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THE SPOTTED DOG: A weather-stained wooden door is the only thing that stands between you and oblivion. The chipped and fading letters above the door indicate this establishment is called THE SPOTTED DOG. A water-filled fluorescent light buzzes weakly overhead, the bottom of it filled with the bodies of dozens of insects.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: A bleak sort of aquarium.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Put a few neons in there, a pulsing beat, and you’d have a great time.

LOGIC: Maybe with a few live fish, though…?

DRAMA: Somebody ought to look into that. An aquarium-disco club.

VISUAL CALCULUS: This door is foreboding.

INLAND EMPIRE: It is deceptively heavy for its size. Its sole purpose in this building is to trick drunkards into struggling with it weakly, before sliding to the ground, slumping against its resolutely closed face.

ENDURANCE: Only to fall backwards into the bar when someone stronger - or more sober - wrenches it open.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Impossible. There’s no one stronger than you.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Contact Mike? Pierre “The Giant”? Jean Vicquemare, on a good leg day?

YOU: Okay, I get the point. But how do I know all this?

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Falling backwards, sprawling out on the barroom floor like a bug…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We’re not quite sure. Maybe if you step inside, something will come back to us.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, are you ready to go in?”

YOU: You turn to Kim, shoulders hunched in his familiar orange jacket. It’s raining out, a light and steady drizzle that has been drowning Revachol all day. The two of you are standing under the tiny awning that THE SPOTTED DOG affords, crammed together, shoulder to shoulder.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Brothers in arms.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s hair is wet, looking a little greasy where the rain hits the product in his coiffure.

SAVOIR FAIRE: We regret to say, lieutenant, that you do not look much better.

YOU: “Yeah, I’m ready. What’re the facts of the case again?"

KIM KITSURAGI: “Last night, THE SPOTTED DOG-”

SHIVERS: - Located on BROADWAY STREET in CENTRAL JAMROCK.

KIM KITSURAGI: “-called in a report of an armed robbery to the precinct, indicating-”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Hold on, last night?

YOU: “Last night? Why didn’t an officer come out as soon as we got the call?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you through the tops of his glasses. “There were only three available officers last night, and they were all on more pressing calls. Unless you wanted to be called and woken up at-” he checks his notes. “Just after two in the morning?”

ENDURANCE: We could. We’ve done it before.

VOLITION: This is what we’re trying to stop doing. Remember? You’re not the only detective in the world.


DRAMA: But are we not the best, sire?

YOU: “I guess not.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Right.” He looks down at his notes again to pick up his train of thought. “-indicating that a masked man had come into the bar at two in the morning - just after closing. The bartender reports the man held a gun to his head and demanded all of the money in the till. After giving the man the money, the thief departed.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A bar that closes? Sounds like a pretty shit bar.

LOGIC: This was not just a coincidental visit. This indicates a familiarity with the bar’s schedule.

YOU: “That seems to indicate whoever robbed the place was familiar with the bar’s schedule.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. I thought so too.”

LOGIC: …which likely means nothing. Any patron, local, or person with eyes capable of reading the sign posted to the front window would have known that.

YOU: “Any witnesses?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He consults his notes. “A man in the corner apparently named ‘Old Pisser.’ He was passed out at the time, so his testimony may not be of much help.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Old Pisser. Old Pisser. That rings a bell, somehow.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Probably means he wets himself when drunk, or pisses and moans a lot. Drunkard’s names, nicknames given in camaraderie with other anonymous men. Things outwardly descriptive or easy to remember. Like, say, Idiot Doom Spiral.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Or Tequila Sunset.

YOU: “Okay. Let’s go in.”

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim nods and snaps his notebook shut, tucking it into his jacket pocket. Water beads off his shoulders as he straightens up.


PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The door is just as heavy as you had thought. It’s a good thing you know this in advance, because you strong-arm the door and don’t even grunt.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You want to look back to see if Kim is impressed by your display of manly prowess, but -

THE SPOTTED DOG: - you are busy looking around the bar, which is low-ceilinged and stuffy, everything the color of nicotine and ashes. There are a scattering of patrons - two old men who turn slowly to stare at you as you walk in, an old woman whose head shakes, badly, as she gropes blindly for her drink, a young man, face redder than yours, fast asleep in a booth. The bar is wooden and bright, glossy with the thickest layer of poly you have ever seen.

INTERFACING: Your sweating forearms stick to it when you lean on it, in any season, but especially in summer.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Which it will be in a month.

YOU: Thank you for that.

THE SPOTTED DOG: A jukebox lurks in the corner behind a peeling felted table.

PERCEPTION: You can hear the rain drumming on the roof. It’s strange to be in here without music.


DRAMA: This place needs some lightening up. Go over to the jukebox, plug in three reál, and hit numbers 16, 5, and 10. In that order. A sure-fire combo to make you really feel.

INLAND EMPIRE: You’ll be sobbing into your drink halfway through the second song.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Tequila Sunset! I thought you fucking died.”

INLAND EMPIRE: In a manner of speaking.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He’s already reaching for a bottle in the well and pouring you a hefty measure of -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A hefty measure of fuck yeah. It’s brown, it’s warm, it’s dancing in your eyes.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your mouth is watering. You swallow.

PERCEPTION: Audibly.

YOU: You fall a half-step back and turn wild eyes on Kim.

EMPATHY: Kim will not mother you, but he will always help you if you ask for it.

YOU: Help me, you think at him.

AUTHORITY: Coward.

KIM KITSURAGI: His face, if possible, becomes even more expressionless. He pitches his voice to be heard across the bar, stepping forward. You fall into step behind him. “Thank you, Monsieur-” he consults his notes - “Froment, but that will not be necessary. RCM officers do not typically drink on duty.”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He snorts. “Shit. Since when? Maybe not where you’re from.”

PERCEPTION: A chuckle from the old men at the bar.

AUTHORITY: Now he’s done it.

HALF LIGHT: Oooooo fuck.

KIM KITSURAGI: He frowns, politely puzzled. “The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbor?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He stammers, “I just meant that I figured you weren’t from around here. You know, because I didn’t recognize you, is all.”

EMPATHY: He doesn’t want you to think he’s racist. He’d have Seol customers if there were more of them around.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says, and marks something off in his notebook.

PERCEPTION: You can see that it’s just an idle square.

AUTHORITY: But the bartender cannot.

COMPOSURE: He starts to sweat. He looks at you, as if for help.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He says, “Oh, shit, yeah. Okay, you’re doing the sober thing again, Tequila. Yeah, I can respect that.” He takes the beautiful full drink he’s just poured you and -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He drinks it! In one!

DRAMA: Oh, the humanity!

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: We can take this guy in a fight. Get it back.

VOLITION: Do we want to do that…?

YOU: “You can?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Sure. No better customer than a man who’s just fallen off the wagon.” He winks at you.

KIM KITSURAGI: Next to you, the lieutenant makes an involuntary expression of distaste.

AUTHORITY: You’ve gotten off on a bad foot here. Fix it.

1) “Kim’s from Revachol, actually.”

2) “I think I will take that drink, after all. Make it a double.”

3) “That’s me. I’m on the wagon.”

4) “I’m a better man now!”

5) “We’re not here to drink. You called in a robbery last night?”

6) “Did I come here a lot?”

YOU: “That’s me. I’m on the wagon.”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He toasts you with an empty glass.


HALF LIGHT: Your glass.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “And the best of luck to you.” He stifles a burp.

1) “Kim’s from Revachol, actually.”

2) “I think I will take that drink, after all. Make it a double.”

3) “That’s me. I’m on the wagon.”

4) “I’m a better man now!”

5) “We’re not here to drink. You called in a robbery last night?”

6) “Did I come here a lot?”

YOU: “We’re not here to drink. You called in a robbery last night?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: His face shutters, and he shifts his feet wider, crosses his arms over his chest.

HALF LIGHT: Trying to look tough.

COMPOSURE: He’s still a little shaken up. Nobody likes having a gun pressed to their head.

INTERFACING: Cold and hard, near-bruising.

PAIN THRESHOLD: He keeps rubbing his forehead. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Yeah. Around two in the morning - little after, I guess. It was just me and Old Pisser in the corner. Some guy comes in, I tell him we’re closed. He doesn’t answer, just keeps coming up to the bar, digging into his coat. I figure maybe he’s trying to get his wallet out or something, get something to go, and then he pulls a gun out. Puts it to my head-” he gestures “-and tells me to give him all the money.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “And did you?” He’s not judgmental.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Of course I did! Guy had a gun to my head, I wasn’t going to argue with him.”

ENDURANCE: It’s set him back, badly. Unless he has an unexpectedly busy week, he’ll be short on rent this month - again - on the bar and the apartment he lives in above.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We should help him out. Get a drink. Consider it a charitable donation.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “He took the till and dumped it out in this bag he had - put it back on the counter and left, pointing the gun at me the whole time.”

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “How much did he take?”

3) “Tell us about the gun.”

4) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He grunts. “Not allowed.” He glances at Kim, then back at you.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: By Moralintern code, those convicted of certain violent offenses are not allowed to possess firearms.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Self-defense,” he says, and says no more.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A bad fight in his twenties - the man had hit his head on the pavement -

PAIN THRESHOLD: A spark of light, ultraviolet and throbbing -

HALF LIGHT: And boom. No weapons. Nightmares. A fear of death that keeps him awake at night and keeps him from fighting off a would-be thief.

INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe the thief knew this about him?


 YOU: Knew that he couldn’t own a gun, or that he wouldn’t fight back?

INLAND EMPIRE: Both, maybe.

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “How much did he take?”

3) “Tell us about the gun.”

4) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

YOU: “Tell us about the gun.”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Uh. I don’t know. It was a gun. Guy shoved it in my face. Didn’t get a real good look at it.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Not a Kiejl A9, perhaps? A Villiers 9mm? A Nachtwey or a Glace, maybe?

HALF LIGHT: The guy doesn’t know. He was too busy pissing himself behind the counter there.

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “How much did he take?”

3) “Tell us about the gun.”

4) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

YOU: “How much did he take?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “One-hundred twenty-four reál.”

YOU: You whistle.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Not bad.”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Haven’t been to the bank in awhile. I was planning on paying rent next week, figured it might as well keep it in here. I’ve never had any trouble before. I live right upstairs - hear if anything goes on down here.”

ENDURANCE: He doesn’t sleep well.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: "I wonder if he knew…?” His sentence wanders off.

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “How much did he take?”

3) “Tell us about the gun.”

4) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

5) “Which way did he go?”

YOU: “What did the man look like?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He shrugs. “I don’t know. He had a, you know, hat, mask.” He gestures to his face. “All in black. Black coat. I don’t know. Taller than me, skinnier.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”

VISUAL CALCULUS: Something about the man seemed familiar. He’d been thinking it since the man walked through the door, but he can’t place him.

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “Do you know who it was?”

3) “How much did he take?”

4) “Tell us about the gun.”

5) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

6) “Which way did he go?”

YOU: “Do you know who it was?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “He seemed familiar, but-” he shrugs. “Sorry.”

YOU: “Familiar how?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Just - y’know. Like I might have seen him before. I see a lot of people, though.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The way he walked. The set of his shoulders.

