I mean, not people’s pile, I remember that, I was working downwind at a youth penitentiary, and yard time was on lockdown for six months.”

“Me? No, I was at university in the capital. It happened near my hometown though and my brother and many school friends worked at the plant.”

“Was anyone killed?”

“A dozen workers were killed in the initial blast, another six from acute radiation poisoning. My brother called me on the telephone. He said there’d been an earthquake and asked me if I could get hold of our parents. When I did it was hours later as the resulting aftershocks and panic knocked out phone lines and train service, my parents were both fine and so were the animals. Unfortunately, by the time the trains were back up and running it was too late for Mirai.”

“Khm. I-I’m sorry.” Kim said quietly.

“Don’t be, there are people who are much more responsible and unlike the People’s Pile some of them got jail time, although the company’s C-suite, largely got off with a tap on the wrist, and I changed from tort to law to labour rights. I got a scholarship to the International Law Centre of the Peace Museum in Mirova,  where I met my wife. She was assigned as my translator, she speaks both Graadian and Kitago, eventually, we married and the Graadian branch of the SIT moved me here to work with the CNT-Revachol. We had Kagamin in '34 and the rest you know.”

“Is Kagamin, her full name? Amal called her that too.” Kim asked.

“No, it’s kind of a cutesy nickname, she hates it and what kind of father doesn’t embarrass his kids just a little bit for fun?”

Kim chuckled, thinking of Harry. “Of course.”

“You’re Revacholiere right?” Misao asked, Kim's heart dropped, he'd hoped the man wouldn't bring it up.

“Yeah, my parents were born here both were half Seolite. My Dad’s side Kitajin, Mum’s was Gyeong-eo.”

Misao nodded, pausing in thought. “Uh-huh, You know I’ve noticed that with Sansei, a lot more are mixed race. I guess that’s just the way it goes in a place like Revachol everyone’s coming from somewhere else.”

“Sansei? I’m sorry I don’t speak the language, they died when I was small, and I don’t have many living relatives who speak Kitago. I’ve been trying to learn more recently but it’s much harder as an adult...”

“Oh, no, of course. San is written as three and sei is written with the first character of Sekai, as in 'the world'. It’s the numerical counter for eras or generations. So, Sansei means the third generation in the diaspora. There’s supposedly a cultural element to it but I guess it depends on the person. I would be considered Issei; my daughter is second generation – Half-Nisei Kitajin and half Sakhan. She’s a stubborn one, but I think it’s more of a matter of resilience than rebellion.”

“She’s following in your footsteps with law school, so you can’t have done that bad.” Kim said gently.

“No, I guess not. My parents were worried she’d turn out as just another Jamrock delinquent, and they were right in some ways. I think having friends like Amal has balanced her out she’s realised it’s not a cool or easy life on the streets. Do you have kids, Lieutenant?”

Kim clenched his jaw at the personal question.

“Yes, I have a foster son. He’s fourteen. His story and Amal’s are not dissimilar."

Misao nodded. “You see a lot of that in Jamrock. It struck me when I first moved just here how out in the open the poverty is in this country, er, not-country-exactly, city-state.”

“What’s the alternative, dying quietly in the shadows?” Kim asked, with a dry unamused smile. “My generation is full of war orphans with no mobility and the kids of Kagami’s generation have been failed by every broken promise be it from a revolutionary or a politician.

“Mm, it’s hard to build a home out of a bomb shelter, I’ll give you that. Although I’m surprised, it’s not the kind of nuance I’d expect to hear from the RCM.”

“Well, I am not the RCM, any more than you are the Canneries Union or the CNT, Monsieur Asanuma.”

The lawyer smiled a genuine crooked-front-teeth-showing smile. “No, Kitsuragi-san, I suppose not.”

EMPATHY: The swapping of your rank for the Kitago honorific is meant as a subtle concurrence. You are not just Lieutenant Kitsuragi, but Kim Kitsuragi, who deserved human respect.

PASSION: It’s been a long time since a stranger acknowledged that.

“Do you know anything about Nadya’s little archive? Did she record tapes, or did she just collect them? We don’t have much to go on based on the burglary alone, only a bag of tapes was missing.”

“A bit of both, it was Vardan’s originally, he was a historian, and they met as teachers at the same school, Nadya said his father had worked at the National Museum of Haykian culture and Vardan would accompany him as a child. He was seven when the Cheka burnt it to the ground and his family had to flee to Revachol.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: One of many gendarmeries in the history of the Graadian isola. Secret Police, State Security, State Intelligence, the distinction doesn’t really matter to the bodies in the mass graves.

PASSION: the MoralIntern First Lieutenants who drew lots to kill our parents weren’t that much better as Coalition-appointed executioners.

COMPOSURE: Passion, we’re so, so tired, this is the last time we will be asking you to stop.

“I understand that her daughter Yeva will be handling the legal matters when she returns but after her interview this morning I was wondering about Amal. Runaways tend to fall off the record, and Amal said she was homeless for a few years, but I assume that there was some kind of legal documentation that Amal was living in Mme. Zakarian’s care?" Kim adjusted his glasses as they pinched his nose bridge. 

"She’s sixteen so it wouldn’t be too difficult to apply for legal emancipation. I just fear the girl being lost by the system,"

Misao nodded sadly, "That's not unwarranted."

"We spoke with Mme. Isdale-Plame but she couldn’t tell us much about Amal’s situation, so I don’t know if she’s eligible for extra support or a PEAR placement or anything like that.”

Misao Asanuma scratched his chin.

PERCEPTION (Sight): You didn't notice earlier because you weren't this close, but there's thin tendril-like veins of baby pink scar tissue, shooting up the left side of his neck and disappearing behind his left ear where there forms a straight surgical scar. He's clean-shaven, except for a few stray hairs on his upper lip covering up what appeared

“Well, I’m largely a litigator, not a family lawyer so I don’t have a lot of experience with the foster care system in Revachol but I contacted Youth Services’ helpline and they also can’t do anything without a death certificate but the woman I spoke to said that if Amal’s living situation had already been approved by her caseworker and she has means of supporting herself than there was no reason to move her. I think the next move would be for either Gala and I or Yeva to apply for guardianship when we get the opportunity. She’s nearly seventeen so it’s possible by the time the paperwork gets sorted she’d be ready to age out anyway.”

Kim took this down in his notes and flicked back a few pages to check his notes from the morning’s interview.

“She mentioned a brother as well. Do you know anything about him?”

“Amal had two brothers, Mousa was conscripted along with their father Khalil, both men were assumed KIA, but as far as Nadya was ever able to find out the Shamian government only had a record of Khalil Kesani’s death and burial in ‘45. If Mousa survived he’d be in his twenties now.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Many of the former suzerainties have lower ages of majority grandfathered in the hopes the Suzerain could conscript a quick army when needed.

 “As for her younger brother, Youssef, he’s probably about twelve. He was formally adopted about three or four years ago. Amal got to see him a couple of times, but his adoptive parents thought her a bad influence, so they cut off access entirely. She was pretty messed up after that I remember Nadya saying it triggered a relapse, that was when she’d just started drying out.”

“Does she have a history of violence?”

Misao pursed his lips. “Not deliberately.”

“That’s a lawyer’s answer if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Oh please, you’re a police officer, no doubt you’re familiar with alcoholics and drug users, sometimes chemical changes in the brain cause people to lash out when they’re drunk, high or just going through withdrawals. Amal was no different, but she was also thirteen, fourteen years old and skinny as a bean pole. Nadya and Gala could handle her unaided, and on the rare occasion that they couldn’t she’d be admitted for a short-term hold. I don’t blame her for it and neither do they. DTs are ghoulish enough for adults let alone a traumatised minor”

Kim sighed. “I worked juvenile before joining criminal investigations. Minors are as capable of violence as you or I am.”

“Capable yes, but not culpable, in the eyes of the law. At least under a functioning legal system. I am well aware of how many juveniles the RCM tries to trial as adults.”

“You make it sound like it’s a choice, and while perhaps it is for some officers for the most part, it’s a case of not wanting to send another kid into a juvenile penitentiary packed to brims, we don’t have the funding or the space to send them somewhere else. Not every jurisdiction has access to a firm like Laurent and Corbin.”

“Oh, you know Jacques and JJ?” the lawyer asked, referring to the firm's two partners.

Kim nodded “They’re the closest we get to public defenders these days.”

Misao smiled, “Good men, I don’t envy them. I never really saw the attraction of criminal prosecution. It’s gruelling and you’d rarely make enough to live off. No social fallbacks either, at least when I don’t have a case to work with CNT, I can still make an income doing civil litigation.”

Kim just nodded again. He wanted to steer the conversation as far away from juvenile detention as possible.

“How’s Madame Asanuma? I fear we left her quite upset yesterday, and as much as that wasn’t my intention I don’t think there is a nice way to receive such horrific news.”

“Gala? She’s alright. I mean, she’s grieving. She and Nadya were close. But she’s the toughest woman I’ve ever met... I think more than anything she’s concerned about Amal. She comes from a very close-knit communal culture; Amal is family to her blood is irrelevant.  She’s been cooking food to take over and making sure she’s got enough support. I think she’ll be okay in time.”

“And neither of you know of anyone who might mean Nadya or Amal harm?”

“No. No one, known to us. It’d almost make a sick kind of sense if it was just an accidental death during a burglary because neither woman has any obvious enemies.”

“No former romantic partners, boarders, employees that kind of thing?”

Misao shook his head no. “Nadya wasn’t ever a landlord and she only ever had eyes for Vardan, and Amal hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to have a normal adolescence. I mean I could always ask Kagami if Amal had any exes, but it’s unlikely she’d tell me even if she did, she’s loyal to a fault that one.”

Kim nodded again; a tired smile flickered at the corner of his lips. “She’s tough and empathetic. She’d make a good lawyer.

Misao smiled. “She would, wouldn’t she? Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You mentioned tapes were the only thing that’s missing?”

“Yes, as far as we know a bag of old tapes donated by the SJL and some transcripts.”

“Mhm, you’d be better off talking to Kassandra then. If it wasn’t just a freak accident, then it could be possible that Nadya accidentally got hold of a tape that someone didn’t want public.”

“Enough to kill over?” Kim asked.

Misao shrugged. “You’re the criminal investigator, not me. I have the same amount of information that you do if not less, but I mean, it’s Jamrock, people have been killed over smaller gripes.”

“Of course. It is something we are considering but we won’t know until we find out more about the tapes.”

“I understand, these things take time and the bureaucratic elements surely slow down the process. I’m afraid there won’t be much I can do from a legal or probate standpoint until a death certificate is filed.”

“What do you do until then? Would Mme. Zakarian’s daughter and Amal be without an inheritance indefinitely if the cause of death was undecided?”

 “Well in most of the ORG, it’s a three to seven-year wait to declare death in absentia. It depends on the circumstances and the magistrate, but given that there’s a body in this case, we can go ahead without a cause of death, usually a legal acknowledgement that she is deceased is enough to proceed with administration, it’d be different if Amal or Yeva were suspected of causing the death, which I don’t believe is the case.”

“Khm, Well, We’ve yet to meet Yeva Zakarian, but given she was on a different Isola it seems unlikely, and both Amal’s friends confirmed her alibi, Miss Al-Khatib even gave us a photocopy of an instant photograph they took on Sunday night as evidence, and to be quite honest I don’t believe she has the physical strength required to push her grandmother,  the fact that her fall shattered tempered shower glass suggests a high degree of force. I think you’d have a good chance of arguing her innocence.”

Misao considered this, “I mean, it could just as well be a case of shoddy engineering. You have to understand, Lieutenant, when Les Sardines was rebuilt in the 20s it was largely rebuilt with Meteoran mob money, they’re not exactly paying for union building inspectors.”

Kim nodded, he was tired, and he wanted to go home, every problem he dealt with in this case felt systemic and cascading.  

LOGIC: At least at home our biggest problems are getting Harry to take his medication and Cuno clogging up the drains by cleaning out his pet rat’s cage in the shower. Both of which have a distinct solution.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Look bossman, you don’t have to think about any of this once you’re off the clock, Dreyfus is coming over with dinner tonight. You just have to hold out until the end of the workday

ENDURANCE: We can do that, especially if you promise there’s a nicotine boost at the end.

“Thank you for your time, Monsieur Asanuma.”

“You’ll forgive me for not standing, my leg was giving me grief earlier, so I took it off.”

“You took it off?” Kim repeated.

The other man reached under the desk and held up a crude prosthetic foot and lower leg below the knee joint.

 “Oh!” said Kim.

“Yeah, the prosthetic is the bane of my existence I’d go without if I could expect the general public to be accommodating of its absence but unfortunately in Jamrock I’ve no such luck.”

“It looks rather heavy.”

“It is. Much heavier than the bit of leg that used to be there. It could be worse. I heard most amputees with trans-femoral and hip joint amputations have to go further afield, Koenigstein or even Vesper.”

“I’m surprised, I’d heard Seol’s medical technology was state of the art, I’d have expected them to use something lighter, fibreglass perhaps.”

“Oh, they most certainly do, but I lost my leg after leaving Seol and while I haven’t given up my citizenship, I haven’t lived on Seolite soil for twenty-five years.  So, they’re not exactly willing to put me on any publicly funded lists unless I moved back and renounced my Graadian citizenship, and I don’t want that. As difficult as life is here in Revachol, Kagami’s doing well.”

Kim waited for him to elaborate. Misao sighed.  “She was born extremely premature, and it led to developmental delays and lifelong chronic health problems with her lungs and nervous system, but still, I don’t think she could have gotten to where she was now if she’d been forcibly excluded from mainstream school which she would have been in Seol.”

“In that case, she’s doing incredibly well.” Kim said.

“Aside from the attitude, perhaps,” Misao said with a wry smile.

Kim smiled back. “I think that’s much more likely due to being nineteen, not a medical condition.”

“I’d argue being nineteen is in itself a medical condition detective.” He joked.

Kim chuckled, “One the only known cure for is time.”

Café Voltaire,  Les Sardines, Jamrock North, Revachol West.

15:03, 22nd January '53.

Café Voltaire was a cramped little operation in between Les Sardines and the GRIH, it’s logo was inexplicably a silhouette bust of Kraz Mazov smoking a blunt, both Kim and Viquemare pausing outside staring at it glass-painted onto the café’s street

“You think it’s like one of those Oranjese places you go to smoke herbe?” Vicquemare asked dryly.

“If those were legal here, I’d have chosen a different profession.” Kim deadpanned back.

“Mhm, Dei knows, I might even be happier,” Jean mumbled, holding the door open for Kim to enter.

Inside was a busy and cigarette-smoke-laden café, a lot of working-class men and women in work overalls sat around. Some were eating, some were drinking and some were just playing cards.

PERCEPTION (Sight): The wall panelling was maroon and dark wood, the tables were old and weathered and there was a bespoke cardboard sign stuck to the front of the counter. It praised the Cannery strikers and offered a free meal and/or coffee to anyone carrying a CNT-R red card, at the bottom in a curly feminine hand it said: Further mutual aid available for partners and children,  ask for Kassandra or François at the roster. All under 12s eat free for the duration of the strike.”

There was a short line at the counter, Kim and Viquemare just stepped in and waited for a chance to speak to the manager. As they did they watched an underdressed woman with two toddlers wrapped up in oversized winter hats and jackets. She nervously waved a red card, she pulled from her purse.

The woman working the counter smiled and took her card number down. Then she took the woman’s order and gave her two red-wrapped bags of caramels for the kids.

The woman thanked her profusely, her voice audibly cracking.

LOGIC: She likely doesn’t have much, either she or her husband works in the canneries or both do. Either way they’ll be losing income within a week as the strike funds get tight again.

PASSION: This is nice, these are good people, Kim. You like it when people like her can get help, it gives you a much better feeling than having to put her under arrest.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Easy – Pass] god damnit, boss is that little commie back on your case again?

PROFESSIONALE: Are we not here to serve the public? This family counts as your public, surely?  It’s not communist to want to protect and serve.

“Excuse me, Miss, we’re looking for a Madame Kassandra Papadoulous, is she available to talk to us for a few minutes?”

PERCEPTION (Sight): The woman behind the counter looks to be Occidental, she has hazel-green eyes and a golden nose stud in the shape of lungs.

EMPATHY: It’s very warm inside the café and her hair seems to be fighting a losing battle with the humidity, she’s tied it back from her face with a red and black kerchief. There are noticeably some coffee grits on her cheek, but she seems far too busy to even feel them. As you speak, she is swapping between three different tasks: writing an order docket to pass to the kitchen, heating up the espresso machine and counting a small handful of centim’s on the counter in front of her.

PROFESSIONALE: The kerchief on her head isn’t just any old bit of fabric, it’s an old anarchist flag. This is not someone likely to be cooperative with a police investigation.

 She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps, we’re quite busy right now, what it is this regarding?”

“We just need to ask her some questions regarding her and her friends’ extracurricular activities”.

The young woman brushed some curls that had matted to her forehead with sweat. She stared Kim down her eye contact hard and unbreaking. Kim didn’t give her an inch.

COMPOSURE: [ Challenging- Pass]

She sighed. “Fuck it. Give me a minute to finish up these orders,  and I can speak with you. I’m afraid there’s only the two of us on front-of-house today and the lunch service has been running long with all the labour action on right now.”

“That’s okay, we can wait,” Kim said.

“Thanks, can I fix you anything while you do so?” Kassandra, the barista asked.

“Just a water if that’s alright,” Kim said good-naturedly.

Vicquemare scratched his stubble in thought. He seemed a little more lively after some food and quality horse time.

“Ah, sure I’ll take a double espresso, does that discount apply to us?” He nodded towards the handmade sign, with a crooked smile.

Kassandra did not not smile back. Her facial muscles remained placid with a practised calm.

“Are you not here in a professional capacity, sir?”

Viquemare gave a Suresian shrug. “Well, yes, of course.”

Kassandra moved to enter the order into the register.

“Then you’re not on strike, are you? That’ll be two eighty, please.”

Jean just bitterly laughed the matter off and rustled in his trouser pocket for change.

Kim stood there awkwardly not interfering, not making eye contact.

Kassandra shouted back over her shoulder.

“Hey Charlie, do you want to run the register or deal with the pigs? There is a correct answer.”

PERCEPTION: (Sight) A young white man with dark circles under his eyes appeared from the backroom, He had limp shoulder-length sand-coloured hair and a scraggy golden beard He was dressed like a strange second-hand-shop version of a Franconigerian dandy in corduroy trousers, and a long military surplus frock coat, probably from an old royalist dress uniform.

Besides him, Jean snorted. Kim glanced at his partner and then back at the young man.

JUVENILE: he’s extremely obviously stoned, his eyes are bloodshot, his eyelids too heavy to support their own weight. He shouldn’t be operating any machinery right now, probably why he’d been hiding in the café’s back room

“Aw, putain. What’s Zachie done now?” The newcomer grumbled, He rubbed at his eyes. “And why wasn’t I invited?”

Kassandra was busy pulling shots of espresso, but she scrunched up her face.

“He’s picketing, he shouldn’t even have the time to make trouble right now.”

The man, Charlie, shuffled over behind the counter. He passed his colleague a damp rag to wipe the coffee grits from her cheek and gave her a light touch on the small of her back, as he was passing behind her.

EMPATHY: It doesn’t feel romantic or sexualised, just the closeness of working in a small space.

“I’m sure it’s nothing too serious, or we’d have had a heads-up. He’s impulsive, not malicious.” Charlie soothed.

“I didn’t even hear him leave this morning, did you?” Kassandra asked.

“No, but I guess it could have been when Suvi and I were in the shower. Who do you need me to talk to?”

Kassandra gestured over at Kim and Jean’s table.

“Watch yourself, will you? We don’t have a lot in the old bail fund right now with the boys on strike”.

“Kass, baby, you look exhausted. Don’t spend all your energy worrying about me.”

She just looked at him stone-faced. “Someone has to, and that poor sweet girl of yours has a full-time job.”

EMPATHY: There is genuine sisterly concern in her voice. The man just shrugs it off, but Kassandra Papadopoulos, twenty-three, has the look of a much older woman in her eyes. She empties the coffee shots into a cup and moves on to steam milk, but her gaze is piercing, watching you, watching Vicquemare, waiting to call for backup if it’s needed.

“Hi officers, you were asking about the SJL?”

Kim nodded, “Uh, yes we were, and I take it you’re Monsieur or um..." He stumbled over his words. "

UNDERGROUND: Oh great work, dear. Now they think you're an asshole. A bigot and a cop? Not the kind of person you'd want to speak to.

The young man laughed, scratching his whiskers. “No, no, keep going, Officer Monsieur was right. Monsieur Charles Lemaire."

“Of course, Monsieur Lemaire, our apologies," Kim added hurriedly.

Charlie nodded, still smiling. "Do disregard my other name when you find it. I have an appointment with a magistrate in April to get it changed.”

Vicquemare cocked his head to the side squinting at the man’s face, like he was an impressionist painting or a visual illusion you needed to look at with a specific angle.

Kim gave him a stern look, elbow ready to stab him in the ribs if he started making comments. Much to his relief, Vicquemare was much better at reading social cues than Harry was. He didn’t comment on the matter any further and moved right along with the interview.

 Would you mind telling us a little bit about the SJL?”

Charlie nodded and cleared his throat he had a thin well-healed facial scar curling up from the left side of his mouth towards his cheekbone.

PROFESSIONALE: Razorblade slashing, a common method of attack in street gangs in Jamrock, some organised crime use them but that’s more commonly done one both sides of the mouth the “Jamrock Smile” as it were. This looks more like something done by self-organising youth gangs than by organised crime you’ve seen enough of them in Juvie.

REFLEXES: Still, it looks incredibly painful, the man has enough facial hair now to cover the damage but there’s a little gap in the left corner of his mouth where his lips appear longer on one side.

PERCEPTION (Hearing): If he’s noticed you staring, he doesn’t show it. His voice is chipper and conversational, as if you are some old family friends just stopped in for a chat. Despite his evident intoxication he deosn’t stutter or stumble over his word choice either. His speech is casual with a slight North Jamrock accent that you can only detect due to forty plus years of living here, He sounds very “chill” for lack of a better word to describe it.

“Yeah, La Société Jeunes Libertins, it’s a stupid name for a ham radio club, Me, Kass, her boyfriend and some of our school friends made it up when we were young and stupid and wanted to be cool, we mostly just use the acronym for our callsigns and local tape library for people to borrow from out we run it out of our flat’s garage. It’s just recordings of public radio shows and the like that’s not illegal, is it?”

“No, that’s fine. Do you know a Mme. Nadya Zakarian?”

“Zakarian, uh yeah it rings a bell.” He turned back to address his coworker.

“Hey Kass, the tape lady in Sardines she’s Madame Zakarian?”

Kassandra was heading back towards the counter again with her hands full. “Hang on, I’m a little busy here.”

Charlie shrugged and turned his attention back to the detectives.

“Well, you should ask her, but I think she’s another tape enthusiast. I’ve never met her. Kass and Zachie do deliveries in his dad’s truck.”

“I see, and are you still active as a group?” Kim asked.

Charlie nodded. “Not as active as we were as students, but yeah, we try to be. It gets harder as you get older to see people regularly, y’know so we lost some members, people get married and move away that kind of thing, the five most active members are me, Kass, Zachie, Dorian and Suvi and we all live together.”

“In an apartment?” Vicquemare asked.

Charlie nodded again. “Yeah, union-owned housing. It’s a bit shit as everything in Jamrock is but I can’t complain, parents kicked me out at eighteen so it’s not like I’ve got much to fall back on unless my girlfriend’s Issi or sister would put us up for a bit.”

EMPATHY: He doesn’t care if you know this, he’s not upset or ashamed about it, it was a while ago now, he’s moved on.

UNDERGROUND: And besides, it seems he has plenty of family in the SJL. This man is at a different place in his life than the average cis-gender twenty-four-year-old. He’s profoundly wise in his strange little pothead gender-bending way.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Issi is Inguanijan for father.

Kassandra interrupted them bringing over the detectives’ drinks.

“One double shot espresso, one water, don’t worry we don’t use tap.” She said with a teasing look in Kim’s direction.

VOLTA DO MAR: Two, large, men dressed in dark clothing stand on the edge of an abandoned reservoir dam just off a tributary the river Esperance, a large duffle bag at their feet.

  “Y’ever wonder if there’s a finite number of shit, we can stick in the river before it gets full?” One asks his compatriot.

The other man spits over the metal rail and watches the saliva fall like a raindrop into the water below.

“Nah, stop fucking monologuing, durák , and help me lift him over the rail.” He says.

The duffle bag issues a muffled whimpering groan.

“The officers here were asking about a Madame Zakarian?” Charlie said, offering Kassandra his seat at thee table, which she grudgingly accepted. She wiped her hands on her apron before glancing between Kim and Vicquemare.

“Oh, Nonna Nadya! She’s great, she’s the one me and Zachie gave that last bag of tapes to. She’s got a huge archive. I think it was her late husband’s, lovely lady. Gave me a bunch of clementine preserves.”

Kim and Vicquemare exchanged a knowing look.

Vicquemare inclined his chin.

PROFESSIONALE: “You do it,” that means. “I can’t be the bearer of bad news all the time.”

Kim set his jaw, “Well, I’m sorry to tell you miss but she was killed early on Sunday morning and a bag of tapes was stolen, from her house. Monsieur Asanuma said you might be able to tell us more about her collection.”

Kassandra sat back in the chair like she’d been punched.

“W-What? You can’t be... you can’t be serious.” She double-crossed her lungs all the air and energy oozing out of her like a leaking balloon.

Kim just nodded poe-faced. “I’m sorry, miss. We’re on the case right now. We’re waiting on the autopsy report to determine if it’s murder or manslaughter. “

“Dei! I didn’t know. I hadn’t seen anything on the news or anything. Holy Mother. That’s so awful. She was such a nice lady.”

 The tears in the woman’s eyes were hard to fake, the level of warbling distress in her voice even harder.

Viquemare set down his tiny espresso cup, “We’re sorry for your loss, Miss, it’s Miss Papadopoulos, correct?”

She nodded, forlorn. “Just Kassandra is fine, I’m the Assistant manager here and Charlie’s flatmate. My boyfriend and I are SJL members, we dropped off a few bags’ tapes to Mme.  Zakarian personally, I don’t remember when exactly, but it was before the strike started and after Lover’s Day, I think.”

“And what’s your boyfriend’s name, if you don’t mind?” Kim asked.

Kassandra pulled something out of her pocket to occupy her nervous hands: a small band of worry or prayer beads, common in Meteoran souvenir shops, these beads appeared to be amber or resin, and she moved them back and forth quietly as if to soothe herself.

“Zacherie Seurat,” she said, her voice softer than before. “He works at the Siemens Foods Cannery. He’s on the picket line right now, with our two other flatmates. I’m sure his name is already in your database, but I’ll swear on my lungs in court if I must, he’s no murderer.”

“So, there’s five of you in the flat all together?”

The woman nodded. Kim wrote this down.

“Yeah," Kassandra murmured.  "Dorian isn’t always around these days and Suvi only tags along because she’s Charlie’s girlfriend, but they help out here and there. The original three of us still take part in radio stuff.”

“And how exactly do you know Maitre Asanuma?” Jean asked.

Kassandra cocked her head, the beads in her hand made a soft click-clack.

“Uh, I mean I’ve only met him once, but I know he’s work friends with Zachie and Dorian. He helped us out of a legal dispute about eighteen months ago.”

“A legal dispute?” Kim asked, although he already knew what she was referring to.

Kassandra nodded. “A record company tried to jump us for redistribution of copyright content, but Misao settled it pro bono. He’s a Radiohead too it turns out it was how he and his wife kept in touch long distance.”

 Kim noted this down again.

“You mentioned… that a bag of tapes… went missing?” Charlie asked he was choosing his words very deliberately, a hand on each of Kassandra’s shoulders, reminding her he was still there for backup.

Jean nodded, “A plastic Fritte bag labelled ’49. That’s all the description we have.”

PERCEPTION (Hearing): [Medium -Pass] You hear Kassandra hiss under her breath and mumble in Meteoran whether it be a swear or a prayer you don’t know enough to make it out.

EMPATHY: But her skin, originally a rich terracotta brown, turns pallid with shock. She feels guilty. She wears the guilt plain on her face, not trying to hide it. Charlie massages her shoulders in an attempt to calm her.

LOGIC: She recognises the tapes, that’s genuine emotion. She’s on the level here, detective.

“Sound familiar?” Jean asked, a wry twitch to his lips.

The woman nodded automatically like a dashboard bobblehead.

“Ahm-Uh-Yeah. Those are the old tapes we dropped off.”

She winced, and the clacking of her beads grew faster and louder.

 “We only keep a year or two in backlog and we do a big clean out for New Year’s. Merde, most of them were just random shit you know?”

Kim nodded, in what he hoped came across as sympathetic, he wanted her to talk he didn’t particularly care how they went about it.

“What kind of stuff, can you remember miss?”

 “Old radio shows, transmission recordings, news shows, weird pale noises that kind of thing, I think maybe a couple could have been military or interpersonal communication, but nothing classified- mean we pick them up from car boot sales and estate auctions. It’s more likely old recordings of numbers stations, I know Charlie had a phase collecting those.”

“Yeah, I did.” Her friend said, cutting in. “Nothing classified though, like she said. I just think old-war spy shit is neat.”

Kassandra nodded.  “It was just a potluck of collected media. Lungs, I think we threw in a couple of tapes of Dorian calling his parents in Saint-Martin because he didn’t need to keep them, and the tape stock wasn’t great quality so not worth recording over.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: A semi-autonomous region of the Semenese Islands, on the Western Coast of the isola, south of Ile du Fantome. It’s a former tributary of the Suzerainty. A warm, coastal area known for its petroleum and precious earth metals.

VOLTA DO MAR: Saint-Martin has a high-burden of foreign debt leftover from the colonial era, they mostly make their tourism money by letting rich white fail sons do international motor-cross racing and rallies in the desert. Yet she is no less alive than Revachol, her people live and love and work all the same as you. Oral historians known as griot act as both genealogists and storytellers reaching back centuries and generations of tales and histories, that not even the most brutal attempts of Suresian imperialism can blot out. Street hawkers sell fruit juices and freshly caught fish, a little boy makes off with a freshly cooked sweet potato wrapped in foil, from his auntie’s stall and she yells after him. Five times a day, the Adhnane, call to prayer winds through the city streets, bouncing off buildings and off into the bay.

“You’re fairly certain nothing in that bag, was confidential or other way classified in such a way that someone might retaliate if they came looking for it?” Jean asked.

Kassandra looked up at him, she had very intense almost feline eyes, that seemed out of place with her sharp Parikarnassian features.

“I’m no genius, officers, but I’m not fucking dumb enough to incriminate my own crew like that, Nonna Nadya’s Archive was a net good to the community. The whole damn point of the archive was to keep a record of how we lived now so that Revacholiere life and culture wouldn’t be destroyed the same way a lot of Haykian books and records were. That’s why Nonna Nadya and her husband set it up.”

“I can vouch for her too, officers,” Charlie added. “Besides, Nonna Nadya would Gauss our equipment to prevent data losses. Pale degradation is a real issue in tape recording and radio, I worked as a pale driver for a bit in between college and this job. Radio technology is entirely reliant on our current understanding of entropenetics and without Nadya’s help we’d go through radio equipment too fast to be sustainable.”

“How long were you working as a driver?” Kim asked, more out of curiosity than a need for the information.

“About four months, that’s as much as I needed to save up for chest surgery, and besides I’m twenty-four, I’d like to live my life a bit more before I go making permanent cheese holes in my brain.”

Kim nodded; he could imagine that was a dangerous job.

“Were you overexposed?” Vicquemare asked.

Charlie beamed. “Oh shit, yeah. Be careful with that stuff, officer, you might come back a woman.”

Kassandra hiccup-laughed and sharply elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop fucking around, Charlie. Go run the register.”.She hissed.

Charlie just grinned, happy and at home teasing her. "Why, Kassie? Am I wrong?”

Kassandra shook her head, but she was smiling. “The Pale doesn’t make you trans-gender, you were weird enough already.”

UNDERGROUND: She's right but anecdotally you know quite a few trans people who seem obsessed with the Pale.

“Oh yeah, what about Suvi?” Her friend teased. “She’s drowning in the stuff.”

“Any girlfriend of yours is a fucking lunatic and I mean that as a term of great affection.”

Charlie laughed and pressed a kiss to the crown of his friend’s head.

“The Charles Baudelaire Lemaire Medal of Honour.” He said, with a particularly teenaged expression on his face that seemed too young for the rest of him.