KIM KITSURAGI: “They said there was another man here at the time. Can you tell us about him?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Old Pisser? He’s useless. Most drunks are, that far gone. You know the type. Begs his drinks off people, can’t understand a damn word he says. Sometimes I let him stay the night here.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: You’re not that far gone.

ENDURANCE: Yet.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Should come rolling in another hour or two, if you want to talk to him.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you. We will.”

1) “What did the man look like?”

2) “Do you know who it was?”

3) “How much did he take?”

4) “Tell us about the gun.”

5) “You don’t have a gun in the bar?”

6) “Which way did he go?”

YOU: “Which way did he go?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “To the left, I think. Towards the church.” He gestures. “Maybe in, I don’t know. I could swear I heard the doors slamming, but…” he trails off.

PERCEPTION: His ears were ringing pretty good. Heart pounding in them.

1) “Kim’s from Revachol, actually.”

2) “I think I will take that drink, after all. Make it a double.”

3) “That’s me. I’m on the wagon.”

4) “I’m a better man now!”

5) “We’re not here to drink. You called in a robbery last night?”

6) “Did I come here a lot?”

YOU: “Did I come here a lot?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He frowns, leans on the bar. “Yeah, you’re a real regular. Shit, you’ve been here longer than I have. I bought this shithole in - ’39, I think.”

INLAND EMPIRE: You’ve been coming longer than that. Since ’23 or so, as soon as you could reasonably talk your way into the bar. It was close, when you lived in Central Jamrock, and when you moved out to Eminent Domain with her, you kept driving back. Why?

EMPATHY: Nostalgia.

RHETORIC: A sense of where you belonged. Down in the gutter.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Loyalty.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “You kind of came with the place. Most of you did.” He glances at Kim as if to say, you really want him to hear this? Then he continues. “You were here a few times a week, at first, then every night…I worried about you when you didn’t show up, you know. Weeks, months at a time, you’d be gone. I’d wait to hear you were dead.”

PAIN THRESHOLD: When it was really, really bad.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “But you’d always come back. Like now!” He grins.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a wounded dog.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Well… not quite like now, but you get it.”

INLAND EMPIRE: This used to be your favorite bar, Harry.

YOU: But it’s dull. Dead. Full of old men.

ENDURANCE: And you’re one of them, Harry.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sometimes you want to be around people. You can’t stand to be alone, so you’d come here, to THE SPOTTED DOG, after work. It’s only a fifteen minute walk from the precinct, and when you’re high, you barely even feel it.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It’s like you’re on an escalator - the ones in the shopping center in East Revachol that her mother used to take her to, for her birthday. Buy her some clothes, because you couldn’t afford to.

YOU: “Did you ever let me sleep here at night?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Nah. That blonde girl used to come get you.” He looks away then, rubs at a sticky spot on the counter.

PERCEPTION: There is a phone on the wall at the corner of the bar that he lets patrons use for a centime.

LOGIC: He hears a lot of things on phone calls like those.

EMPATHY: Tears. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading to do better. Please don’t leave me here.

HALF LIGHT: It’s a dangerous drive from Eminent Domain to Central Jamrock.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The 8/81 to 67 interchange is responsible for no fewer than two dozen deaths a year.

ENDURANCE: And you used to make her drive it to pick you up. In the dark. Pregnant. Late.

HALF LIGHT: You selfish cunt.

ENDURANCE: You’d walked home a few times, times she wouldn’t come pick you up. It had taken you hours.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Some nights, you didn’t make it.

ENDURANCE: Just found a safe place to sleep.

SHIVERS: The park on Main. The doorway of a small greengrocer. Once, a literal doghouse.

INTERFACING: The occupant had been away.

PAIN THRESHOLD: But she stopped coming to pick you up, didn’t she?

YOU: “But she stopped coming to pick me up?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Yeah - uh. After awhile another guy started picking you up, sometimes. Another officer,” he says, eyes flicking over to Kim.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: “Goddamnit,” Jean Vicquemare growls when his phone rings at two in the morning. Closing time. “Just one night, just one fucking night, could you let me sleep,” he says.

YOU: “And when he didn’t pick me up…?”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He shrugs. “I don’t know where you went.”

INLAND EMPIRE: The only reason you weren’t allowed to sleep here, in THE SPOTTED DOG, is because the bartender didn’t trust you with all this alcohol.

KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat behind you.

PERCEPTION: The shuffle of notebook pages.

KIM KITSURAGI: “I believe that’s all of our questions, Monsieur Fremont. We may be back to ask you more.” He slides his card across the barter.

INTERFACING: Or tries to, anyway. It sticks to the thick layer of poly. The bartender leans forward and uses a nail to scrape it up.

YOU: You nod your goodbyes to the bartender and the bar patrons who are still looking curiously at you.

CENTRAL JAMROCK, BROADWAY: You and Kim go back out into the rain, which is worse than it was.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Well, that was illuminating.”

PAIN THRESHOLD: That’s right. He knows all about you now.

DRAMA: That’s sarcasm, sire.

KIM KITSURAGI: He ticks off on his fingers. “No detailed description of the suspect, no detailed description of the gun, no real description of where the suspect went.”

VOLITION: He’s not talking about you.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kitsuragi is all business.

EMPATHY: Best to let sleeping dogs lie, he thinks, and looks at you sideways.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You look a sight, brother, all slumped shoulders and wet hair. You look miserable.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You could really use that drink, mister.

YOU: Yeah…I could.

KIM KITSURAGI: “So,” he says, standing out in the rain and looking down the street. “The man went left, towards the church.”

CENTRAL JAMROCK, BROADWAY STREET: THE SPOTTED DOG is sandwiched in between a Dolorian church on the left and a pawn shop on the right.

LOGIC: Well placed for drunks to pawn their belongings for another drink before heading in to THE SPOTTED DOG.

INLAND EMPIRE: That transistor radio in the window looks familiar, but you don’t know why.

PERCEPTION: It always crackled a bit too much during Pale-storms. Best to leave it there.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: The Dolorian church draws your eye, a large and dark wooden building. It’s wider than the church in Martinaise, littered with stained glass windows around its perimeter. Its single black spire rears into the sky, high above all the other buildings on the street.

PERCEPTION: A pair of enormous wooden doors keep you out.

YOU: “Do you think there are any other exits?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Likely a side one for the priests, and a back entrance at the cemetery.”

SHIVERS: Water drips, slowly and eternally, on rows and rows of tombstones. Eroding the names, the dates, until all that is left is a reminder of your own death.

KIM KITSURAGI: He’s looking up at the church, neck craned. You cannot read the look on his face.

HALF LIGHT: The buildings on either side of the church - THE SPOTTED DOG and a small grocery - cluster to it, like a mold.

INLAND EMPIRE: Huddling against the dark.

PERCEPTION: The church is overwhelming, looming over everything.

KIM KITSURAGI He takes a little breath, then squares his shoulders. Then he nods to you.

YOU: You push open the door, which is just as heavy as THE SPOTTED DOG’s, but well-oiled. It swings open quickly.

REACTION SPEED: Too quickly. You grab for it, but it slams open, loudly.

YOU: “Oops,” you say.

KIM KITSURAGI: He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head as those inside turn to look at you.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: Everything is wooden - the gleaming stained floor, the walls, the pews.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It is a miracle this place hasn’t burned down in the various fires of Revachol.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Or the Revolution.

RHETORIC: Proof of divine favor?

LOGIC: Mmm. Maybe.

PERCEPTION: There is a vast altar made of some gilded surface, surrounded by equally bright altar screens. Candelabra glitter and shining chandeliers hang from a vast ceiling, which has been framed and drywalled into a curve above you, and painted heavily with images of saints and something that appears to be a city rising up out of nothing.

INLAND EMPIRE: The Pale.

RHETORIC: This place is loaded, comrade.

YOU: Where does all the money come from?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: A nasty history of colonization. Donations. Selling indulgences, in bygone centuries.

INLAND EMPIRE: Somehow, despite it all…the church feels empty.

PERCEPTION: It’s cold in the church, and dark in the corners, where the gilded light doesn’t stretch. The stained glass, which surrounds you on three sides, is dull today. Most of the stained glass shows saints you don’t recognize.

PERCEPTION: Behind the altar, a vast piece of stained glass, reaching to the ceiling. Dolores Dei stands, beautiful and terrible and blonde, her delicate hand held over her glowing lungs.

PAIN THRESHOLD: She is even more beautiful here, and even more terrible.

PERCEPTION: The stained glass is the center of a triptych. To either side of Dolores Dei, two saints you don’t recognize: one robed in black, and one in orange.

HALF LIGHT: Beyond and behind this stained glass, the cemetery.

YOU: You stop in the middle of the aisle and turn in a slow circle, looking around. A few penitents are in the church, mostly old women, kneeling on the hard wooden floor, heads bent.

EMPATHY: Beseeching Dolores Dei for aid. To relieve them of suffering. To relieve those they love of suffering. To cure the incurable, to ensure safe passage of loved ones through the Pale.

PAIN THRESHOLD: She will not help you.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: A priest walks briskly down the side aisle, checking something. A boy folds cloths off in a side pew.

YOU: “Wow.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He huffs out something that might be a laugh. “First time?”

YOU: “It’s so different from the one in Martinaise.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He shrugs. “This is nothing,” he says. “One of the last outcroppings of true Dolorianism in Central Jamrock. There are some really magnificent churches over in East Revachol.”

EMPATHY: There’s something bitter in his voice.

YOU: You turn to ask him about it when you hear someone coming.

PERCEPTION: A priest in long, dark robes comes towards you.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Expensive robes. Nice looking.


PERCEPTION: You hear the faintest jingle as he approaches you, as if of money.

AUTHORITY: The priest in charge of a church such as this - even in Central Jamrock - can feel good about himself and his congregation.

DOLORIAN PRIEST: “Ah, detective!”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: This man knows you. You don’t know him.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He is tall, around your age, thinning as he gets older. When he is old, he will be gaunt, with a stoop. His has a long nose and quick, dark eyes, set far back in his head.

DOLORIAN PRIEST: He stops in front of you. “I’m sorry. Detectives.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He frowns, visibly startled. He turns to you. “Pardon me, detective. You didn’t strike me as a devout man…?” He trails off a little on the end.

RHETORIC: False. You are the most devout man there is. But your religion is …

1) Oblivion.

2) Alcohol.

3) Love.

4) I really don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of animal I am.

YOU: I really don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of animal I am.

VOLITION: You’ve got to have something. A man’s got to have something to believe in in this world, after all.

RHETORIC: Like communism.

INLAND EMPIRE: But that’s not for you, is it? No, it’s always been love. You’ve always been obsessed by it.

[NEW THOUGHT GAINED: THE RELIGION OF LOVE]

+1 Empathy - To love is to know

+1 Inland Empire - A whole new world opens up to you

+1 Shivers - The city loves you

-1 Pain Threshold - We can’t do this again

DOLORIAN PRIEST: He’s clearly embarrassed. “We get a lot of visitors from next door.”

EMPATHY: This man has woken you up many a morning.

INLAND EMPIRE: You’re a regular here.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Sobbing on your knees before the cold and unforgiving statue of Dolores Dei, begging for her to forgive you. To come back.

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you, then away, taking out his notebook and pen.

DOLORIAN PRIEST: “I’m Father Reynardine.” He shakes Kim’s hand, then yours. “Are you here in an official capacity, officers? Of course, we’ll be happy to assist the RCM however we can.”

1) “Can you tell me how many nights I used to sleep here?”

2) “Do you think, hypothetically, Dolores Dei is capable of love?”

3) “Your next-door neighbors were robbed last night. They said the thief was seen running towards the church. Do you know anything about that?”

4) “Do you really believe in all this stuff?”

5) “So are you guys, like, loaded, or what?”

YOU: “Your next-door neighbors were robbed last night.” You jerk your thumb over at THE SPOTTED DOG. They said the thief was seen running towards the church. Do you know anything about that?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “The Spotted Dog?” Something that might be a smile flickers across his face. “Yes, we’re familiar. As I said, a lot of our late-night regulars come in from there.”

ENDURANCE: A place out of the elements. Not warm, exactly, not at night.

PAIN THRESHOLD: The heat is kept low, most of the time, to save money. Statues don’t feel the cold.

ENDURANCE: At least you don’t get frost on you. A place to sleep off the floor, out of the rats.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Free wine, if you can manage to break the lock on the tabernacle.

INTERFACING: Even now your eyes stray over to it to see signs of a forced latch.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Shitty wine, though.

YOU: “Is it possible the thief came in here to escape? Are there any other doors he could have escaped out of?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “I suppose so. We typically lock the back and side doors at night, but the front is always open, of course.” He looks briefly concerned, glancing around, as if the thief is still here.

KIM KITSURAGI: “I wouldn’t worry about it, Father. I’m sure the church has ways of protecting themselves.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He smiles briefly, a flash of teeth. “We do. We have what is reputed to be Saint Augustine’s spear.”

YOU: You turn to Kim. “Saints have weapons?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh, yes.” He’s writing down St Augustine’s spear in his notes. “There is St Gerard’s sword, and St. Charles’ bow and arrow, St Lucy’s little - eyeball - thing.” He gestures.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You do not want to know about this eyeball thing.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Ever seen a melon baller?

FATHER REYNARDINE: “You know your saints, detective,” he says appreciatively.

KIM KITSURAGI: His shoulders stiffen, and he presses his lips together.

YOU: “Any saints with a gun?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t believe so.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Not yet,” he says with a laugh.

1) “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

2) “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

3) “What are the chances they’re still here? Any hiding places?”

4) “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

YOU: “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “No, sorry. I’m usually in my room by nine. Reading, preparing for sermons…” he trails off.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Boring.

1) “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

2) “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

3) “What are the chances they’re still here? Any hiding places?”

4) “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

5) “Anybody else that could’ve seen anything?”

YOU: “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “No, sorry. Our rooms are across the courtyard.” He gestures.

SHIVERS: Across the graveyard. Some nights, when Father Reynardine keeps his windows open for the breeze, he hears the wind in the trees down in the graveyard. It keeps him up, sometimes. Sounds like scratching, scrabbling hands.

1) “Nice rooms?”

2) “I bet it’s a pretty swanky life, being a Dolorian priest.”

YOU: “I bet it’s a pretty swanky life, being a Dolorian priest.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He frowns. “I wouldn’t call it ‘swanky,’ detective. Of course, it depends on your district, but - I have no complaints. Any donations we receive go to the church itself. Charitable missions, food pantries. Things like that.”

PERCEPTION: Gilt. Candlesticks. New altar cloths.

1) “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

2) “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

3) “What are the chances they’re still here? Any hiding places?”

4) “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

5) “Anybody else that could’ve seen anything?”

YOU: “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He frowns, again. “Did anyone see the man run into the church? Or just in its general direction?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “No. No one saw him run in. Only in its general direction.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: He’s troubled. Why?

YOU: “Why does the idea of the thief coming in here bother you? I thought you were a safe haven?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “It’s just - well.” He folds his hands in front of his robe. “It’s silly, I guess. But you know the reputation the church has.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: You really don’t.

1) “Yeah, uh huh. Definitely.”

2) “Sorry, what reputation?”

YOU: “Sorry, what reputation?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “A lot of people think of the Dolorian Church as full of thieves. The church has a history of stealing artifacts of other religions from other lands, melting them down, making new ones for their own purposes. Let’s just say there were a lot of Dolorian-sponsored expeditions across the Pale to other isolas, and most of this boats did not come back empty.”

RHETORIC: There’s a nasty sort of satisfaction in his tone.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Yes - well. That was a long time ago.”

RHETORIC: But the controversy wasn’t.

1) “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

2) “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

3) “Okay, so let’s say if the thief came in here. Any hiding places where they could still be?”

4) “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

5) “Anybody else that could’ve seen anything?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “I suppose the basement. Perhaps the facilities. We don’t check everything.”

YOU: “What about somewhere they could’ve hidden their stash? Anyplace small, really. They could come back to it later.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Well - anywhere, really.” He laughs. “You’re welcome to look around, detectives. We’ll be sure to keep an eye out for it.” A smile.


 SUGGESTION: And return it, probably.

RHETORIC: We’re not so sure about that, actually.

1) “Did you see anyone come in last night?”

2) “Did you hear anyone come in last night?”

3) “Okay, so let’s say if the thief came in here. Any hiding places where they could still be?”

4) “Any idea why would they run into the church?”

5) “Anybody else that could’ve seen anything?”

YOU: “Anybody else that could’ve seen anything?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Father Amos was working last night - we usually have someone around just to keep an eye on things. He’s over in Martinaise on some charity work right now. I can take your information, tell him to call you?”

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim writes down his work number on a page of notebook paper and hands it over, silently.

FATHER REYNARDINE: He apologizes, but he has a fairly important meeting - the bishop coming in from East Revachol - he makes a disarming and frankly sacrilegious face at you, then, taking his leave of you, invites you to look around, and disappears, moving noiselessly up the aisle, until he disappears in the back.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: You and Kim investigate the church, talking to a few of the priests, deacons, and lesser members of the church, poking in every corner of the church, which is, as you leave the main church, cold and empty. You find nothing that seems like a clue, nothing helpful. No money, no mysterious gun, no change of clothings or sign of forced entry or exit.

YOU: “Kim, how do you know so much about the Dolorian church?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I grew up in a Dolorian orphanage,” he says.

AUTHORITY: He does not elaborate further.

YOU: When you re-enter the nave, you turn the corner and come face to face with a statue of Dolores Dei, life-sized and cold.

INTERFACING: This statue does not care about you, or your petty problems. There is a small mocking smile carved on its face. The kind that can say with ease things such as, It would be different if you acted like you wanted me, or, If you try to stop me from leaving, I’m calling the police, or, Please don’t tell me you actually expected me to have the baby.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You are suffocating.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim comes up beside you, your shoulders brushing. “Things have a habit of disappearing into the Dolorian church,” he says.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like your sanity.

YOU: “You don’t think we’ll figure it out?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Doubtful, detective. Come on. Let’s go radio in and see if the precinct has anything else for us.”

YOU: You follow him out into the rain, an orange beacon of light. You throw one last glance over your shoulder at Dolores Dei, who looks down on you, the sweet curve of her smirking lips, the gold of her hair.

INLAND EMPIRE: She will always be there, Harry. Waiting to devour you.

YOU: You shake yourself, and hurry after Kim, letting the door slam behind you.

YOU: That evening you have your one drink while you listen to the radio, sprawled out on your bed, tuned into SAD FM, turned low.

INTERFACING: Pouring straight into your lungs.

VOLITION: This one drink is part of your carefully regimented drinking regime.

SUGGESTION: Which is clear proof you are getting better.

VOLITION: Is it?

AUTHORITY: Since coming back from Martinaise, you have had one drink every night.

SUGGESTION: Whether you need it or not.

PAIN THRESHOLD: To keep the worst of the DTs away.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The DTs, or delirium tremens, also known as the shakes, the blue devils, or, in some corners, the screaming meemies, are the side effects of alcohol withdrawal, characterized by shaking, hallucinations, nausea, excessive sweating, etc., etc., etc. For you, they manifest as a particularly nasty hand tremor that makes writing case notes difficult - embarrassing in the wake of your return from Martinaise - thank god for Kim - and also hearing music, faint and far-off, almost familiar.

RHETORIC: And talking to rats.

YOU: They just have so much to say!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You can have one drink a night. As a little treat.

COMPOSURE: So you don’t lose your mind.

YOU: You have two drinks on weekends, hard days, and holidays. You’ve had a holiday since coming back from Martinaise. The sixteenth of May. A Wednesday. You hadn’t known it was a holiday, and had gone in to the precinct anyway. There had been no one else in the C wing, the junior officers out on patrol, Jules down in his box, and it had been empty, and you had been alone, and you had started to panic, because it felt like a fever dream, felt like when you’d woken up in the Whirling-in-Rags, alone.

HALF LIGHT: Something’s happened to all of them.

DRAMA: The bomb?

INLAND EMPIRE: No. Too early.

INTERFACING: You collapsed in your chair, at your desk.

PERCEPTION: Everything silent around you.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You were having trouble breathing.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Loosening your collar with one hand.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: While the other scrabbled in the back of your desk drawer. Muscle memory -

INTERFACING: Finding nothing.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officers Vicquemare and Minot had cleared your desk out before you’d come back.

YOU: Hands trembling, you’d called Kim at home.

KIM KITSURAGI: He’d sounded surprised.

EMPATHY: A little concerned.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, it’s Revachol Day,” he’d said, and then, “of course. You wouldn’t remember.”

YOU: On your end of the phone, a hot rush of shame.

EMPATHY: On the lieutenant’s end, frustration. He should have realized. Should have said something.

SAVOIR FAIRE: He’d almost asked what your plans were the day before, but had held himself back.

KIM KITSURAGI: He’d told you he was wrapping up a few things, but then - “I don’t have any lunch plans, detective. If you would like to join me, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

YOU: So you’d met him at a small cafe on the border of Jamrock and the GRIH, and sat outside. You had watched a parade go past.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim had shaded his eyes with his hand, although he had turned down the Froggy visor you had so graciously offered him.

SAVOIR FAIRE: The lieutenant, although so cool in some respects, is completely lacking in others.

YOU: You’d lingered too long over lunch. Hours. The waiter had stopped coming by ages before. And when Kim had stretched and stood, you’d panicked, and said, “Walk?”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a dog.

DRAMA: Give him the puppy eyes.

YOU: You gave him the puppy eyes.

KIM KITSURAGI: He patted his stomach. “I suppose I could stand to go for a walk.”

YOU: And so you’d walked for another hour or two, side by side, your heads bent together. But you’d had to part eventually, Kim back to his district, and you to yours - his hand on your shoulder, a tiny smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, detective,” he’d said, and then you were alone.

VOLITION: You’d had two drinks that night, and then, unable to help yourself -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It was a holiday, after all.

HALF LIGHT: And you were alone.

VOLITION: - you had had another, and another, and you had gone into work the next day late, stinking and stumbling and hungover.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officer Vicquemare had mocked you, had said, “Ah yes, as Tequila Sunset once said, you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning,” and you’d said, “But I didn’t drink all day,” looking at Lieutenant Kitsuragi to back you up. Lieutenant Kitsuragi, who was looking at you with a blank face, glasses washed out by the twin flares of yours and his green desk lamps.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “No? Just all night, then?”