“Your middle name’s Baudelaire?” Jean asked, his mouth twitched and spasmed like someone was running an electric current through it. “Did you willingly name yourself after Charles Baudelaire or is that a family name?”

“No, it’s on purpose. I was a nineteen-year-old lit major when I chose it.  Les Fleurs de Mal is the height of modernist poetry when you're nineteen. Now, it just reads much more as feckless desperation with life in the imperial core. I’m probably going to keep the name though. It grew on me.”

“Charles.” Kassandra groaned. “Please don't start.”

The young man retreated towards the café counter laughing.

“I know, I know. The register.”

Kassandra turned back to Kim and Vicquemare, her worry beads gripped tight in a fist.

“Anyway officers. We’d be happy to answer any questions, but would you mind waiting until an evening when the boys will be home, and Charlie and I are off work? Zachie and Dorian are the brains of the operation and that way we can show you your equipment.” She paused in thought.  “We’ll probably be free tomorrow evening if that’s alright any time after seven is good.”

Kim looked over at his partner, who nodded.

“That’d be fine with us, miss, thank you,” Vicquemare said.

“Before you go, Miss, do you know why Nadya was so obsessed with the tapes?" Kim asked, "You mentioned her husband’s history, and culture but some of the stuff we heard were meaningless conversations and radio ads.”

“Meaningless conversations to who, detective?” She asked raising an eyebrow.

Kim ignored her tone. “Well, very few of them pertained to anything of historical note.”

“Why?” She asked again.

Kim just blinked at her. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

“No, I mean, why is a man talking to his family an Isola away any less important or historical than, say, the March Decree? From a linguistic perspective, it’s a candid recording of a young Black man speaking in his native dialect of Semenese Suresian and a record of what life in Revachol and Saint-Martin is like right now post-Solan Era in the fifties. History is written by the victors in wars both geographical and class-based. Nadya recognises that what connects people to the past is shared humanity.”

She shrugged “In a roundabout way, keeping a people’s history is a means to disproving propaganda, and meant as a tool for peace. Pick any random civilian in South Safre or Yeezut they are as much of a realised human being as I am. Their life is worth the same as mine or yours, yet they live in a warzone, and we don’t.”

“Right… Understood,” Kim lied, he was actively straining to avoid thinking about any of that.

Chapter Text

Just as you take my hand

Just as you write my number down

Just as the drinks arrive

Just as they play your favourite song

As your bad day disappears

No longer wound up like a spring

Before you've had too much

Come back in focus again

Coal City, Revachol West, Revachol (Zone of Control).

16:46, 22nd January '53.

The sun sets so early in January, come four in the afternoon the sodium lights are coming on.

In a bug-riddled flophouse room in Coal City a woman watches the slow domino of lights flicker on down the secluded alleyway she can see from the window.

She puts a bottle to her lips – some spiced rum-based Inguanijan liqueur, it was on clearance. It tastes like a Semenese restaurant in Bethnal Green that she used to frequent as a student, the woman who ran it always gave her a double portion of jollof rice for no extra, because she was a regular and everyone local knew how expensive the cost of living was especially for a young brown girl striking out on her own.

Here in Revachol everything is grey and taupe with frost. On the streets strangers don’t make eye contact, they keep their heads down, hands in their pockets, the white steam of their breath in the cool air the only evidence that they themselves are living.

The woman another swig of her liqueur and moves to sit on the bare bed in her room. She pulls out a plastic bag of tapes and a portable tape player. She takes a cassette out and checks the box before slamming it in.

She flinches pressing play, just as she has with every other tape in the bag. She knows what she’s looking for, and she knows it’s something no person wants to hear.

Du Bois-De Ruyter Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

19:06, 22nd January '53.

Kim Kitsuragi was getting out of the shower when heard the excited clatter of Cuno’s bare feet on the wood floor downstairs

“Dinner’s here, Bino!” he called up the stairs.

Kim smiled to himself. “She has a name, Cuno.” He called back.

He heard Dreyfus’ voice and Harry’s wheezy laughter and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

FITNESS: Your jaw unclenches, you stop holding yourself upright at attention you look to your hands, skin still damp from the shower. They are furled up tight in fists. You unfurl them, taking a deep steady breath in.

PASSION: Ease up a little, vaquero. You’re at home with your family and friends. Everything’s okay, it’s good here.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: As strange as it is for me to say, boss, Passion’s in the right this time. Put the workday away, it’ll be there tomorrow.

COMPOSURE: [Challenging – Pass]

“I’ll be down in a minute, just let me grab some clothes.” He called down the stairs, before disappearing back into the bedroom to grab a clean t-shirt, boxers and his cargo pants.

“Whaddya need those for!” He heard Harry yell, his speech slurred but much more productive than it had been in a while.

“It’s minus two outside, Harry, he’ll freeze his dick off.” He heard Hanna say before she was drowned out by Cuno’s hooting goose-like laughter

Kim paused to check his reflection in the mirror, the steam from the shower still fogging up his lenses.

PERCEPTION (Sight): A middle-aged man with thick foggy glasses and damp hair stares back at you. If he were a person of interest in a case, he would describe the man in his notes as a mixed race male in his mid to late forties, showing signs of fatigue-induced myokymia in his right eyelid. He certainly looks like he could do with a shave and a good night’s sleep. He sighs and shakes his head before disappearing from the mirror.

The living room was warmer than upstairs, suggesting that either Cuno or Harry had gone downstairs and cranked the radiators up, despite it not really being theirs to touch. Kim hoped they’d get away with it this time, he didn’t have the social energy to deal with an angry landlord tonight.

PERCEPTION (Smell): The room is filled with the scent of hot oil and garlic and something sweet and spicy like peppercorns or five spice.

“Smells good.” Kim said coming into the kitchen where Hanna Dreyfus was pulling cartons out of plastic bags. Cuno was vibrating with anticipation and nervous energy besides her. Harry already seated in his usual place at the dinner table, idly fiddling with his good hand.

Dreyfus laughed. “Thanks Kim, I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen all afternoon for you.”

Harry snorted, “Lotta cartons at yours?”

Hanna grinned. “Of course, I consider the humble takeout cartoon, the proletariat of food receptacles.”

Harry laughed, a visible spasm in his shoulder causing him to double over coughing. “Ow.”

“Don’t kill the man, Lieutenant, at least not before we even get to eat something.” Kim said, moving to help her unpack the food.

“Sorry. Are you good, Harry?” Dreyfus asked. “Thumbs up if you can breathe.”

Harry was still grinning, the Expression as cheesy as ever, he raised a shaky thumb.

“See? He’s alright.” said Dreyfus.

“Cuno, can you help me set the table, please?” Kim asked looking over at the boy.

Cuno scowled. “Why’s Cuno got to do it?” He whined.

Kim raised an eyebrow. He was tired, yes, but he wasn’t having it.

“Because I asked, Harry can’t do it right now and Dreyfus’ Is a guest.”

“You don’t fucking own me.” Cuno snapped.

“Oh, stop being such a buh-buh-buh-baby."  Harry said, giving the boy a look.

“That’s fuckin’ rich coming from the adult buh-buh-buh-baby.” Cuno said pulling a face. Harry just shrugged off the mockery.

“You get it from me.” He said glibly, struggling with the tab on his can of cola.

Kim opened the can for him, passed it back, and continued taking cartons of food out of the plastic bag Dreyfus had brought.

“How much do we owe you?” He asked the Lieutenant.

Dreyfus squinted at her receipt and shrugged.

“Don’t fret about it, you can shout next time. Bit pissed they didn’t give me any of that anaesthetic chilli sauce this time.”

“We have Lidocaine." Harry joked, having already spilt a quarter of the cola down his front, due to the constant tremors in his hand and arm.  

“Bino, your baby’s spitting up again.” Cuno crowed, scrunching up his nose with exaggerated disgust.

Kim didn’t give the boy a reaction, “Oh, shit, yeah that’s my fault, Harry, sorry. I’ll get you a straw.”

“Don’t ‘puh-puh-puh-pologise. Golden tits, man, I’m fine.” Harry growled, trying to bat him off like a fly.

 Cuno seemed exasperated that yet again none of the adults would give him a reaction to ricochet his anger off.  He kicked at one of the wooden table legs in frustration.

Kim continued to ignore him; it was the most effective course of action.

Hanna got up and moved towards the refrigerator to help Kim.

She took the plates he’d already gotten out and tapped him lightly on the forearm to get his attention.

Kim had both of his hands full so instead he greeted her with a quick and unemotional nod.

“Hi, sorry.” He nodded at his hands.

Hanna laughed and pecked his cheek.

 “Hey, it's okay. How was work?” She asked,

“Oh, the usual grim affair. You?” He followed her back to the dining table and passed Harry a straw while Dreyfus passed out plates.

“Oh, you know, it’s a Tuesday at Searchlight, so if course there was a baby funeral.” She said drily.

“Ah, well, I think you win the misery tournee there. I know when I’m beat.” Kim replied.

Hanna laughed again. “Wow, lucky me.”

Harry perked up following the train of conversation, “Funeral means you fixed it right?”

“Fixed what?” Dreyfus asked, sitting back down again.

"The uh…. quest, no. luggage. B-b-bag. No… Ugh. Kim, The mission?” Harry reached in the air with his good hand for Kim.

HARRYOLOGY: He’s relying on you to have the word he’s missing.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Uh, okay? We can try.

LOGIC: [Difficult -Pass] Harry has semantic aphasia so he typical confuses words with similar meanings replacing missing words with the closest synonym. So a quest could be a task or , a mission. Luggage and Bag could be a suitcase. Oh.

“Case, is the word you want.” Kim glanced over at Dreyfus. “He means you solved the case, Daisy’s case,”

“Oh- Luggage like suitcase, suit-case case, I getcha Harry. There’s a method in your madness.” Dreyfus said.

Harry raised his cup to her. “Good job.”

 She smiled and returned the gesture.

“Yeah, I guess I’m used to funerals being a good thing, which is kind of weird when you say it aloud.” She said.

“That’s some freak shit.” Cuno mumbled, it was hard to tell from tone alone if this was a positive thing or not.

Dreyfus smiled at the boy, a delighted twinkle in her eye. “Fuck yeah, little dude, Lt. Freak, that’s me.”

Cuno snickered. “Cuno’s fucking starving Can we eat yet, Bino, or should we call Youth Services on you for neglect?”

“Oy, no snitchin’” Harry said pointing a trembling forefinger at the boy.

Cuno immediately flipped him off.

Kim, who was barely holding on to a sense of domestic normalcy, dug in to his thigh with the fingernails of his free hand.

“Let me get some for your dad first, Cuno it won’t be long.” He said through clenched teeth.

The boy whinged. “Eugh, but Cuno can serve himself.”

“Cunoself.” Hanna said, looking at Kim with a small curl of her lips.

EMPATHY: [Very Easy – Pass] We’re not normally great with non-verbal communications, but that one was crystal clear, she’s offering a distraction for you to help Harry get food first.”

Cuno paused, his acne-dappled face scrunching up at the forehead “Huh?”

“If you’re replacing every pronoun with Cuno, shouldn’t the reflexive change too? Cuno/Cuno’s/Cunoself.” Dreyfus said grinning.

Cuno looked at her with his mouth open slightly, then he scoffed and shook his head with a particularly teenaged look of disdain.

 “Yeah, but Cuno’s not a fucking pronoun, is he? Cuno’s a man, and anyway it’s a fucking rhetoric device. Them Parry-Circassians came up with it.”

“Parikarnassians” Kim corrected automatically. “And Cuno like all names is a proper noun.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: He’s not wrong. Illeism, the act of referring to oneself in the third person voice is quite common in ancient dialectics where use of first-person voice would be too personal or egocentric.

EMPATHY: That’s not why Cuno uses it though, is it? Tuulikki called it a form of age regressive detachment. A retreat to a younger more childish form of speech in order to maintain the emotional blunting that had allowed him to survive his birth father’s abuse. It was an affected habit though, whether he was aware of it or not, Cuno used first person speech more frequently now especially when he was tired or upset.

Harry gave him a look.

HARRYOLOGY: You’re doing the thing he hates again, no one likes a pedant, Cuno misspoke, and that’s something Harry does all the time now. Maybe you could find some other sense of moral superiority that doesn’t accidentally make you sound like a total asshole to your boyfriend with a speech difficulty.

“Blow me, Bino.” The boy scowled.

“Cuno.” Harry growled.

Cuno sighed, pulling a face but he backed off.

“Oy, Lt. Freak, did they have those little pancakes that comes with the duck?” He asked Dreyfus

“Yep, it was the same place we had last week. I went ahead and got you a box of your own, here. Go crazy.” She passed him a small polystyrene box.

Cuno’s entire face lit up, Kim could just make it out from his peripheral vision, he looked about six years younger than he usually did.

JUVENILE: There’s a strange sense of guilt you feel seeing that, Cuno doesn’t look that young or happy often these days

PERCEPTION (Touch): Something touches your arm, warm and clammy against your bare skin.

Kim flinched automatically but caught himself when he saw it was just Harry’s hand.

Harry pulled Kim back towards him and partially into his lap, with his good arm.

Kim, exhausted, let him.

“Stop ticking away.” Harry murmured into his ear, “Work’s over for the day”.

Kim steadied himself, not waiting to knock his partner off balance.

“I know, I’m trying." He said.

Harry pressed a series of kisses to Kim’s cheek before letting him go and get his own chair.

“Hm, Sounds like work t’me.”

“Hey Harry, do you mind if I have a beer with dinner?” Hanna asked holding up a four pack of Koenigstinian Schwarzbier,  “I bought some on the way, but I don’t want to be a sobriety trigger.”

“Nah, ‘s fine.” Harry said waving off her concern with his good hand, letting Kim untangle himself from his lap. He smiled and echoed what she had just said to Cuno. “Go crazy.”

“Cool. Would you like one Kim?” She asked.

Kim nodded, moving to get his own food, “Sure, if you’re offering.”

Cuno was looking at Kim with narrowed eyes. Kim felt a muscle under his left eye spasm from a mix of exhaustion and overuse. Or possibly because Cuno had that look in his eye.

“Can Cuno have a beer?” The boy asked, looking to Harry first.

Harry sighed, looking at the boy with a blank expression on the non-drooping side

“Fine, but only with food alright, and stay at th’table."

“Have you had it before?” Kim asked. “This is a dark beer, it’s an acquired taste.”

Cuno shook his head, “Cuno’s old dad would’ve thrashed him. Anyway, Cuno never touched the drink it stinks and it’s not as fun as speed.”

“Hear, hear.” Said Dreyfus funnelling dan dan noodles into her mouth straight from the carton.

Kim gave her a stern look and she shot him with a finger gun with the hand that wasn’t struggling to hold the cheap disposable chopsticks.

Kim took the four-pack of bottles from Dreyfus and handed one back to her before he got up.

“Cuno you can have a glass, but if you don’t like kvass, I don’t think you’ll like beer much either. Hanna, I’m getting you a fork.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I being too white for you, Kitsuragi?” She replied.

REFLEXES: Huh? Was it something you said?

EMPATHY: [Difficult- Pass] No, buddy. She’s joking, ease up a little.

Kim gave a dry snort. “I’m more concerned about you getting chilli oil over the upholstery.”

“Oh snap.” Harry joked, raising his trembling right hand and nodded and Hanna who groaned.

“Ugh fuck sorry, I didn’t notice. Feh, it’s bad enough I could see it in my handwriting at work today. My whole nervous system's going haywire on me as punishment for poisoning her.”

“Join the club.” Said Harry, some rice slipping out the left side of his mouth. “S’great we have special seats for the can and everything.”

Hanna smiled. “We should organise. The brotherhood of brain-injured bisexuals.”

Cuno sniffed at the glass Kim offered. “This smells like sahti” He said.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Sahti is a kind of Suruese and greater Katlan beer, brewed in small batches from rye and barley. In Inguanija they call it koduõlu or ‘Home beer’.

Dreyfus laughed, “How the fuck do you know what sahti smells like if you don’t drink beer, little man? It’s a type of beer, beer being basically an all-encompassing term for fermented grain juice.”

There was a pause as Cuno took a sip from his glass, pulled a face off utter disgust shook his head and pushed the glass over to Kim who took it off him.

“Mhm, ‘Boss-lady’ brews sahti in in her hot water cupboard. The whole street can smell it. That shit though that’s nasty tastes like blood and hay.” He said.

Kim smiled. “You get a metallic taste sometimes with roasted malts, maybe you ought to try your luck with Sahti next time. It’s fruitier.”

Cuno shook his head vigourously. ”No fucking way, have you seen her? She could kill me in one hit.”

“Who?” Hanna asked, looking to Kim and Harry for the Cuno translation.

“He’s talking about Tuulikki.” Kim replied.

Hanna’s expression lit up. “Oh! Your hot butch friend with the knives? I remember her.”

Harry nearly choked on a bean sprout mid-laughter. Kim doubled checked to see that hadn’t actually aspirated it.

“She looks after Cuno in the week. She’s a foster parent. She works as a child psychologist for Youth Services.” Kim said.

“Oh, cool. She gonna teach you how to throw knives, Cuno?” She asked the boy.

Cuno scowled, “I want to, a but the fuckin’ fun popo 'ere won’t let me.”

“What? Guys, he’s fourteen. My parents let me have a shitty little pocketknife multitool when I was like nine or ten.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant!” Cuno crowed turning back to his guardians with a smug grin.

“Now, Lieutenant, I don’t think your parents are an excellent role models to base behaviour off, do you?” Kim asked.

Dreyfus snorted. “No probably not, one’s dead the other’s a constant pain in my backside.”

“What does that have to do with the Cuno? What about my knife?" Cuno whined.

Kim rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up his forehead.

“Let’s not start on this argument again, I’m too tired.” Kim said rubbing the skin on his nose bridge where his glasses were pinching.

“Alright, we’ll lay off,” Hanna said, elbowing Cuno beside her.

The boy whined again. “Aw, c’mon! I thought you were on my side here, lady.”

“Sorry Cuno. Nu, weren’t you gonna show me your radio setup after?” She asked.

That got his attention off the knife conversation, Hanna likely knew that engaging his special interest would do that.

“Yeah, if you want. Cuno’s got it pretty locked down, now, Cuno’s like one of them Pale ladies."

“With less of the mental degradation, one would hope.” Dreyfus said around a mouth full of wonton.

“Yeah, cuz that’s my department, Harry said. He tapped his temple with his good hand dripping chilli oil down into his beard. “Br-bruh-brain problems, b-baby”

“C’mon, detective.” Kim narrowed his eyes “It’s not a joking matter,”

Harry lifted his one good shoulder and shook his head, he was struggling with his cutlery, but he didn’t seem particularly frustrated, “Let me live, Kim-buh-b-ball.”

PASSION: EXACTLY! COME ON, YOU CAN RELAX A LITTLE.

Kim snorted shaking his head,

“Don’t call me that, I know where you sleep” He said giving his boyfriend a pointed look.

“Mm. With me if y’lucky.” He tried to wink but his eyelid didn’t really respond in time just sort of flickered like the wings of a moth.

Hanna let out a bleating laugh.

“Corny line, detective, but hey, it might work on Kim.” She said.

“Gross.” Cuno groaned. “No more talkin’ 'bout sweaty pig sex, or I’ll puke.”

“Who are you calling sweaty?” Harry said, pointing an accusing finger at his son.

Cuno snickered “You obviously, s’called sweating like a pig for a reason.”

“Speaking of pig, can someone pass me the sweet and sour?” Hanna asked.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to eat pork?” Kim said passing Dreyfus a carton.

“Please, ketsele, I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to: eat shrimp, work weekends, smoke three packs a day, fuck strangers.”

Cuno groaned. “Ugh! I’m getting it on all sides here. It’s a fuckin assault!"

Dreyfus smirked. “Sorry, Cuno. I’ll mind my manners.”

The boy narrowed his eyes at her. “Hm. I’ll allow it this time Lt. Freak, but those two are on notice.”

Hanna laughed and moved to portion out more food into her plate.

She gave Kim a look first and then Harry and smiled.

“You’re doing good with this one, boys, he doesn’t take any shit.”

Du Bois-De Ruyter Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

20:18, 22nd January '53.

Two figures, sat together on the front steps of an apartment sharing a joint. The snow had settled down, but the air was still cold to the point of painful against bare skin.

VOLTA DO MAR: Jamrock is starting to batten down for the night, at least in the residential districts. Bars and Clubs in the city centre have only just begun for the night. In the shared front lot of the apartment block, three schoolchildren, two boys and a girl, form the shape of a large snow penis with the stone-faced diligence of grizzly factory lineman.

“This ball’s lopsided.” Says the little girl, standing back and squinting at her handiwork, hands thrust deep into the front pockets of her coat for warmth.

“How would you know?” One of her comrades’ sneers.

The girl fixes him with the most unamused expression her eleven-year-old face is capable of producing.

“I got three brothers and one bathroom in my flat, Jan, do I look fuckin’ blind to ya?”

The other boy laughs at that, and the phallic construction is momentarily paused for some snow-based roughhousing. On one of the upstairs balconies an old man is whistling an old wartime chanson.

“Do you ever think of leaving this place?” Dreyfus asked Kim, her non-smoking arm wrapped around her middle for warmth.

EMPATHY: She was wearing her Patrol cloak when she got here, yet right now she sits outside in just her pants and blouse, suspenders falling down her shoulder and her eyes unfocused. She’s tired, and disorganised. The one-two punch of Lithium Toxicity and Withdrawals is knocking her on her ass.

Kim cocked an eyebrow at her, surprised by the sudden question.

“What place? Jamrock? I’d not last a week in the suburbs.” He said.

Dreyfus took a long drag. “No, I meant Revachol. Don't you ever think about leaving, take a vacation, expand your horizons? Hell, you could learn to fly an aero if you wanted.”

“I don’t meet the eyesight requirements.”

Dreyfus growled deep in her throat. “Okay? That’s not what I’m asking Kim and you know it.”

Kim just shrugged. “I do, but no I don’t think about it.”

“Why not?” She asked.

Kim frowned. “Do I need a specific reason? I’m Revacholiere everything I know is here. I wouldn’t belong in any other gendarmerie. I barely fit in this one.”

Dreyfus threw up her hands in the air in front of her, puffing out smoke into the cold night like a dragon.

“Poumons d’or. Is that really all you care about, Kim? Having a gun to point and shoot?”

Kim just blinked at her.

EMPATHY: [Easy – Fail]

FITNESS: It’s really fucking cold out here, man, we ought to head back inside soon, our nose and fingers are starting to numb.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

"I mean you’re not just Lieutenant Kitsuragi to me or to Harry or Cuno, you know that right? Surely there’s more to life than just your job or nationality”

PROFESSIONALE: She says that like a Lieutenancy isn’t a great honour and a burden.

PASSION: It’s easy for her to dismiss the importance of your Vacholiere identity. As long as she keeps her rituals hidden and speaks unaccented Suresnois she’s not the one with her head on the guillotine. Sure, Yevrem might not be white to a fascist or Dolorian irredentist, but they’d still have a lot of visibly Black, brown and Seolite folks to plough through until the blade ever reached her neck.

VOLTA DO MAR: Her people have always had to live like this, though: Hiding their accents and dialects, changing their names and claiming that their Walder or Messinian on fear of death or forced conversion. Is that really a life free from racist oppression? The Yevreysk people are stateless, their home lost to the Pale sometime over their two  thousand-year exile. She is not an ‘unperson’ visibly identifiable by skin colour, accent, or physiognomy but she is a target all the same. It would be unwise to turn away any allies.

PASSION: Okay?! She's still our friend, we're not breaking up with her or anything. That doesn’t mean she can tell us how to feel about our identity. It doesn’t even mean she understands.

Kim squared his jaw, “People won’t let me forget where I ‘come from’, Hanna. I don’t have the luxury of hiding it”

She paused, considering this and nodded, “That’s true, though I'd argue hiding your identity is a burden in it's own right, but surely that’s a matter of racism, not nationality. All I’m saying is neither you or Revachol are going to disappear if you if you wanted a change of scenery, the RCM did not cease to be when Harry had his stroke, it’s not going away if you need to take time off.”

Kim nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. He went back to watching the neighbourhood kids play-fighting in the snow.

“Why travelling though, what bought this up?” He asked.

Dreyfus shrugged.  “Nothing in particular, just talking to the kid about long distance radio. He said he’s never left the country, I realise cost is a huge barrier, but when I was his age I’d been to three different isolas, you’re burning out and I know money is an obstacle, it was just a suggestion.”

Kim held out his hand for the joint, she passed it. Her eyes deep dark brown and grounding, searching his face for some insight,

Kim didn’t give her any. He took a long drag in.

“We’re not a country, we’re a Special Authority.” He said impassively, exhaling the sickly-sweet smoke into the night.

Hanna made a strangled noise in her throat, it sounded like a catfight.

“That’s just a country in moralist drag, devolution is coming whether they want it or not and you’re avoiding the entire point” She hissed.

“Yeah well, now you’re trying to backdoor the conversation into radicalising me." He fired back.

Dreyfus scoffed. “At least I have politics. 45 years old and you’re two conversation points are being a cop, and being from Revachol, which I mean, so am I to both counts, I still have a life other than that. What have you got?”

Kim glared at her.

“Hanna, my boyfriend- who I cannot publicly out for my own job security - has a brain injury and I feel like haven’t slept in twelve weeks. I can’t say a word about this to anyone except you and Vicquemare- whose downright unapproachable - and I’m sure you like most people are sick and tired of hearing about the Kineema, what do you want me to say? How is suddenly giving a shit about EPIS going to fix the holes in Harry’s head?"

She sighed, “It’s not, I mean, no one’s forcing you to be a centrist, you did that yourself. Dei’s tits, man. All I'm saying is do you really want your epitaph to be 'Here lies Kim Kitsuragi', he loved being in charge and upheld the status quo?'”

“You can’t talk” Kim said scowling around the joint.

Hanna groaned and swatted at his arm in frustration.

“Yes, I  fucking can! Why do you think I’m bringing it up!?” She hissed. “Kim, I’m bipolar, I have TSD and a brain injury, I’ve tried looking for other work, but people don’t want a pushy Yev who can’t work Friday nights or Saturdays and needs to a take a week off time every three months to go clinically insane."

EMPATHY: She's exaggarating for effect but you'd guess she still has one or two manic episodes a year. The medication helps, as does therapy but given the stress of working constant cold cases with very few happy endings, she also still uses substances liek herbe and cocaine to cope.

PROFESSIONALE: It's not something you'd admit to civillians of but the majority of officers you know at Sergeant and above have a drug or alcohol problem. At 5000 real a year it's not like you can afford regular psychotherapy outside of the three sessions the Constabulary mandates when you kill someone. Dreyfus' father is a medical doctor, with medical doctor friends. You suspect that's the only reason she has diagnoses at  all.

Kim opened his mouth to interrupt the self-deprecication, but she held up a palm for him to wait. He took another drag on the joint, it was starting to taste oppressively resinous.

"-The fact that I have been institutionalised before, has dashed any hopes of ever working with children or teenagers."  Dreyfus continued. "-Hell, even the postal service turned me down. It’s actually kind of surprising that the RCM doesn’t have any laws excluding people with mental illnesses I assume it’s because the brown suits realised they’d be completely out of a police force if they updated them."

“You never mentioned that before.” Kim said softly.

She shrugged. “Yeah, well I would have if you’d asked. Look, Kim.  You hate acknowledging it, but we’re friends who care about each other. I love you very much and so this is me pushing you out the window of a burning building and telling you to run.”

“But-“ Kim began but she cut him off.

“No, I’m not done yet, if the RCM doesn’t throw off the chains of Moralism you have two choices in this career, retire at 65, realise you don’t know what to do with yourself outside of your work and off yourself in despair or work til you drop That’s what’s going to happen to all of us. Me, Vicquemare, Minot, Seong, Goldman. The force is a great mincing machine that chews up idealists and spits out apathetic broken people."

Kim chewed the skin on his bottom lip even harder than he had been earlier.

“I don’t want anything else, I think that’s the problem. I feel like I never learned how to want things.”

PASSION: EXCUSE ME? AM I JUST RADIO STATIC TO YOU, AM I JUST A FUNNY VOICE IN YOUR HEAD? IS THAT WHY YOU’RE SO FUCKING BORING ALL THE TIME?

Hanna shrugged, “You wanted Harry. “

Kim smiled, “Yes, and I still do, but I’d prefer not to define my entire self by my partner, be that romantic or decomptage, you and I both know what becomes of that.”

Hanna’s expression faltered.

“Yeah. We do.” She said softly fingers going to her neck to touch a ring on a chain that wasn’t there.

Kim winced, he hadn't intended to be a trigger. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bring the mood down,”

Dreyfus childishly blew a raspberry. “Pbfft, whatever asshole, you love spoiling people’s fun.”

Kim chuckled drily. “My coworkers sure, but you’re my friend.”

Hanna smiled back and nudged him with her shoulder.

“I am your friend, aren’t I? Huh. You know six or seven years ago I wouldn’t have picked it?”

Kim cocked an eyebrow. “Why? I mean, I guess we barely interacted at 57. I remembered you though, I remember you spending a lot of time with Sacha, and LePetit. I don’t know, I guess now I wish I’d bothered with more of the social stuff at 57 instead of stubbornly insisting it was beneath me.”

COMPOSURE: Ah, but It was much easier that way, Kitsuragi. You were protecting yourself from the only thing you’d ever known to expect from your peers: total rejection.

“I’ll be honest, Kim, I love you dearly, but you’re far too much of a control freak to enjoy those kind of social drinking events without Dungeon levels of rules and boundaries.”

Kim shrugged. “I think that just comes with the Lieutenancy, otherwise you get stuck with everyone’s problems.”

“Really? You were a Sergeant when we met;” She smiled at him, a teasing looking in her eye, she slung her free arm around his shoulder, “I think it comes with being a repressed little binoclard with a control kink.”

PASSION: AHAHAHA SHE’S GOT YOU PINNED DOWN THERE, KIM!

“Speaking from personal experience, are we, detective?” Kim asked with a withering eyebrow.

“No, not really.” She giggled, her breath spooling like unspun cotton in the air above her.  “I mean, not to dismiss your own experiences, but I’m a Lieutenant and I don’t give a shit what my officers think about me, I’m far too busy engaging in what the shrinks call pseudo-suicidal behaviour.”

“Is that what this is?” Kim asked, with a twitch of his lips, passing the joint back to her.

Hanna took it from him, her fingers were ice cold. She lifted a shoulder non-committedly.

 Nah, this is fine. I’m not ruminating all by myself, I’m not at risk of ODing or self-harm. Despite the physical effects of the Lithium, I’m actually pretty mentally normal right now. Which I know doesn’t sound like a very mentally normal thing to say.”

“You are sitting outside the middle of winter, in just your shirtsleeves and work pants.” Kim observed, deadpan.

Hanna looked down at herself like this was news to her.

“Ok sure. Well, maybe not that part, but the herbe is fine, as long as I don’t make it a habit. I’m not self-isolating or escalating anything. I ate today, I’ve showered, I’m spending time with friends, all-healthy forms of coping with stress.”

“Mm, I can’t say I have the energy for much more than this after work, what with Harry and Cuno to worry about at home, and Jean to worry about at work, leaves little time for personal rumination.

“Well, that’s an easy fix: don’t worry about Vicquemare, he can go fuck himself.”

PASSION: Amen, sister.  If that guy has a Passion he killed it with compulsary heterosexuality, red wine and amphetamines a long time ago.

EMPATHY: Please, Vicqumare is perfectly tolerable, you should stick up for him. He's a fellow officer at the very least.

“Would you say that to your own partner?” He asked

PROFESSIONALE: Dreyfus technically has two partners: Sgt. Maxim her best friend and partner at 57 and Sgt. Drumont her current associate at Searchlight although their partnership seems to exist solely on paper.

 "To Sacha, I mean, not Drumont. Would you say it to his face?” Kim corrected.

His friend nodded. “Yes, I would, and I have once or twice when he overstepped, but even then, Sacha isn’t half as much of a cunt as that guy. Neither is Drumont she’s just young and was just raised by zealous anti-communists. She’s not half as… unpleasant as Vicquemare.” She said.

Kim sighed. “I can’t dispute that, but he’s all I’ve got right now. And he’s alright as long as you make sure keep a solid line drawn between work and not work.”

Dreyfus groaned beside him. “Ugh, I swear to G-d, sometimes it seems like the RCM is a grand psychological experiment on giving an entire police force DPD.”

“What’s that?” Kim asked, not recognising the acronym.

“Dependant Personality Disorder. A pathological attachment reaction.  It’s typically TSD induced. Decomptage really facilitates it.” Hanna said.