YOU: “Not all night…”

ENDURANCE: You had passed out around 23:00, after all.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What’s the matter? Scared of the fireworks, like a street mutt?”

HALF LIGHT: Actually, you hadn’t liked them. They reminded you of gunshots. Too close.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Inside you.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer Vicquemare,” he’d said sharply.

EMPATHY: He hadn’t liked the fireworks either.

YOU: You’ve done pretty well, though, with this whole drinking-less thing. Sometimes that one drink is almost enough.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You make them strong.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You make them very strong.

YOU: Sometimes you go back to the kitchen and refill your glass before it gets empty.

LOGIC: The old drunkard’s trick. If you never empty it, it’s still the same drink.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: The ship of Thylakos.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: A famous philosophical thought experiment based around the mythical ship of the fabled hero of Thylakos. If you replace every single part of the ship over a series of years with a series of identical parts, until none of the original pieces remain, is it still the same ship?

1) No. Clearly, it’s a different ship.

2) Yes. Clearly, the form of the ship hasn’t been replaced. I mean, at what point would it stop being the original ship? Who makes that call?

INLAND EMPIRE: And what about you? Are you still the same man you were before Martinaise?

LOGIC: ???

RHETORIC: ???

1) I hope not.

2) I’ll always be that animal. I can’t ever get away.

YOU: I hope not.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Sometimes, though, your one drink just makes it that much worse. Keys you up, makes you itchy. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to all the people walk by.

YOU: Which is what you’re doing tonight. Laying on the bed. On your back, watching the dull spill of light into your room from the high small windows.

PERCEPTION: Listening to SAD FM - want to be free, the radio waves croon to you.

VISUAL CALCULUS: The faint crackle from the Pale as it crosses the radio waves.

YOU: You can’t think of anything less free than this: your dark apartment, the spill of streetlights into the room, all of them somehow managing to avoid touching you.

HALF LIGHT: Can you blame them?


 PAIN THRESHOLD: Something in your chest like tearing, or crying.

YOU: Morning is so far away.

VOLITION: You have an interesting book on entroponetics in the living room. You could get up and get it?

YOU: You can’t move.

VOLITION: You could call Kim?



COMPOSURE: Don’t bother Kim. You do that enough already.

AUTHORITY: Bad enough today he had to hear all about the man you used to be.


RHETORIC: Still are. We’re not so sure we’re sold on this whole ship of Thylakos idea.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Sounds like a bunch of pointless bullshit to us.

LOGIC: No, no. I mean, when you replace everything, what’s left?

INLAND EMPIRE: Its soul.

RHETORIC: Do ships have souls?

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Do you?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re slipping…getting drowsy…

YOU: I think I do…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You don’t.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You’ve destroyed it, Harry.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: A soulless husk of a man - if you can even be called that.

1) I’m pretty sure I can.

2) You’re right. I’m a worm.

YOU: I’m pretty sure I can.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Oh, you’re so wrong. So mistaken.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: She didn’t think you had one. A man with a soul can provide for a family.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: For children…

YOU: You’re right. I’m a worm.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Oh, no, Harry. Even worms have souls.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Creeping - crawling -

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: But you, baby, you’re a black pit. There is a two millimeter hole in the world where your soul should be.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You should try praying.

YOU: To who?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Not to her. She can’t hear you anymore. Prayers can’t reach across the Pale, no matter what they taught you in school. Besides, she stopped listening to you a long time ago. Too much time spent on your knees. Crawling - sniveling - promising to be better -

LIMBIC SYSTEM: It loses all meaning after awhile.

YOU: But who can I pray to, then?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You could try praying to him. He’s still listening to you. God knows why…

YOU: Him?

YOU: You are standing in the church in Martinaise. It is the smallest church in the world. It is dark, and it is cold, and a sense of nothingness presses down on you from above. You are not alone. Before you stands Kim, patiently, waiting for you.

KIM KITSURAGI: He is the only source of light in the dark church. The light is coming from him - a gold halo rising behind him, his lungs illuminated in his body, his eyes, two glowing discs of light.

YOU: You are in the presence of Saint Kim Kitsuragi.

SAINT KIM KITSURAGI: He stands with one hand reaching out - to you. The other is held behind his back.

YOU: You drop to your knees before him, hard, the wood boards creaking under your weight. “Kim,” you say. You want to bow your head, to worship him properly, but you can’t look away. You are going to go blind, you think, if you can’t look away.

SAINT KIM KITSURAGI: “Well, Harrier?” he says, his hand still extended. His eyes, blind with light, look down at you. “Which is it? Are you the same man?”

YOU: “I - I don’t know, Kim. I don’t want to be - but I’m afraid - I think I am, and you’re going to realize it, and you’re going to leave, Kim, and if you leave, I don’t think I’m gonna make it-” You bend your head, gasping for breath.

SAINT KIM KITSURAGI: You swear you feel him reaching out - feel cool leather glide over your neck -

YOU: And then you wake up.

You spend hours at the Jamrock Public Library on the weekends.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Like a binoclard.

ENDURANCE: Passing time.

VOLITION: Developing hobbies.

YOU: Hey, I’ve got plenty of hobbies.

VOLITION: That aren’t drinking?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You can get drunk in a library just as easily as you can get drunk anywhere. Easier, maybe. Look at that woman over there, right now, the one sneaking drinks out of the bottle in her bag. Ask for one, right now.

1) Ask.

2) Don’t ask.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: You’re relearning the entire world. You walk up and down the dim and narrow rows of shelves, letting your body guide you to the different sections.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Ancient history - topography - entroponetics - art - poetry -

PAIN THRESHOLD: Your current mental well-being can be measured by how long you spend in the Jamrock Public Library on Saturday mornings.

VOLITION: One to two hours inside the library means that things are good. A slow walk down to the library - a stroll through the bazaar after - each of these dragged out as long as you can, so you don’t have to go home.

ENDURANCE: Sundays are hard. A long wait to Monday.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It used to be easier when you could spend them recuperating from the night before. Gave you something to do.

PAIN THRESHOLD: That long low feeling of dread festering inside you. Swelling to fill you.

VOLITION: However, spending three to four hours at the library means you are in a precarious situation.

SUGGESTION: Desperate to avoid going home.

ENDURANCE: Spending less than a half hour there means things are very, very bad.

YOU: Normally you like the library. Its dim narrow aisles, its hush that feels like the church in Martinaise.

DRAMA: It could use some more hardcore dance music.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Well, yeah, but what couldn’t?

YOU: Some days, though, you can’t stand it there.

HALF LIGHT: The silence like a hole in the world.

PERCEPTION: The light never fully reaching you. The faint shuffling sound of paper.


VISUAL CALCULUS: You are so very, very alone.

INTERFACING: You will never find your way out.

HALF LIGHT: You will be trapped here forever.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Some of the fringe cults - the Selarists, the Munchans - make the argument that libraries are Pale attractors. The Selarists actually claim libraries are the Pale itself, personified, all these pieces of memory collected in one place. Libraries are places of great evil, they exposit. It is better to forget about the past, they claim, to live only for the future.

YOU: Hey, I can get behind that.

LOGIC: You have already forgotten your past.

SUGGESTION: Maybe there were some important things you could learn from it?



SAVOIR FAIRE: Doubtful.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Only pain.

INLAND EMPIRE: There is, actually, a hole in the world in this library. They’re everywhere, scattered throughout Elysium.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a scavenger hunt!

ENCYCLOPEDIA: A scavenger hunt is an organized activity - frequently, but not always for children - in which a list of items is provided for searchers to find.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officer Vicquemare, while digging through your apartment for drugs, prior to your return from Martinaise, had said, “it’s like a fucking scavenger hunt.” He had been on his hands and knees, digging underneath your bed, as Officer Minot had exclaimed from the bathroom. “Aha!”


RHETORIC: Except a lot less fun.

INLAND EMPIRE: Like the hole in the world in Martinaise. And the one inside your head. The hole in the world in the library is, naturally, in a book. The day you find this book and open it, everything will end.

1) Can you tell me what book it is so I can avoid it?

2) Can you tell me what book it is so I can find it?

YOU: Can you tell me what book it is so I can avoid it?

INLAND EMPIRE: No. Sorry.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Is this, like, a metaphor for death, or something?

SHIVERS: The rustle of pages, the sound of someone looking, frantically, for an answer.

HALF LIGHT: No, it’s real. Libraries are a dangerous place. You should burn them all down.

YOU: Hang on, that’s a little fascist of you, don’t you think?

JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: You walk through the stacks, the air stuffy and cold despite the sunshine that is probably still outside.


VISUAL CALCULUS: You can’t tell.

PERCEPTION: You’re passing the Technology section when you see a familiar flash of orange.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Safety.


HALF LIGHT: Home.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your lungs clench and flutter.

PERCEPTION: A man in orange, bent over a book, thumbing through the pages.

REACTION SPEED: You skid to a stop on the worn carpet, snakeskin heels sliding, then you back up. “Kim!” you hiss at him.

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks up, startled, his eyes adjusting to distance. Then he smiles. You see it. It’s quick and small, but it starts in his eyes and goes all the way to his mouth. “Harry,” he says.

YOU: You bound down the aisle towards him. “What are you looking at?”

VISUAL CALCULUS: He flips the book closed, thumb marking his progress, and shows you the cover. A Comprehensive Guide to Radiocomputers.

DRAMA: The book is easily a thousand pages long.

YOU: You take it from him, careful to mark his place with your own forefinger -

INTERFACING: Slotting along his thumb as you take it -

PERCEPTION: The rustle of nylon, a half-breath through the lieutenant’s nose -

A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO RADIOCOMPUTERS: This tome is an incredibly detailed book on radio computers, with tiny, poorly printed font, and very few pictures.

INTERFACING: You hand it back to Kim, your fingers brushing again. He tucks the book under his arm.

JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: You browse together, your head turned to read the book titles, Kim’s gloved fingers running along the spines -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Wish we were a book.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Excuse me?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Nothing.

KIM KITSURAGI: - his lips moving slightly as he reads.

PERCEPTION: You can hear the detective’s breathing, the creaking of your shoes.

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: Once or twice your shoulders bump. Once, you back up into him.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: A huff of laughter.

YOU: “So…what are you doing after this?”



KIM KITSURAGI: He adjust the book under his arm.

SAVOIR FAIRE: His glasses.

KIM KITSURAGI: “I need to go to Fauborg to pick up a part for the Kineema.”

INTERFACING: A new set of leaf springs for the rear. He’s talked your ear off about it on stakeouts for three weeks now.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: What a torque-dork.

KIM KITSURAGI: “And then, perhaps, to find something for dinner.” He sighs. “I find it hard to come up with new ideas sometimes,” he confesses.

SUGGESTION: Now is a great time to suggest something. Really wow him with your culinary prowess.

YOU: But I mostly eat from food carts on the street.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And sometimes a branded Hjelmdallermann dinner as a special treat.

VISUAL CALCULUS: All the food separated into little plastic compartments by different shades of beige and odd textures, macerated by your temperamental oven.

YOU: “Uhm….”

KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs. “I know. Perhaps I should check out a cookbook…”

SHIVERS: Second floor, east corner. Below the faulty diffuser that rattles a little when it’s really going.

SUGGESTION: You should offer to cook for him!

AUTHORITY: Do not do that.

DRAMA: Go on. Maybe he’ll enjoy the show.

VOLITION: Uhm…maybe you should try cooking something all by yourself, first?


 LOGIC: Makes sense.


HALF LIGHT: The sight of you would put anyone off their food. You heard him. He’s got a busy day. There’s no room for you in his life.

KIM KITSURAGI: He frowns, seeing something on your face. “Why? Did you have something in mind?”

1) “Yeah, we should totally hang out!”

2) “Let me come with you? Please? I don’t want to be alone.”

3) “Lunch?”

4) “We should totally get back to work, Kim. We have five open cases right now. The city needs us!”

YOU: “…lunch?” you say, weakly.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Are you asking me, detective?”

SUGGESTION: He’s teasing you.

YOU: “Yeah. Um. Only I found this place, it’s kind of a, a little hole in the wall, Messinian, they’ve got these little pasta pocket things-”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Ravioli. The word you’re looking for is ravioli.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, ravioli. is it good?”

YOU: “I don’t know. I haven’t gone.” You haven’t wanted to go alone. Instead, you’ve been eating alone in your apartment, reading a book standing at the kitchen counter, because you have no kitchen table anymore.

RHETORIC: Apparently there had been, before the time of your memory, a war on kitchen tables in Revachol.

KIM KITSURAGI: He straightens his shoulders. “Well, then. Let’s go.”

YOU: You follow Kim to the checkout, piling your books up on the counter.

VISUAL CALCULUS: A Brief History of Dolorianism. The A-Z Guide to Dolorian Saints. Man from Hjelmdall and the False-God.

DRAMA: This last one will be the most enjoyable, sire.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim tilts his head, very slightly, to the side to read your book titles. “Thinking of getting religion, detective?”

1) “How do you get religion? Is it like a disease?”

2) “Absolutely. Religion all the way for me.”

3) “No. I think my religion is something else.”

4) “Religion is the opiate of the people, Kim. Communism is the true way.”

YOU: “Religion is the opiate of the people, Kim. Communism is the true way.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says. His eyes sparkle at you behind his glasses.


JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: The librarian looks at you, deeply disapproving.

RHETORIC: These communists, she thinks. They’re all the same. Never return their books on time, never pay the fines.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim collects his own books -

VISUAL CALCULUS: A Comprehensive Guide to Radiocomputers. Drive for Life: The Marc Peters Story. He catches you looking and starts to shuffle, as if to hide them, then thinks better of it, and straightens up, instead.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: A Comprehensive Guide to Radiocomputers will make the lieutenant’s eyes burn. He will nod off over it for two weeks in bed and then give up, his bookmark - a flyer for a blues show you’d grabbed off a building and badgered him into attending with you - stuck at a shameful 32 pages in.

DRAMA: Drive for Life, however, is the salacious ‘true story’ of TipTop Tournee racer Marc Peters. Kim has had the book on hold for six months and will devour it in a day.

KIM KITSURAGI: You follow Kim out to the Kineema. He has driven to the Jamrock Public Library, you note.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He should really walk more places.

ENDURANCE: He would keep up with you better that way.

YOU: You wonder what his expense reports look like.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Scrupulously filled out - in duplicate - and submitted promptly each month.

YOU: You go to lunch at the cafe, feet bumping into each other’s under the table, talking about your latest case. You eye his food - colorful and heavily sauced - for long enough that he sighs and gives you a piece. You say, brightly, “yours is better, Kim!” through a mouthful.

KIM KITSURAGI: He winces and grins all at the same time.

YOU: You give him some of yours in return, which doesn’t seem a fair trade, although he assures you he doesn’t mind.

EMPATHY: He’s enjoying himself immensely.

INLAND EMPIRE: You should ask him about what’s been bothering you.

YOU: “Kim, do you think souls are real?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I used to think,” he says, and stops. “I don’t know, detective. I am really not the best person to ask. Maybe Father Reynardine.” He presses his lips together.

YOU: “What kind of a soul would I have, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles.

EMPATHY: Actually smiles.

KIM KITSURAGI: “A very large one.”

RHETORIC: Vast.

YOU: You startle badly. Fortunately, he doesn’t see it, as a particularly loud car goes past, and he actually leans forward to watch it.

INTERFACING: If he were any closer to the glass, he’d be fogging it.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Favre 305, a ’46 or ‘47, I think. They stopped with the chrome bumper in ’50, although, of course, you can install it aftermarket - khm,” he says.

COMPOSURE: He settles back and adjusts his glasses, suddenly embarrassed.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes,” he says. “If we do have souls - which I am really not the best authority on - I am sure yours is enormous.”

1) “Is that a fat joke?”

2) “You know who else said that?”

3) “Vast, even?”

4) “What is your soul like, Kim?”

5) “What if everyone else has a soul but me?”

YOU: “Vast, even?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes,” he says. “Vast, even.”


EMPATHY: He smiles at you again. Something strangely soft that you don’t understand.

1) “Is that a fat joke?”

2) “You know who else said that?”

3) “Vast, even?”

4) “What is your soul like, Kim?”

5) “What if everyone else has a soul but me?”

YOU: “What if everyone else has a soul but me?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t think that’s likely.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: I would find it more likely that you have the only soul in Revachol, he thinks.

1) “Is that a fat joke?”

2) “You know who else said that?”

3) “Vast, even?”

4) “What is your soul like, Kim?”

5) “What if everyone else has a soul but me?”

YOU: “What is your soul like, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He considers - head tilted up, light flashing off his glasses. The fingers of his right handle fiddle with his fork. “Orderly,” he says, finally, with no small amount of pride.

INLAND EMPIRE: Constrained. Just as vast as yours, Harry, but packed tightly inside a twisting nautilus.

PERCEPTION: The light hanging above the table behind him - when he shifts his head to look at you - flares out, suddenly, into a halo.

YOU: This clears nothing up for you.

AUTHORITY: After, you go to the parts store with him, and pretend you know the words he and the clerk are shooting back and forth at each other -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: The Revacholian Auto Parts Tribunal -

VOLITION: And you absolutely do not stare at Kim’s ass when he stands on the lower shelves of the front counter to lean over the counter and look at the radio computer screen with the clerk.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You do, however, find a sweet set of green fuzzy dice that you bring up to the counter hopefully.

KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s a violation of the Revacholian Motor Code to obstruct a driver’s rearview mirror,” he says, but he just sighs when you dig some reál out of your pocket, and lets you hang them on the rearview mirror anyway.

REACTION SPEED: And then peels out of the parking lot so as to really set them swinging, smiling when you whoop in delight.

INTERFACING: And then you go tag along to the precinct garage to help him work on it -

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Passing Jean Vicquemare, who scowls at you from on high as his black horse plods slowly past -

KIM KITSURAGI: And then, finally, around five that evening, Kim finishes, stripping off his vinyl gloves to put his bare hand -

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: !!!!!

KIM KITSURAGI: On your arm. “Thank you,” he says. “I can’t think of a Saturday better spent.”

EMPATHY: He really means it.

SUGGESTION: Ask him to dinner!

RHETORIC: Don’t overstay your welcome. The man has to to spend 48 hours a week with you - at minimum - and here you are, monopolizing his only free time away from you. Let him go.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah. Let’s go get fucked up instead! Time to party, baby!

VOLITION: Let’s not do that.

YOU: So you say goodbye to Kim and walk the long way back to your apartment in the bright warm June sun, ducking your head and staring at your feet as you pass the bars that litter the street like drunks.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: They’re calling you by name, softly. Can’t you hear them? Don’t turn away.

INTERFACING: Your feet lead you to a building and stop. You look up at it.

CINEMA D’AUTOMNE: The CINEMA D’AUTOMNE stands halfway up la rue d’Automne, sandwiched in between the remains of a churchkey factory and a tenement building. Its series of grand arches have been dirtied with time.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: It used to be an opera house up until the ‘90s, pre-Revolution, and had closed for several years during the Revolution. Once a week - on Thursday nights - its clientele switches over entirely for viewings of dirty movies.

PERCEPTION: The movie theatre is shabby now, the glass cracked on its ticket-booth, old posters plastered up over each other, creating a disorienting layered effect.

VISUAL CALCULUS: You can hardly tell what’s on feature tonight.

DRAMA: The marquee promises a double-feature: THE MAGICIAN’S KILLER and A NIGHT OF LOVE.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: THE MAGICIAN’S KILLER betokens some type of detective movie, the type with tortured plots and lots of long, drawn out death scenes. A NIGHT OF LOVE, is, perhaps, a soft-core film, or a tortured love affair with lots of dissimulation.

VOLITION: It’s as good a place to kill a few hours as any.

YOU: You buy your ticket and walk into the theatre, footsteps fading into the thick and dirty carpet. Inside the lights are glowing soft and yellow, leading you down into the vast and empty space. Seats stretch empty out in front of you, a few occupied here and there. It is large in there, and dark, smelling of cigarette smoke and spilled drinks.

CINEMA D’AUTOMNE: The usher - a bored-looking teenage girl - looks at you, double-takes, and leaves. She comes back quickly - as you’re settling into a seat - with an older man who glares at you. They take up their position at the rear of the aisle, watching you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Reminds you of Garte.

LOGIC: You’re a regular here.

COMPOSURE: Not well-regarded, I’m afraid.

AUTHORITY: Is there anywhere in this city you haven’t disgraced yourself?

DRAMA: Shhh. Be quiet. The film is starting.

CINEMA D’AUTOMNE: The first film is exactly as anticipated - a bad detective film that you clock the killer in five minutes in.

DRAMA: This is why you’re a superstar cop.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: If only it were this easy in real life.

LOGIC: Isn’t it?

AUTHORITY: I mean, do you know who robbed the bar yet?

YOU: No, but I’ll figure it out. I just know it.

DRAMA: We have more important cases to solve than a simple robbery!

SHIVERS: Everything is important.

PERCEPTION: Under the sound of the movie, which soars, loud, into your ears and lungs, are the sounds of the movie-goers around you - quiet shuffles, the long, hacking wheeze of a man who will die within in a year, mutterings of a couple behind you.

YOU: You haven’t seen a film in some time. You have no televisual set anymore. You can’t set foot in the Video Revachol anyway, even if you wanted to.

ENDURANCE: You start to shake. Your teeth start to chatter.

INLAND EMPIRE: This feels familiar, somehow. These seats, this hush, this particular crackle of speakers.

INLAND EMPIRE: You and her used to go to the movies, here. It was cheap, and you could sink down into the darkness of a few hours, holding her hand, her cheek on your shoulder. The scent of her hair. And after, you would come here often. Alone. Trying to recapture that feeling, that scent.

HALF LIGHT: There is something bad in these memories, brother. Do not go digging deeper. There is nothing here for you.

CINEMA D’AUTOMNE: The second movie is, apparently a mostly true love story from the Revolution, in which both lovers - one, the daughter of a famous and bloodthirsty royalist, the other, one of the minor leaders of the Revolution - spend, as promised, only one night together before they are both tragically killed in each other’s arms.