Kim nodded, considering this. His train of thought was becoming floatier less connected. His ideas now more layered on top of each other than strung together linearly like beads.

“That does explain how he is around Harry, I mean besides any other reasons.” He said, wincing involutarily.

Hanna laughed, catching herself and doubling over with a hacking cough. 

“Oh yeah bigtime, they’ve fucked right? like I don’t mean anything crass by it, Kim but since the first time I saw those two together I figured there was something intensely psychosexual going on.”

Kim chewed his bottom lip.

“Oh, I’m sure there is, I just haven’t brought it up with either of them and I intended for things to stay that way," He said.

Hanna nodded. “Sorry, my filter’s gone the grass must be kicking in, what were we talking about before this?”

“Uh, wanting things I believe, not a very productive line of inquiry.” He answered.

“Hm… yeah... wait." Hanna paused in thought,  "The other night when we were walking back from Etienne’s you wanted that ugly fucking leather hat in the army surplus. That has to count for something”

Kim remembered what she was referring to. “It was an aviators’ helmet, and it was the real thing not a replica.”

Hanna snorted. “It cost three hundred reàl and it looked like a squirrel’s ass.”

Hanna pulled a face. “Oh Please, detective… What do you know about fashion? Your wardrobe is Izaak’s hand-me-downs and T-shirts you stole from one-night stands.”

“Yeah, and how much did those cost me? Nada. Zilch.”

Kim burst out laughing “Hanna how could possibly want to marry me when 90% of our friendship is us inventing new internecine arguments to pick with each other.”

“And what is a heterosexual marriage but picking one guy to argue with for life?” She said holding up a shaky hand for an Ace’s High.

Kim laughed and smacked her palm with his, he held onto her freezing hand looking with alarm at the lavender-grey skin on her fingers.

“We should probably go back inside so you don’t freeze. I can get you a quilt or something, you’re getting dangerously cold.” He said with a no-nonsense expression, that usually worked on Cuno.

Hanna was too tired or perhaps sufficiently high enough not to argue. “Yeah, okay-”

She stubbed the end of the blunt out on the inside of her wrist. Kim flinched at the gesture but didn’t draw attention to it.

 Dreyfus held out a hand “-Can y'help me up? I think my ass cheeks are frozen to the steps.” She said giggling.

Kim helped Dreyfus up and they both quickly stepped back into the warmth of the house.

Kim instantly felt better inside, the blood in his extremities pumping again.

In the kitchen he could hear Harry and Cuno bickering, but it didn’t seem to be about anything in particular.

That was mostly just how they communicated these days, Cuno was far too deep into puberty to be able to show emotional vulnerability to an adult he looked up to, and Harry was happy that the kid was still talking to him.

Kim and Dreyfus both stumbled back into the living room, Kim flopping down in his favourite evening spot on the sofa as he felt whatever was left of his prioception float up and away.

Dreyfus took the loveseat rocking herself back and forth and rapidly rubbing her hands together like she was trying to kindle a fire. Kim took his glasses off and set them folded on the windowsill, he slowly slipped down the cushions until he was completely horizontal.

PASSION: Don’t you just fucking love lying down? I love lying down. Kim ‘Horizontal’ Kitsuragi that’s us.

FITNESS: Attendez-Vous, we might be slighter higher than we expected, roll call: how’s everybody doing?

EMPATHY: We’re pretty okay, Dreyfus cheered up the mood quite a bit. I hope she’s doing alright, I like her, she’s funny. How’s Harry doing? He seemed better today; his pain must be more manageable. I wonder how Jean’s doing. He seemed to be going through it lately: oh and Cuno too, where’s he gone off to?

PROFESSIONALE: Hey, you all know this is illegal, right? We’re breaking the law. We’re a police officer! We shouldn’t be doing illicit substances. Do you think someone’s watching us? I feel like someone’s watching us. I can feel something on our back, I can feel it on our back.

REFLEXES: Great. Excellent. Incredible. I’m so fucking fast right now. I bet I’d be so good at running. Look we can do a star jump!

REFLEXES:[Very Easy – Failure]

Kim nearly startled himself off the sofa moving his arm suddenly. Hanna snickered and reached out to steady him, despite the fact she was at least a full two metres away.

“Easy.” She said

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Did you guys know that word internecine comes from the First Council of Nicea’s adoption of the Nicene Creed in 325? Just thought that was a cool fact you should know.

ENDURANCE: Ough.

COMPOSURE: Yeah, I’m with Endurance on this one. Ough indeed.

SPEED FREAK: OH-OH MY BOY KIM LEFT THE DOORS UNLOCKED! THAT MEANS IT’S TIME FOR OUR FAVOURITE MODELS OF MOTOR CARRIAGE RANKING THEM OUT OF 100. `LET’S GO-

COMPOSURE: [Easy – Pass] No, no. None of that.

PASSION: WHERE’S FITNESS GONE, IT’S TIME TO FUCK!

FITNESS: I'm right here, doing the breathing. We’d probably have to be able to stand up for that, buddy. Amongst other things.

EMPATHY: Don’t you think it’d be kind of weird and rude to go fuck your boyfriend when your friend bought you dinner and came over to hang out. Kind of a dick move, Kim.

ENCYLOPEDIA: Hey, sooo~ um, does anyone else Remember the Karpandur? That aerostatic liner that disappeared?

REFLEXES:  Yes? I think so, why?

ENCYLOPEDIA: No Reason. :-)

PROFESSIONALE: IF YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT DISAPPEARENCES, WHY DON’T WE START LOOKING INTO THAT BAG OF CASSETTE TAPES FROM EARLIER?

"Kim, oy! Hert zich eyn!” Dreyfus voice was muffled by couch cushion.

Kim startled back into his physical human body. “Huh? I was just… thinking.”

“Well stop it!" She chided. "This is entirely a no thoughts zone from now on. Are there prawn crackers left? I’m fucking starving.”

Kim just shrugged his thoughts racing again.“I have no idea, what time is it?”

ENYCLOPEDIA: Hey, um, do you just ever just stop to think about how if the Kineema were to have a mottled roof like a golf ball it'd probably be more aerodynamic?

PROFESSIONALE: Is that really what you want the public to see when you're chasing a perp sirens blaring? A golf ball cop car?

SPEED FREAK: NO, LISTEN! THAT BINOCLARD CAT IS RIGHT! DECREASED AIR RESISTANCE COULD GET US UP ANOTHER THREE FOUR KS AN HOUR MAX SPEED! THEY'RE ONTO SOME HOT SHIT THERE!

Dreyfus squinted over the top of her frames at her wristwatch, only for Kim to remember that he too wore a watch that he could use if he put his glasses back on.

 “Like eight thirty-ish?” She said.

 Kim fumbled around the windowsill feeling for his frames which fogged up from the heat of his breath when he put them back on.

“I should probably check on Harry in the kitchen, but I need to stand up to do that.” He said.

“Cannot help you there, I am fucking sedentary, baby.” Hanna said.

“Yeah, it hit me stronger than I’d initially expected.” Kim said, rubbing at his face that he was suddenly hyperaware had skin on it.

“You might want to warn your landlord because I think I live here now.” Dreyfus mumbled, Kim just grunted.

“One baby blunt and you’re both completely fucked, that’s embarrassin’.” said a voice, dripping with glee.

Kim snorted, looking over to see Cuno watching them from the doorway to the kitchen a look of disdaining amusement on his freckled face.

“Oh. Hi, Cuno.” He said, monotone.

JUVENILE: The boy is extremely tickled by the sight of two adult police detectives acting like a pair of stoned high schoolers in his own living room. It’s like catnip for him.

Dreyfus waved at the boy.

“Hiiii Cuuu-no!” She bellowed stretching out her syllables.

Cuno raised an increduous eyebrow, Kitsuragi-Style. “Hey, Freaky. D’you need a glass of water?”

 Hanna nodded, picking idly at her fingerails over and over. “Yes please, and the bag of prawn crackers if there are any left.”

Cuno nodded, amusement still radiating off him. “Alright, I’ll getcha those. Consider it a good deed for the elderly.”

Kim just snorted at that, busy being far too aware of how he could suddenly feel his own leg hair against the fabric of his cargo pants, and that he didn't like it.

“It’s just what happens when you get older, kid. Your body starts pumping the binoclard chemicals”. Dreyfus added, laughing.

Cuno screwed up his freckled nose. “Cuno’s not putting up with that shit, Cuno’s dying in a mysterious aero crash at twenty-nine but memorialised forever through the medium of true crime.”

Dreyfus gave him a thumbs up. “Solid plan, jungele. I wish you the best with it.”

“Cuno, are you alright?” Kim asked, suddenly jolted back to his body with the realisation he was supposedly the sole caregiver here of Cuno and Harry.

“Better than you, it looks like,” Cuno said, and he hesitated, “Th’old man wants to know if he can take another aspirin, can you deal with him?

“Of course.” Kim said. “Actually, Cuno? I’m sorry I put you in charge of him without asking. That wasn’t exactly responsible of me.”

Cuno just shrugged “S’alright.”

There was a pause that stretched one for what Kim perceived as ten minutes but in reality was maybe twenty seconds.

“Khm, Ah Cuno?”

Cuno gave a loud exaggarated teenage sigh, “Breath, whats it now?”

“Do you still want to be a cop?” Kim asked.

Cuno burst out laughing.

“Fuck no! Are you insane as well as high!? After what it did to Harry? Nah-uh, fuck that noise. Cuno’s becoming a Juggalo full time.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Challenging – Fail]

“A Gigolo?” Kim sat up in alarm.

JUVENILE: Oh sweet mother, it’s not that the boy knows what sex work is that’s alarming, the Hardy Boy’s in Martinaise no doubt put the concept in his head with their many toasts to the beloved Monica and her assets. It’s more concerning that he views it as aspirational at fourteen.

Cuno recoiled, his cheeks suddenly as ruddy as his hair “No, molopää! You know like the ICP?”

Kim blinked he had coompletely lost his grasp on the conversation. Between the two of them they'd smoked very little actual cannabis but he was perhaps too high for this. “The International Coalition Police?” He guessed.

Cuno palmed his face. “Fuck me, you know what!? Cuno’s going to get you both a water and then he’s fuckin' bouncing” He shook his head disparagingly “Can you fucking believe that-How can you be high and still this boring?”

Hanna giggled, “I think he's talking about a hip-hop group Kim. My nephew Mattie likes them too,  they have a very strange song about magnets?”

“Yeah, See? Lt. Freak gets it!” Cuno said giving Kim a look of disparagment.

The two officers slipped back into comfortable silence as Cuno dipped back into the kitchen.

Kim struggled to get back some of his gross motor control.

FITNESS: [Difficult - Pass]

“I’m gonna go check up on Harry.” He said, scrambling up to his feet a little unsteadily.

“уда́чи.” Dreyfus mumbled.

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table still, flicking through his sketchbook, a cross look on his face.

“Heya, Kim.” He said not looking up.

"Hi," Kim leaned down to kiss him.

Harry pulled a face. “Woah-oh, Weed skunk alert.”

Kim’s ears reddened.  “Oh yeah, I forgot, sorry.”

“It’s alright, it's nostalgic. Whatcha doing?" Harry asked.

“Not much of anything really, me and Dreyfus are hanging out in the living room if you wanna come join us.” He said.

Harry set his bookk down. “Sure, f-f-f-fucking alien hands aren’t working. I’m too tired. M'Leg's gone numb too.”

Kim helped him up to his feet, he was heavy as ever, but Kim was used to supporting him now so that he wouldn’t topple over. They shuffled into the next room both men collapsing together onto the sofa. Kim felt a bit like he was a first responder pulling an injured person out of some twisted wreckage, but it was just him and Harry in their own apartment.

“You alright?” Kim asked the other man.

As an answer an arm snaked around his waist, whiskers brushed against his cheek.

  “It’s nice to see you smiling.  I’ve buh-buh-buh-been harried.” Harry said.

Kim raised an eyebrow. “Harried? I’m sure we’ve all been harried in this house.” He teased back.

“One could even argue you’re being harried right now” added Dreyfus.

“No, this stupid fucking meat sponge. Not harried. Similar word, sounds like it.” Harry moved to smack himself in the face, but Kim stayed his arm.

“Worried, perhaps? Concerned?” He prompted gently.

Harry nodded. “Yes! Worried, About you.”

“Me? Harry, you have holes in your head.” Kim murmured.

“Yeah? you still have to work.” Harry slurred.

Kim raised an eyebrow. “And? Someone has to,”

“I know. You’re still t-tired.”

Kim shrugged off his concern. "I am, yes, it’s just not your fault."

Harry grunted. "Jus’ wish I could buh-buh-be me again - useless like this.”

HARRYOLOGY: Caution this sounds like another depressive spiral he gets like this in the evenings you need to cut it in the bud or he'll just escalate things.

"You’re not useless, you’re still you, Harry, that’s enough." Kim said sternly.

"Mm just makes me so angry". Harry said shaking one side of his head. He moved to change the subject.

“You alive, Dre-Dreyfus?.” He asked.

Kim looked over at the other sofa where Dreyfus was lying prone her face buried in the cushions

“Debatable.” She said rolling herself onto her side. “What are you guys up to?”

“Not much,” Kim said, feeling a little lightheaded all of a sudden, "We could put a film on or something. You did say your sister needs you at tomorrow morning so it can’t be anything that you’ll fall asleep to."

“Yeah, Kurva. ‘Can I put the radio on?” Hanna asked scrambling back to her feet. Too much fucking thinking go on in here.

“Fine with me” Kim said,”

Harry just grunted approvingly; his good arm draped like a python around Kim’s waist.

A woman with a rich beautiful jazz voice crooned over the airwaves.

"It’s a real cold night out there, and here on BOHEME FM, It's Mimi Musetta helping you stay warm we’d go a request from Javi in Villalobos, this one is dedicated to Lazare who's stuck working the graveyard shift, hope it’s an easy one honey.”

"If you wake up and don't want to smile
If it takes just a little while
Open your eyes and look at the day
You'll see things in a different way

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow
Don't stop, it'll soon be here
It'll be better than before
Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone"

The phone rang when Kim came downstairs from helping a very groggy Harry up the stairs to bed. Hanna was out on the steps having a cigarette, to wake herself up.

He frowned, a phone call after 8pm was never a good sign, even when he was sober, right now it felt like he was a teenaged girl babysitter in a cheap slasher thriller.

Nevertheless, he picked up the receiver, his mouth dry. “Hello? Du Bois Residence?"

A woman’s voice was on the other line. She sounded obviously upset, and she was sniffling.

“Kim, is that you, zisele?” Kim recognised the woman's voice instantly, Dreyfus’ sister.

“Yes, it’s me, Sara Malke, is everything alright?” Kim asked.

“Ah, it's been better. Is Henye there with you, can I borrow her for a minute?”

“Of course she’s out just having a cigarette, I’ll get her for you.” He said.

“Thank you. I can hold.”

Kim sent the receiver down and went out to the front steps to find his fellow officer sitting there once more, albeit with her coat on this time. A stubby little cigarette nearly burnt down to the filter stuck out from the side of her mouth.

“Did the phone ring or am I hearing things?” She asked.

“It’s Sara Malke she wants to talk to you." Kim replied.

“Urh, fine. Meyn lebn. No rest for the fucking wicked, eh?" She groaned.

Kim hesitated uncomfortably in the threshold. “Actually, it sounded like she was crying.”

That was enough to jerk Dreyfus into action,

EMPATHY: the tired stoned woman in her thirties making bitter jokes sublimates off of her instantly and underneath there is just an eldest daughter who had to become a mother far, far too early.

She stamped out her butt under her heel and charged back into the house, not stopping to take off her boots.

“Nu, malkele? Voz d’mir?” She barked down the phoneline

“Shh-nu-sha-stil. Als gut.” Her volume dropped down into soothing tones. There was a pause and she jolted up to attention, a genuine look of panic on her face.

“Hey!? Zog az vider, bite?”

“Oy, okay, shit, und vos di Test hat gezogt?”

“Kurva! Bist zikher? Nu, veyn nisht bite, bubbele, Fuck, okay.”

“Dayge nisht, dayge nisht. Kim fershtayt. Ez iz a vokhnakht, yednfals. Ya, love you too.”

“Is she okay?” Kim asked once she'd hung up the phone.

Dreyfus grimaced. "Not really, but uh, it’s kind of out of my hands, Still, she needs me there. I’m sorry to bail on you so early."

Kim shook his head, "It’s fine, Harry was already snoring when I came down, I should check on the kid and turn in myself. Thanks for dinner, and the herbe”

“Thanks for the company. Give Harry my love when he comes round.”

“I will. Do you need a flashlight?” He asked.

Dreyfus performed a crude self patdown and swore again in Yevreysk. “Could I? I left mine at the office, I’ve got a light on my bike but it’s not the brightest.”

Kim nodded, and passed her one from the coffee table. They had a surplus of flashlights here.

“Of course. Maybe you should walk your bike home, I don't know about you but my coordination is going."

Hanna laughed nervously, "Yeah, me too. I'll walk her home, maybe go smell some black pepper too, before I have to deal with a family emergency. It usually helps bring down my paranoia."

"Be careful, okay?" Kim said as he watched her head out the door.

Dreyfus smiled back at him over her shoulder, pulling her patrol cloak around her shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah, bozo. I love you too."

Kim was in the kitchen of the Children’s House he grew up in, an empty almost industrial place more like a hospital or penitentiary cafeteria than the kind of warm and homey image most people thought of when they thought of kitchens.

The room felt cavernous in size and complexity but also claustrophobic with the sheer amount of sharp unfriendly appliances and cooking equipment.

At a counter bathed in harsh fluorescent light stood his mother with a bowl of apricots. Not his actual mother, mind you, just the dream version of her, that his brain had stitched together from a handful of photographs and letters she left behind.

Airman Marielle Byul Choi Kitsuragi was engrossed in the task of checking all the apricots in the bowl for spots.

“What are you doing?” Kim asked. He couldn’t remember why they were here and what they were supposed to be doing.

“I swear the time period for how ripe these are gets smaller every year.” His mother replied, which certainly was an answer just not to his question.

Kim frowned. “Oh? I mean, apricots are famously ephemeral that’s why the Dolorians like them.”

Marielle looked up at him with an all-too-familiar eyebrow quirk

“You sound just like your father.” She said.

Kim bit his lip little threads of lucidity like pinpricks of light already flooding it.

“Do I really? Or is that just what I’d think you’d say if we spoke?”

Marielle frowned, an apricot visibly rotting in her hand.

“There are some things you’ve got to work out for yourself, Kim. I’m sorry we haven’t been there to guide you. You only have other people’s word that your parents loved you very much, but I think there’s a younger much angrier version of yourself who refused to believe that and never stopped.”

“I think you’re right.” Kim answered. “So why are you here?”

Marielle flinched, chunks of flesh and human viscera falling from her now bloody hands where there had once been rotten fruit.  

The fluorescent light switched off. When it switched on again the scene had changed. He was looking down on the roof of a Jamrock tenement building, a chill in the air and the crunch of leaves under foot.

“No.” Kim whispered but there was no one nearby to hear him.

A young man, just a teenager stood cowering against the brick wall of a chimney. “Leave me alone, or I’ll jump!” He yelled, "I;m not fucking around!" He scrambled towards the edge of the roof in his panicked state, tears already streaming down his face.

Two figures followed him out from the stairwell, one large and hairy, one scrawny and orange jacketed.

“Easy now, kid, we’re not after you for anything we just need to talk.” Harry said, using his most soothing parental tones.  Kim hung back with a hand to his holster, ready to cover Harry if he needed it, but the kid seemed to be a greater danger to himself.

“This isn’t how it happened. We weren’t on a roof. He wasn’t going to jump he was at street level, trying to suicide by cop, before Harry who had over-exerted himself fell down unresponsive, and he ran away.” He mumbled but the dream didn’t respond.

Marielle Kitsuragi, however, did. She was back again with an apricot in her hand. Tossing it up like a baseball and catching it again.

“Memories are fickle things, Kim." She said sombrely. "They don’t last, and neither will you.”

Kim woke up.

Du Bois – De Ruyter Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

??:?? 23^rd January ‘53

Kim woke up in the strange green glow of an early winter morning. He was still wearing the singlet and boxers he’d been wearing the night before and his mouth was dry and fuzzy feeling.

He lay there for a few seconds trying to piece bits together from an extremely weird dream. What was up with the apricots? Was it just the THC repeating on him?

FITNESS: We certainly feel much more sober than last night. There much less sensory overload. You’re just a little dehydrated that’s to be expected.

LOGIC: Dreams don’t mean anything, they’re just your unconscious brain vomiting up imagery for you to engage with while you sleep.

He stuck out a hand across the bed, Harry was sputtering again in sleep rag dolled onto his bad side like roadkill emitting a great rumbling that would rival any Coupris model.

“Harry?” Kim said, lightly shaking the man.

The engine rumbling stalled "Mm?"

“You’re snoring again.”

“Mmhm.” There was a brief pause and then the rumbling started up again.

Kim sighed, staring up at the strange grey patch in the corner of the ceiling. Harry said it was just dust and cobwebs, but Kim was starting to worry it was black mould that his eyes weren’t good enough to make out.

FITNESS: Are you trying to self-mummify, Kitsuragi? Get some water already.

He reached for the glass of water he kept on his nightstand and sighed finding it already empty.

Kim bit the bullet and put his glasses on kicking back the covers and heading downstairs for a refill.

He checked his watch. 05:07am. Not quite late enough to get up and not quite early enough to go back to sleep.

VOLTA DO MAR: The day is just beginning for most people other than a few dozen teenaged hardcore ravers who’d go full out on a Tuesday night.

A small clattering of them pours themselves into the vinyl booth of a 24/7 fast-food place, a rare kind of establishment in Jamrock, but popular with the homeless and rolling teens. A mother of four dressed in a pastel branded apron comes up to their table with a stack of glasses and two pitchers of ice water.

She shakes the shoulder of one girl who has slumped forward semi-conscious on the table.

“Oph élie, ma choux, stop grinding your teeth, Dei knows your poor mother doesn’t make orthodontist money.” She says

“Yo, Brigitte! We love you, like, so much.” one of the boys says. You’re like our guardian angel.”

The waitress rolls her eyes. “Julien you have work today, no? You need to start sobering up now, I’ll get you some eggs. Who else has school or work on a Wednesday?”

 Eight hands decked out in mesh sleeves and neon Kandi go up. Brigitte nods, satisfied.

One of the ravers pulls on her shirt sleeve. “Hey, hey, Brigitte, before you go-”

The older woman frowns at him maternally. “I’m not doing your weird little handshake, Helmut, I am on the clock.”

“Please, please, please…” the same young man whines, “I made you extra on purpose!”.

Brigitte shakes her head long-sufferingly but she can't hide her smile.

“Okay how does it go again? Peace, Love, Unity?”

She holds out a hand and copies Helmut’s hand signs.

 “And Respect of course.” Another tired raver adds.

Brigitte grins. “Respect, huh? That's good, you kids sure could do with more of that.”

Brigitte finishes the handshake and Helmut puts three chunky Kandi bracelets on her arm next to the previous six they’ve given her.

She inspects them amused. The kid has spelled out her name in neon green and pink beads. “These are very nice, thank you. I’ll get you all some Eggs and Toast, oh! Except Rachel- Are beans vegan? Ouias? I’ll get you some beans.”

Kim was startled to find the kitchen downstairs lit up and already occupied.

He stood awkwardly in the threshold in just a singlet and boxers and blinked blearily.

Cuno sat perched awkwardly on a dining chair a small wooden box and an electric breadboard in front of him.

“Cuno? Are you okay? You're up early.” He asked.

The boy didn’tlook up at him, too busy transfixed to his notes. “Yeah? 'Cuz, I woke up early,"

"What are you doing?” Kim asked, moving into the kitchen to refill his glass of water and taking a sip.

His parched throat thanked him.

"-‘s for school,” Cuno said, still not looking up.

Kim frowned. “Okay, did you forget to do your homework last night or something?”

The boy shook his head, "Too busy here last night. Cuno can’t think when cooler stuff is happening."

Kim nodded. "Khm, alright. say if you need anything. I doubt I'll get back to sleep the noise Harry is making. I might just stay up and do Volta.”

"Do we got duct tape somewhere?" Cuno asked.

Kim pushed his glasses up his nose trying to get some sleep out the corner of his eye with a finger.

"Uh, yes, I think so, why?"

"He won't let Cuno use a soldering iron." The boy said gesturing to the stairs, and by extension his father slumbering above them.

Kim smirked at that. "Ah, very wise of him. What subject is that for?"

"Physics." The boy mumbled, "-'Lectricity module."

"You’ve got a breadboard set up, so I assume they want you building some kind of circuit. What's it supposed to do?" Kim asked.

“I gotta get it, so the light goes on when I hit the switch.” Cuno said, gesturing to a miniature lightbulb resting on the table.

Kim nodded and approaching the table he set down his glass, inspecting the boy’s materials.

PERCEPTION (Sight): Looks like he’s got a battery for a source, cheap wiring, and half a dozen electronic components, a switch, current converter, a transistor, a diode. All basic stuff.

ENCYLOPEDIA : Looks like an overly simplified form of Switched Mode Power Supply, to demonstrate how one would typically work but without requiring high school aged children to mess around with Mains Power.

“Oh okay, that’s relatively straight forward, do you want some help?” He asked.

Cuno finally looked up at him and made eye contact.

“Dunno, can you read this shit? S’like higher-glyphics to Cuno.” He said, pushing a worksheet towards him.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Khm…The word is Hieroglyphics.

COMPOSURE: Yes. We know. He’s fourteen years old and talking casually can you keep that shit to yourself for once?

Kim took a breath in and paused to scrunitise the paper.

“Yes, that’s a circuit diagram. Did you not learn the notation in class?” He said.

The boy just shrugged. “Maybe, don’t remember.”

EMPATHY: He was either skipping class or not paying attention when they were teaching it, but he’s not going to say that because he doesn’t want you to get mad him.

JUVENILE: His ADHD has been worsening lately, the school counsellor who Cuno considers his sworn nemesis had sent a letter home concerned about some of his behaviour and attendances. Tuulikki had contacted a psychiatrist she worked with, and they’d managed to arrange for the boy to increase his Peptide medication, but he was still high-strung and argumentative, some of that was down to Cuno and the rest you suspect is a behavioural response to Harry’s stroke and the changes in your home since then.

COMPOSURE: Again, just go easy, on the kid. Be patient.

“Okay, well if you’re looking down at the board the plus and minus here is your source, and the lines are where you put wires. “ Kim said pointing out a line on the breadboard.

Cuno took this in.

“What’s the play symbol mean?” He asked.

“The play symbol?” Kim frowned.

“Here.” He pointed to a triangle on the worksheet diagram, a diode symbol a triangle on one side in the direction of current.

“Oh, right, it does look like the play symbol.” Kim murmured. “Uh, that’s a diode, I believe.”

Cuno nodded, kicking his legs back and forth under the table. “That’s the one like the lights in the radio.” He said.

Kim nodded. “Yes, that’s an LED, a Light-Emitting-Diode. The important thing to remember is the current only goes one way when moving through it.”

“Okay… Hey D’you know what this Macaroni law is?” The boy asked.

Kim’s lips twitched. “I know that’s not what’s called, pass me the paper back,  I can barely see with my glasses on right now.” He read the text at the top of the sheet:

NB: If you keep finding your voltage numbers are off by small amounts (no more than 2V either side of the expected voltage) Try to remember Marconi’s Second Law. Depending on where you are and what equipment you are using  it may be that you need to account for minor entroponetic resistance.

LOGIC: Oh yeah, that’d make sense. It’s not like the Lycée has the kind of funding that pays for good copper wiring, and it’s a good idea to teach kids basic entroponetics alongside electronics.

JUVENILE: Yeah cuz’ if they did what’s to stop the kids selling it instead of using it to do homework?

“-Oh, Marconi’s second law, uh that’s about Pale degradation in electronics and radio.” Kim said.

Cuno narrowed his eyes. “Pale’s like the gas that has ghosts in it and shit, right? Makes pilots go crazy?”

Kim nodded. “That’s the stuff, though I don’t think it’s technically a gas, at Lycée  level they might teach that but it’s actually closer to a plasma.”

Cuno frowned. “Like in your blood?”

“No, actually but it’s named after the same idea, I think, it comes from a Parikarnassian word for a formative substance, something that molds to the container it’s in.  

Cuno cocked his head in amusement. “Hey, How do you even know this stuff, Bino? You don’t need it for beating people’s skulls in.”

Kim let out a soft wry chuckle. “No, but all officers have to a do basic radio course, and besides I’m a 45-year-old binoclard, you tend to pick things up over time.”

Cuno snickered, keeping his voice down still. “You said it that time, pig, not Cuno.”

“I did, uh have you done thermodynamics yet? Marconi’s laws are related to the laws of thermodynamics.” Kim asked.

The boy screwed up his face. “Cuno knows those words just not in that order. Thermo’s heat right? Thermodynamics is the Dynamics of heat?”

“Yes!” Kim exclaimed suddenly excited that he was getting through to the kid. “Heat plays a big part in it, but uh, the short version of laws one and two:  we don’t have a way of making infinite energy forever, right? Cars run out of fuel, fire burns up coal or wood, you still get hungry after you ate a huge amount of food last night.”

The boy picked at a scab on his hand. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Okay in and those three examples those are all forms of energy,  right?” Kim prompted.

Cuno nodded, covering a yawn. Kim kept going. “- Well, the motor uses the fuel to allow the car kinetic energy to move, the fire produces heat energy and the food produces energy when you metabolise it so you can use that to breathe and walk or whatever. There’s what we call the conservation of energy, it can’t be created or destroyed only transformed from one type to another.”

“Why not?” Cuno asked.

ENCYLOPEDIA: That’s a kind of a tough question, kid.

“Because it would upset the Equilibrium of the system- Look you don’t need to know all that yet, just know that’s the first law, and for the second one, well you can’t undrive the car, or unburn the coal or un-eat the food, right?” He asked.

“Cuno can do the last one.” Cuno said.

Kim cocked an eyebrow. “Vomiting doesn’t count, it’s no longer food at that point.”

Cuno screwed up his face, “Oh yeah? Tell that to dogs.”

“The point is a transference of energy follows the direction of time right, it can only go one way – like a diode” Kim said.

“Okay?” asked Cuno. “So what?”

“So, the Pale doesn’t follow those laws; it is capable of destroying energy, and it can move back and forth in time. So, we have Marconi’s Laws to help adjust for possible interference in building things like circuits and Radio-computers.”

“So, it’s like a compressor.” Cuno said, idly picking his nose.

“Hm?” Kim wasn’t sure what he meant.

Cuno kept going. “Like on the radio if there’s too much noise or a specific signal isn’t strong enough you can slap a compressor on it to try and boost it.”

Kim nodded. “Right exactly, you’re getting it. In fact, a lot of radio noise is entroponetic in origin so, compressors no doubt have to be tuned to take these laws into consideration.”

Cuno squinted suspiciously at the bit of wire he’d been fiddling with in his hands.

“If Cuno makes this kit, will there be Pale in it?” he asked.

“Nowhere enough to be detrimental, you’d generate more using a Radio Computer regularly. It’s like radiation, an X-ray won’t kill you, but a reactor meltdown might.”

“Sounds hardcore,” Cuno said approvingly.

JUVENILE: You did it! You cracked the Cuno nut! He’s listening to you!

Kim snorted, rubbing at his face with both hands.

“So hardcore that I think we might need breakfast first.”

Chapter Text

That there, that's not me.

I go where I please.

I walk through walls,

I float down the Liffey

I'm not here,

This isn't happening.

 

Du Bois-De Ruyter Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West, ZoC.

07:26 January 23rd '53

Harry had woken up in pain and with little actual words to articulate it, interupting Kim and Cuno’s brief sliver of civility.

It was a  weekday Harry had Physio, Cuno had School, and Kim had a murder that might not even be a murder to solve.

There were medications to take or in Kim’s case administer. Cuno had to feed Grigory and wrestle his bulky physics project into his schoolbag.

There was no more time for camaraderie or conversation between Harry’s word salad and Cuno sticking his headphones on to drown him out.

"You might need this, thermometer says it's negative three out there." Kim said coming back downstairs with a jacket for Harry.

He went into the Kitchen where Harry was sat at the kitchen table, with his head resting in his good hand.

Kim held the jacket out for Harry to take.  Harry just frowned at him and let the jacket fall to the floor and dejectedly smacked his head against the kitchen table with a loud clonk. Kim winced.