COMPOSURE: You are weeping by the time the lights come up. Your muttonchops are soaked, cheeks itchy with tears.

EMPATHY: You dry your face with the lieutenant’s handkerchief, still in your pocket.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You’d tried to give it back to him and he’d shaken his head. He half-smiles sometimes when he sees you use it.

SUGGESTION: You don’t know what it means.

YOU: You stumble your way out of the theatre, hands on the backs of the seats, helping you along. You try to smile at the usher and manage a grimace instead. She shies away from you.

HALF LIGHT: Your pain is monstrous, unbounded.

YOU: Can love do all that?

INLAND EMPIRE: Can and will, brother.

HALF LIGHT: It is to be avoided at all costs.

YOU: Good thing that’s all over for me. Maybe in another world, when I’m another person.

SUGGESTION: You gonna tell him, or should I?

YOU: Tell me what?

INLAND EMPIRE: No. Let’s let him figure it out.

YOU: ….?

SHIVERS: Across the city, a man sits at his kitchen table. He’s drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, listening to the radio. He’s leaned back from the table, which holds nothing but a crossword puzzle, partially filled out. He’s stuck on a clue. He has a feeling you’ll know the answer. Disco song about the kilometer-high club. He’s thinking about calling you, slowly, lazily, as he picks a piece of tobacco off his lower lip with a thumbnail. It’s a good excuse, he thinks, and the very fact that it’s an excuse means he won’t let himself do it. You spend plenty of time together already. Perhaps too much. These things are dangerous. He’s seen first hand what happens when you get too close to a partner. It’s why he works alone. And you’re so - you’re so -

He’s trying - and failing - not to think of the way you’d looked at lunch, your eyes almost gold in the light coming in the window, the fine lines of white in your hair, the crow’s feet around your eyes, your bright, cooked smile -

Well. He’s had a good day, the man thinks. That’s all.

And he smiles, quickly, to himself, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: THE CASE OF THE SPOTTED DOG - which you had campaigned to call DROP IT, BOY, and Kim had vetoed you on - is currently on hold.

YOU: Not from a lack of motivation.

VOLITION: No. You simply haven’t been able to get any more information. Not out of the bartender, not out of Old Pisser, not out of the priests. Father Amos had called you and given you his statement in a wavering voice, which had provided absolutely nothing of use. No, he hadn’t seen anything. Oh, wasn’t it terrible, the wickedness in people. Yes, he would be sure to call you if he found one-hundred twenty-four reál laying around.

DRAMA: You were pretty sure he probably would, too.

YOU: Repeated investigation discovered robberies on surrounding streets in the neighborhood, but none on Broadway in particular. Until THE SPOTTED DOG. Still, you tell Kim one afternoon in June, when you’ve wrapped up most of your ongoing casework, that you’re going to stop by the church to check on a few clues.

DRAMA: He knows you’re lying.

YOU: “I’m not going to drink, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: "It’s really none of my business, detective,” he says stiffly.

AUTHORITY: He’s right. It’s not.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know - that’s practically an endorsement.

AUTHORITY: Not that we need one.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You’re right. We don’t. But….we definitely *could* get a drink after. Or before, maybe. Maybe before. Put us in the right frame of mind for worship…

VOLITION: For god’s sake, can we just keep it together? We want to go look at the church.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Now that we’ve read all about it.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It’s hot outside, the doors to the church propped open to draw people in to the cool interior.

PERCEPTION: There are a handful of people inside: a man sleeping on one of the pews, stretched out.

SAVOIR FAIRE: There are large holes in the soles of his shoes, you note, as you walk past.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: Three or four women scattered about the front of the church. Two of them together - an older woman and a stunningly beautiful dark-haired girl - are kneeling before Dolores Dei, praying.

INTERFACING: A priest crosses the line of your vision, his long skirts whisking past.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Must be hot in those things. Do they have to wear them all the time?


 ENCYCLOPEDIA: Yes. It is a symbol of…

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Detective! Do you need anything?”

YOU: You turn around to see him raising an eyebrow at you, hands folded in front of his robe.

1) “Yes. Any idea who did it?”

2) “Do you think, hypothetically, Dolores Dei is capable of love?”

3) “Do you really believe in all this stuff?”

4) “No, thanks. Just looking around. Going to see if anything strikes me. You know.”

YOU: “Do you think, hypothetically, Dolores Dei is capable of love?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He does not seem surprised.

LOGIC: You have discussed this topic before.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “I’m sure she was, in her day.”

SUGGESTION: That time is long over now.

1) “Yes. Any idea who did it?”

2) “Do you think, hypothetically, Dolores Dei is capable of love?”

3) “Do you really believe in all this stuff?”

4) “No, thanks. Just looking around. Going to see if anything strikes me. You know.”

YOU: “No, thanks. Just looking around. Going to see if anything strikes me. You know.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: You shoot him the ol’ finger guns and wink.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Of course.”

HALF LIGHT: He’s laughing at you.

COMPOSURE: Hard to take a man seriously when you’re used to waking him up in a puddle of his own piss on your church floor.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Well, please let one of us know if you need anything. Services are in a little over two hours. You’re welcome to stay.”

INTERFACING: Maybe if you do, she’ll speak to you!

LOGIC: That is highly unlikely.

YOU: “Maybe. Thanks, Father.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He nods at you, and withdraws, as you sit down in a pew three rows back from the front, looking at the stained glass windows.

PERCEPTION: They glow today with the bright summer sun, illuminating Dolores Dei’s lungs, flooding yellowly across the altar. The saints on either side of her are illuminated too - the hands of the saint in black, and the eyes of the saint in orange.

ENDURANCE: The pew creaks under your weight as you shift, trying to get comfortable.

PAIN THRESHOLD: People sit in these things for hours? I’d have visions too if I had to sit in these things for too long.

SUGGESTION: Hey…jackass. You already do have visions. Or hallucinations. Really, I can’t keep track.

PERCEPTION: Neither can we.

INLAND EMPIRE: I can.

YOU: You have learned a lot of very interesting things about Dolorianism from your library books.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: None of which are currently helping you solve the case.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The Dolorians believe in a concept of paradise and eternal rest, a land far beyond the Pale, where, if you behave appropriately during your life, you will be brought far beyond the reaches of forgetting, of forced return.

SUGGESTION: You have certainly not behaved appropriately in your life.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Everyone else is consigned to the Pale.

DRAMA: Most interesting to you are the saints and other minor non-dieties.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Saints are those individuals who are recognized - officially - by the church as those being particularly virtuous, often with various miracles being attributed to them. They are frequently portrayed in easily recognizable poses that indicate something important about their attributes. The Dolorian church has a vast array of saints, which are all, as best as you can tell, ranked somewhere under Her Innocence Dolores Dei, who ranks, probably, under a God.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Her Innocence Dolores Dei is somewhat like a commanding officer of a police precinct and the saints are somewhat like…?

CONCEPTUALIZATION: …patrol officers?

YOU: Oh god, what does that make Torson the saint of?


 CONCEPTUALIZATION: The patron saint of cut-off t-shirts.

YOU: And McLaine?


 CONCEPTUALIZATION: The patron saint of awful pickup lines, which sometimes work, when he is properly beseeched.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: There are, of course, the canon saints, which are officially recognized by the Dolorian Church…

YOU: Such as?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Saint Jean the Gambler, Saint Camille the Vain, Saint Agnes the Prostitute.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: That last one’s a fun one. She was an old spinster who wanted to get fucked so badly she went into a brothel. Except the men coming in kept getting converted, one after another after another, running out of the whorehouse to throw themselves at the feet of a statue of Her Innocence, renouncing everything they owned to the church.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Saint Agnes died a virgin.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You know…you’re technically a virgin.

YOU: Technically? I have had sex, right?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Definitely.

SUGGESTION: We’re pretty sure.

ENDURANCE: I mean, we had to have, right?

LOGIC: There was the whole aborted child thing.

[-1 morale]

DRAMA: We’re sure, if we had sex, it was excellent, sire. Every party satisfied, ten out of ten, would go again.

VOLITION: You know we don’t remember any of that.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Sounds like you have a clean slate.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Maybe we could focus, here…?

DOLORIAN CHURCH: Up front, the old woman lights a candle, murmuring something over it. A draft comes in through the propped-open doors, and flutters the candle flame. The woman protects it with her cupped and gnarled hand, raising her eyes to the stained glass of Dolores Dei.

SHIVERS: It never warms fully in here, even on the hottest days. There are too many corners, too many shadows. Places where the light can’t reach.

LOGIC: That’s the problem with stained glass…

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It’s beautiful, but it imparts little light and no warmth. You are left on your knees, praying to something that can never love you back.

INLAND EMPIRE: There are other saints, too. Lesser-known ones. Ones closer to you.

YOU: Such as?

INLAND EMPIRE: Saint Isobel the Clean. Saint Lilienne the Fisher. Saint Garte of the Promptly-Paid Bills. Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind. Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

RHETORIC: These are just people you know. Don’t do this again. Don’t make them into something nonhuman.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Of course, most saints have a few miracles under their belt.

RHETORIC: Or at least one really big one.

LOGIC: What miracles have these saints performed?

1) Saint Jean the Gambler.

2) Saint Camille the Vain.

3) Saint Agnes the Prostitute

4) Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

5) Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind.

YOU: What miracle did Saint Jean the Gambler perform?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Saint Jean the Gambler, born Jean of Ozonne, had, some five hundred years ago, been a man known across Caillou as a brigand, a rake, and a gambler. He had obtained - and gone through - his inheritance, the small allowance his mother had received, the small dowries set aside for his sisters, and the fortunes of several mistresses. Simply put, he ruined everyone he touched. He could not believe that he was so unlucky, continuing to claim to everyone that he was only losing now in order for a great big win down the road. The biggest win of them all.

DRAMA: Makes sense to me.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Down to his very last dinar - a type of money back then - he had, legend has it, staked it all at the private tables of le Duc d’Oranje, flourishing his cape back. He was twenty-seven, and beautiful, and, the story had it, sleeping with the Duchess d’Oranje, and slowly draining the royal coffers. “Either I win enough to recompense everything I’ve lost, or I will kill myself right here.” He laid his dagger down on the table as assurance.

YOU: And he won? That was it, the big win? He was able to make it right?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: No. Sorry. He lost, and promptly killed himself. But le Duc d’Oranje had been so impressed with his desperate action that he had searched out the sisters and mother of the reckless man - most of them long gone into the life of prostitution - and had rescued them, purchasing them a small farm, and giving them a small living.

YOU: Oh. So why is he a saint?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Well, they do say god works in mysterious ways.

LOGIC: That makes sense to me.

1) Saint Jean the Gambler.

2) Saint Camille the Vain.

3) Saint Agnes the Prostitute

4) Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

5) Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind.

YOU: What miracle did Saint Camille the Vain perform?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: This is an interesting one. A bit of an anti-Saint Camille, to be honest. A vain young girl - highly marriage, very wealthy, that sort of thing - who had caused several duels to be fought on her behalf. She refused to marry, however, preferring to sit in front of the mirror, brushing her very long -

PAIN THRESHOLD: Prepare yourself -

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Blonde hair.