"Harry." Kim could feel himself getting annoyed. He stopped and took an even steady breath in. "Please don't sulk. I'll help you put that on before we leave. Just give me a second I'm trying to do six things at one."

Harry just grunted, it came out muffled by the tabletop.

HARRYOLOGY: He’s been trying to communicate what’s going on with him all morning, but the words are getting ambushed on the way to his mouth, and after about twenty solid minutes of not being able to get through a sentence without trouble he’s pretty fucking frustrated and I think he's just not talking at all now.

EMPATHY: He's not angry at you, Kim. He's just angry. I know we’re tired, I know we’re in a rush, but you have to put your own frustrations to the side. You are allowed to be tired and irritable, but you must remember it will never be as visceral as the sensation of no longer being in control of your own body or mind.

PASSION: We know! We fucking know already, doesn’t make it any fucking easier. Doesn’t make it fair!

COMPARTMENTALISATION: Life ain’t fair, kid. Keep it moving.

PASSION: Have you buried so much in your infinite compartments that you don’t feel anything at all? It isn’t fair, so it should be fairer, things should be better for everyone, they can be better for everyone including Kim.  You should care about other people, yes, but not so much that it destroys you, martyrdom achieves the death of the martyr and nothing more. It isn't helping Harry to doom his only caretaker to a breakdown of his own.

Kim took sighed and moved closer to him. He picked up the jacket put a hand on his upper back.

“Harry, I know you’re in pain and you’re struggling. The meds should start to kick in soon at least. I can’t help you parse this block right now, and I can't stay here with you. I'm sorry. I need to get to work and get you and Cuno out the door."

Harry tried to reply, but getting nowhere fast, he grabbed at Kim, turning in his seat and pulling Kim towards him with his one good arm.

Kim tried to steady both of them. He touched Harry's face. "I know you're trying. I wish I could do more to help."

'Nuh-nuh-no." Harry managed to spit out.

"No? To which part?" Kim asked.

Harry hesitated grimaced whether in pain or frustration, Kim wasn't sure.

"You." He murmured.

Kim smiled, he was exhausted and it wasn't yet 8 am. "Me?"

"Mm. You. L-Luh-ov-yu.” He stammered.

“I know." Kim said, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I know that. You don’t need to tell me that with words.”

Kim wrapped his arms around hims shoulders. Harry still seated flopped himself forward until he was resting his face in the crook of Kim's neck. His skin was hot and clammy. Kim could hear his breathing change.

FITNESS: He's crying. You can feel it too in your chest and your throat, but you've learned to tamp it down instantly.

EMPATHY: He's doing everything he can right now to hold back from just breaking down entirely. He doesn't want be a nuisance, he doesn't want Cuno to see him like this either, he knows that'll completely unsettle the kid.

Kim kissed Harry’s temple.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm right here. You're doing everything you can. Focus on your breathing."

With a fingertip he traced the pale twisting scarring down the path of Harry's carotid artery; the thin ghosts of surgical staples like tiny razor thorns on a barbed wire fence left over from his endarterectomy.

 They were both quiet, just listening to the other's breathing. For a second the world was still.

“WHERE THE GOLDEN FUCKING TITS IS CUNO'S SODDING GYM KIT?!”

Cuno's full volume screech could probably frighten birds from a block away.

Just like that the moment was gone again.

Harry made a strangled noise in his throat and he slid himself back into the chair better.

"S'ok." He whispered. "Gimme-a-sec."

"I'll deal to the kid, you keep breathing." Kim said softly.

He kissed Harry briefly on the forehead.

Kim closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, before straightening up to attention.

COMPOSURE: [Godly - Pass] Compose yourself. You are a rock, solid and unchangeable. Your partner needs that to hold on to right now.

ENDURANCE: The coach is right, Kim. We need to just hold on through the rough part and then we can rest.

Harry squeezed his hand in weak staccato pips like the reassuring beeps of a heart-monitor.

 “Did you check in the laundry basket with the rest of the stuff from the dryer?” Kim called out

Cuno briefly reappeared in the kitchen and  made a wordless war cry of pure adolescent frustration. 

Kim just let him, busy grabbing his sidearm from the living room safe and readjusting his holster, before he moved to the front door to get Harry's boots.

"Son of a cunt!" Said a voice from the living room. "Found 'em!"

"You okay to get up right now?" Kim asked. Harry nodded silently, his breath still a little uneven.

Kim passed him his crutch and helped him up to stand. Harry was as heavy as ever.

“Do you have everything you need now, Cuno?” Kim called out.

Cuno reappeared with a neoprene drawstring bag tucked under his arm like a basketball. His schoolbag was slung lazily over the other shoulder. He raised a jaded teenage eyebrow.

“I'll level with you Pig, what Cuno needs is a line of that royal purple, a stroopwaffel and eight hours sleep in one of those dark dungeon pits they used to torture guys in."

“Mhm...” Kim grunted, rubbing sleep crust out of his eyes from beneath his glasses with the hand not supporting Harry.

 “You and me both,  kid.”

Cuno’s lips twitched, he met Kim with a cool look, sizing him up and then he nodded.

JUVENILE: A Cuno badge of civility, recognition if not respect.

“Well, I’m not sharing my stroopwaffel but I’ll see if they do us a deal on the Oubliette.”

Kim smirked.  “Are you ready to get in the car? I’d rather make sure you’re contained before I help your Dad get in."

The boy pulled a face. He moved to hold the front door open to let Kim and Harry though.

“The Cuno transcends containment.”

“And yet he still needs a lift to school every day.” Kim said, heading down the overgrown front pathway towards the street and the Kineema.

LOGIC: This place is an accessiblity hazard, you should mow the grass sometime this week.

PASSION: And you should stop riding Kim's ass, yet here you are, and so's the fucking grass!

“Hey, Cuno’s more than happy to stay home if one of you pigs would fuckin let him." The kid scoffed, running ahead of them.

“No- no.” Harry barked, with great urgency. “Ku-Kuu- Agh,- Jus' Get in”

Cuno pulled a face at Kim “Can ya call off the bloodhound, Bino?” He snarked.

Kim just nudged the boy out of their way moving towards the passenger side of the Kineema.  

“No, he’s right.  If you want to skip it has to be on your own terms we can't know about it. I don’t think I could take a truancy officer in a fight all the ones I know are built like brick houses and act like them too. Those guys are dead behind the eyes."

Cuno snorted. “Nah, nah, come on, man. They're too easy."

"Who's too easy, Truancy officers?" Kim asked, checking Harry was safely inside the cab.

"Yeh, Cuno can handle them you gotta let them get ya and then you make the biggest fucking racket in a public place. All you need is someone’s Mum getting involved and then you can leg it.”

Kim considered this. “Hm, weaponizing bystanders… that’s not a bad tactic, not a moral one but it would work.” He said.

Cuno was too busy barrelling in to the backseat of the Kineema at full speed.

“Cuno knows it does, he’s done it three times before.” He said when he slammed the door shut.

“Back in Martinaise, I hope.” Kim muttered, helping Harry with his seatbelt before getting into the driver’s seat himself.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone cares if I skip in Jamrock.”

Kim glowered at the boy in the rear mirror, as he backed out of the driveway.

“Your School Counsellor certainly does.”

Cuno groaned exaggeratedly. “Ugh, that bougie bitch, can’t she sniff her own shit instead o'mine?”

“Kuuh…nngho.” Harry rumbled, spraying some spit onto the Kineema’s dashboard.

It wasn’t quite his name, but it got the point across.

Kim briefly took his left hand off the lever and rested it on Harry's knee just for a second.

Kim heard rather then saw Cuno scoff with mock indignation. His eyes remained fixed on the road.

“What!? S’not mis-ogg-iny if it’s literally true!” he said.

Kim waited until the Kineema came to a stop waiting at an intersection and looked back over his shoulder at the kid to give him his best look of disapproval.

“Cuno, Harry and I have both met Miss Dubonnet, and she was a human woman and not a dog. So, you must be using the word in a non-literal sense, which is misogynistic.”

“You’re just thinking too old school. Bitches can be anyone.” The boy in the back seat replied. "Liberté, égalité, bitches."

“Uh-huh.” Kim snorted, muffling a laugh with a driving glove. "Sure."

“Yeah, like if I said ‘Bino could get mad bitches,’ I’d be talking about dudes because that’s what you’re into, obviously.”

UNDERGROUND: It’s almost endearing how Cuno’s general street rat worldview has taken on the facts of you and Harry and your relationship. It was less than three years ago the kid was calling you trilingual homophobic slurs.

JUVENILE: Cuno is a fascinating creature, he’s rough, punchy and callous but he’s also incredibly quick-witted and observant, he’s like a little sponge soaking up information. A little ADHD sponge that bites people.

“Y'know  sometimes I feel like I need a graduate diploma in Cuno to understand how  your brain works, kid.”

“Five hundred reàl and I’ll make you a doctorate of Cunology in Art class today.” Cuno said flatly,

Harry laughed but it quickly turned into a coughing fit, “Oh, a buh-buh-buh-bargain!”

Valkepää Residence, Jamrock Central, Revachol West, ZoC.

07:59 January 23rd '53

Dr Tuulikki Valkepää was talking to another woman on her front porch when Kim pulled up in the street outside.

PERCEPTION (Sight): The woman was is white and  maybein her thirties She's dressed in neat officewear under a long winter coat,  while Tuulikki is dressed in a tartan pyjama pants and a big T-shirt under a camo puffer jacket she'd evidently just thrown on. Her short sandy hair is mussed, either from the wind or she hasn't had a chance to brush it.

LOGIC: If a passerby had to guess which one of the two had was a registered Child Psychologist they probably wouldn't guess it was Tuulikki.

Tuulikki caught sight of the Kineema and smiled, giving a little wave and then turning back to continue her conversation.

“Adios, pigs!” Cuno screech-yelled leaping out of the cab and charging straight ahead towards the front door.

In his haste however he’d picked his sports bag up from the wrong side and the drawstring had opened leaving a trail of gym shorts, socks and shoes in his wake.

“Oh, for the love of the Mother.” Kim groaned,

Harry snorted beside him.” He gestured with a shaking hand to imply Kim ought to run after the boy. “Go on.”

Kim rolled his eyes, “Fine, but you owe me.” He muttered.

Harry just laughed breathily again, his mood had improved somewhat, and it seemed laughter was easier than speech.

Kim unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the cab picking up after Cuno as he went.

Tuulikki smiled at him when he reached her front step.

“Ah, Hurricane Kuuno again leaves a path of debris in his wake yet again, Lieutenant.”

There was a glint of good-natured teasing in her eyes.

“Yes, I don’t know how he does it sometimes. Ah, Good morning.” Kim  said nodding to the other woman,

“Good morning, officer.” She said with a polite smile.

PERCEPTION: (Hearing) She speaks with a slight accent, possibly Zsiemsk or another Graadian language.

“This is Kim. He's Kuuno’s foster-dad,” Tuulikki explained to the other woman, "I look after Kuuno in the mornings before school."

"I see," said the woman, "I assume that screeching red blur was Kuuno?"

Kim snorted. "It was indeed."

Tuulikki nodded, "He and Kylli get on like a house fire.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “I'd say it's more like an arson with those two.”

Tuulikki smiled, and moved to introduce her companion.

“Halina here is a friend and colleague from Youth Services, we were just talking shop. We’re down yet another case worker out Martinaise way.”

“Oh, nothing too serious I hope.” Kim said, because he didn’t know what else to say to that, and he didn’t want to get dragged into a conversation with Harry alone in the car.

“Another mental health crisis, it sounds like." Halina said, "She didn't turn up to work on Monday and Tuesday morning we heard she’s not coming back. I can’t be too mad; I’ve been there myself we all have in this job but with her gone it means more pressure on the rest of us. I don’t suppose you know anyone in social work who’d be happy to take on Jamrock North cases, detective?”

Kim shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Tuulikki’s my go to for that kind of thing.”

“Here I’ll take that stuff off your hands, Kim, I don’t want to make you late for work. Tuulikki said gesturing to the sports bag.

Before Kim had a chance to however, the front door cracked open and out popped the heads of two ginger-haired teens.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) Cuno's puffing for breath and trying to wrestle his friend away from the door. Kylli bats him off like he weighs nothing-which being Cuno is kind of true but he's a healthier weight than he was on meth - She is still wearing that old and filthy Pipo, but someone, likely Tuulikki, has lovingly brushed and braided her hair into twin orange braids.

“Hei Mutsi!" The girl yelled.

Tuulikki turned to look at her charge, "Mitä nyt, leijonanpentu?"

JUVENILE: Tuulikki's whole stance changes when she's speaking to Kylli. She uncrosses her arms and tilts her head to the side a little, her expression is neutral but interested, she makes brief eye contact but doesn't hold it. In Juvie they told you to always be on guard because kids can read nonverbal communication quicker and faster than most adults.

LOGIC: She might not even notice she's doing it. I think it's just something that comes with practice. She doesn't want to give off any hint of aggression because Kylli will react in kind.

EMPATHY: Also, she's a nice lady who loves working with young people and she loves this sharp feral creature. She would like to transition from fostering to legal guardianship, she's just been waylaid by beauraucracy.

"Cuno’s only been here ten seconds and he’s lost his fucking pants already!” Kylli, the delinquent formerly known as Cunoesse, crowed with glee.

“No, I didn’t, Pippi -Fuckin-Langkous, I know where they are!” Cuno scowled, his face as red as his hair.

“Oh shush, I have them right here, close the drawstring properly next time.” Kim said, thrusting the bag in the boys direction.

“Er, yeah, Alright.  Seeya Bino.” The boy said taking the bag and squirming awkwardly in place, not meeting Kim’s eye.

EMPATHY: He’s grateful but embarrassed. He doesn’t want to show emotional weakness in front of his friend who 1) hates the police and the concept of institutional power. 2) has a severe attachment disorder with antisocial features and possibly access to a shiv.

JUVENILE: Coolness is currency with teenagers, sometimes it feels like they have more complicated rituals of face and status than the samurai of Old Seol. Cuno is balancing getting in trouble with adults versus Kylli thinking he’s weak or cowardly and scales are tipping in her favour.

“Älä, Kuuno.” Tuulikki said, with a disappointed shake of her head. "Behave yourself."

Her casual tone and body language matched with the correct pronunciation of his full name was sufficiently damning enough to make Kylli laugh and Cuno snap up to attention.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and gave Kim a little nod, “Right, uhm, thanks… Kim.” He mumbled.

Kim nodded back. “You’re welcome, try not to electrocute anyone at school today.”

“Tchyeah, No promises.” The boy replied and immediately legged it back inside.

Kim gave the two remaining adults a nod. “Bye Tuulikki, nice to meet you, Halina.”

“You too officer,” Halina said with a smile.

Tuulikki clapped Kim firmly on the arm, a fond gesture of brotherly camaraderie.

“Seeya later Kim say Hi to Harry from me.”

“Alright.” Kim replied before turning on a boot heel.

Harry seemed a little dishevelled and out of it when Kim got back to the Kineema.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) His jacket is sitting weird under the seatbelt like he's been grabbing at it.

"Luh-Lungs, man,  don't disappear on me!?" He growled when Kim climbed into the cab.

Kim raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Cuno dropped his P.E gear. I went to give it back to him."

Harry's right side of his face crumpled. "Oh...you did? Where- Whereiz'e?

Kim frowned and gestured with a hand towards the row of houses.

"About 100m that way. Inside Tuulikki's apartment with Kylli- Uhm, Cunoesse."

Harry squinted out the window. "Oh. And Jean?"

HARRYOLOGY: Oh-oh. This is a safety roll call. Something's off with him.

"Uh, well, he’s probably on his way to work too, right now." Kim said carefully. "Are you okay, Harry? Do you know where we are?”

“Mhm, in-th'car.” Harry mumbled, his words still slurring together.

“Yes, we are in the car. We just dropped off Cuno, next we’re going to the hospital.” Kim said.

“Why? Is somethin' wrong. Kim, Are you sick?!”

Kim knuckles turned white as he squeezed the Kineema's levers as hard and he could.

Trying to keep the rising sense of panic from his voice and body language.

COMPOSURE: [Challenging - Pass] Easy now, I've got you. We've all got you.

“No? You have an appointment with Roxana.”

Harry's face - minus his always ruddy nose - paled visibly. On both sides of his face.

“I don’t… I don’t know who that is, Kim.” He whispered

Kim’s stomach lurched, stirring up his breakfast. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“That’s okay, it happens sometimes. Are you feeling alright physically?”

“Nhh- buh-buh-bit cold.” Harry stammered.

Kim pulled a driving glove off with his teeth and dropped it into the glovebox, his other hand busy on the lever.

He reached over and touched Harry’s forehead with the back of his hand.

PERCEPTION (Touch): The skin is warm and very clammy but not worryingly hot. It could just be from having the heater on.

HARRYOLOGY: His senses get a little muddled sometimes, not just in the form of random pain. He's also had episodes of synesthesia. He and Cuno had a bizarre argument about what colour the number 6 gave off.

LOGIC: Perhaps his sense of temperature has gotten muddled too, and he's feeling the heat of the car as a chill?

FITNESS: Give him an aspirin just to be safe, it shouldn't do much for the confusion but it might help relieve any lingering pain and  blood thinning aspect is the most important thing  with strokes.

“Are you okay to take an aspirin yourself if I give you one and my water bottle or do you want me to pull over?” He said.

“Me?  don’need aspirin.” Harry said, frowning, he looked almost petulant, like a kid who didn't want to take vitamins.

"Okay, will you drink some water then, for me? You’re a little warm.” Kim replied, eyes back on the road.

Harry frowned even more. "No s’too cold." He peered into the backseat. "Where’s Cuno?"

Kim clenched his jaw. “He’s going to school with Tuulikki this morning.”

“Can I take this off?” Harry asked clawing at his seatbelt. "Don' like it."

“No?! That’s your seatbelt, Harry!" Kim said sternly.  "Leave that on, please.”

Harry’s general air of confusion carried on all the way to St. Marron;

He didn’t know why he wasn’t going to the precinct. He didn’t know why he was in the car and wanted to be out of the car right fucking now, especially when they were on the Cycle.

He wanted Cuno, and demanded they call his school to check he was there-which he wasn't -because as Kim had repeated three more times, he was at Tuulikki's.

Harry wanted Kim, but specifically another different Kim that wasn’t currently driving the car and telling him to drink water.  He both wanted Jean and bitched about how nice and quiet it was without him.

- And then, perhaps most troublingly of all, he wanted Dora.

Kim was concerned enough by that point that he actually parked the Kineema in the visitor's car park and got out to walk Harry inside. Usually he just dropped him at the door of the out-patient building.

They waited until Roxana the nurse, arrived somehow just as chipper and as smiley as ever with her pale gold hair in a fishtail braid.  her expression shifted when she noticed Kim in the waiting room with Harry.

“Uh-oh, Having a rough one, Harry?” She touched Harry' shoulder and fixed Kim with a consoling little smile.

“Morning Roxana, he's a little confused.” Kim said gently.

“No, you are.” Harry snapped, “Fuck off already.”

“Okay. So, you’ll be alright without me when I go to work?” Kim asked, biting the inside of his cheek.

Harry frowned at him for a long pause and then nodded.

"Mm, as long as you come b-uh-buh-b-uh-ugh!" He punched himself in the thigh in frustration "- shit-cunt-motherfucker!”

 A woman in the waiting room with a young daughter made a face of disgust and moved herself and her child a few chairs further away from Harry. Kim was so on edge he could feel himself coming close to snapping at her.

PASSION: HEY! IT’S NOT HIS FAULT LADY, KEEP YOUR SCOWL AND YOUR MIDDLE CLASS DISDAIN TO YOURSELF SOMETIMES DIASBLED PEOPLE EXIST IN PUBLIC WHOOPTY-FUCKING-SHIT!

FITNESS: Hey, stop holding your breath, Kim, we need some oxygen in here.

"Yes, I’ll come back after work Harry, I’ve not left you behind yet, have I? I have an interview at seven in the evening unfortunately, but I’ll come and drop you home with Cuno and Yasmeen first, okay?"

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Their next-door neighbour was a young Bashiri nurse studying for her Registrar qualification who lived alone and was fond of both Harry and Cuno long before Harry had his stroke, she was more than happy to pop in when she wasn’t working and keep an eye on both of them if work ran late for Kim.

Harry nodded and reached for Kim’s hand to squeeze. “M’sorry.”

Kim frowned. “What for?”

Harry lifted his good shoulder.  “You're too g-g-guh-good f'me.”

Kim sighed, “Don’t be stupid, Harry, you know that's not true."

He squeezed Harry’s hand and Harry squeezed back once more.

Kim stood up and thrust both hands in his jacket pockets and turned to the nurse.

“Take care of him Roxana.” Kim said.

She smiled again.

“Hey, that’s what I’m getting paid to do, Kim." She said. " He’ll be alright, Sometimes you’re on the wagon sometimes you’re under it."

Kim frowned. "Huh?"

Roxana kept smiling undeterred, “It sounds better in Zsiemsk.” She said,

Kim was too preoccupied with worrying about Harry to follow the line of conversation “I’ll take your word for it”

Roxana crouched down besides Harry, she gently took his arm in both her hands. She was a small slight woman Harry’s hands looked like bear paws in comparison. She checked Harry’s radial and carotid pulse and then unclipped a penlight from a lanyard around her neck which she shone into Harry’s eyes.

“You.” Harry said when she was done, and his eyes had readjusted “I know you.”

Roxana grinned.

“Oh-ho! You do indeed, Mister Disco, do you remember my name?”She said, her voice casual as if chatting with a dear friend.

Harry’s right eye crinkled up in a familiar teasing smile.

“Ježibaba.”  He said.

Roxana smacked him on the knee, but Kim could feel the relief coming off her in waves.

“Tch! Rude! You’re way older than me, so if I’m Ježibaba what does that make you, eh? Mister Night of the Living Dead.”

“Y’know it.” Harry slurred.

Kim watched them both,  fixed to the spot.

He knew he was running late and that he ought to go but he was still in emergency mode and didn’t want to let Harry out of his sight.

 “So how was your Tuesday night?” Roxana kept talking running Harry through a few basic motor skill exercises. His left side seemed even worse than usual.

“I-don’t – I don’t-" Harry mumbled, he furrowed his brow in concentration then trailed off into silence.

“You don’t remember?” Roxana prompted. “That’s okay. There's no rush, I'm still waiting for them to clear us some space in the OT room. You can just take your own sweet time, I'll do my little checklist while you think."

She smiled and pushed herself up to standing, Grabbing a folder she'd put down on one oft the empty chairs.

Harry was quiet for a whole minute, Roxana, seemed to be going down a rubric table and notating numbers as she did.

“I think Cuno was laughing?" Harry said suddening. Roxana smiled and immediately crouched back down again to be at eye level, She set her papers aside.

"Mhm? Last night, you remember Cuno was laughing?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, Me-I was in the room- the room with the table and he- " He closed his eyes to help him think. "He was nearby an' I heard him laughing, it was nice.”

Roxana smiled, a hand on his knee to keep herself steady. She pulled out her stethoscope from the gap between her scrubs and the navy long-sleeved shirt she was wearing underneath. Whether it was  for modesty or warmth, Kim wasn't sure.

“That sounds like a good thing, as long as he wasn’t laughing at one of his little schemes." She said, moving Harry's T-shirt collar to get to his chest. "Sorry, if this is a little cold, Harry. I need to check out those big golden lungs.”

Harry let out a startled croak at the cold metal on his chest which dissolved into something that was almost a proper chesty laugh.

“Nuh-uh, He’s good, he’s g-good kid.” He muttered, always in Cuno's corner.

Roxana stood up and raised her eyebrows in suprise seeing Kim still standing there.

"Oh, sorry. Did you need something else?"She asked.

Kim, like an idiot, just shook his head numbly. He'd forgetten for a moment he was a human person he'd was so focused on Harry, that the rest of his consciousness and just kind of checked out. He glanced down at himself, avoiding Roxana's genuine concern. His clothes, his gun, his boots were more or less the same thing he always wore.

Now they felt strange and alien and looking down made him dizzy. 

Roxana sighed.

“You don’t need to just stand there and stare, Kim. You trust me, no? I can handle things.” She said her tone kind but very firm.

EMPATHY: She isn’t lying, Kim. She isn’t faking her cheer or her calm, it’s just her way of getting through the day. Self-depreciation even in jokes is harmful to model especially in front of vulnerable people going through major physiotherapeutic rehabilitation but they don't need fake cheer either. They need the genuine article, like Roxana.

HARRYOLOGY: Look Harry’s still smiling and cracking jokes not matter how confused he is, it can’t be life-threatening, you’ve seen him in that situation and he wasn’t half as lucid as he is now. He’s talking relatively normally, his brain is foggy, he’s still a grownass man, your boyfriend, you don’t need to baby him.

PASSION: I know you’re scared and tired, all of us in here are too, but not every situation with a boyfriend in the hospital ends like Yves did. Even then, you had plenty of signs the end was coming. It’s okay to worry when someone you love is in pain, but the worrying itself isn’t an act on its own, it’s thoughts, not deeds.

PROFESSIONALE: You need to get your shit together, Lieutenant, you’re expected on duty in less than an hour.

"I do trust you, and I know... It's just..." Kim trailed off. 

His face must have belied his own mental spiral because Roxana winced, and her voice softened again.

She put a petite, calloused hand on his shoulder.

“He’s okay, he's stable and under no immediate threat.  Why don’t you go back to the car and give yourself a few minutes just to process, okay? I know it's hard for you to see him like this but it’s just a little blip to him in the scheme of things. A single human brain is more infinitely complex than every radio computer in Elysium put together. The healing process isn’t always intuitive.”

Kim opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand to interrupt him her tone got firmer and more insistent.

 “Kim, listen to me, please. Harry is fine."

Kim scowled, reflexively.

PASSION: THE FUCK HE IS!

Roxana saw his reaction and held up her hands in a 'calm down' gesture.

"I don't mean fine by him-pre-stroke standards I mean,  If this was an Emergency Room he'd be far far down the list of triage. He's conscious, his eyes are open, he's breathing on his own, responding to stimuli. He's got a Coma score of 13, and the two points off are related to the hemiparesis. He’s recalling facts and names and his speech disorder is just the same issues he always gets blocked on.  There's nothing to suggest any severe underlying damage triggered this, If anything I think he's sore and dehydrated. I’ll call you at the precinct if anything changes."

ENCYLOPEDIA: A coma score of 13 is incredibly good given his confusion.

EMPATHY: She threw that little nugget in to give you something to chew on. she knows you like to have the numbers, regardless of what they mean.

"It's Wednesday, Kim, surely you have to work?" She asked.

Kim nodded wordlessly once more.

Roxana offered him a sympathetic smile and patted his arm.

"Well, so do I, officer.  Please let me do my job. “

Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

09:12 23rd  January '53.

Kim got into the Precinct late enough that someone had stolen his parking spot in the precinct garage.

Normally this would piss him off to no end but he'd already used up an entire days worth of emotions in the last forty minutes so he parked on the street and felt nothing at all.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Very Easy -Pass]

He stopped at the front desk to talk to Communications Officer Labriola.

She brightened up on seeing him."Oh, There you are sir!"

Kim returned the smile though he wasn't really feeling it. "Yes, Morning, Martine."

"Y'know, Vic was wondering earlier if you’d got waylaid by that nasty crash on the Cycle Westbound." She said

Kim shook his head.

"I just got stuck in the traffic after dropping Harry at St. Marron.  Anything new on the Zakarian case for us yet?”

Martine flicked through some papers beside and scrunched up her nose.

“Nothing from Processing yet, I’m afraid, but I ran the names you gave me yesterday. Oh! " She paused, looking past Kim at something or someone behind him. Her face split into a huge grin.

"Uh, excuse me, just a second, sir."  She said, then her voice shifted up a full octave suddenly;

"Awh! Thank you so much, Nicky!” She squealed.

Kim blinked turning to see who she was talking to. Martine Labriola was a consummate professional as a Communications Officer. He'd never heard her squeal before.

Lt. Nick Feuerbach- who likely had never once let a fellow officer call him 'Nicky'  in his entire career- smiled wide and disarmingly passing Martine a steaming hot mug of cafe-au-lait.

"Anytime, babe." He said. He glanced aside at Kim, and his lips twitched.  "Uh, I mean, Officer Labriola. Morning, Kitsuragi."

PROFESSIONALE: Feuerbach doesn't give a shit about them breaking fraternisation protocols. They aren't partners and he's not her direct superior so everyone usually just turns a blind eye. Berdyayeva and Pryce might be more harsh on them if they got caught but they aren't here right now. Feuerbach's just trying to judge if you're enough of a brownnose to say something about it. We're not- just in case you were wondering.

PASSION: I'll be honest, I don't think we have a shit to give about other people's business right now. I'm suprised we still feel anything at all after this morning.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: We don't have to feel anything at all if you don't want to, boss.

Kim just nodded stone-faced back at his colleague, "Morning, Nicky."

Feuerbach just laughed and clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't you go getting ideas now, I know about Kimball. I'll see you at lunch, Martine."

He left as quickly as he appeared.

Martine turned back to Kim, still smiling. Warming her hands on the mug.

"Sorry, sir. What were we talking about?"

“You said you ran the names I gave you yesterday. Those kids in Les Sardines?” Kim prompted.

“Yes, right!" Martine grinned all the more and set down her drink, pulling own a brown cardboard folder. She flicked through quickly.

PERCEPTION (Sight): There's a lime green sticky note on the front with the notation: Zakarian, N. KK/JV - Jan 53.

"Zacherie Seurat in particular has a remarkable rap sheet.” She said.

ENCYLOPEDIA: That’s Kassandra’s boyfriend, she did mention he had a record. She was pretty defensive of him though. It didn’t sound like he’d done anything too serious. His father is a big player with Les Chats Noir.

“Remarkable in it's detail or in number of charges?” Kim asked, amused.

Martine laughed her teeth bone white against her brick red lipstick.

“Oh, you know how it goes, detective, A bit of column A bit of column B.”

Kim nodded, “Alright, then. Let’s hear it, if you don't mind”

 Martine took a quick swig of her coffee. “You sure you’re ready for this, sir? It’s long one."

Kim nodded pulling his notebook out of his jacket pocket and turned to a clean page.

“Yes. Go ahead, officer.”

 Labriola cleared her throat.  “Okay, let’s see we have:

• Four counts petty theft
• Three counts of resisting arrest,
• One public intoxication one assaulting an officer - those were on the same night,
• Two counts of breaching the peace,
• three counts of marijuana possession one of which had intent to distribute tacked on because of the amount.
• Four counts of possessing stolen property.
• Six – Lungs, that’s almost impressive – six counts each of Trespass and Public Urination”

She paused to take a breath Kim held up a hand for her to wait.

“Give me a second, I’m trying to catch up.” He said.

Martine nodded and waited for him to finish scribbling.

Kim gave her a thumbs up. “Ok, go.”

“And last but by no possible means least, sir,” her eyes had lit up with amusement.

EMPATHY: Oh this is gonna be good, she's found something juicy

“ -last year in August, M. Seurat was charged with Trespass and Poaching, of all things, for breaking into the Ozonne golf course in the middle of the night and shooting some of the wild pheasants, the rifle was legal but the officer presiding seized it anyway, they let him keep the birds he shot.

“Golden Breath. How old is this kid again?” Kim asked.

“Twenty-four." said Martine, "These are only his adult charges, however.  I believe there were Juvenile charges, but they were blank-slated after he fulfilled a sentence.”

“A Juvie sentence presumably?” Kim asked.  It wasn’t unheard of for a minor to be tried as an adult if he had a record or if the magistrate found him particularly rude or annoying.

“Yep, two of them, both in La Prom. Once in '41 and again in '46. You probably just missed running into each other.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: “La Prom” or even just “Prom” is shorthand for La Promenade du Roi - Revachol’s largest juvenile penitentiary for boys and young men between the ages of eleven to eighteen. It’s extremely crowded, violent and desperately under-resourced.

REFLEXES : You can still see the checkerboard metal striping on the catwalks when you close your eyes. The constant sound of fighting in the yard, the smell of dust, bile and wet metal. The way that you had to partially lift the big heavy ‘safety doors’ up off their frames for them to open or close properly. Scars on your neck, head and arms from glass bottles and toothbrush shivs.

JUVENILE: It’s hell. Hell for the officers, hell for the inmates. Hell is real and it lies just outside the Eminent Domain. There’s a sign for it on the cycle and everything.  

PASSION: Dei, look it’s early, we’re tired. Let’s not ruin shit before we start. I don’t want to think about this can someone else stop him from thinking about it?

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Easy – Pass] I gotcha back, little sib.

Kim cleared his throat. “That’s… a prolific record certainly but mostly misdemeanours, did any of them actually go to court. The juvie cases evidently did but was he tried as an adult?”

Martine nodded. “Yeah, the assault and the golf course caper went to court, acquitted for one and community service for the other.”

“I imagine the Ozonne Golf Course owners have more money to sue with than an individual officers of the RCM. Kim mused aloud. "Did Kassandra Papadopoulos or Charles Lemaire ping anything?”

Martine checked her notes.  “I found multiple Charles Lemaires but none of them were young enough to be your guy. Kassandra and Zacherie were both implicated in a piracy case with a Mme. Lemaire, perhaps a sister? but that seems to have been dropped. Otherwise, she’s just got a possession charge, and from the write up it seems like officers came to the door to book her boyfriend and she and another girl happened to be smoking a bowl on the balcony. Kind of bad luck if you ask me, I think she got a fine and a warning.”

“Right, thanks for that, Martine.” Kim said and he meant it. It was good intel.

“No problem if anything looking into that bizarre poaching charge was the most fun I’ve had from this job in a while. I hope he got a couple decent meals out of it.”

Kim smiled, and shook his head.

“Golf Course pheasant hunting, huh? I’d say that’s pretty classy for a kid from Jamrock North.”

La Menagerie, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

10:44 23rd  January '53.

The morning was getting away from Kim as he sat at his desk, stamping request forms and skimming his subordinates scruffy paperwork. Kim was starting to float off in his head again.

Luckily a distraction turned up giving him an excuse to take a break.

Hanna Dreyfus entered La Menagaerie, with a bright pink visitor's pass around her neck.

She was dressed in hardy civilian clothes: brown corduroy trousers and a thick flannel shirt under the Graadian army greatcoat that she wore in the winter months. A fat little toddler was balanced on her hip equally bundled up warm. His little cheeks still pink from the cold outside.

She set the flashlight she’d borrowed last night on Kim’s desk and squeezed his arm as a greeting, startling him.

"Oh! Khm, hello. I wasn’t expecting to see you this early." He paused doing a double take. "You're in plainclothes."

Hanna covered up a a yawn. "Hey, yeah long story but Sara Malke has a doctor’s appointment and Martin’s at work, so I am doubling down on one of those Mental Health days Arnaud suggested at my start-of-year review.   Benji and I are going to head to the aquarium in a bit, nu, bubbele?”

The little boy, Dreyfus' youngest nephew, waved a tiny hand in the air towards Kim. His brown eyes big and open wide.

“Feter, Feter! Mir mit ban geyen!” He said excitedly. "Mit ban!!!"

Kim picked up on the boy's enthusiasm but glanced to Dreyfus for a translation.

“Can you try saying that again,  in Suresnois, bub?” Hanna asked, tucking a stray little curl behind her nephew’s ear.

Benji frowned. Thinking this over.

“I know it’s pretty hard to remember what grownups speak what language." Hanna added. "I used to get very frustrated when other kid’s mothers didn’t speak in Graadian like mine did."

Kim chuckled, “I think that’s a nice problem to have, but then I grew up monolingual.”

Hanna readjusted Benji on her hip. “Vos Feter af Sureisch, Benji?" She asked. "Uhn-“

“Oh! af Sureisch. Azoy…” The boy furrowed his tiny brow very seriously in thought. "Uhn-kul. Uncle?”

 Kim smiled at the boy, “Uncle. That’s right. Hi, Benjamin, your Tanty says you’re going to see the fish at the aquarium today.”

“Mhm and-aaand! We goin’ with the train.” He said beaming.

Hanna smiled and petted his hair. “It’s on the train, little guy. Prepositions are tricky.”

“Oh. We have to go on… the train?” He looked to Hanna to check he was right and she nodded encouragingly. “Mhmm- we hafta go on the train -to get there! The-um-the akva-kvarian.”

The train part seemed much more pressing on the boy’s agenda than beholding the bounties of the sea. Kim couldn't blame him.

Hanna chuckled drily. “I mean, it’s the light rail, so it’s more of a tram but I didn’t want to fault the little guy for the optimism.”

Kim’s lips twitched, he kept his attention on the little boy.  “Do you like the train, Benjamin?”

He nodded exaggarately. “Mhm, an’ anyway Mama said I can get one figurine if I’m-If I don’t make too much sounds.” He said, and then looking around he asked in breathless Yevsprech. “Tanty, iz d’Feter Kim’s hoys?”

Hanna moved to quickly intercept the boy’s finger going from mining his nostril to putting the goods in his mouth.

“No, silly. This is his work. Stop picking, you’ll get another nosebleed.”

“Work?” The boy echoed in Suresnois.

“Dear G-d, I wish that were me.” Hanna said to Kim as an aside. Kim snorted.

“Work is Arbeyt, Benji, that's one of the Yevsprech words I do know.” He told the boy.

“Oh….” The boy considered this; his little face scrunched up a while he was trying to slot the new word into a sentence like a building block into a wall.

“Uhm…My Tatty… is in work.” He said haltingly, his beady little brown eyes tracked to Hanna once more to check.

 “At work, but yes, that’s right. Good job.” Hanna glanced at Kim smiling and then she lowered her voice. “Let’s all just pray to G-d on high Tatty stays late again tonight.”

Her expression was light but there was a raw edge of  actual hatred in her tone.

“Did you call out today or did your Captain give you a day off?” Kim asked her.

Dreyfus sighed, she looked even more tired than she had the night before.

“I had to call out so Sara could go to the doctor without worrying about this little firecracker. It’s fine, I hadn’t used any sick days yet.”

“Ah.” Kim remembered the odd phone call from last night and winced. “Is she okay?”

Hanna set her wriggling nephew down on ground level and glanced around the office checking that other officers weren’t listening in. She lowered her voice once more.

“She’s pregnant, I think whether that constitutes okay or not is a matter of personal perspective.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Abortion is legal in Revachol, but there’s no formal regulation of providers either so you either pay out of pocket at a Hospital like St Marron, or you run the risk of getting held hostage by religious Dolorians  or self-styled practitioners with very little actual medical expertise. There were supposedly abortion pills which had come available in recent years but not many working-class mothers like Sara Malke would have access to new experimental medication.

“Lungs, that was what she was calling about last night? She seemed very upset.” Kim asked.

“Yeah. It’s early days, like six to eight weeks, she did a test last night and it was positive so she’s getting a blood test done today, and then…  I guess it’s up to her, but I don’t think she’s happy with either option."

Kim nodded. “It’d be another mouth to feed, I guess, but you’re right it’s her call.”

“Yeah, it’s not a fun one to make, but I don’t know a selfish part of me thinks that maybe if she had a daughter that’d be the inciting incident she needs to divorce that bastard.” Hanna growled.

“She’s given him three sons already, and not left why would a daughter be any different?” Kim asked, frowning.

His friend grimaced. “Well, I think for a lot of women in her position, there’s a clawing desperation to not repeat your own mistakes through your children, and I think many realise that- traditionally speaking- a baby girl is going to grow up and be expected to be a wife and mother like they were, and they don’t want to damn her to the same unhappiness.

“Hm, perhaps." Kim said. "Though I’d argue that having four children as a single mother has its own knock-on effects.”

“Sure, but she has her family and greater community behind her, Martin’s a an unlikeable manchild who can’t even cook kugel. He needs her not the other way around, anyway, I don’t know what she’s going to end up doing yet, she said if she keeps it, she wants me to quit smoking, the cigarette smell on my clothes makes her sick.”

“You can always smoke and do laundry at our place. You finish more than a pack a day, I wouldn’t suggest you try cutting that off cold turkey." Kim said.

Hanna nodded. “Yeah I know,  I should probably cut back though.”

Kim nodded. “It certainly couldn’t hurt. Speaking of, How’s the lithium detox treating you?”

Dreyfus scrunched up her face. “Badly, I’ve had the horrible sensation of fluke worms burrowing deep inside my arm muscles all morning, it’s extremely unpleasant and I want it to stop.”

“That’s not unusual, stimulants and alcohol withdrawals will cause formication too.” Kim said.

Hanna snickered. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant?”

ENCYLOPEDIA: [Easy - Fail]  I don't get it. What's funny?

PASSION:  I do!

Kim snorted. "Dei, No, you child, Formication- form with an M, that’s what it's called- that crawling sensation."

“Well, whatever it’s called it fu-uh-frickin’ sucks.” She muttered, quickly catching herself and modulating her language in front of the kid. "Tateh suggested I start taking that disgusting rehydration powder they give to kids with cholera. It’s awful but between that and coffee I’ll be fine. Gonna be pissing like a racehorse but hey that’s life after thirty for you.”

FITNESS: Amen, sister.

A phone rang down the hall, but Kim tuned it out.

“Tanty vas das?” Benjamin was standing on tiptoes inspecting the portable tape player radio that Kim had brought over to his desk in case more tapes turned up that they needed to listen to.

“Hm?" Hanna followed his gaze. "That’s a portable radio, bubbele, we one of have those at home. Zaidie likes to listen to the news on it”

The boy's little eyebrows shot up his forehead “Oh. A Gulesmachin?”

“Ugh, that is what Zaidie calls it, isn’t it?” Hanna groaned. “To be fair to him though, the Yevsprech word is just Radio and what is a radio to a sad old git but a machine that the Gules gets stuck in.”

Benji seemed fascinated by this. “Why’s it get stuck?”

Hanna adjusted her glasses and made a face. She never talked down for the boy, Kim noticed. She answered his questions like she would another adults, just with simple language and less cussing.

“Oy. All the tough questions from you this morning. Gules is just something that happens in nature like the wind or the tides. We don’t know exactly why it gets so tangled up in radio transmissions just that it does.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: I mean none of that is wrong, just a little basic.

LOGIC: You don't need to explain entroponetic decay to a two and a half year old. You only need to tell them they might hear it on the radio or that it affects people on aerostatics. That's all the kid needs to know to function in the world.

“Is it in there?” The boy was struggling to see the desktop, he wasn’t quite tall enough. Hanna hoisted him up on her hip again so he could get a better look while remaining out of breaking things range. He pointed a fat little finger at the Radio.

“Sometimes, yeah. I don’t know about that particular radio though. You couldn’t see it if it was.”

“Uh, is there a Lieutenant -ahm-Dreyfus here by any chance? Pidieu asked sticking his head around the door, looking out of place in the well-lit expanse of La Menagerie, he was squinting his eyes used to the gloomy smoke riddled communications room next door

Hanna frowned and raised a hand, “Yes, that’s me, officer. You know I don’t work here, right?” She asked, Kim noticed some of the muscles under her left eye twitching involuntarily.

“I do, yes. Regardless, there’s a Phone call for you on line three. Searchlight Division.” Pidieu said then he turned on his heel and quickly disappeared back down the hall.

“Oh for fuck’s sake" Hanna hissed and immediately thought better of it "-ah, shit, sorry Benji -" She glanced at Kim, a look of dry amusement on her face. "I need to start putting the fear of G-d into my Sergeants at this rate, they obviously find me too approachable”

Kim snorted, “Tell me about it, Lieutenant. You can use my phone if you want, press one first to call out and the three to switch to that line.”

Dreyfus did just that holding the green bakelite receiver to her ear in a death-grip.

“Dreyfus speaking, what is it now!?" There was a pause. "Oh, It's just you Albie,  I thought it one of the kinderlekh bothering me.  How did you know I was at 41?”

There was another pause. Her face clouded.

“Oh.  And why -by the blessed lungs - is she talking about my boyfriend to the whole station, huh? Putain de merde, I’m gonna fucking strangle that kid one of these days, Albie, with my bare fucking hands.” She snarled.

There was a long pause. “No-no-no, hey I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, mon frere, but I’m not coming in today at all, my sister’s…she’s at the hospital, huh? No, she’ll live, yeah.  I already told Arnaud, can any of this wait until tomorrow?”

Yet another pause.

“Oh, yeah sure, that’s fine, can you just get Goldman or someone to drop the forms through my front door, I’m not at home right now, obviously. What? No, I can’t tell him myself, c’mon, what part of I’m off-work did you miss? Give it to Lt. Lyons with a sorry from me, I’ll buy her a beer… Hm?”

Kim was listening in on this one-sided communication with great schadenfreude, when a little hand tugged at his jacket sleeve.

“Nu, Uncle.” Benji was looking up at him whispering conspiratorially.

“Huh? Oh, Hi Benjamin?”

“Look!” The boy pulled a plastic car figurine out of his winter coat and held it up for Kim to see. “Like your one.”

PERCEPTION: (Sight) It's a small blue Coupris. It has a white racing stripe on the roof and doors.

SPEED FREAK: LIKE OUR ONE?! HA! AS IF!  THAT'S OBVIOUSLY A FUCKING FORTY. NOWHERE NEAR AS FLASH OR HIGH PERFORMANCE AS THE KINEEMA.

COMPOSURE: Can you please be normal for once? This is a baby. Babies cannot drive. He's probably too busy learning the alphabet and the days of the week.

“Oh! Yes, It’s a Coupris like my Kineema, that’s very cool Benji.” Kim said nodding.

“Golden fuckin’ breath, I told him to stop microwaving that shit at work Seong’s like crazy allergic!” Hanna barked into the receiver.

Kim looked at her with concern.

EMPATHY: Oh, Hanna. The Lieutenancy doesn't care about sick days or family emergencies. It never stops. She sounds so tired, she's starting to get snippy.

“This one’s uhm... this one’s Luc’s” Benji whispered in the loud exaggerated stage whisper that was common with drunks and small children, “He doesn’t know that I have it but I’m getting one too, at the gift shop. So uhm- so that’s why I bringed it to look at. ”

LOGIC: Hang on, why exactly are they selling auto figures at the aquarium gift shop?

ENCYLOPEDIA: [Challenging – Fail] No clue, sorry. Grand Couron’s just kind of weird like that.

“Oh, I see. I didn’t even know they made those, that's a neat figurine.” Kim said to the boy, hoping to distract him from his aunt's angry phone conversation.

The little boy beamed with validation. "I wanna get all the autos they have, but Mama said- she said I can only have one."

"That's fair enough, they can be expensive. Maybe she'll let you get some more for your birthday."

Hanna hung up the phone looking like she’d gone three rounds with Contact Mike.

She looked at Kim her voice was light and joking, but her face was exhausted.

“If they ever call here again tell them I’m dead.”

Kim snorted softly. “Okay. I’ll say you fell into the shark tank.”

Hanna laughed. There wasn't much energy behind it. She pecked Kim on the cheek.“Thanks, ketsele,"

Hanna picked up her wriggling nephew once more. “I owe you one.”

Kim shook his head.

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Lieutenant, but I’d prefer it if you don’t kill your partner when you get in tomorrow. I'm too busy to come bail you out.”

“Hm, big ask, but for you Kim, I'll consider it.” She deadpanned, adjusting her grip on Benji shifting him up her hip a little.

“C’mon kiddo, we should leave Uncle Kim to his work and go bother some fish instead, before my siblings-at-arms start turning up to catch me in person.” She said. “Oh! Hey Judit.”

Kim looked up, Judit Minot was coming out of the kitchentte with a glass of water in one hand.

“Hi Hanna,  Oh hello! Who's this?" Minot said smiling at the toddler on her hip.

“This is Benji, my nephew, my sister had a bit of an emergency so we’re hanging out. Benji say hello.”

Benji ducked his head wiping his nose on the collar of Dreyfus’ coat. He made a incoherent noise that might have been some kind of hello or might have been an objection.

EMPATHY: Understandably he is nowhere near as interested in Judit Minot as he was his Uncle Kim, likely as she was a stranger and crucially, she did not own an offensively loud automobile, something that little boys tended to worship.

JUVENILE: We are winning at being an uncle, no doubt a very lucrative and relevant achievement.

REFLEXES: Wait- Before they go -Dreyfus knows about radios, right?

PASSION: OH! OH YEAH! YOU SHOULD ASK, IT’S SO NICE HEARING OTHER PEOPLE TALK ABOUT THEIR FAVOURITE THING MAYBE YOU’LL LEARN TO DO THAT SOMETIME WITHOUT ALIENATING PEOPLE.

ENCYCLOPEDIA:  That’s… a little uncalled for. :(

COMPOSURE: [Difficult -Pass] Passion reel it in, please. Compartmentalisation and I are stretched far too thin to handle your tantrums right now.

“Hey Hanna, one last thing, I forgot to ask yesterday- would you know what Gaussing radio equipment means?” Kim asked.

She turned back towards him, smiling. Judit disappeared back into the kitchenette.

“Yeah? it’s when you put radio equipment in an inert metal box, and it spins around like a record player. It’s the opposite of degaussing.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “Yes. We’d figured that last part out ourselves, actually. What does it do to the equipment?

“It’s usually a preventative measure, it’s supposed to reduce data loss from entroponetic interference. Is this for that tape case you’re working? I don’t know how the machine itself works just that it’s something to do with electromagnetic induction.”

“Does it protect the tape?” Kim asked

Dreyfus shrugged. “Protect it how? If the film’s damaged or torn it’s not going to help.”

REFLEXES: That’s worth noting down for later.

Kim adjusted his glasses.

“I mean from data loss you said that it helps prevent them – I was helping Cuno with his physics homework this morning and they’re learning Marconi’s Laws for electric circuitry. I’m wondering if this gaussing process works similarly.

“Yeah, I think that’s the basic principle their working off. Out of curiosity what kind of tape are we talking here?”

He looked back over his shoulder and called out to his partner a few desks away.

“Hey, Vic? What kind of tape was Madame Zakarian using?”

Vicquemare raised his head from his desk like a revenant rising from the grave, a squashed cigarette stuck out the corner of his mouth like a stalk of hay.

“Huh? Oh. It varied but the majority of the SJL’s tapes were ¼ inch reel to reels. There were some microcassettes. The recording quality varied.” He said.

Dreyfus nodded animatedly. She obviously loved talking about this stuff.

“Right, well with reel-to-reel it’s a little different. The tape itself can get pretty expensive for personal use so people often re-record over reels with silence to reuse it. Personally, I don’t like it because the sound quality decays so much. There’s a bit of kit called an eraserhead that erases all tracks at once, I don’t have one, but most recording studios would. The issue there is the tape is being used over and over so it’s exposed to a higher amount of friction as well as more entroponetic decay than a Seolite plastic cased mass-produced cassette tape, more friction means there’s more opportunities for physical tape damage and more  decay means a higher chance of losing data.”

“And if a recording has been erased from the tape, it’s just gone right?” Kim asked.

Hanna quirked an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips.

“Oh-ho yeah, that’s all Pale, baby. You’d be better off talking to an entropologist.”

Kim nodded, “I’d thought as much, but thank you.”

“Hey, you’re welcome, I wish I could be of more help, but we really need to catch the tram”.

Kim waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No, no. That’s fine, thanks for the flashlight and give Sara my well wishes. Have a good time, Benjamin.”

“Zog ‘Goodbye’ af deyn feter, bubbele.” Hanna said to her nephew.

Benjamin waved at Kim excitedly. “Bye-bye, Uhn-kul Kim!”

Kim smiled and he could feel some of the tension of this morning easing away.

 “Bye, Benji. Enjoy the train.”

“What’d she say about the radio?” Viquemare asked, dropping like a brick into the desk chair next to Kim when Dreyfus had gone. He’d been sulking at his desk likely eavesdropping again because he found children mentally exhausting, He pulled a cigarette from out behind his ear and lit up.  He’d brought his ashtray with him.

Kim rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses. “She said you can hear on a reel of ¼ inch tape if it’s been recorded over but there’s no way to restore messages after they’ve been erased, so if any of the stolen tapes are wiped, they’re fully gone.”

“Thought so” Jean muttered “Is the kid hers or someone else’s?”

“Her nephew. Her sister needed childcare, so she took a day off. Speaking of sisters, any news on the file numbers the Commandant gave us?”

Vicquemare’s lip curled up in disgust. “The RC couldn’t pull much, probably from the casefile being redacted to shit as Adé suspected, it did say that it was linked to a Blue Notice from the ICP from three years ago.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: The ICP put out colour-coded interisolary notices for aid with locating fugitives and missing people. A Blue notice concerns the location and the cooperation of a person of interest in an interisolary or international crime. It’s used to find any additional information on the location of a POI. It’s not usually used for terrorists or organised crime or anyone assumed to be an armed threat. That would be a Red Notice.

PROFESSIONALE: The RCM gets regular updates on almost all ICP Notices. Black Notices are for cold cases so they go straight to Searchlight, but Criminal Investigations get all the rest. Orange and Red are the most urgent, but you haven’t had to deal personally with any of those in your time at 57 or 41.

“Did it say what the Notice was issued concerning?” Kim asked.

Vicquemare nodded. “A missing officer from the Vespertine Metropolitan Police Force.”

“Oh? Do you think it could be relevant to the classified folders we found at Mme. Zakarian’s house?”

“No idea. The officer in question is DCI Valerie Irene Yorke née Kaur. Back in ’50 she boarded a domestic aero from the Prince of Wales Aerodome in Stansted to L’Aeroport Interisolaire in Lutece and never disembarked. She’d been involved in busting an organised crime group in Vesper and was intending to testify in Lutece that weekend, the Gendarme Nationale had security officers waiting at the gate for her and she never showed. She had two colleagues in plainclothes escorting her to her flight and they said they last saw her in the queue for boarding. The cabin crew remembered her boarding the plane and her passport and ticket were recorded at Stansted, but when the plane landed there was no sign of her.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: [Medium – Pass] Prince of Wales is Vespertine’s largest commercial aerodrome, most of the others around the nation’s capital are RAF and RAF family members only. A domestic flight in this case meant it would be within the Isola of Mundi, so interisolary tariffs wouldn’t apply. Plus, the laws on entropenetic exposure of civilians are a lot laxer. Both Vespertine and Sur-Le-Clef fall outside the ORG coalition of nations, so you won’t have access to the flight logs on any RCM database. National Security and all that.

LOGIC: [Legendary– Fail] Uh-huh, but how does someone board a flight and not disembark? Was she incapicitated and smuggled out? Did she parachute out mid-flight? That wouldn’t be survivable even in a low concentration of Pale. It doesn’t make sense.

PASSION: No, but it’s compelling as hell. Honestly, Kim A mid-flight disappearance, this is so completely up your alley, if this was a mystery novel you’d be reading it until the covers fell off.

PROFESSIONALE: C’mon, that’s another officer we’re talking about. A living breathing cop. A DCI is roughly equivalent to a Lieutenant-Yefreitor, you should give her some respect.

PASSION: She’s not around to complain, is she? Fucking live a little.

“When was this, detective? You said ’50 -what date exactly?”

“I think the notice still stands; but it was issued 2nd January ‘51 the actual disappearance was about a month before. They reissued it on the same date last year and again a few weeks back.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: 2nd of January, that’s Lover’s Day.

PROFESSIONALE: Objection! Relevancy.

LOGIC: Hm. Sustained.

“A month before? Do you have a specific date?” Kim asked.

“Une moment.” There was a pause punctuated by the sound of Vicquemare flicking through pages in his ledger.

“Ah, here." He pointed at a line of text too small for Kim to read.  "It says December 5th ’50. She boarded at 10 in the morning and the aero disembarked about three hours later.”

Kim nodded, chewing on his lower lip in thought. “We still don’t know if this is at all relevant to the missing tapes, right? They were dated ’49 not 50 or even 51.”

Some fighting little flare of excitement lit up his partner’s permanently bloodshot eyes.

“See that’s what I’d thought, too. So, I searched Yorke’s name and rank on the RCM’s internal database. It flagged an ICP notice on her whereabouts. It said she was wanted for testimony in relation to the murder of a Moralintern agent in Vespertine in ‘49.”

“Ah, Interesting, but not exactly in our jurisdiction, is it? Most cases the MoralIntern will be working involve organised crime, corporate crime and espionage. I don’t think Madame Zakarian was very involved with the Milieu except perhaps for a few local associates who run business in Les Sardines.”

“I’m not implying she was a mobster or a spook, but I can’t explain why she had redacted versions of a Suresian military file, especially a file that related to a disappearance in Vespertine three years ago.”

“It could be just something she found with one of the tapes in her collection. The version we found was a military transcript from the Signal Corps, not the police, remember.”

Jean scoffed dramatically. “Please, Kitsuragi. Do you think I’d have forgotten that after Adé’s constant hen-pecking? She called me again last night, you know, just to shout at me.”

Kim’s lips twitched. “Did she have anything else to say regarding the case?”

“Not really, just mentioned that she thought the first transcript we asked her about was an interrogation regarding someone in protective custody, which usually for the Signal Corps is politicians and diplomats. Then she moved on to her usual list of complaints about which of our local coffeeshops have gone to shit, my personal failings and our brother’s extramarital escapades...” Jean trailed off. "Normal sibling topics, I'm sure."

Kim was quiet for a moment, trying to martial the new information into place.

“Hmm, I don’t know about the Signal Corps, but the RCM wouldn’t have unsealed records three years into an open investigation, so were they stolen, and somehow found a way to Revachol? He hesitated,

“I suppose It could have come from that SJL group, they don’t exactly seem like the most law abiding in their archivism. Perhaps they had access to illegally obtained classified material I’m certain trading in leaked information has its profits.”

Jean  just shrugged “Could be them, I suppse. We did say we’d return to interview them this evening.”

Kim nodded. “We did, detective. We did indeed.”

They lapsed into a semi-comfortable silence, Kim pushed his paperwork to once side and set down his notebook.

“Y’know, Kitsuragi, there’s one thing that bugs me, about that Blue Notice.” Vicquemare said after a while.

“Hm?” Kim didn't look up from his notes.

“If the officer they’re looking for went missing, why is it blue? Blue is for pertient information to an investigation. They use it more for legal matters. See here."

He fished a small pamphlet out of his ledger and slid it across the desk. It seemed to be from the ICP's Education and Information division, breaking down the colours of ICP Notices and what they meant. It was unfortunately printed in black and white, which was less helpful.

PROFESSIONALE: Probably to save on ink and printing costs, if the ICP's higher-ups are anything like the RCMs then they rule over the copier paper with an iron fist.

"It says under Blue here: 'Blue notices are a request for additional information about a person’s identity, location or activities in relation to a criminal investigation.' It mentions people but the request is primarily about Information."

"What's the issue with that? You think it should be more specific to locating her? Requesting the public for information is probably just one avenue of information gathering. It could turn up something imperative to the case, or a whole lot of nothing at all."

 "Yes exactly, It’s not like the ICP constrains missing persons to a separate division like we do Searchlight, if a missing person gets a Yellow Notice that allows for cross-isola investigation. It’s much more urgent too."

Vicquemare squinted at the brochure in front of him. 

"Ah, where is it? Here-" He stabbed the paper with a forefinger. "Yellow notices involve people considered endangered missing, particularly minors or any persons who are unable to identify themselves. They give the examples, of child abductions, unexplained disappearences and suspected kidnappings without ransom." He looked at Kim obviously hoping for more of a reaction then he got.

Kim wasn't there however, he felt untethered from his body and the conversation, like his consciousness had blown away from the rest of him, and he was floating.

"Lieutenant?' Viquemare frowned at him.

"I'm thinking." Kim muttered. Trying to pull his brain back to the present.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Medium - Pass]

The feeling dissipated leaving Kim feeling a little dizzy but otherwise fine.

"The Yellow noticed does sound more relevant to DCI Yorke" he said finally.  "but then it may be a difference in jurisdiction,or a technicality about a disappearence in international airspace that hinders her being reported as missing.” Kim said.

Jean shrugged. “Perhaps, but they’re not the Interisolary Collaboration Police, are they? They’re specifically International, and the jurisdiction being between isolas hasn’t stopped them from informing us of Red Notices on Mundi and Graad before. We should at least contact the ICP to ask.” The last part was paired with pointed look,

EMPATHY: He's really not feeling up to being telephone civil today.

Kim sighed, and moved to pick up the telephone receiver. 

"Okay. I’ll call it in.”

La Menagerie, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

11:20 23rd  January '53.

"Lieutenant Kitsuragi, do you have a minute?" A female voice asked.

Kim looked up from his paperwork. Jolie DeMettrie and Judit Minot approached his desk in lockstep with matching looks of tired determination.

PASSION: Oh shit, what is it now!?

PROFESSIONALE: We told you before, the Lieutenancy stops for no one.

"Ah, I'm sure I can find one for you officers." Kim said turning his desk chair to better face them. "Is something the matter?”

The two women exchanged a look. DeMettrie was the first to speak.

"Sir, we know the two new kids don't fall under your decomptage but Feuerbach blew us off and McCoy - is not at all approachable about this this of thing and Vicquemare -"

Minot cut her colleague off mid-sentence. “I don't think you need to elaborate about Vicquemare, Jo."

Kim frowned. "We have new kids? First I’m hearing of them."

"They started after midwinter break so they’ve only been here a few weeks, Junior Officers Picot and Lejeune, they're both seventeen two peas in a pod." said Judit.

"And what have they done exactly, officers? Am I correct in assuming it's sufficiently immature or puerile as to embarrass Feuerbach and amuse McCoy?"

"Yes, sir. That would be correct." Minot replied, she glanced aside at DeMettrie once more.

Jolie sighed. "Lieutenant, someone has been stealing the applicator tampons from the dispenser in the downstairs women's bathroom."

PASSION: Oh so the girls get to keep their bathroom dipenser where as one male officer fills yours with shaving cream as a gag and now none of you get to have free mints or condoms anymore.

LOGIC: I don't think it was free, I think it was broken. They had stickers on the different buttons saying prices. It just didn't need the coin to dipense things for some reason.

Kim raised an eyebrow. "Stealing them?"

"Yeah, it's like a vending machine, you put in a five centim coin and press a button, but they're old and clunky machines so if you're quick you can wiggle it and you don't have to pay anything."

LOGIC: Ah, so they're all equally broken. That checks out.

PROFESSIONALE: Finally true gender equality in the RCM.

"Not that we condone that." Minot added quickly. Kim bit back a laugh.

"Okay, and why do you think it's the JOs are the ones taking them and not simply the other female officers?" He asked.

DeMettrie raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, well, sir. There's only six female officers in the entire precinct and neither of us are stealing tampons." She gestured between herself and Minot.  "But since you asked - the Captain is post-menopausal, Nem doesn't need them, and Martine and Ninel both use pads."

PROFESSIONALE: 'Nem' likely refers to Jolie's partner Sergeant Nemesis "Furiosa" Roberts. She used to be Furioso "Voodoo"  Roberts, but that was long before your time. Your male colleagues are extremely uncomfortable about the whole thing and seemingly have agreed to just close ranks and never talk about it again. Except for giving her a new  nickname of "Furiosa"

EMPATHY: That must be extremely frustating, going to all the physical and social risk of change your name and gender presentation for your old friends to nickname you a gender swapped version of your birth name. The female officers of 41 likely including even the Captain, are extremely used to the force's unbridled misogyny and male-dominated culture and the Patrol Officers DeMettrie, in particular, openly welcomed their new sister-in-arms.

UNDERGROUND: Unfortunately the vast majority of the Sergeant's former friends and colleagues still treat her as if she doesn't exist at all or as a stranger to them. It doesn't help that she was already one of two Black officers in the precinct (not counting Pryce)  She has a lot stacked against her, yet she's still kicking. It's a rough position to be in, both career wise and emotionally at the very least when Harry was here he tended to take the heat off the other pariahs in Precinct 41, now he's gone.

PROFESSIONALE: Still the Sgt's file is spotless compared to many of her peers. Just the one kill in nearly a decade on the force, near perfect attendance and no major conduct issues except for the usual binge drinking that's almost a requirement to work at 41. She's a talented equestrian and decent marksman -or markswoman rather- She and DeMettrie are very much a well matched duo.

"More importantly, we figured out they've been using the cardboard applicators to insufflate cocaine, and they're worse at hiding evidence than my twelve-year-old is at hiding his father's dirty magazines." Minot added, deadpan.

"Oh, good. More stimulant abuse. C'est magnifique." Kim muttered. Judit cracked a tired smile.

 Kim put his face in his hands for a few seconds. His eyes hurt, and he was getting hungry.

"Okay. What do you want me to do, officers?" He asked finally. "I can write them up for entering the women's bathroom - but I doubt for two extremely junior officers that an official warning would be much of a deterrent. They can't be demoted and while they might get kicked out if they keep it up  one warning isn't going to actually do anything.”

"Could you at least talk to them, please, Kitsuragi? If it's a dependancy problem Gottlieb can give them Modafinil or a Peptide proscription if they promise to behave." Judit said.

"Yeah, or at the very least tell them to do their lines with a banknote or a pen like a fucking adult.” DeMettrie added bitterly.