INTERFACING: You used to love to braid her hair for her. You’d sit on the floor, playing music in your tiny matchbox house, while she laid on the couch and let her hair dangle down as you played with it. At least, at first…

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Despite entreaties from her mother, father, priest, and extended family, Saint Agnes refused to marry anyone, claiming that she did not love anyone of them. Finally, pressed to the utmost, she was heard to exclaim, loudly in church, that she wished God would turn her to stone, so then men could look at her whenever they wanted, and she didn’t have to suffer it.

YOU: And did…?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The stories say yes, there was a lightning strike that struck the church - a sudden storm, complete darkness, howling wind - and the girl, when enough candles had been lit to clear the confusion, had been discovered to have been turned into a perfectly lifelike statue.

LOGIC: It’s far more likely that perhaps there was a marriage plot - a young poor man spirited her away under her family’s very noses - a perfect replica of marble was smuggled into the church and, in the confusion, revealed to be her -

INLAND EMPIRE: Saint Camille the Vain is often depicted looking into a hand-mirror, which, when portrayed in stained glass, reflects pure light.

1) Saint Jean the Gambler.

2) Saint Camille the Vain.

3) Saint Agnes the Prostitute

4) Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

5) Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind.

YOU: What miracle did Saint Agnes the Prostitute perform?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: You already know this one. So many young - and old - men turned to Dolores Dei, pledging their life savings to the church. Agnes couldn’t understand it. She had been attempting to climb over a monastery wall - sure that this was the path to get laid - she had heard all those stories, you know - when she had fallen into a pond and drowned.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A noble way to go, sire.

INLAND EMPIRE: The cold green water - colder than anything - sinking down - down -

SHIVERS: There is a small parade held every tenth of November for her in the older part of the city, which features an extremely large and humorous effigy of the saint’s desperate measures for love.

1) Saint Jean the Gambler.

2) Saint Camille the Vain.

3) Saint Agnes the Prostitute.

4) Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

5) Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind.

YOU: And Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler?

INLAND EMPIRE: He has brought you back to life. Once he had found you overdosed in the precinct showers, and had kneeled in the pouring water, pushing on your chest so hard something had cracked in there and you’d ached for months afterwards, screaming for Torson to go get Gottlieb, get anybody, and when you’d gotten a hefty shot of speed -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: That’s why you always mix your uppers with your downers - no risk of overdose -

INLAND EMPIRE: You had blinked at him slowly, and said, with the voice of the grave, “Jean? Why are you crying?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’m not fucking crying,” he gritted out, “we’re in the fucking shower, are you trying to kill yourself?”

INLAND EMPIRE: No. But you just wanted it to stop, just for a little bit…

JEAN VICQUEMARE: And all of the times he had pulled you out of a puddle of your own bodily fluids, face down, so you didn’t drown. All of the times he had given you pills to calm your racing heart. All of the times he had brought you pills from the evidence locker, palming you speed under your desk, because at least then you weren’t digging around and finding them yourself, taking God knew what. All the times he covered for you, telling Pryce you were sick, you weren’t well, you were out on a case…

1) Saint Jean the Gambler.

2) Saint Camille the Vain.

3) Saint Agnes the Prostitute.

4) Saint Jean-Heron the Enabler.

5) Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind.

YOU: And Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Blind?

INLAND EMPIRE: His infernal engine brought you roaring out of the dark and back into this world, irreparably. He had prayed to God and then made an impossible shot. He had staunched the flow of your lifeblood, pouring out into the street, and had stitched you back up again, and had bathed your clammy skin, and had sat vigil by you, three days, while his vision throbbed, blurrier than usual. And he has sparked something in you, something long gone, something light in your chest, and glowing…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Going to church, are we?

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Everybody wants to be saved.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: As if you would ever go to church. The only church you’re capable of worshipping in is one of your own destruction, baby.

YOU: I mean, I didn’t think it seemed that bad…

LIMBIC SYSTEM: He’s too far gone. He doesn’t even see.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: The church of love, Harrier. It’s the one thing tethering you to Elysium. It’s chaining you down. Don’t you want to be free?

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Free like birds are - high above it all - no one to answer to, no one to crush your lungs into powder…

YOU: What does freedom look like?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Darkness. Nothingness. Oblivion.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: All you need to do is rid yourself of love, once and for all.

YOU: But I have rid myself of love. I mean, I don’t even remember her. Not really.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Remember the days you used to long to forget her? Of course you don’t. But we do. And now it’s here, and you’re running headlong into it again…

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You poor baby bird. You’ll never learn. You’ll always be stumbling through the desert, chasing after love, like the next mirage on the plane. Maybe this time, it will be real, you think, every time…

YOU: You’re in the church in Martinaise, and Dolores Dei is before you, except instead of her in stained glass, it is really her. Close enough to touch. You shuffle closer and kick something over.

DOLOREs DEI: She laughs. It is not a nice sound.

YOU: Looking down, you see you’ve kicked a bowl of water. The water runs away from you, across the uneven warped floorboards, down through the cracks.

DOLORES DEI: “Oh, Harry. You’re always looking at the wrong thing.”

YOU: You look around, the church dark and shadowy in the corners. You are so very, very alone. That’s not right. There should be someone with you, shouldn’t there? Someone to protect you from her? From yourself?

DOLORES DEI: “Up,” she says. She sounds bored. “You should be looking up.”

YOU: You look up. There is no roof, only black nothingness, dark and absolute. There is nothing above you.

DOLORES DEI: “This is your life, Harry.” Her eyes are raised to the horror above you, hands clasped over her lungs. “It’s nothing.”

YOU: “That’s not true. I have a life. I have - I have my work. I have friends.”

DOLORES DEI: She laughs again. “Your work. You have a job that’s killing you-”

YOU: “That you wanted me to take! I did it for you.”

DOLORES DEI: “No. You did it because you’re sick, Harry. Because you can’t leave anyone alone. Like your friends. Tell me, what friends do you have, Harry?”

YOU: “I have Kim-”

DOLORES DEI: “Ah, the lieutenant.” Something scuttles overhead, just below the nothingness, and throws a strange shadow across her face. “You’re going to ruin him, Harry. Just like you ruined me, and Jean, and yourself. Oh, don’t look like that, Harry, I’m only trying to help you…”

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Someone’s here.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: In your apartment.

YOU: Not the church…?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Wake up.

YOU: You wake, suddenly.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Your heart hammers in your chest, the aftereffects of too much booze.

PERCEPTION: It’s pounding so hard you’re having trouble hearing anything else.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Another drink will smooth you out.

PERCEPTION: As your heart rate slows, you hear someone moving through your apartment.

HALF LIGHT: A thief - a murderer - an assassin -

LOGIC: The last two are pretty unlikely.

PERCEPTION: The smell of motor oil and chestnut smoke. The whisk of nylon -

VISUAL CALCULUS: Kim.

SUGGESTION: This is a dream.

INLAND EMPIRE: This is no dream.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your heart begins to beat hard again, suddenly, for no good reason.

KIM KITSURAGI: He had knocked on your door, and, hearing your radio on - much louder than it should have been for this time of night -

EMPATHY: He had been worried.

KIM KITSURAGI: - had let himself in. “Detective,” he had muttered when he’d opened the door, to no response.

COMPOSURE: Afraid he was making a fool of himself.

HALF LIGHT: Afraid he wasn’t.

KIM KITSURAGI: Now, he turns the radio down to a much more reasonable level.

DRAMA: To a much lamer level.

KIM KITSURAGI: He comes closer to where you are, sprawled on the couch.

LOGIC: Checking to make sure you’re still breathing.

DRAMA: Quick! Fake being asleep.

YOU: You fake being asleep.

KIM KITSURAGI: He comes closer, a dark shape between you and the streetlight coming in through your windows.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like nothingness. A hole in the world.

RHETORIC: True nothingness wears love for a face.

KIM KITSURAGI: He bends over you and puts a hand on your chest. He leaves it there for a few breaths.

SUGGESTION: Which you do slowly - deeply - as if you are truly asleep.

DRAMA: Truly a pitch-perfect performance, sire! He’ll never know. He’s never seen you sleep.

LOGIC: Uhh….

YOU: What now?

PERCEPTION: Kim’s hand is warm on your chest. A heavy weight.

LOGIC: Well, there were those three days he watched you sleep in Martinaise.

EMPATHY: His hand on your chest, like this, now.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He’d fall asleep like that, sometimes.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says now, and slowly pulls his hand away.

YOU: What’s he thinking?

EMPATHY: Sorry. We can’t see his face.

PERCEPTION: If your eyes were open, you could see the look on his face right now.

SUGGESTION: I cannot emphasize strongly enough how much you should not do that, brother.

YOU: You feel Kim gently tug the bottle of Commodore Red out of the crook of your arm.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The loss of a true friend.

VISUAL CALCULUS: With your eyes still shut, you track Kim by sound as he goes to the kitchen, pours out the remainder of the wine -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Foul fiend, false friend -

PERCEPTION: - and hear him rinse it out and place it, carefully, in your tare bin.

KIM KITSURAGI: He comes back into the living room, opens the windows.

PERCEPTION: A fresh, clean July breeze comes in, and you can’t help but breathe in, deeply.

YOU: Then, silence and stillness for a long time. Is Kim still there? You can’t tell.

HALF LIGHT: He’s left you.

SUGGESTION: He was never here. A fever-wish from an addled mind, a drunken hallucination…

YOU: You crack your eyes open.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim stands at the end of the couch, looking out the windows, his hands behind his back.

PERCEPTION: At this angle - and shorter than you - he can see the spill of light on the sidewalk, the base of the light poles, feet of passersby -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The violence of your drunken awakening is fading, the alcohol slipping into your bloodstream, filtering through your already putrid liver.

YOU: You’re already falling asleep again, your breathing slowing, for real this time. It helps, having Kim here.

HALF LIGHT: Another animal in the dark.

EMPATHY: Kim.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Come to deliver you of a sleepless night.

ENDURANCE: And Kim? It’s late. He has a long way to go back home. Why is he here?

EMPATHY: He cares about you.

YOU: You drift…images spin before your eyes like lights thrown by a disco ball…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Wake up. Look.

YOU: You wake, more slowly this time, eyes half-open. Kim is still positioned the same, turned away from you - but his head is tilted down and to the side.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Looking at you.

KIM KITSURAGI: His hands are loose by his sides, his shoulders lowered.

YOU: Your apartment is dark, the spill of light from the high windows bright behind his head.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a halo.

INLAND EMPIRE: Yes. Like a halo.

YOU: You swear your eyes meet. Then he turns fully, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

KIM KITSURAGI: He comes over to the couch, pulls a blanket off the back, then drapes it over you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You are enveloped in warmth, a light pressure.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Comforting. Familiar.

RHETORIC: You’re so goddamn cozy right now.

KIM KITSURAGI: He puts his hand on your ankle, thumb just below the bone. He curls his fingers. His voice, when he speaks, is low and burred, as if he hasn’t spoken in some time.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: How long has he been here?

ENDURANCE: Long enough.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Goodnight, Harry,” he says softly, and leaves.

PERCEPTION: The click of the door is very loud, cutting the sound of his footsteps off as he recedes down the hallway.