Kim sighed and adjusted his glasses.

"Okay, let me just clarify. You're not reporting the drug use, just the...Khm, tampon theft."

"Yes." Both officers said in unison.

"And the breaking into the women's room. They're seventeen-year-old boys, sir, - and there's no changing space in the gym or the showers just for female officers, so most of us change or fix our uniform in there." Jolie said.

"You've got a teenager, Kim, you know what they're like." Minot added with a smile.

"I don't believe even Cuno isn't that stupid, Judit, at the very least if he is he's not getting caught."

DeMettrie laughed, “I don't think Cuno's a little creep, sir, he's got something much more interesting wrong with him. “

Kim snorted. "That much is for certain, officer. Alright, I'll write up an official warning and I'll speak to the Junior Officers involved. Do you know where they're usually stationed. I genuinely don't think I've met either of them -are they PEAR placements?

"Lejeune is, Picot is just a Vocational School drop-out, I think he got in trouble for similar activities at Processing, so they dumped him on us."

"Hans' – Sgt. Blau that is- is babysitting them on patrol today, since Ninel's off sick."

"I saw that, is the concussion still making her ill?"

"Yeah, Alice took her to get checked out last night, said she's got whiplash and a badly sprained ankle, that she'd barely noticed in all the concussion symptoms. She's got neck exercises to do but I think she's better of sleeping the worst of it for now.

EMPATHY [Easy -Pass] It's not something that comes easy to you, but you've been trying to relate more to others experiences lately, as a means to cut back on all the chiding and correcting tenses that other people dislike.

"Yeah, Hanna- uhm Lt. Dreyfus that is -had a bad one a few months back, got glass bottled at a bar, she couldn’t do much else than sleep either."

Judit smiled open-mouthed, showing a golden crown on her incisor. "I remember that sir, it sounded like a nasty one."

"I don't believe getting hit by a motorcycle is much better, do let me or Vicquemare know if she needs anything, she and Blau are under our decomptage."

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure she'd appreciate it." DeMettrie said before excusing herself.

Minot hung around Kim's desk. He looked at her, unsure.

"Did you need something else, Jude?"

"No, I'm fine but Martine said to tell you she's passed your intel request on to Pidieu and he was going to try and contact the Vespertine Met. I think he has a bit of a backlog but you can check in with him in a bit, I imagine. If he doesn't break for lunch."

"Oh." Kim said. That phone call felt like hours ago but it was probably actually less than thirty minutes. He rubbed his eyes.

"Thanks. I'll chase it up when Vicquemare gets back from the stables."

Downtown, Jamrock Central, Revachol West, ZoC.

11:48 23rd  January '53.

It’s nearly lunch time in downtown Jamrock, and a woman blends into the crowd of people at the traffic crossing.

Some of the others wait in couples, some in groups, some of them alone just trying to grab a quite bite to eat before they have to get back to work.

The wind carries with it the scent of cigarette smoke. The woman snaps a hair elastic on her wrist. The walk signal flashes green, she moves with the tide of people.

In a rundown Frittte! wedged between a selection of bottle shops and tobacconists the woman buys a can of Sokata, a lip balm, and a box of hair lightener that claims to “lift your natural colour four levels at home.”

She snaps the band against her wrist again, the bored teenaged boy behind the counter looks at her as if she’s the weirdest thing he’s seen all day, which is kind of a low blow considering its Jamrock fucking Central.

“It’s aversion training, I’m trying to quit smoking.” She says and then she cringes internally.

Why did this stranger deserve the truth out of anyone? She’d have hoped that lying came easier to her by now.

“Does it work?” the clerk asks. He doesn’t sound very interested.

“Well, I’ve not bought cigarettes, so It’s certainly saving me money.” She jokes.

The teenage boy doesn’t smile. “They’re much cheaper than like... heroin, you know.”

“I wasn’t planning on buying that either!” She snaps. But it’s too late. The comment has lodged itself like a tumour deep in her thalamus and it’s radiating outwards lighting up the opioid receptors in her brain, spinal cord and gut like New Year’s fireworks.

“Mhm, that’ll be twelve fifty, ma’am.” The boy replies, unaffected.

She hands him a ten reál bill and a two reál coin and then spot-searches her pockets for the centims, only pulling up a one reál coin.

“Keep the fifty centims change, I don’t need it” she says taking herself and her plastic bag out into the street.

If the teenager reacts, she doesn’t hear him.

She pulls out her drink opens it and takes a sip. The elderflower taste is light and refreshing but it only quenches her thirst.

She snaps the band on her wrist so hard the elastic breaks and ricochets off her arm straight into the gutter. She feels her stomach drop through the concrete foot path and into the caverns of La Royaume below.

“Right, okay, shit,” she says aloud to herself, none of the passing strangers bat an eye: talking to yourself is small potatoes crazy in Jamrock, even in a foreign language. “-You’ve really gone and put your foot in it now, jaan.”

She takes a deep breath in and another swig of Sokata.

“Okay. Not to worry.  We’ve dealt with worse before, no one else needs to get hurt.” She goes to snap the band on her wrist again as the cravings start to roll in but there’s nothing there. Beside the Frittte! Is the dingy but welcoming frosted glass of a tobacconist. She bites her bottom lip.

“It could be worse; things could always be worse.” She whispers.

This time the lie comes out as easily as breathing.

Communications Room, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

12:16 23rd  January '53.

“Any Luck with the Met, Pidieu?” Kim asked, striding in to the stale and smoky radio and comms room, his partner trailing after him.

Jules Pidieu stubbed out his cigarillo in an ashtray and rose to greet them.

“Ah, Lt. Kitsuragi just the officer I was hoping to see." He said, and then hesitated noticing Viquemare. "Oh, ahm… and you too, Vic.”

Jean laughed but it was entirely devoid of any joy or humor. “Go fuck yourself, Oldboy, just answer the question.”

Pidieu sighed and scratched his nose.

“Yes, actually. I got hold of their Non-Emergency Information line." 

“Oh?” Kim prompted, automatically fishing out his pencil and notebook from his jacket’s inner pockets.

"Yes, the young Constable I spoke with was very helpful."

Kim nodded. "What did he tell you?"

“She confirmed DCI Yorke’s details and her disappearance, she also said she’d log the photo they have on file to our database in case anyone over here spots her.”

“That seems rather forthcoming.” Vicquemare murmured.

Kim just nodded. "Especially for just an Information line."

“Vesper are a few hours behind us, sir. She sounded to be Polly or Apricot’s age and tired-out-of-her-mind. I think she was just grateful to have someone to talk to. She confirmed that Yorke was wanted as a witness to the murder of another officer, and she told me the case number to look up on the MoralIntern’s database. The Officer in question was Yorke’s police partner one DCI Stanley Greenwood. She was set to testify about what happened when she disappeared. Evidently, the concern being that the parties involved silenced her.”

“Oh, so her partner was the one murdered?” Kim raised an eyebrow. He glanced over at Jean.

Vicquemare inclined his head. He thought that was prescient too. “Interesting.”

“Yes, they were undercover at the time, and both were technically being contracted as Moralintern agents, so the details are sealed, but both officers were shot on the job, Yorke recovered albeit with some permanent damage, but Greenwood never regained consciousness and died in hospital two months later." Pidieu said reading off a notepad of his own.

“Th-thanks Oldboy, that’s a great deal of information. I assume the constable isn’t incriminating us or herself by divulging these things?” Kim asked. No one liked getting their fellow officers into hot water. Well no one normal did, anyway.

Pidieu shrugged completely unbothered. “Well, we have it now, so I think it’s a bit late for that.” He said

“Jules is right” Vicquemare piped up, “the ball’s in our court.”

Kim raised an eyebrow.  “Is it really? We don’t know for certain how this links with Mme. Zakarian’s case. It’s still entirely possible that she was killed in an attempted burglary.”

Jean scoffed. “Worst burglars in Revachol then, all they got out of it was a bag of tapes and possibly some redacted military documents. There was cash and pills left completely untouched.  Don’t you find that strange, Kitsuragi?”

Of course, I do but strangeness alone is not evidence.

Pidieu left them to their bickering and went back to manning the radio. Kim took that as their cue to leave, and went back to his desk. Jean followed him and stood over him a great beacon on anxious energy.

Kim leand back in his desk chair and cocked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

“Indulge me a second, Kitsuragi."

"This better be about the damned case, Satellite Officer." Kim grumbled.

"It is." His partner replied.

"Okay, fine."

Vicquemare quickly folded himself into a chair leaning foward and tenting his fingers on the desktop.

"This is purely hypothetical, right now. But say that in the process of collecting an archive of tapes, videos and documents Nadya Zakarian unwittingly got hold of something she wasn’t supposed to have, some piece of evidence or some illicit tape and someone wanted it back.”

The possibility had already occurred to Kim several times he was just being overly cautious as the evidence was largely circumstantial and while circumstantial evidence was sufficient in many homicides to close a case, they had yet to prove that this was a homicide and criminal negligence outside of a workplace accident or DUI was a lot harder to prove.

“Okay? I follow you that far. I just can't help but think it would be so much easier to just take the tape when she wasn’t home or even get into the archive under the pretence of something else and steal it back then. Why make such a giant obvious mess and either kill or seriously endanger an innocent old woman beloved by her community?”

"It probably wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did, we estimated the time of death at about five in the morning is it not possible the intruder figured the occupants would be asleep?" Vicquemare postulated.

Kim frowned. "And why would they figure that? Why not case the house beforehand to be sure of it? It seemed from the neighbour’s testimony that Mme. Zakarian stuck to her early morning schedule like it was gospel."

Jean nodded. "Yes, true. But this doesn’t strike me ask the handiwork of a very calculated person. It feels more like someone acting on constant frantic impulse upon impulse.

“Hm, a juvenile, perhaps?” Kim mused aloud. He thought of briefly Kagami, Misao's daughter. His gut said it couldn't have been Amal.

Vicquemare lifted a shoulder. “Mm. Perhaps but not necessarily. I was more thinking along the lines someone with major paranoia or a substance abuse issue, the panicked rifling through cabinets with no thought to covering their tracks or even properly faking a burglary. It feels desperate, urgent"

Kim bit the inside of his cheek and tried to redirect his frustration into bracing his hands against the table.

“But we already been over this, officer; why would someone in that situation not take the drugs that were just lying in the house?” He said.

Vicquemare's upper lip curled upwards, it made him look even more like his horse than he did already.

“You assume that they were looking for drugs, Lieutenant, I think they were looking for the tapes and the tapes alone. Is it such a leap that someone dealing in stolen classified information would be under a lot of stress and already have plenty of  access to illegal substances?”

Kim shrugged. He didn't want be here, having this conversation, doing this fucking job. He was tired, Cuno's joking suggestion of eight hours sleep in an oubliette was sounding pretty good right now.

“I don’t know. I think it’s a good solid theory, but I prefer not to work off profiles alone, when they can be so often swayed by bias.”

“You think I’m biased?" Jean asked with a sneer of genuine vehemance. “Against who? Addicts? Am I to include myself in that bias? Perhaps you’re right, if you factor self-loathing into the equation.”

COMPOSURE: Don’t engage him, he’s dying for you to engage him, just acknowledge and move on. You are a human being and his police partner, not another riding crop for him to self-flagellate with.

PASSION: I WANNA GO HOME. FUCK THIS PLACE, KIM AND I ARE MOVING TO UBI SUNT TO FARM HIGHLAND SHEEP. NO ONE ELSE IS INVITED EXCEPT HARRY AND CUNO.

Kim too a sharp breath in. “Everyone’s biased, detective. It’s a fact, not a moral judgement. I’m happy to continue this avenue of investigation but I don’t want to make any rulings until we have a death certificate and autopsy report.”

Vicquemare shrugged. "Okay, I guess that’s fair. But what do we do until then?”

“Well, I have to go yell at some teens for Judit and Jolie, might as well do it now and then we can break for lunch.” Kim said.

Jean let out a dry chuckle. “Ah, the 41st’s very own Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, what did they do now?”

Kim frowned. “How come everyone knows about those kids but me, this was the first I’ve heard of them ever.”

Viquemare didn't really react. “You’ve had a lot on your plate, Kim and they’re not under our decomptage, you don’t need those two shit-gibbons bothering you as well."

"As nice as that is of you, officer, they've been made my problem anynow."

Vicquemare narrowed his eyes."Go on, then, Kitsuragi. What’d they do to get Jude in a state?”

 "They’ve been breaking into the women’s bathroom looking for drug paraphernalia.”

jean scoffed. “They’d have much better luck in the men’s, you sure they aren’t just peeping?”

“They could be certainly, but my understanding via Minot is they’re stealing applicator tampons to use the cardboard applicator tubes for insufflation.”

“Oh, for speed? I’ve seen that before.” Viquemare said with a nod, dropping his gaze to the desk.

EMPATHY: He’s done it too he’s just not going to say that aloud, more for your sake than his. No one likes getting scolded. His sister has that covered, you don’t need to brigade the guy.

HARRYOLOGY: Guilt and Self-Loathing are not long-term motivators to end an addiction, if two- and a-bit years of your research with Harry the Sorry Cop has taught you anything they usually end up making a habit worse due to the severity of the dopamine deficiency. Vicquemare has all the downsides to chronic amphetamine dependency on top of treatment resistant clinical depression.

PASSION: Is his depression actually treatment resistant or is it enabled and worsened by the material state of the world and his job? Jean likes weird art films, horses and binge drinking none of which are interest particularly rife with healthy socialisation or emotional regulation.

FITNESS: Also, the Amphetamines after affects are going to make him very slow and very depressed, it’s a vicious cycle.

UNDERGROUND: In ‘The Scene’ as they call it, there’s a concept known as sub-drop, a sudden onset of depression, dysphoria and even nausea in a submissive participant particularly after a demanding or vigorous scene, it’s purported to be a kind of neurotransmitter deficiency and it can happen to people of all genders and configurations post-orgasm. Amphetamine has similar chemical effects on the brain, meaning, when he’s not rolling, Vicquemare is in a permanent state of sub-drop.

REFLEXES: Eugh, don’t phrase it like that! Dei! That’s just weird!

PROFESSIONALE: I concur, detective. We don’t need that image into our head, we still have to work with the guy!

UNDERGROUND: Oh, Grow up, rozzer. He’s not our type and even if he was, he has the personality of rapidly decaying uranium. You know, if it wasn’t for your work, dearest, I’d recommend just watching him explode from a safe distance, he might be ‘family’ but the man’s a human mushroom cloud.

Jean was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and Kim realised he was spacing out again

“Khm, right. In this case, Judit says it was for coke, but as far as the law is concerned neither are proper for Junior Officers of the RCM to be doing on the clock.”

“Yeah, they need to learn to do it on breaks with a pen or a banknote like the rest of us adults.” Vicquemare said jokily.

Kim groaned, dropping his face into his hands pushing his glasses up his forehead

 “By the mother’s lungs detective, that is worryingly close to being exactly what DeMettrie said, word-for-word.”

“And? You’ve met her father, Deathless did so much coke in the New it all but made him immortal. I’m not surprised that her, and her sisters are familiar with the scene. I think Deathless lives with Alice, Jolie and her kids, I mean, she’s probably caught him using.”

Kim bristled upright.

PROFESSIONALE: The Senior DeMettrie is a Sergeant, he’s your senior in terms of age and experience, but not in rank, you don’t have to be nice about the guy.

EMPATHY: [Medium – Pass] Sure, but you are cordial with all three of his daughters, so maybe don’t go too hard on him, at least not where Jolie might hear you.

 “Ahriman DeMettrie isn’t immortal, officer.” Kim responded, “He’s an old diabetic who’s slowly dying as his body catches up with his drug habits. I’ve talked to Alice and Ninel about it before, he’s in the advanced stages of renal failure. He was at dialysis on Monday when Ninel got hit by a motorcycle.”

A guardian angel appeared in the form of Martine Labriola wielding a curl of RC print-out paper. The strange and uncomfortable atmosphere between Kim and Vicquemare dissipated as both moved their focus onto work.

“Hey, You boys expecting an ID photo from the Vespertine Met by any chance?” They sent one through on the RC, I got a print off for you, but the resolution isn’t great, so I got you the description from the ICP.”

Kim nodded wordlessly. Vicquemare sat up and lit himself yet another cigarette.

“Oh, that was quick. Thanks, Martine.” He murmured.

Kim picked up the postcard sized picture and squinted at it.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) Officer Labriola is right, the picture quality isn’t very clear but then the image had to span the oceans of Far Pale between Mundi and Insilunde, of course there’d be some data loss. The photograph is black and white so it’s hard to determine colour-based details about the woman like her eye colour or complexion, but the photo is a standard Badge ID size and framing, A woman in her mid to late thirties stands up straight, smiling looking directly at the camera.

PROFESSIONALE: She’s dressed the uniform of the Vespertine Met something you recognise from years and years of watching television beat cop shows. She wears her dark hair in a short chin-length bob, quite common for career policewomen. She has a simple nose stud in her left nostril and a small dark mole in the corner of her right eye but no other distinguishing features. With a change of uniform this could be any female officer you’ve worked with in your lifetime.

Jean tore off the second printout Martine had brought over and started reading it aloud.

“Says she was thirty when she disappeared which would make her ah-thirty-four-ish now?”

Kim nodded, that mental math sounded right. He wrote this down in his notes. Jean kept reading.

“She’s Vespertine of Western Samaran extraction, 166cm, slim but fit build, medium brown skin, dark brown-black hair and eyes, wears a gold nose stud in her left nostril for cultural reasons.”

LOGIC: Ah. That explains why she was allowed to wear it in dress uniform.

ENCYLOPEDIA: In some Samaran cultures a pierced nose a marker of a married woman, like a wedding band is in Dolorian cultures, or covered hair for Amani women and Yevrem.

“Okay,” Kim murmured taking down notes in shorthand. “Anything else.”

Vicquemare kept reading. “Uh, it says her father and two brothers are still living, she was happily married for eleven years at her time of disappearance and she and her husband had recently adopted a six-year-old boy after he was rescued from a trafficking sting she participated in busting.

“Hmph, it also says no known record of substance abuse or mental health issues outside of a brief period of depression following hospitalisation for a life-threatening ectopic pregnancy, it also notes her as a smoker. Not sure why that’s relevant, unless they think she went for a secret smoke in the aero lavatory and got flushed or something, or perhaps because she has history of- what sounds like to me anyway- an episode of acute reactive depression, they’ll say this was a grand and complicated method of suicide, it’s always some horsepiss like that with the brownsuits.”

EMPATHY: He’s just projecting, don’t take him too seriously.

PROFESSIONALE: He’s not exactly wrong though, if the ICP fucks up so significantly to lose someone under MoralIntern protection during a three hour direct flight it’s a lot easier to blame her than own up to it.

“I think, more likely, her employer may have had those facts on her file for medical insurance reasons and the ICP just took all the information they could get without really sorting for relevance.”

Jean pursed his lips and exhaled a directional cloud of cigarette smoke right in Kim’s face.

REFLEXES: [Difficult – Fail] Oops. Sorry, Kim. Your lungs aren’t what they used to be.

Kim ducked his head coughing. “Go do that at your own desk officer.”

Jean smiled, or more accurately; his facial muscles tensed in a grim skin mask of a smile. He had a look about him, like a hungry dog.

Jean took another lazy drag on his cigarette, and leaned back in his seat, putting his shoes up on the desk, Kim’s desk.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re no fun before, Lieutenant?”

“Frequently and without prompting, yes.” Kim said curtly.

Something like actual mirth flickered across the other man’s face.

“Good, just checking,” He picked up his ashtray and wheeled himself smugly back to his desk

EMPATHY: [Legendary – Fail] What the gilded fuck is that guy’s problem?!

PASSION: Look here Kim, if we’re going to work with that guy not only for the rest of the workday but on the interview you have booked for this evening, we need to take a lunch break, preferably without the tragic clown.  Also, maybe a cigarette or two between then and now, failing that a drink wouldn’t hurt.

COMPOSURE: That doesn’t seem necessary. One cigarette is more than enough.

Kim pocketed the pieces of the computer print-out, Vicquemare had left them both on the desk.

“I’m taking lunch at Minh’s you can tell Patrol Officer Minot if she asks. He said aloud to the room more than actually directed at his partner.

Vicquemare grunted, stubbing out his cigarette and waved a hand dismissively in the air.

“Mhm. Salut.”

Chapter Text

Transport, motorways and tramlines

Starting and then stopping

Taking off and landing

The emptiest of feelings

Disappointed people

Clinging on to bottles

And when it comes it's so, so disappointing

Let down and hanging around

Crushed like a bug in the ground

Minh's Cafe, Jamrock Central, Revachol West, ZoC.

13:36 January 23rd '53.

At Minh’s Café Kim slid into his usual spot by the window.

He must have looked pretty out-of-sorts, because Lillie quickly came up beside him with some water and a look of genuine concern.

“It’s a little early but can I get you a stiff drink, or something, Lieutenant? You look like shit.” She said.

Kim bit back a laugh despite his dour mood.

“Damn, the reviews of this place are right best customer service in Jamrock."

Lillie just grinned at him, all the while her dark eyes were watching, sizing him up.

“How’s Harry doing, is he alright?” She asked.

Kim sighed, “Well, he’s been better, but it’s nothing to worry about. Recovery’s not linear.”

“No,” She said softly, “It’s not.”

EMPATHY: This girl’s own empathy is as vast as the ocean; she’s holding her tongue because she doesn’t want to be seen being overly familiar with the police. This queer little former motorcycle delinquent has so much patience and an eye for people that would outperform many of your detective colleagues.

“No skinny guy or bike dyke with you today?” She asked glancing around the booth as if she was concerned Vicquemare might launch up from under the table like a macabre jack-in-the-box.

Kim blinked it took him a bit to parse what she was asking.

LOGIC: The skinny guy is Vicquemare obviously, that’s what she always calls him. Lillie does not like or respect him and refuses to learn his name as for -ahem- the bike dyke, she could mean Lt. Dreyfus who dresses masculinely and rides a bicycle. I don’t think you’ve been to Minh’s with anyone else who might set off the girl’s radar.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: We came here with Nic, Yves’ sister once, and her little girl, Yvette, but Nic has a much more feminine mode of dress.  She wears earrings and lipstick. The last time Dreyfus had to wear lipstick and a dress for the wedding of a mutual friend at 57 she acted like she was getting waterboarded.

UNDERGROUND: Dreyfus hasn’t been into the Underground scene as much as you and Lillie have been, like Harry; her bisexuality is a relative recent realisation for her. You know from her anecdotes and gleeful horror stories that she cruises regularly both at regular bars and a few establishments considered non-official Violetta bars. It’s possible Lillie or her girlfriend have seen her off-duty.

 “No, the former’s still working, and Dreyfus is off today, she had to do emergency childcare for her sister. Hey, y’know, Lillie, someone hit and ran one of my patrol officers on Monday on a motorcycle,”

“Oh, shit, really? It wasn’t me, Audré’s brother let us try his homemade mastika on Sunday night and two shots of that between the two of us we were out cold Monday morning, she was lucky she wasn’t on shift. Whereabouts did they get hit?”

“The pedestrian crossing just before Tabernacle and Dominion. She didn’t see what make it was, but she said it was bigger than a moped smaller than café racer and fully kitted out. Fully knocked her in the air and everything.”

Lillie winced “Yikes. Is she okay?”

“Bad concussion, I signed her off for the rest of the week.”

“Hmm,” Lillie paused in thought “Hey, I don’t mean anything rude by this but is she white?”

Kim blinked, “Uh, yes? Her father is of Parthian heritage, I believe, but she’s certainly white-passing why?”

Lillie picked at scab on her wrist.

“There are a lot of skinheads in the modding scene unfortunately just wondering if it could have been racially motivated. Honestly, it could simply have been because she was there and in uniform.”

“You think it was on purpose?” Kim frowned narrowing his eyes.

Lillie shrugged, “I mean, I don’t think you could hit an adult woman on a bike like that and not notice unless you were off your fucking gourd on Dex or something. Obviously, at a crossing downtown first thing on Monday morning it could have been anything, but it’s a possibility. I’ll keep an ear out, but just so we’re crystal you won’t get a snitch out of me while I’m still alive and kicking.”

Kim snorted; he didn’t have the energy to laugh. “Hey, it was worth a shot.”

Lillie cocked a pierced eyebrow. “Sure. D’you want a minute to browse, or do you know your order?”

Kim rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “Can you get me an egg coffee? Sorry I forgot the actual name. Your uncle made us some once when Harry and I had a stake out and it keep me up for eight hours solid.”

Lillie chucked. “Cà phê trứng. You want it his way? I usually make them weaker for patrons than Uncle makes them. He uses two shots of espresso topped up with triple strength Safrese coffee; you look like you might need it.”

“Yeah,” Kim sighed, “Thanks, Lillie, as always.”

She smiled, nodded and quickly disappeared back through the door to the kitchen.

Kim set his head back in his hands. His eyes hurt, and his upper back wasn’t much better. Moving Harry around did a number on his traps.

FITNESS: Drink some water and get some protein to eat with that coffee, it’s not that serious, you’ll pull through.

PASSION: It’s egg coffee, hardass, eggs are protein. Also, everything is that serious all the fucking time, do you live under a rock?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Actually, it’s made with egg yolks like a custard, egg yolks are high in protein but given the amount of sugar, condensed milk and coffee in the drink there probably isn’t very much protein per serve.

“Is this seat taken Lieutenant?” A familiar voice asked, distracting him from his ruminating.

Kim looked up; Patrol Officer Minot was standing beside him looking about as tired as he felt.

He inclined his head. “Oh, Judit. Of course, I could use the company.”

She nodded and sat down in the seat across from him.

“Do you or Harry have a punching bag at home?” She asked.

Kim blinked, had he missed something?  “I’m sorry?”

Minot smiled apologetically, “Oh, it’s nothing, just I remember having to go several rounds with one at the gym every evening for the first six months I worked with Vicquemare as my partner.”

Despite his overwhelming exhaustion Kim chuckled at that. “We do actually have one somewhere, it’s probably under the stairs with the other exercise equipment Harry isn’t using.”

Judit winced “Do you want to talk about how he’s doing, or would you prefer a distraction?” She asked.

EMPATHY: Finally, someone who actually fucking gets it! She’s lived this before; she’s still living it.

“God, a distraction, please, officer.” Kim said, rubbing at his face with his hands in the vain hope that getting his circulation moving might make him less sluggish. “All everyone wants to talk about is how he’s doing and then they get all emotional; when the answer is ‘not good.’

Judit nodded and lightly touched a hand to his forearm, just once.

PERCEPTION (Sight): Her hands are heavily calloused, her long fingers marked by small white and pink scars. Her fingernails are short with red inflamed marks around her cuticles from where she nervously picks at them.

 “May I speak candidly, sir, off the record?” She asked.

Kim nodded, he was tired past the point of caring about fraternal decorum or chains of command.

PASSION: It’s not as if any other of those fucking cavemen you call coworkers do either. Nick and Martine were eye-fucking this morning, and Vicquemare… well the fact he’s allowed in the force at all is a bit of a worry. For his sake as much as yours. I'm gonna level with you Kim, I don't care for that guy and I won't miss him when he's dead.

REFLEXES: You can't just say something that. That's not even true.

PASSION: Blow me, Pinball Hands. Truth is a fiction and I have never been wrong about anything ever.

LOGIC: Okay, that's definitely not true, not to mention internally inconsistent.

“I know, it doesn’t make him less emotionally taxing to manage and to interact with, but I’ve found that usually all of Vicquemare’s little outbursts are in response to something he has going on internally, not any fault on your or my end.”

Kim sighed. “He was being unnecessarily pedantic and antagonising on purpose, it was very hard to deal with given my lack of sleep and the morning I had. Normally I can shrug it off with little issue, but today he was particularly belligerent.”

Minot nodded, her expression sincere. “Can I ask what topic triggered it?”

“I mentioned offhand what you and DeMettrie had told me about the Juniors, I’m planning to talk to them after lunch.”

“Ah,” Minot whispered, she scrunched up her long face and sighed. “Well.”

“Well, Patrol Officer?” Kim asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’ll be the stimulant abuse then that got to him. Nothing you can do about that one, believe me, sir, I’ve tried."

She sighed again and her voice faltered slightly, real desperate emotion welling up: compassion and frustration “-Lungs, I have tried, Kim, but he just doesn’t want to know.”

“Mhm, not much we can do if he won’t accept help.” Kim said.

Minot barked out a sudden, bitter laugh. Kim looked at her with alarm.

“Sorry, it’s just how many times did Jean and I have this exact conversation word-for-word about Harry only for me to have it again but about him.” She said with a noise of frustration.

She dragged a hand back through her hair.

PERCEPTION (Sight): It’s getting long enough to fall in her eyes and bother her. Typically she keeps it cut short as many female officers do.

PROFESSIONALE: Uniform rules are that hair long enough to touch your shoulders needs to be tied back. It tends to be enforced more strictly with male officers on than the few women at 41. Jolie, Labriola and Roberts all have at least collar-length hair, but it’s Chester McLaine who’s your worst offender

Kim sighed once more and nodded. “It’s very draining caring about other people.”

“I can’t not do it,” Judit said, “It’s like the bystander effect, someone has to actually decide to care about these miserable bastards, or otherwise everyone will just stop, and stare with their mouths open like goldfish and…” Her voice cracked once more. “a-and that’s how we lose people, Kim.”

She cleared her throat hurriedly, “Sorry, I’m certainly not helping by turning up and whinging at you.”

Kim frowned. “We’re just talking Judit, this is a conversation you are a participant in. I don’t think you’re whinging, and you don’t need to apologise.”

Judit ducked her head a flush of pink to her cheeks. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

EMPATHY: Very few superior or even equally ranked officers have said that out loud to her before. She was caught a little off guard by the candour.

Lillie turned up with Kim’s Cà phê trứng.

“Oh, wow, that looks good,” Minot murmured.

“Oh hello, officer.” Lillie said, just noticing her. “Shall I get you another menu or are you alright to share?”

Kim passed Judit his menu; “Go ahead I’m done with it.”

“Cool. I’ll give you some time to have a look, first.” Lillie said catching another patron trying to flag her down in the corner of her vision.

“Great, thank you.” Judit said, and when Lillie was gone, she peered across the table at his glass. “What is that, Kim?”

“South Safrese Egg Coffee." He said, taking a sip. "Extra Strong. It’s good, a little over-sweet for me but it’ll get me through the afternoon at least. Did you want one?”

Judit considered it. “I’m tempted, but I really ought to cut down on the caffeine. Otherwise, I’ll be so keyed-up later that René’ll have to scrap me off the bedroom ceiling with a broom.”

“How is your family?” Kim asked, keen for a conversation topic that wasn’t Harry or Jean.

Minot shrugged.  “The same as ever really, the boys are both having growth spurts right now it’s costing us an arm and a leg in groceries. Well, for me.” She chuckled meeting Kim’s gaze. “I mean, it’s not like René has a working leg to spare.”

Kim gave her a tired smile; he understood the impulse to cope with humour, but he wasn’t quite there himself yet. René Minot’s accident was over a decade ago, and both he and Judit were comfortable joking about it, so Kim didn’t feel it his place to comment.

FITNESS: He may need to use a wheelchair to get around, but that man is built like a rugby player with a steroid habit, I’d avoid ticking off the guy, he could kick your ass regardless of mobility.

REFLEXES: What if we were really quick?

FITNESS: Oh, buddy. We’re not. You know that.

Judit carried on with the conversation, perhaps sensing Kim’s discomfort.

“My brother’s doing well at the very least, he just got made docent at the University of Shestaprel, which means he’s well on his way to a full professorship.” She said.

“Oh, I didn’t know your brother was a lecturer, what subject?” Kim asked.

“Dacian History. His wife teaches Art History there too. She’s Inguanijan.”

“Do you ever get to visit them?” Kim asked. “I’ve heard Shestaprel is a beautiful city.”

Judit wrinkled her nose. “Ah no, unfortunately not. He and I are… estranged, actually. I’m still in correspondence with his wife though, that’s how I know.”

“I see.” Kim said. He didn’t.

Minot laughed nervously. She had been twisting her wedding ring around her finger as she spoke, staring down at her hands on the tabletop.

“It’s not really a big, exciting family drama or anything. He’s actually my half-brother- he’s about twelve years older than me. His mother was killed by state police during the Forradalom - he and my father fled to Shest and then here to Revachol as that’s where Apa had comrades who were willing to hide them. Jóska can’t have been much older than eight.”

Kim nodded.

VOLTA DO MAR: That could have been you, in another life.

COMPARTMENTALISATION: It doesn’t bear thinking about, boss. You only have the one life, right here and now.

“We were never really close-close, but we did grow up together. He and my parents fought a lot. He was a very angry young man, and for good reason, but even now that same anger can make him very single-minded about certain things.” She sighed and looked up from her hands catching Kim’s eye. She gave a smile that was more of a grimace.  “Like me joining the Police.”

EMPATHY: Ouch, yeah that’d figure. We’re not exactly running into the arms of any INSURCOM recruitment officers either, given our history. Hard for Judit though.

“Ah.” Kim murmured. “That sounds like a difficult situation.”

Judit shrugged, it was a strange facsimile of Vicquemare’s signature shrug of resignation.

 “It is what it is, sir. I don’t blame him too much. He’s traumatised. We all are. I just think it would be nice for my boys to have their uncle in their lives. He’d be a positive male influence.”

“But you and his wife keep in touch?” Kim asked

Judit nodded. “Yes, she’s a lovely woman, and she’s much more forgiving of what poverty does to a family with only one income because she lived through the thirties in central Inguanija, and it sounds like things were much worse there than here."

The conversation broke once more for Lillie to take both their food orders.

Judit looked out the window besides them. “It’s a nice spot here, bet it’s good for people-watching.”

“It was Harry’s originally. I imagine for that exact reason.”

Judit smiled but it was tinged with sadness.

“Was it particularly bad, today? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just noticed you were later getting in than usual.”

Kim nodded, wincing. “Mhm, he was in a lot of pain and couldn’t express it, his nurse said it’s nothing serious and he’s not at risk of further damage or regression, but it doesn’t make it easier to see him like that.”

Judit looked down at her hands again, picking at a hangnail. “And when you’re trying to get out the door to work and get the kids to school, it doesn’t give you a lot of time to process it, or to offer comfort.”

“Exactly.” Kim said, taking a sip of his coffee. He raised an eyebrow.

“How do you do it?”

Judit lifted a shoulder. “I don’t always, Kim, if I’m being honest. I’m as flawed as the next woman. Sometimes I’ll lose my cool and snap at one of the boys or a colleague. Sometimes it means I’m harsher to a civilian we’re interviewing because I don’t have the energy left to be sympathetic and René and I fight often, I’m sure you know that whole damned station does.”

EMPATHY: Judit says the last part with a flare of annoyance. She’s not stupid and she knows others talk. She just wishes they wouldn’t, it’s a sensitive topic, and not one she wants input on.

“I don’t know, officer, you seem pretty capable to me. Juggling two kids on top of this is impressive, just the one kid feels like it’ll be the death of me.”

Judit smiled at the praise.

 “Well, thank you, sir, but to be fair to you and Du Bois my boys aren’t Cuno. They know when not to horse around. Besides, as… Khm, volatile René can be, he can at least still drive.  He gets the house and to town in his wheelchair, he’s certainly more than capable of getting to the slot machines to gamble away our rent, she said with a look of irritation. Anyway, It’s early days for you two, you have to remember to be kind to yourself.”

Kim just nodded, quietly processing.

 Judit paused and laughed, shaking her head.

“Sorry, sir. Dei, the way I phrased that makes it sound like you and Harry are married.”

Kim bit the inside of his cheek. Hard enough he tasted blood.

 “It certainly feels close enough sometimes.” He muttered.

“Does- Hanna – Lt. Dreyfus mind? I mean, it’s no one’s fault what happened - strokes are by their nature sudden and debilitating and I’m sure she gets that, but it must make it hard for you two to get any time to yourselves.”

EMPATHY: This feels weird.  You don’t normally mind the deception, at work it’s a necessary evil. You keep your job and your station, Harry and Cuno stay safe in their benefits and your friend gets an excuse to turn down unwanted advances and keep her family off her back. But here, Minot seems genuinely invested in your happiness. It feels duplicitous to feed into that.

UNDERGROUND: We wouldn’t have to if the RCM and the culture in general would be more accepting about homo-sexuals, bi-sexuals, trans-sexuals and women existing as their full selves openly. But we don’t live in that world, so we make sacrifices.

PASSION: Judit wouldn’t care, she’d probably be sad you felt the need to lie, but she was Vicquemare’s partner for over a year – she must have an inkling that he wasn’t straight, right? She’s friends with Roberts and stands up for her regularly. She spoke to Matthias Unterholen and his boyfriend on Monday and made no further commentary on them or their relationship.

COMPOSURE: No, we can’t. I can’t. Keeping you together right now is like holding the ceiling up in a building mid collapse, if you open up a door the whole thing is coming down around us.

“It is what it is, Jude.” Kim said, choosing his words carefully, “You saw her this morning, so you know she’s still putting up with me. Last night she brought over takeaways and had dinner with us, we got to have some downtime after dinner.”

Minot nodded. “That’s good at least. She seems good with kids. She might even be able wrangle Cuno.”

Kim took another sip of his coffee, “They get on quite well, unfortunately she’s on his side about him being allowed a penknife, so I might be losing that battle.” He said.

Judit giggled, it was a surprisingly girlish noise coming out of a woman nearing her forties.

 “Perhaps she believes an armed Cuno, will be a polite Cuno.” She said.

Kim snorted softly, looking out the window once more.

“We’re both career cops, anyway, we know what it’s like. Her family can be a bit hard on her about it. I think they mean well enough but they’re all desperate for her to get married and settle down but after Izaak - she’s not a settling down person and neither am I. We’ve talked about it, but more in terms of a safety net to provide for Cuno if - Dei forbid- something else happened to Harry.”

Judit shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like you need a big flashy ceremony in Revachol. City Hall’s what two light rail stops away from the precinct? If you wanted you could do it on a lunch break and not tell anyone until later, I think that’s what Jolie and her ex did.”

Kim smiled with just his mouth, it wasn’t disingenuous he just didn’t have the energy to emote correctly and lie at the same time.

“I suppose so. That certainly sounds like something Hanna would agree to just for a laugh.”

Minot chuckled, the skin at her eyes crinkled up like tissue paper.

“Hey, there are worse reasons to marry someone. I’m pretty sure René only popped the question when he did because back then they were talking about bringing back National Service and newlyweds are exempt from the Draft, or at least they are in the Suresian Military.”

Kim spied at chance to steer the conversation back into safer less emotional waters. “Oh, speaking of, have you ever met the Commandant Vicquemare before?”

Judit shook her head. “I’ve only heard her and Jean screaming bloody murder at each other down the phone.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so they’re always like that, then?”

“I think so. They don’t really hate each other. In fact, my understanding is that pre-Harry Vic’s sister was the person he was dependant on. I think the distance forces them to be less co-dependent, but they do seem to be close they just also seem to be actively hostile to each other. I don’t understand it myself, but I’m not Suresian and my parents were beatnik leftists not military.”

Kim smirked. “Right. Same here, though I never met them.” He said, pausing in thought. “Hanna said she think Jean has a Dependant Personality, and while I’m not a fan armchair psychology, I figure she’s earned an honorary doctorate the number of psychologists she’s had to deal with.”

Minot snorted. “He does, yes. Not much he can do about it in his current state.”

“Did you ever worry when you worked together that he might end up depending on you?  I mean to an unhealthy amount, like with Harry. Everyone has to depend on their partner to some extent. It’s normal – but he’s very intense.”

Judit exhaled sharply out her nose, her lips drew back into a thin line. She picked at a cuticle that was already red and raw, evidently a nervous habit.

“What do you mean worry, Lieutenant?” she said, an uncharacteristic bitterness in her tone.
“That’s exactly what happened. He still talks to me like he thinks I’m somewhere between his pet cat and his mother, never an equal.”

Kim winced. “You don’t need that. I mean decomptage is decomptage but even that needs boundaries.”

Minot raised both eyebrows. “Yes, but you’re the one who had to drum that into Harry, not Jean. Do you know what Harry was like before you transferred?”

Kim looked away, out the window avoiding her gaze; he didn’t like to think about that Harry.

“I’ve heard some stories. None of them good."

Judit gave a sympathetic nod. “Well, Vicquemare wasn’t much better, he was just more lucid and hid his symptoms easier because someone had to deal with Du Bois and the chain of command said he was the person to do it, besides his rank is literally Satellite Officer – how can he not revolve around his partner when that’s literally in the brief of his job? It’s not a healthy system.”

“That's true.” Kim murmured. “This job really brings out the worst in people.”

Minot nodded, “But I don’t have much of an alternative, do you?”

Kim shook his head, “No, Hanna and I have talked about it. I suppose there are non-patrol jurisdictions I could go to if Harry ends up not returning, but I can’t see myself working in a store or at a mechanics, it's been too long for me I don't know if I could reintegrate as a civilian.”

“Dreyfus does seem to really like Searchlight,” Judit said. “I’ve always found their work to be fascinating, but I know I could never abandon Jean and the others, perhaps I’m a bit co-dependant too. That’s why I still put up with him.” She smiled fleetingly.

“You would also have to factor in the sheer number of dead kids and infants you get at Searchlight, sadly. Dreyfus is used to it now, but she’s lost a lot of juniors and colleagues with children of their own who couldn’t handle it.” Kim said.

Judit grimaced, “Merde, I didn’t think of that. I don’t want to think of that, actually.” She shook her head as if to dislodge the mental images.

Kim took the hint and changed the subject. “Any news on the JOs since we spoke?”

“Nothing new, but Martine did get me some info from their files, if you want it. It might help you twist their arms a little.”

Kim leaned in, intrigued. “Oh? Do go on, Patrol Officer.”

Minot smiled and reached into a small messenger bag she’d sat down on the booth seat beside her.  She pulled out a neatly ring-bound notebook with a few coloured index cards sticking out of the pages at various intervals.

She flicked through them briefly and opened to a neon pink card marked S.P / B.L.

“Picot’s surprisingly middle class for 41. Parents both alive and actually legally married. His father runs a toyshop in La Jardin with Picot’s older brother. this is his third police assignment, he got kicked out of the Saint-Batiste assignment for truancy and sexual harassment, and Processing claimed he got bumped for illicit drug use, but let’s be honest, sir, there’s no amount of white powder that Processing would turn their nose up at.”

She muffled a laugh with the back of her hand. “Sorry, sir, phrasing.”

Kim, having spent an extremely unpleasant period of his own career at Processing, snorted.

“No, he was probably just really insolent, and they needed an excuse to send him to the bloody murder squad and wipe their hands of him. What about the other one?”

 Judit turned a page in her notebook.

“Lejeune? His story is more unfortunate. Father not in the picture, mother and newborn brother both died in the Pertussis outbreak of ’49. His mother’s boyfriend tried to look out for the kid for a while, but he had three younger kids from another relationship, and he was struggling to provide child support for them already. He has an older sister in her twenties, but she’s been diagnosed with Dementia Praecox and was deemed too unwell to be given custody."

ENCYLOPEDIA: Dementia Praecox-or if you’re working off the less popular Meteoran school’s diagnoses: Schizophrenia- often starts showing the late teens and early twenties, and even if she’s medicated and relatively lucid any form of psychosis including stress psychosis, drug-induced psychosis and post-partum is enough to get you struck off the adoption or foster care register for good. It can even make you ineligible for elective surgery.

EMPATHY: Lungs, that’s a hell of a lot of a lot to handle alone at seventeen. Poor kid.

PROFESSIONALE: Poor kid my ass, this is the little tampon thief remember.

JUVENILE : Petty theft, even with aggravating factors, does not usually carry a prison sentence. You don’t have to condone his actions to recognise that he has it rough.

“So, I assume by him being eligible for a PEAR placement that he’s been in state care for at least eighteen months.” Kim said. “That’s the minimum criteria for eligibility.”

Judit nodded, setting the papers down. “That’s correct. He currently lives at a Maison in the Eminent Domain. Saint Jerome’s, do you know it?”

ENCYLOPEDIA: Maison is a clipping of “Maison des Enfants” which itself is a euphemistic name for a state-run orphanage. Maison-Saint Jerome is one of the newer ones in the Orphan’s District you remember it was being built in your last year in state care. You’d see the construction work in the mornings when you took some of the younger kids to school.

EMPATHY: If it’s anyone like the home you grew up in it’s cold, frequently damp and devoid of any true privacy.

“It’s about a block away from where I grew up, but it’s much newer it was still being built by my eighteenth birthday.”

“When is your birthday, Kim?” Judit asked. “Jean mentioned offhand you had one over the break, and I realised I’ve never asked.”

Kim shrugged. “I wouldn’t blame you, It’s the day before New Year’s Eve so I don’t really celebrate it separately. Most people aren’t around to celebrate either it being midwinter break and all.”

Judit nodded, “That’s supposed to be a good omen in some cultures, you know?”

“What is?” Kim asked

“A new year’s baby.”

Kim just shrugged again. “Perhaps, though I think being born December 30^th makes me too early to count as that, maybe I was a different kind of omen.”

Judit smiled. “At least you didn’t have to share it with Silvester, I'm sure no child wants to spend their birthday at mass.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: La Saint-Sylvestre or simply Silvester is an old Dolorian era name for New Year's Eve which has fallen on St. Silvester’s day for the past three centuries or so. Typically, there will be new year’s masses from midnight onwards. The sisters always made all the kids over the age of five go to mass on New Year’s Eve, which always felt like they were designed to be excruciatingly boring for everyone except the sisters and the altar boys.

PASSION: Yeah, but the feast afterwards was the best food you’d get all year: roast pork, sausage, potatoes, fresh bread, hot apple cider, gingerbread, marzipan and candied almonds. It was incredible and worth the two-day food hangover you’d get from stuffing your scrawny undernourished body with what felt like an entire year’s worth of calories.

Lillie brought their food out, Kim didn’t feel all that hungry anymore, but he picked idly at his pomme frites, watching the world on the street outside:

PERCEPTION (Sight): The wind is picking up outside, it blows loose tare across the pavement. A woman with a toddler in a stroller struggles to hold on to both the stroller and her headscarf as she crosses.

VOLTA DO MAR: Outside, far above you, blow the warm northerly winds coming up from the Semenine Islands. This cold snap will be over soon, everything has its end. Following them North to a rowhouse in Les Sardines, you see two young hijabi women arm-in-arm coming back from midday prayers. The smaller woman is shivering fishing in her coat pockets for her house keys.

“What time does your sister’s flight get in?” Her friend asks.

“About ten’o’clock if there’s no delay. Why?” She says.

“Noor was wondering if we could get ourselves there for moral support, but ten’s probably a bit too late for me. I’m teaching tomorrow morning. She might still be able to make it.”

“Wallah, are you crazy? Tell her to support me by not being on the tram alone at that time of night.”

The girl unlocks one, two, three additional padlocks on the front door. A fat and fluffy tabby cat waiting in the entranceway makes a run for the door spying the forbidden outside.

“No, Tigran!” The girl grabs him by the back of his neck and scoops him up into her arms.

The cat makes an anguished yell at being caught and tries to scratch and wriggle his way out, but his captor’s arms are covered by long sleeves and she’s actually much stronger than she looks.

“You’re not going anywhere, buster. Yeva’s going need lots of cuddles from both of you this week.”

Tigran is displeased with his great getaway being foiled, but he gives up his wriggling and even offers a grudging purr when the other girl comes in and coos over him in Bashiri scratching at the good spot between his ears.

Eventually he is released from arm prison, and he scampers into the living room. The two young women take off their shoes and follow him.

The friend sets down her schoolbag on the floor by the armchair and removes several clips and bobby pins holding her scarf in place. She takes off her outer scarf leaving on the black elasticated inner cap still covering most of her hair.  

“Amal, where d’you keep your tea? I’m making us a pot to have with some of those day-old pastries Fayruz nicked from her folks’ bakery.”

“You don’t have to do that; I’m not so debilitated by grief that I can’t boil water.” Amal says. She also takes the opportunity to unveil letting down her hair. It’s shoulder-length, deep dark brown and pretty greasy. She hasn’t exactly been prioritizing leave-in conditioner this week. She makes a note to have a shower before Yeva gets home.

“No, no, let me. I feel bad enough it’s been nearly four days, and they haven’t let you say Janazah.”

“She wasn’t Amani. I don’t think she’d care.” Amal says, but she doesn’t argue, instead she collapses into an armchair – Tigran jumps up on her lap. “Tea drawer’s the third one down on the left. Kettle should be on the stove.”

“Got it. What was she then Atheist? Dolorian? The Yevs have the same obligations as us for burials, y’know.”

Amal goes quiet, petting Tigran more for her comfort than his.

 “She was my Tati, Aisha. That’s all that matters.”

“How’s the Zakarian case going?” Judit asked, jolting Kim back to his body, “I can’t help but keep thinking of poor Amal, and Mme. Deter and her kids.”

“I spoke with Misao Asanuma on the phone earlier. Yeva Zakarian flies in tonight. He and the girls are going to pick her up from the aerodrome We still don’t have a damn autopsy report though.” Kim said.

“You want me to chase them up?” Judit asked, swallowing a mouthful of banh mi. “I like calling Processing, they’re so gruesomely inept that I don’t even feel bad about shouting at them.”

Kim lifted an eyebrow. “Listen, officer, if you need the outlet, you’re welcome to it.”

Judit smiled. “Sure. If you promise talk to the new JOs after this, I’d be happy to yell at some poor documents clerk like they’re one of my kids.”

Kim snorted, “Alright then, it’s a deal.”

“I’d shake your hand to close it but mine are full of Sandwich.”

Kim picked up his croque monsieur, and raised like it was a glass for a toast.

“That’s alright, so are mine. Santé.”

Minot chuckled and returned the gesture. “Lekhayem.”

Precinct Stables, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

14:20 23rd  January '53.

Hans “Allfather” Blau was tending to his police mount in the precinct stables when Kim returned after lunch.  

He was a stout bald man of Walder extraction, with a glass eye that didn’t move with the real one. He typically had a ruddy complexion, but today he was almost scarlet.

It was unclear whether this was from the cold or a side effect of his two teenage charges who were leaning on the wall outside smoking and watching him through the stall door. Their patrol blues covered by warmer winter jackets, without the telltale halogen stickers that marked them as police.

PROFESSIONALE: They aren’t uniform, but neither is yours, it doesn’t really matter too much at 41 especially not for a J.O. It just can be fun to throw the book at them sometimes, makes them panic and run around like headless chickens.

PERCEPTION (Smell): those aren’t regular cigarettes; the smoke is too sweet, too pungent. You’d recognise the smell anywhere but it’s particularly obvious after you smelled quite a lot of it last night with Lt Dreyfus.

Kim hung back out of sight, listening in on the conversation

“We actually don’t keep any stallions at the 41^st” He heard Blau saying.

Blau slid his hand down his mare’s silver-grey foreleg, trying to coax her to lift it so he could clean out her hoof with a pick.

The horse complied and Blau kept speaking. “They aren’t the best for police work- any you find cheap will be too unpredictable and any you get from a professional stud farm will cost more than a whole year’s pay. That’s why we usually only keep mares and geldings – they’re also more bombproof and easier to train. Which helps.”

“Bombproof?!” One of the JOs scoffed. “You’re telling me that a horse could survive a grenade?”

Blau pinched his brow, “No, son, of course not. Be serious for a minute. It’s just a turn of phrase for a horse that doesn’t spook easily.”

EMPATHY: He’s a pretty even-tempered man for a cop. He’s got three kids of his own his oldest is around these two’s age, so he has much more patience for their antics than his colleagues. But even then, it’s not bottomless patience.

“What’s a gelding?” The blonde one asked. If anything, he seemed a little distrustful of the horse despite there being a solid wooden door and even solider adult man between him and her.

“That’s like a gay horse.” His dark-haired friend said with the absolute confidence of a seventeen-year-old who had never even touched a horse outside of pony rides at the funfair in Grand Couron.

Blau huffed with dry amusement but didn’t reply, likely because he was concentrating on not accidentally catching his mare’s sensitive inner hoof area with his pick.

REFLEXES: He’s right to do so if he wants his external genitalia to remain external. Horses do not fuck around.

Kim took the opportunity as his chance to attack. He strolled right up behind the blonde boy.

“A gelding is a castrated male which is exactly what you two will be if you don’t put out those joints.”

“Shit.” Said the blond one.  He stomped out his own cigarette and quickly smacked his friend on the back of the head hard enough to make him spit his out.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?!” His friend complained.

The blonde kid elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up, Serge that’s Lt. Kitsuragi.” He hissed.

PROFESSIONALE: Detective Arriving on the Scene, baby. You command their respect.

“Junior Officers LeJeune and Picot. Which one of you is which?” Kim asked drawing himself into his tallest and most threatening of postures his eyebrows locked and loaded ready to go

The blonde one -who seemed to be the one with his head on a swivel- stood at a clownish approximation of what he thought attention was.

PROFESSIONALE: This one’s the PEAR placement he’s never done a day of drill in his life. His arms are at his sides like they do in most Mondial Armed Forces not locked behind his back with the hands clasped. His posture is lax, his feet pointed outwards. They’d eat him alive at the Academie.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The C in RCM stands for Citizen’s- the organisation is not a branch of the military instead it gets its ceremony and organisational structure from the ICM and on a more general scale – Graadian State Mazovianism. Your salutes, drill, ranks and even some of your paperwork are all grandfathered in from a Commune that fell before you started forming memories.

JUVENILE: He’s standing up straight but in the way a schoolboy would when asked to stand for the teacher or headmaster. He’s twitching his left leg too, nerves? Or drug induced?

“Sir! I’m- I’m O-officer Benoît Lejeune, sir. Uhm, Junior Officer Lejeune, that is. This is Junior Officer Serge Picot."

The dark-haired boy gave a clumsy salute which at the very least used the correct number of fingers and was more or less at the right angle. He’d done some degree of training.

“Uh-huh.” Kim said, his voice soft but dripping with scorn. He gave each Junior a once over and shook his head, unimpressed, before walking past them up to the stall where Blau was still committedly tending to his horse, minding his own business.

Kim rested his arms on top of the stall door.

“Afternoon Sergeant, it seems a little cruel to stick you on babysitting duty just because DeMettrie’s off duty- was that the captain’s doing?”

Blau chuckled, he set down the second hoof he’d been cleaning and stood up.

“Yes, she’s a very practically-minded woman, sir.”

Kim nodded, his lips twitching, “If it were anyone else, I could take them off your hands and make them Torson’s problem - though I doubt he’d be as good of an influence.”

Blau laughed “Torso and Red are busy getting their hair blown back by the brown suits after that sub-rosa debacle. I don’t mind though, better than getting desk duties.”

“That’s true enough. Have you spoken with NineI today?”

“Only on the phone and she wasn’t very coherent. I might take off half an hour earlier than usual though if you don’t mind, sir – Jolie’s got evening patrol and I’d prefer if my partner didn’t burn her house down trying to fry eggs while she’s concussed. The missus said she’d make her a care package for me to take over, things that are easy to eat.”

HARRYOLOGY: Oh Good, the insurmountable desire to cook eggs while being too compromised to do so is not a problem unique to Harry Du Bois.

“That’s perfectly, fine, Sgt." Kim said,  "Would you mind if I borrowed your protégé for a minute?”

Blau looked between the two boys and frowned with deeply paternal disappointment

“What did you do, boys?” He barked.

Lejeune just avoided his gaze. Squirming guiltily in place like a dog who’d been caught chewing something he shouldn’t be.

“Nothing! We didn’t do nothing!” Picot protested.

“Double Negative. You did do something.” Kim said sternly. “And I wish to speak to you about it. This way, please.”

He led them around the side of the stables, into an alleyway that connected to the precinct’s garage.

“So, I hear you two have breaking into the ladies’ room. Now, first off - are either of you ladies?”

“No! Obviously!" Picot recoiled at the mere suggestion. Lejeune just shook his head and looked to the floor.

“You’re both seventeen, right?” Kim asked.

“Yeah?” Picot sneered. "Why?"

“Because, officer, I'd say seventeen is old enough to know better than to peep on your co-workers and do lines on the clock.”

He met Lejeune’s gaze and held it. The boy started to squirm instantly. The kid did not seem to have any self-confidence to speak of and consequently was primed for manipulation, not an ideal trait in a cop. Kim didn't let him look away, he nodded at him directly.

 “You. You’re the PEAR kid, right? How many months til you age out?” He asked.

Lejeune licked his lips nervously. “Huh? Uhm… my birthday’s in April. So, three and a bit.”

Kim nodded.

“Maison or foster care?” He asked even though he knew the answer, curious to see if he’d lie. No one liked admitting they’d grown up in an orphanage, not even Kim. People tended to react with useless pity, that served no purpose except to centre their own feelings.

“Bit of both, Maison Saint-Jerome right now.” Lejeune said. He didn't sound particularly ashamed or bothered by the question. Perhaps he'd been luckier than Kim was, perhaps he was too immature to know when he was being pitied.

Kim set his face into a stern, unyielding mask.

“You realise that getting booted out of a PEAR placement with the RCM would destroy your chances of finding a place to rent, right?” Kim asked, flicking through his notes more for the theatre of it than actually looking.

“What- what do you mean? Are you kicking me out, sir?" Lejeune balked.

Kim shook his head, a cruel smile curling up in the corner of his mouth. "Not yet. I’m just speaking hypothetically."

He turned to look at Picot, gave him a powerful eyebrow tilt. “You realise I have to write this up. It constitutes sexual harassment under the code of conduct, given this is your second sexual misconduct offense, it’s not looking good for you either.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. And anyway, that charge was bullshit all I did was ask a girl out.” Picot said with a scowl.

“Oh really? Were you in uniform at the time?” Kim asked.

The teen shrugged. “Yeah? So? Lieutenant-Yefreitor McCoy does that shit all the time and he still works here.”

PROFESSIONALE: Ah, yes. Thank you, John. Excellent modelling of behaviour there. Really helps the rest of the force look good.

“Well, I’m afraid, kid, that you are no John McCoy. Was the girl involved a person of interest?”

Picot scowled again. “Maybe. But it was after we did the witness interview, we were just talking at the café while she worked. It wasn’t creepy or anything we were the same age.

JUVENILE: Oh no. He can't be that stupid surely? He's survived seventeen years on Elysium is he really that fucking stupid?

“How long ago was this?” Kim asked.

“I don’t know. Last summer sometime.” Picot muttered averting his gaze.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The age of consent in Revachol historically was fifteen throughout most of history, a leftover from the Franconigerian Empire, in fact, it’s still fifteen in Sur-Le-Clef. However, when sodomy was legalised under the ICM in ’04 they changed it be sixteen for both hetero-sexual and homo-sexual couples. The MoralIntern however is running off their own streamlined legal model of one age of majority for everything, so as the ruling overclass of the Zone of Control they upped it to be the same as the legal drinking and enlistment age of eighteen. This was in ’21, almost a full decade before this kid was born.

LOGIC: The kid is seventeen so he’s underage now and he was underage back then too. So was the girl, probably.

“Let me just clarify: You propositioned an underage witness at her place of work, while she was working and likely couldn’t refuse without facing admonishment from her employers.” Kim said, his tone was cool and clipped.

Junior Officer Picot began to squirm just like his partner. “I didn’t pro-propo-propo-fuck! Look I just asked her out, is not like we hooked up or anything. She turned me down. Is it a crime to have game, sir?”

Kim pushed his glasses up his nose so he could rub at his face with both hands. He didn't paid enough for this. Was it really any wonder that the Youth Social Workers were dropping out like flies when they had to deal with polymath-brain-geniuses like this kid?

“It is specifically illegal in your case, you are underage. But that’s not even the main issue here and the fact that you either don’t grasp that or are refusing to engage with the actual issue of a power imbalance is a serious concern, officer.”

JUVENILE: Listen you can legislate against the teens fucking all you want, but much like underage drinking and drug use, legislation isn’t gonna stop them.

PASSION: And why should it? All those emotions and hormones hijacking your entire body, it’s like a temporary tzaarath.

PROFESSIONALE: Because it’s illegal!

JUVENILE: And because of the temporary tzaarath as you called it, Passion. Most young people’s decision-making facilities are compromised by puberty and their cognitive development, they don’t have the long-term thinking to judge whether they are taking a major risk, be that having unprotected sex or drinking three bottles of wine in one night or jumping off a bridge into the river.

PASSION:   Peh! Hypocrites both of you. All those years of working Juvie have blinded you from the truth: Teenagers are people with thoughts and passions of their own and a deep need to make sense of the world, they need sex education not a conviction that dooms them for the rest of their lives. You were one of them once. How quickly you forget.

REFLEXES: Someone tell them to stick it already!

COMPARTMENTALISATION: [Challenging – Fail]

PASSION: [Difficult – Pass] Aksel Lapointe. Première year. In that weird out of the way little park on the hill near the factory distract. You and some classmates got into a bar with fake ids and some red-faced drunk with wandering elbows knocked your pint all over you, so your clothes were wet and stunk of beer. You didn’t want to go back home and risk getting caught by one of the Sisters.  He didn’t mind coming with you on a walk until you dried out a bit. He had drunk enough himself that he thought it was all kinds of funny, and anyway, he quite liked the smell of beer, and much more crucially he quite liked you.

COMPARMENTALISATION: OH, SHUT UP! SHUT UP! EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP FOREVER!

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi, you haven’t even said what this is about.” Lejeune mumbled.

Kim frowned at him.  "I did actually, officer,  you've just smoked away your short-term memory. This is about you, Lejeune, and your friend Picot, here, breaking in and stealing from the women’s bathroom. I don’t care what you do on your own time, but petty theft and stimulant abuse is a bad look on the clock. If you want to continue working here consider this your one and only official warning. If you don’t want to stay on, you should speak to someone at the PEAR programme to reassign your placement to something… easier on your nerves.”

Kim turned his attention back to the other kid. “As for you, Picot, this is the violent crimes squad. If you couldn’t handle the heat working patrol across the river, you’ll be dead in six weeks here.”

Picot scoffed.

JUVENILE: He thinks you’re just trying to scare him. He’s seventeen and middle class, the boy thinks he’s invincible. He's never known any evidence to the contrary. Lejeune has, he looks concerned but not surprised by the statement.

Kim squared his jaw and stepped right into the boy's “Look at me, officer, I’m serious and I’m tired. You want to play cops and robbers? Go ahead and get shot, not my call, not my problem. McCoy and Feuerbach will be the ones in charge of scraping what’s left off you off the asphalt. You certainly won’t be the first junior officer to be KIA and I doubt you’d be the last either,  we have a pretty high turnover here.”

Picot frowned and looked away, his dark eyes narrowed, and his brows knit together. Kim kept talking.

“I’m not saying this to scare you, I’m telling you this because I think it’d be a waste.  You’ve got two living parents who evidently love you enough to keep bailing you out for your delinquency again and again,  and Lejeune , well, you’ve got a sister in the hospital, haven't you? Does she have any other family left alive, apart from you? Anyone else to come visit her?”

Benoît Lejeune’s blue-grey eyes went wide with pupil, and it wasn’t just from the herbe. He looked to the cobblestones splattered with mud, horseshit and bits of hay. His hands trembled at his sides.

 “No, sir, she doesn’t.”

 Kim nodded. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, I’ve got a son a couple of years younger than you two and I wouldn’t want him working a Jamrock Central patrol detail at seventeen. We have the highest on-the-job death rate on the Insilundic isola. The rate of serious injury or disability isn’t much better, I’ve already lost one partner to a Madre tommy-gun, and another is on medical leave after a debilitating stroke. If you’re just looking for bit of fun before you fail-son your way into the family business, Picot, I’d suggest seeking employment somewhere else that pays better and won’t make you risk your life on the regular.”

Picot averted his gaze, his tough guy exterior shifted but didn’t drop entirely. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“But what if we want to stay?” Lejeune asked. Kim glanced at him, the boy’s hands were still balled up into fists at his sides and he looked paler than before.

Well, then I'd suggest you taper off the illicit stuff and speak to the lazaret about getting a peptide prescription. The constabulary will cover the cost if a Lieutenant or above approves it.” He paused for dramatic effect. His lips twitched “And as I so happen to be a Lieutenant, I’d be willing to sign off on that if you both apologise in writing to the officers affected: Minot, both DeMettries, Roberts and Labriola."

PROFESSIONALE: Best to leave Berdyayeva off the list, you’re not doing anything wrong or immoral exactly, but you are usurping the Chain of Command somewhat by going behind McCoy and Feuerbach’s backs.

EMPATHY:  As for the other female officers: Jolie and Minot will be happy to get the matter resolved. Sgt. Roberts could certainly do with the knowledge that at least one of her superior officers doesn’t see her as a joke or a pervert and Ninel and Labriola – well, they’d at least get a laugh out of whatever attempted contrition you can get out of two coked-up and stoned seventeen-year-olds.

“I- what-how –" Lejeune was mumbling incoherently.

Kim suppressed the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, and adjusted his glasses. He checked his watch, he probably shouldn't leave Jean unattended for much longer.

“Hm? Spit it out officer, I need to be back at my desk in five.””

Lejeune cleared his throat. “Uh Still Speaking hypothetically, of course what would be benefit by doing all that that?”

“You’d get to keep your jobs; your… reputations, such as they are. You’d get access to legal stimulants, and I would be willing to give you references for good behaviour. Even if you want to leave, I’d recommend at least apologising – it would have the beneficial side effect of extending your short little lives, you know Patrol Officer DeMettrie is the precinct’s best sniper?”

JUVENILE: You’re talking about Ninel, of course, who's at home with a concussion and not exactly in good sniping condition but there are two Patrol Officer DeMettries and these two don’t know which is which.

PROFESSIONALE: It’s not a lie, per se, more of an omission.

That was enough, the two junior officers, slunk back to Sgt. Blau with their tails between their legs.

La Menagerie, Precinct 41, Jamrock Central, Revachol West.

14:44 23rd  January '53.

“You took a while, Jude got back twenty minutes ago.” Vicquemare said without looking up, as Kim sat down at his desk.

Kim adjusted his glasses. His eyes were as tired as the rest of him.

“Khm. Sorry about that, I had to take a brief detour to put the fear of god into those juniors.” He said.

Jean laughed drily. “Ah, well that's understandable. It's arguably one of the better parts of the job.”

“Did you take a break for lunch?” Kim asked, inspecting the state of his inbound forms tray. It was piling up.

“Does eating a kebab at my desk count?” Jean asked.

Kim shook his head, more to himself than anyone else.

“At this station? It might as well. Anything new come through on the Zakarian case?”

“Not yet, Jude’s going full Revanchist on Processing next door.” his partner replied.

PERCEPTION (Hearing): [Difficult - Fail] You try make out any shouting coming from the communications room, but if it's there it's being muffled by the general office noise, papers rustling, telephones ringing.

“I told her she was welcome to do so. She looked like she needed it,” Kim said.

Vicquemare chuckled drily. “She probably does.” He paused, spasming suddenly as if shocked,

Kim looked at him alarmed, his brain ticking over into seizure first aid automatically.

COMPOSURE: [Medium - Pass] You quickly remind yourself where you are and that this isn't Harry, but Vicquemare who's startling and jerky in his movements at the best of times.

“Sorry I just remembered, Harry’s nurse called to speak with you. She said it wasn’t urgent and to tell you not to worry she just wanted to touch base.” Jean said.

Kim blinked, processing. He felt the first flares of anxiety in his chest and shut them down systematically.

“Oh, Roxana? Okay. Do you mind if I call her back now?” He asked.

Jean waved a hand in the air. “Mm, go ahead, I’m still beating my head against these injury reports.”

Kim frowned. “Lungs, more of them? Who is it now?”

Jean finally looked up from his paperwork. “Most of these are still about Ninel,”

“I thought I already signed her off yesterday,” Kim said, raising an eyebrow.

“You did, this is about insurance, looks like she needs pain and anti-nausea medication and potentially physiotherapy.” Vicquemare replied.

Kim nodded. That made sense, even if Ninel hadn't been on the clock when the accident happened she had been in uniform and the Captains were more forgiving in these cases as they didn't want to be down an officer long-term.

“Oh, right, carry on then, was there anyone else?” Kim askes.

Jean sighed rubbing at his face with his hands before reaching into his pocket for his crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“Ouias, Fisher got cold clocked by a POI, and Furiosa had to get a rabies shot after a dog bite.”

“Roberts, detective." Kim corrected.

Jean frowned, "Hm? Do we have more than one Furiosa? I can barely keep up with three DeMettries."

"No, I’d just rather you not call her that, Jean, you know the diversity training department makes enough off of us, as is.”

Vicquemare rolled his eyes. “It's just nickname. Everyone calls her Furiosa, even Jude and they’re friends.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s right, or professionally appropriate. Her Dolorian name is Nemesis use that or just say Sgt. Roberts. Do you have time for writing up a staff diversity and inclusion report? Because I certainly don’t.”

“Fine. Killjoy. Sgt. Roberts, then. She’s fine by the way just needed a jab and some gauze, Gottlieb said it wasn't very deep.”

“Good. Did Roxana say anything else about Harry when she called?” Kim asked, organising some of his papers into different piles by perceived level of urgency.

“No, just that you'd asked to be updated so she was checking in." Vicquemare paused,  "Why, did something happen?”

Kim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Nothing serious, he woke up in a really bad way  this morning, but he was at least somewhat capable of communicating and then on the way in Cuno left his sport bag in the car and I went in to drop it off. When I came back Harry was extremely confused where it was I’d gone and why. He kept asking about everyone, you know how he does when he loses track of things.”

Jean nodded solemn faced.

PROFESSIONALE: He's listening, and he's actively trying to supress any of his own baggage, for your sake more than his. It'd almost be admirable if it wasn't one of the most basic roles expected of a police partner.

EMPATHY: Jean cares about Harry as much as you do. He just doesn't have anywhere practical or cathartic to put that concern. He doesn't want to see  Harry as he is right now, it's too confronting. He visits anyway despite his own discomfort. His comfort, his sanity doesn't matter, nothing matters as long as Harry is still alive and breathing he's a complete nihilist about everything else. You both know the situation but for civility's sake it goes unspoken.

PASSION: If Harry held Jean at gunpoint Jean would help him pull the trigger. No one in this world or the next could stop him.  It's something he loathes about himself. He thinks it makes him a coward and a liability. And while we don't disagree with the liability part, it's actually pretty brave of him to keep going like he does. Just because it might be easy enough for you to live your life without constant self-destruction doesn't minimise the effort it takes for Jean to do the same.

“He was even talking about… that Dora woman.” Kim murmured, tapping out a little rhythm with his pen against his chin as he flicked through his paperwork, trying not to think too hard about the events of that morning.

Jean set down his pen and spun his chair around, meeting Kim's gaze with a look of genuine concern.

“That’s not a good sign. That woman's name is bad news. She's like if a banshee was bourgeois.”

Kim shrugged. He didn't want to dwell on the topic. “Roxana said it wasn’t indicative of another stroke or further damage but, ah, bof, I don’t know.” He sighed and set down his own pen.

“You don’t believe her?” Jean asked, watching him carefully.

Kim shook his head. “I believe her and I trust her fine. It's more that there's nothing I can do to stop it from happening again.”

Jean nodded. “Right. I guess, I can follow that train of thought. But you can’t live his life for him, and still have your own. Besides I- we need you here right now, surely he's much safer at the hospital where he can get immediate help if something goes wrong?”

Kim shrugged again. He was tired to the point of sluggishness. His head was feeling tight at the temples. “Perhaps I’m just too much of a control freak.”

Vicquemare snorted. “That’s hardly a bad thing, besides you’re doing better than the rest of us do you think Torson has any self-control? Do you think McCoy does?”

Kim smiled despite the dour conversation topic. “No, not when the juniors are referencing him as a reason why they should be allowed to sexually harass waitresses on the beat.”

Jean made a noise in his throat that could have been a laugh had he any joy left in him.

“Look,  Kitsuragi, if you need to take off early to wrangle the shitkid, go ahead and I’ll cover for you. Just don’t rip yourself to shreds over it, he’s a tough old nut he won’t crack that easy. Give him some credit for that.”

Kim bristled at the comment but he stopped himself from saying something he’d regret.

EMPATHY: he’s being as genuine as he is capable of being – this isn’t time to lash out.

HARRYOLOGY: Besides, Kim, he’s right. Putting your own anxieties, your baggage, and fears aside for a second. Harry is a glorious giant cockroach of a man; he’s been shot three times and survived. His heart, and liver by all measures of modern science should have failed over a decade ago and he’s still kicking.

PASSION: You love that about him, don’t you?  He takes every hit and still comes out joking and winking and being Harry about it all. You cannot care your way into reversing his condition, but you should care for him anyway because that’s the whole point.

Kim was quiet for a moment, then he cleared his throat hurriedly. “Thanks, Vic. I appreciate it.”

Vicquemare's attention was back on his paperwork.

“Yeah well, it’s nothing. We’ve still got that interview tonight remember so I figure you can afford to fuck off a little early."

Les Sardines, North Jamrock, Revachol West

19:30 January 23rd '53

Kim parked the Kineema outside on a residential street and he and Vicquemare cimbed out into the cold. Rows of identical pre-fab houses stretched either side of them. These were nowhere near as quaint and friendly looking little townhouses like where Nadya and Amal Zakarian lived. This was basic budget union housing, no doubt constructed elsewhere and dumped on site.

Still, people lived here and Kim could make out little bits and pieces of indivuality to each unit. Some had flowerboxes or herb gardens out front, some displayed various flags or football team colours.

The unit they'd been given the address for flew the black and red anarcho-syndicalism flag, the star and antlers and another flag that Kim didn't recognise except for knowing it used the Pan-Semenine Liberation tricolour. On the front steps was a pansy in a terracotta pot, it's small yellow petals still blooming cheerfully despite the January frost.

Behind him Kim heard his partner's stomach gurgle loudly, he glanced back at Vicquemare amused.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "What? Some of us poor sods work for a living and didn't get to go home early and have a domestic little dinner."

Kim smiled and shook his head, "I haven't eaten yet either, I just made sure Harry got his evening meds and Cuno wasn't actively committing manslaughter or arson and headed back to the precinct."

"Took you a while to do that then." Jean muttered. "Did the shitkid throw a temper tantrum?"

Kim shook his head. "No, he was fine, quiet but fine. It was Cuno who had to be talked down from trying to get grass stains out of his FALN pants by making homemade chloroform in the laundry sink "

"Ah. Lovely." Jean said and he rapped on the front door with a knuckle.

PERCEPTION (Hearing):

The walls are so thin as to barely muffle any conversation. You can hear the people inside talking as if they were as close to you as Vicquemare.

A feminine voice pipes up. “Pigs at the door everybody, Suvi are you almost done?”

Another woman with a softer, deeper voice replies. “Just finishing up! Sorry, I’d have been done already if someone here didn’t have the hair of a fucking näkk.”

“I’m sure that’s very insulting reference, if you’re one of the twelve other people from Inguanija.” Charles Lemaire is instantly recognisable by his catty tone and sarcasm.

The woman laughs. “I could have given you baby bangs at any point, you know, but I didn’t, out of love.”

Vicquemare knocked again.

“Can someone please get the door? Zachie? Kass?” Kim heard a man that wasn't Charlie say.

“On it!” Kim recognised the voice as Kassandra.

There was the sound of footsteps and then she quickly appeared at the front door. Her long curly hair wrapped up in a towel turban likely still wet from a shower.

"Good Evening, Ma'am." Kim said. Vicquemare just nodded,

“Evening, officers." Kassandra replied.  "Please come in, sorry the place is a bit of a state right now, you can take your boots off or leave them on we don’t care we’re not getting our deposit back either way not after Charlie's goddamn 'renovations.'”

Kassandra led the two of them down a small bland hallway with a doorway either side, one of which appeared to the be bathroom the other door was closed. There were a few posters on the wall most of them looked homemade advertising local bands or a rave and one framed photograph of Kassandra and two young men who weren’t Charlie dressed in university graduation dress, gowns, stoles, academic square caps and all.

The hallway popped out into one big communal living room with a small kitchenette and an even smaller dining table with four chairs none of which seemed to match the other.

The walls were painted a shade of landlord white that had curdled into a yellowish cream from exposure to cigarette smoke and sunlight. The kitchen linoleum looked older than the Zone of Control itself and it seemed to be wearing through to the wood underneath in places.

In the centre of the living room were three mismatched couches and a television set that had to be the most expensive thing in the house. Two young men sat on opposite couches, one reading, one nursing a beer.

Charlie Lemaire was sat in the small kitchenette on a vinyl covered bar stool. He had  a pink polka-dotted beach towel around his neck and shoulders. Behind him a tall and gangly white woman was running her fingers through his straw-like hair, audibly despairing, hairdressing scissors poised at the ready.

PERCEPTION (Sight): She looks like she could be a supermodel, tall, elfin, radioactively white and blonde with prominent nose and cheekbones. She keeps lightly smacking Charlie on the arm with her scissors every time he wriggles in his chair.

EMPATHY: It’s light-hearted and teasing, she’s actually playing with his hair more like a lover, than a professional.

“Excuse the chaos.” Kassandra said nervously fiddling with the worry beads at her wrist. “The strike fund is relatively solid right now,  but it doesn't leave us much money for expenses outside of food rent and utilities, so Suvi’s been doing the boys’ hair herself.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Miss." Kim said.

The blonde woman took to shaping and feathering as chunks of dry staw-like hair fell to the floor. She clucked her tongue like a schoolteacher.

“How do you even live like this, Charlie!? How do I let you live like this. I’m surprised the food safety inspectors haven’t taken you out back and had you shot.”

Charlie just grinned up at her and stuck out his pierced tongue,

Kassandra gave a nervous laugh, hurriedly tidying things around the room. “

Not yet they haven’t. At the very least François did have a go at him for not tying it back.”

Charlie scoffed.  “François wants me so bad; he’ll take any excuse to talk to me. Don’t worry babe, I told him we’re exclusive.”

The woman tending to his hair rolled her eyes. She was struggling to hold back a laugh. “You really just open your mouth like an asshole and let the shit fall out, huh?”

“And yet you’re still mad enough to listen." He retorted. He gave a gay little wave to Kim and Jean. "Good evening, gendarme.”

Kim and Vicquemare exchanged amused looks. "Good evening." Jean replied.

“Officers, feel free to take a seat. I was just  going to put the kettle on would you like a coffee or tea?” Kassandra asked, she was already standing in the kitchenette, a burnished stovetop kettle in her hand.

“No thank you, miss.” Kim said, beside him he heard his partner say the same.

Kassandra nodded and looked to the others.

“Okay, anyone else? Suvi? Dorian? Charles, put down your hand you know damn well you shouldn’t have caffeine at this time of night.”

Suvi, the other young woman shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going to clear away my stuff and I’ll be back. You might want to go shake off the excess hair outside, honey.” She clapped Charlie on the shoulder, and he dutifully got up and headed down the hall towards the front door.

A young Black man in heavy duty work pants a dark shirt and a burgundy sweater sat folded up on one of the threadbare couches.  He was wiry with sharp high cheekbones and a calm almost studious expression. He set down his paperback and waved a hand in the air to get Kassandra’s attention.

“I’ll take a coffee, Kassie, if you’re offering. Can you or Charlie remind us of all what this interview about again?”

“Nonna Nadya passed away, her house was burgled. They stole some of our tapes.” Kassandra said, choosing her words carefully.

“Oh, shit… are you serious?” The other young man, with the beer, said.

Kassandra glared at him. “Yes, I’m serious! I told you that yesterday, lungs, weren’t you listening? Do you just tune me out when I'm talking?”

The man bristled with alarm. "No, babe, I just plain forgot!"

LOGIC: Ah, that's Kassandra's boyfriend: Zacharie Seurat -the Phantom of Ozonne Golf Course. Making the other guy Dorian.

Dorian turned his attention to Kim, ignoring the couple’s bickering.

“Was it from natural causes, officers?” He asked carefully. “ If you can say yet, that is.”

“Nothing’s certain right now. That’s why we’re trying to find out more about her and her activities,”

Dorian nodded his face solemn, “Was it quick at least?”

“Yes, from what we saw death was probably instantaneous. She was found by a neighbour unresponsive on the bathroom floor. She’d hit her head hard enough to break shower glass. We’ve yet to get the coroner’s ruling on whether it was accidental, homicide or undetermined.” Kim said.

“Sacrée Mère.” Dorian crossed himself

REFLEXES: [Difficult – Pass] You tamp down on the automatic urge to do so yourself.

PERCEPTION (Sight): in your  peripheral vision you see Vicquemare quietly and gracelessly repeat the gesture.

“Dei, that’s awful. Is Amal, okay?” Zacherie asked.

PERCEPTION: (Sight) He looks to be in his early to mid-twenties, with a long sharp face, freshly trimmed dark hair,  and big, brown, almond shaped eyes. He could be part Safrese or Seolite maybe even Messinian or Meteoran. It's hard to tell. A real Vacholiere melting pot kind of guy. His cheeks are pock-marked like Vicquemare’s but whether his are from acne or smallpox it’s too hard to tell from where you are.

UNDERGROUND: He’d probably be quite handsome if he looked his age but unfortunately for him his scrawny stunted physique makes him look like a teenage delinquent. He must get carded a lot at bars.

“She’s physically unharmed and coping as well as one can imagine right now. Nadya’s daughter gets in tonight on a red eye.” Jen answered.

“Oh, that’s good at least.” Kassandra said coming back from the kitchenette with a coffee for herself and one for Doruan. She sat down next to Zacherie, who without looking over moved to make room for her and slung an arm around her shoulders. Kassandra smiled and leaned against him.

“I imagine some introductions are in orders.” Zacherie said, looking back at Kim and Vicquemare.

Kim nodded. “That’s fine with us though I assure you, Monsieur Seurat, you need no such thing.”

Zacherie grinned. “Ah, checked my record ahead of time, did you?”

Kim inclined his head. “Yes, and if it helps our communications officer said reading it made her whole day.”

Zacherie fanned himself in jest, as if he was overwhelmed by the praise.

“Aw, that’s sweet of her. I do aim to please." His joking manner dropped suddenly and he kept talking. He pointed to the other man. "Alright this is Dorian he’s a founding member and Suvi the woman who was just cutting Charlie’s hair is a newer recruit, and Charlie’s girlfriend.”

"And all five of you live here?" Kim asked, trying to keep up with his notes.

Zacherie nodded. “Yes, there’s only two actual bedrooms so it’s a bit of a squeeze but we make do. Dorian’s room isn’t very big but then he’s not always here.”

“And how many of you work at the cannery?” Vicquemare asked “Just you two?” He gestured between the two men.

Dorian shook his head. “No, Suvi works there too, she’s our line manager.”

Kim noted this down.

“Hey, I heard my name - did you need something?” Suvi had reappeared in the hallway, minus her hairdressing equipment and apron. Underneath she was wearing a turtleneck sweater over jeans, a plaid flannel shirt tied around her waist.

“No, no worries, we're just making introductions." Zacherie said. "Where’s Baudelaire?”

Suvi made a long-suffering noise in her throat, but she was smiling.

“I told him to go outside to brush all the excess hair off and he took the opportunity to take a cheeky smoke break, the ass.” She took a seat on the smaller couch beside Dorian.

“Can you explain the codenames, they kept coming up in transcripts we found.” Kim asked, looking to Kassandra first as he figured she was the most forthcoming.

“They were Zachie’s idea originally- for us to have call signs for the radio that weren’t our real names.” She said.

Zacherie nodded. “Yes, and since the original four of us met in a literature class. We chose famous Libertines as the theme.”

ENCYLOPEDIA: The Libertine movement was a political and cultural movement from about two to three hundred years ago. Primarily in the Suzerainty of Revachol and on the Mondial Isola. The overarching theme was one of liberty: liberty of sexuality, liberty of speech and opinions, and liberty of the individual. In a way it was an extremely hedonistic anarchist reaction to the stifling cultural mores and social limitations of both state Dolorianism and the Franconigerian period. Except of course, the libertines were much, much more obsessed with orgies and poems than the modern anarchist movement are.

PASSION: You don’t know that. Vacholiere Anarchists are almost entirely an underground faction post-déluge, they could be having all kinds of crazy catacomb sex, you wouldn’t know. You weren’t invited.

“You know that makes it sound like a secret sex thing right, Monsieur Braconnier?” Viquemare quipped, airing what Kim was thinking.

“Who says it isn’t?” Zacherie retorted. Kassandra nudged him with an elbow.

“I do,” said Dorian, “There’s no secrecy to speak here of the walls are thin as rice paper. It was bad enough rooming with you and Kass now there’s you two as well, across the hall.” He nodded at Suvi.

Suvi went very red in the face and started fiddling with the cuffs of her flannel shirt.

“Can we do this at a flat meeting perhaps? I don’t want to air personal grievances in front of the police, and Dei knows Charlie would take the opportunity and run a mile, you’d be here all night.”

“Take what opportunity?" Charlie said, reappearing towelless and still lightly dusted in his own hair.

“Oh, there you are – that was a quick cigarette, did you eat it?” Suvi said.

Charlie shrugged, “No, I just figured they’d want to talk to all of us. What were you saying?”

Suvi waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, baby, come sit down.”

“How about we go back to the beginning for M. Lemaire’s sake.” Kim said feeling the interview beginning to spiral out of his grasp. “Let's start with names, codenames and occupation, please correct me if I’m wrong,” he pointed at the couch opposite where Kassandra, Zachie, and now Charlie, were sitting, starting with Kassandra.

“Kassandra Papadopoulos, coffee shop?” He prompted.

Kassandra nodded, “That’s correct. I’m the assistant manager. My codename is Diderot.”

Kim noted this down and moved over to the next person. “Zacherie Seurat, cannery line worker?”

Zacherie clucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “Yup, you gotcha, and it’s Voltaire.”

Kim kept going “Charles Baudelaire Lemaire, coffee shop, and Baudelaire is your codename?”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, I’m wait staff there, and I’m a freelance photographer. It’s my side gig.”

Kim nodded and added photographer to his list of information. “Now, Charles am I right in that your legal given initials are M.A? I realise you said you would be legally changing your name in the future, but just for now?”

Charlie's expression didn't change, if the question annoyed him he had a good poker face. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Kim noted this down too.  “Okay, now Dorian, was it?” He turned to look at the young Black man in the sweater.

He nodded, his face as calm as Charlie's. “Yes, Dorian Mamadou Thiam -That’s T-H-I-A-M, line worker, and as ashamed as I am to admit it officers my codename is Casanova.”

You’re shitting us?” Jean exclaimed. Kim gave him a look and elbowed him hard in the ribs. It had no effect.

“No, I assure you, I’m not. I was eighteen when I chose it, I probably thought it was suave.” Dorian said smiling shyly.

“It was the antithesis of suave, actually, but we still love you.” Kassandra murmured, leaning over to pat her friend on the knee.

Dorian laughed. “Thanks, Kassie, but I’m not convinced that class solidarity and platonic companionship was exactly what young Dorian had in mind with that one.”

“And you madame?” Kim asked turning to Suvi, who still seemed as nervous as ever. Charlie had moved seats to be beside her now, he sat perched protectively on the arm of the sofa like a strange scruffy gargoyle, one of her hands clenched in his.

Suvi cleared her throat,  her voice was quiet and uncertain. “Uhm, it’s Suvi Niina Varaandi, thats Niina with two Is. Varaandi: V-A-R-A-A-N-D-I.  I'm a line manager, and uhm… Suvi is my legal name, but if you find any documents from 45’ and earlier it’ll be… different.”

Kim nodded, and sensing her discomfort he tried to move on as swiftly as possible.

“That’s completely fine, Madame, thank you for telling us.”

“Do you mind me asking where you're from, miss?’ Vicquemare chimed in.

Kim gave him a look.

PROFESSIONALE: What's he doing, what's his angle here? Making her more uncomfortable than she already is? Not a good idea.

Suvi blinked, “Martinaise, why?”

Jean shook his head. “Ah, no reason. Please carry on.”

EMPATHY: You feel the emotions rising up like a ripple of heat, from Suvi, Charlie and Dorian. Suvi tries to fold herself up smaller, Charlie's hackles raise and Dorian physically moves himself closer to his friend, providing her with defenses on both sides.

VOLTA DO MAR: There isn't a non-threatening way to ask "where are you from" in this context. Perhaps Vicquemare is so sheltered in his white Suresphone reality that he doesn't realise what it is he's really asking, but you don't believe that, not entirely. It's less opaquely racist as it would have been had he asked Dorian that question, but Katlan and Graadian immigrants still face their own kind of Xenophobia, even if your family has been in Revachol for generations all it takes is one little question to carve a 'them' out of an 'us'.

“If you’re asking because of my surname, my family is Inguanijan-Vacholiere." Suvi said, choosing her words very carefully. "Not Katlan, as many seem to guess, I think people forget they have blondes on Graad and Mundi too. Perhaps those Man of Heimdall books did a number on the public’s perception. I was born in Martinaise as was my father and I’ve lived there my entire life.  My parents taught me and my sister how to use a long-distance radio when we were young so we could call my grandparents in Tartu. I’m not very good at it or anything but it’s interesting. Oh, and my codename is Flaubert, officers, if you were needing it, I’m more or less a member now.”

“You’re as a much a member as any of us, Su. Don’t get so down on yourself.” Zacherie piped up.

Suvi gave him a tired but appreciative smile, and let go of Charlie’s hand just briefly enough to tuck some hair behind her ear.

"Thanks."

“We’re all Vacholiere here, officer, be that by birth or-“ Zacherie nodded to Dorian, “-by choice. Either way. It’s no matter, surely?”

JUVENILE: He's no teenage deliquent, but you can tell that he's challenging you, daring you to make something out of this.

“Right, yes, thank you." Kim said quickly before his partner could get a word in, "-and were you also a literature student, Miss Suvi?”

She shook her head. “No, I went straight into a cosmetology programme after I got my bac-voc ”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: There are three types of baccalauréat qualifications one can get in Revachol: the standard baccalauréat or Le Bac which is required to move on to university, the technological baccalauréat or Bac-Tech which typically is required for entry into technical colleges and certain trades and the vocational baccalauréat or Bac-Voc which is designed to support students going straight into a professional position or career path straight out of Lycée.

“I see, but you’re not currently working in that field. Present company excluded.” Kim observed.

“No. I’d like to, but… Les Sardines is very… it can be quite xenophobic let’s just say. Everyone is afraid of interlopers or saboteurs”

“At a salon?” Vicquemare asked, surprised.

Suvi shrugged her bony shoulders. “This is Millieu territory, sir, local maffieux will extort any business who turns a profit.”

Jean nodded, understanding. “Ah, I see. They must be really branching out up here. I’ve not heard of many mob-owned hairdressers downtown.”

“They’ve probably all been scared off by the Boogie Street aunties wielding hot-combs.” Dorian joked.

VOLTA DO MAR: Just southwest of Boogie Street is a large thriving Semenese diaspora community colloquially known as ‘Little Semenine’ or simply ‘Le Souk’ it’s well known by locals for having good cheap food and live music in the summer night markets. The streets there are older, more narrower making it difficult to traverse by car, so most go on foot or by bike. Stores display bolts of hand-dyed brightly coloured clothing and textiles in the window, in warmer weather vendors hawk fresh produce, handicrafts and knock-off FALN gear in between café-bars, apartment blocks and a scattering of various barbers, hair-braiders and nail salons.

Kim cleared his throat, hoping to draw their attention back to the interview.

“Now, did all of you interact with Nadya Zakarian?”

“Not me.” Said Suvi, “But I think everyone else has.”

Dorian nodded wordlessly, as did Charlie.

Zacherie looked to his girlfriend. Kassandra cleared her throat.

EMPATHY: He may be the ringleader of this little club, but she’s the lungs. She’s the grounding influence.

“All four of us met her in person several times, whether that was visiting her archive, dropping off tapes or bringing our equipment to her to have it Gaussed.”

“Did she give you tapes as well? Or was it usually only you dropping things off.” Kim asked,

“We traded sometimes but we don’t exactly have a lot of space, you can probably see the shed out the window from where you’re sitting. That’s it that’s the archive.”

PERCEPTION: (Sight) You glance out the window and you can just make out what she's talking about, a small corrugated iron shed towards the back of the property.

Kim nodded. “Right and how do you source the tapes in your archive, I assume that aren’t all your own recordings.”

 “From all over." Zacherie replied,  "Second-hand shops, police auctions, video rentals, donations, searching through the landfill, whatever.”

“Monsieur Asanuma said you were involved in a copyright dispute a while back involving bootlegging? Are there are any tapes of an illegal or bootlegged nature in your collection still?”

“No doubt there are a couple, but we try to avoid them after the lawsuit. Why?” Zacherie asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Seeing as nothing was stolen from the house other than tapes, we’re trying to determine what motive the culprit had to steal them." Vicquemare said, Kim nodded once more.

Kassandra cut in. “We aren’t like running a sub-rosa or a snuff station or anything, sir, the most controversial thing we get are bad-taste student audio dramas and old pornos in mixed bags from the bargain bin at the video rental.

“Yeah, sometimes you get old RCM tapes, but we don’t keep them. We just reuse the reels” Zacherie added.

Kim narrowed his eyes. “RCM tapes? How do you get those, we don’t typically auction internal records.”

Zacherie shrugged, “Do either of you know the footbridge outside of Liberation Park that leads to the Jamrock pedestarian underpass?”

Kim nodded. He was familiar enough with the spot.

“Yeah, well, there’s a faulty drain there and a bunch of stuff washes up from the river, you have to compete with Les Petits Rats and the local homeless folk for scrounging rights, but luckily, they’ve not much use for tapes. The metal canisters you store tapes in are usually relatively watertight.”

“Sounds like someone’s dumping shit in the river again.” Vicquemare groaned. “Ten reàl says it’s fucking Tillbach and Mollins.”

“There are people who fence stolen documents and information, if that's something you're worried about,  I met a few kids in Juvie who were wrapped up in it but that seems more of a Downtown Jamrock and Grand Couron thing. I’ve not come across anything like that this far north. We don’t have enough corpos or spooks here, this is union town.”

Kim noted this down. “I see, and the tapes you mostly recently dropped off?”

Zacherie looked to Kassandra again.

“They were all stuff we didn’t want to keep; we do a big clean out at New years and get rid of old stuff to make some room,” She said.

“Anything someone might find worth stealing?” Vicquemare asked.

Kassandra shook her head, “No, I doubt it. Unless people are a lot more desperate for VBC World Radio Programmes than I’m aware of. A lot of them are recordings of radio shows, football games, music that kind of thing. Not exactly state secret shit.”

“And did Madame Zakarian ever mention finding anything strange or alarming in her archive."

“I don’t know, No,  I don’t think so.”

Charlie, shifted in his seat. “Officers you’re aware Nonna Nadya’s daughter is a photojournalist, right? Quite a well-known one?”

Kim nodded, “Yes, we do know that, is that relevant?”

“Not necessarily, but I’ve seen her work in the papers recently. She’s been on the ground in South Safre covering the proxy war – if there’s disturbing material in Nadya’s archive it more likely came from her than us.”

“Do you think that, perhaps, the younger Mme. Zakarian captured something untoward?” Vicquemare asked.

Charlie made a face, and shook his head, “No clue, sorry.  I just happen to be an amateur photographer, and I’ve followed her work because she’s local.”

“Right,” Kim glanced at his partner, looking for a prompt if there was anything else they’d forgot to ask.

Jean just shrugged; in the way he always did. It wasn’t particularly elucidating.

“Is there anything else you think we should know that might help with.”

“You’ve spoken with Misao right? He and Nadya were good friends.”

“We have spoken with him, his wife and his daughter, yes.”

“Then no, I don’t think there’s much else we could tell you, I’m afraid.”

Zacherie seemed to be thinking something over. Vicquemare noticed it too.

“Centim for your thoughts, Monsieur Seurat?”

“It’s not really my place to ask, but is Amal doing okay? I mean, like this whole thing must be super triggering.”

“In what way? She's obviously very distraught but she has friends and classmates supporting her.”

“Did you know she used to be homeless? I was just wondering if there’s anything we can do to help, she’s already lost Nadya, surely they’re not going to kick her out of the house, right?”

“I don’t believe so, Maître Asanuma is in charge of Nadya’s estate, and I doubt he’s the kind of man to kick out a vulnerable young woman, especially not one as close to him as Amal.”

“What about medication?" Charlie bit his lower lip and looked away. "It won't be easy, but I can swallow my pride enough to see she gets more.”

“What do you mean by that?” Kim asked.

“Her doctor is one Anne-Marie Lemaire, my…. birthgiver, let’s call her.  She specialises in youth addiction. She and I are not on speaking terms, but she did accept Amal as a patient with a subsidized rate, when I suggest Nadya to visit her, so she’s evidently not completely rotten to the core. Maybe she’s just more invested in other people’s children than she is her own. I’d like to think she’s spending her energy on curable conditions now, but I don’t hold much out hope.”

EMPATHY: His voice is venomous, wounded and raw. There’s still resentment there but it’s been attenuated by time.

UNDERGOUND: You don’t need to ask what he means by curable. You know, and the knowledge echoes around in your head, burned into your memory like the expression your late boyfriend made when he found out his parents weren’t coming to see him, and they likely wouldn’t be attending his funeral.