SHIVERS: A man climbs a set of stairs in the dark night. It is late - it is very late - and he is the only one on this street under the streetlamp, although there are many like him in the city. It is cloudy, and as an aerostatic passes by overhead, he looks up at the sky, streetlights reflecting on the lenses of his glasses, creating twin haloes. Then he looks away, and down at the ground, and begins walking, slowly, as if lost in thought…

YOU: You shuffle onto your side, balling the blanket up in the vicinity of your stomach, and curling around it.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: It is as if you are holding someone.

YOU: You fall asleep like that…

YOU: “I had a crazy dream last night, Kim,” you say the next morning.

CENTRAL JAMROCK: The two of you are investigating a body that was found out back of le Flamant on Boogie Street.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A great place to party.

INLAND EMPIRE: You used to go here.

HALF LIGHT: This could’ve been you, Harry.

LOGIC: Unlikely. You’re not a thin young woman who has pretty clearly overdosed.

ENDURANCE: Yeah! You’re made of better stuff than that!


 ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We should prove it. Right now.

SAVOIR FAIRE: So Kim knows we’re cool.

VOLITION: We should not.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Speaking of the lieutenant. Look at him.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He’s stiffened where he’s crouching down by the young woman’s corpse, back ramrod straight, face turned away from you.

HALF LIGHT: It’s because of you.

EMPATHY: He doesn’t want to talk about it.

YOU: Why?

COMPOSURE: It was an inexcusable weakness.


DRAMA: Maybe it didn’t really happen.

INLAND EMPIRE: No, it did. You called him. Don’t you remember?


 YOU: No. I don’t.

HALF LIGHT: You’ll lose it all again.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Just a minor blackout. Nothing to worry about, boss. Don’t let it stop you from living your life.

INLAND EMPIRE: You got drunk, and sad, and then drunker, and then sadder -

RHETORIC: You get so sad, Harry. Too sad. It’s scary.

INLAND EMPIRE: - and then you had called him and hung up when he had said, “Kim Kitsuragi,” low into the phone, directly into your brain, a shudder going through you.

YOU: How’d he know it was me?

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Copper’s instincts.

SUGGESTION: A lucky guess.

LOGIC: You had breathed into the phone shakily, once, twice, before hanging up. He’d recognized your breaths.

INLAND EMPIRE: He’d spent three days with nothing to do but listen to them in a dim hostel room, after all.

COMPOSURE: Don’t mention any of this to the detective. He won’t appreciate it.

1) “Kim, I had this crazy dream you were in my apartment last night.”

2) “Kim, did I call you last night?”

3) “Kim, I had this crazy dream about the church in Martinaise, and my ex-something-”

4) “Kim, are we friends?”

5) “Kim, do you remember your dreams?”

6) “You know what, never mind. I guess I don’t really remember after all.”

YOU: “Kim, are we friends?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He looks up at you, startled. “Friends?” he says.

HALF LIGHT: Oh god.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Ouch.

[-1 morale]

VOLITION: Steady now.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Your lungs cramp painfully in your chest.

EMPATHY: Friends…? Kim thinks. He rocks back on his heels.

SUGGESTION: It is not a word he uses often.

SAVOIR FAIRE: The lieutenant is a solitary man. Has always been.

KIM KITSURAGI: It would explain a lot, he thinks. All of the phone calls when you are off work - from both of you. How he enjoys spending time with you. How he had hung up, quickly, last night, and driven over to your apartment.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: If the lieutenant were asked to come up with the idea of a friend, he would not have imagined a man like you.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Again, ouch.

DRAMA: We are wounded, sire! We succumb!

EMPATHY: But you are his friend, nonetheless.

KIM KITSURAGI: “We are partners, Harry.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The word partner is used in a variety of contexts: in dance, for two people who work together closely, like RCM officers, thieves, or magicians. It is used no fewer than twenty-seven times in the movie Lonesome Range, which, coincidentally, is one of Jean Vicquemare’s favorites, although he’ll never admit to it. It also has definite sexual or romantic connotations.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hang on. Back that one up a mo’. Did you say -

KIM KITSURAGI: “But yes, detective, I also consider you my friend.”

[All morale healed.]

PERCEPTION: The tips of his ears are flushed red.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: They’re glowing.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Wait, we could be having fuck with Kim?

LOGIC: Erm…yeah?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Shit, even I knew that.

YOU: “That’s great, Kim! You’re my friend too!”

COACH PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: This is fucking wonderful. Why don’t you pansies buy each other matching friendship bracelets?

SAVOIR FAIRE: Bracelets aren’t either of your styles. You need something like - like -

SUGGESTION: Matching jackets.

YOU: “Kim!” you shout, startling a nearby grackle. “Do you still have your-”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I am not wearing that jacket,” he says calmly, leaning back over the body and going through the pockets. “Now, perhaps we should be finding this young woman’s friends, no?”

YOU: Still beaming, you squat down next to the body.

THE SAD GIRL: This woman is so sad. She is curled up on herself, her shoes kicked off, the soles of her bare feet dirty. She has no identification on her, no wallet, nothing.

LOGIC: Likely a crime of opportunity and not the cause of death. Jewelry, cash, even shoes, sometimes, are taken off the dead.

SHIVERS: A man brings home a pair of good boots, almost his size, with a little newspaper in the toes. A child struggles to speak around a mouthful of candy purchased with stolen reál.

1) Wow, that’s pretty sick.

2) Wow, that’s a great example of communism in practice.

3) How the hell did I keep my clothes in Martinaise?

PERCEPTION: They smelled too bad to steal.

LOGIC: And you were mostly passed out in your room.

1) Why are you so sad?

2) What is your name?

3) Got any more of whatever it is you OD’d on?

4) Where did you come from?

YOU: What is your name?


 THE SAD GIRL: They used to call me Therese Tristesse. A cruel nickname, a play on words. I was always crying. I couldn’t help it. Everything hurts so much.

1) Yes, it does. Oh god, it does.

2) Yes! That’s why I do drugs!

3) You need to toughen up. You just couldn’t cut it.

YOU: Yes! That’s why I do drugs!

THERESE TRISTESSE: Me too. But everything’s still so sad.

1) Why are you so sad?

2) What is your name?

3) Got any more of whatever it is you OD’d on?

4) Where did you come from?

YOU: Where did you come from?

THERESE TRISTESSE: From le Flamant. I had put on my best dress and gone out to dance, thinking it would make me feel better. It didn’t. Everyone was there without me, everyone there with someone. I was alone. Until I saw Bertrand…

1) Bertrand?

2) Let’s focus here on the dancing. That’s what’s important.

YOU: Let’s focus here on the dancing. That’s what’s important.

THERESE TRISTESSE: I could never dance. Everyone always said I had two left feet.

LOGIC: And now she never will again.

INLAND EMPIRE: How many dancing days do you have left, detective?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Something slow falls in your chest.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You need to get out and dance right now. Ditch the fun-sucker and party.

LOGIC: It’s ten in the morning.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s always 21:00 somewhere.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: There is a famous song with that exact title, extorting its listeners to open another Potent Pilsner despite what time it is for the listener, because it’s 21:00 somewhere.

YOU: You look at Kim Kitsuragi the fun-sucker, who alternates between filling out the autopsy form and watching you, patiently.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This man would wait for you forever, if he thought you were doing right.

YOU: I’m trying. Oh, God, I’m trying.

VOLITION: Then continue.

1) Bertrand?

2) Let’s focus here on the dancing. That’s what’s important.

YOU: Bertrand?

THERESE TRISTESSE: Bertrand. I bought some pills off him. Something to make me feel better. I took them - felt unwell, came out for air, laid down -

INLAND EMPIRE: The pavement damp through her clothes, the light bright. The sound of dance music from the club, muffled and meaningless. She curled up and closed her eyes…

1) Why are you so sad?

2) What is your name?

3) Got any more of whatever it is you OD’d on?

4) Where did you come from?

YOU: Got any more of whatever it is you OD’d on?

THERESE TRISTESSE: No. Sorry. It’s all gone…

1) Why are you so sad?

2) What is your name?

3) Got any more of whatever it is you OD’d on?

4) Where did you come from?

YOU: Why are you so sad?

THERESE TRISTESSE: I loved a man and he didn’t love me. And then I loved another man and he didn’t love me. Why are you so sad?

1) The same as you.

2) It’s always the same old story, isn’t it?

3) My sadness isn’t like yours. It’s vast.

4) The world is ending.

YOU: Because the world is ending.

THERESE TRISTESSE: My world has already ended.

1) The same as you.

2) It’s always the same old story, isn’t it?

3) My sadness isn’t like yours. It’s vast.

4) The world is ending.

YOU: It’s always the same old story, isn’t it?

THERESE TRISTESSE: That’s how love is - it makes you sad.

1) It’s true.

2) Not always.

YOU: Not always.

THERESE TRISTESSE: Yes. Always. At least for people like me and you…

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, have you found anything?"

PERCEPTION: He is sitting back on his heels, tucking his notebook away, pushing his glasses up. Watching you.

AUTHORITY: He is too good for you.

HALF LIGHT: He is going to make you sad.

YOU: “We should request a toxicology report, Kim. I think she got something in the club, overdosed. Came out here because she didn’t feel well, and-” You gesture at the sad body, her gray dress flecked and stained.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, alright. Anything else?”

YOU: “We should ask the club managers, regulars. Maybe they know who she was. Or who sold to her.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Therese Tristesse, you think. A made up name, half-true, speaking to a portion of the girl, and not the whole.

RHETORIC: Like maybe how your sadness isn’t the whole of you?


 SUGGESTION: That…doesn’t sound right.

DRAMA: Like Firewalker, or Tequila Sunset.

YOU: “We should ask around, too. She was local. Ish. Look at those shoes.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: Scuffed, red leather. Half-size too small, but you have to take what the thrift store has. You got lucky with your own snakeskin shoes.

GREEN SNAKESKIN SHOES: We were made for each other, mon cheri. The day they lower you into the ground they better lower me down with you.

PAIN THRESHOLD: The girl’s blisters aren’t too bad. She didn’t walk far.

YOU: You tell Kim this and he nods, leaning over to perform the Stations of the Breath.

KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes closed, one hand on the girl’s chest, the other behind his back, a loose fist.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Saint Kitsuragi the Observer.

PERCEPTION: You swear in the daylight you can almost see -

YOU: You startle, staring at him.

PERCEPTION: - but no. It’s gone.

KIM KITSURAGI: “I wonder why,” he says, when he rises.

YOU: “She was sad, Kim. She was so sad. Don’t you ever get sad, Kim?”

EMPATHY: Something flashes over his face, behind his glasses.

COMPOSURE: It is shut away, quickly, behind his eyes.

KIM KITSURAGI: “What I do when I get sad, detective,” he says, reaching into his pocket and adjusting his notebook to sit against his chest properly, “is get to work.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: The lieutenant works all the time.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s always with you, isn’t he? On the street, late, in the precinct, finishing up paperwork. Sometimes in the Kineema as you inch through crowded streets.

YOU: “Well - after work - what about lunch, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He turns to you, studying you sharply.

DRAMA: Careful, now. If he detects pity -

YOU: There is no pity to detect. Only hope.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And a little hunger. Your stomach rumbles audibly and you clap a hand to it in dismay.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim laughs, then says, “Once we get this young woman back and logged.”

YOU: You follow Kim to the Kineema, practically dancing in his footsteps.

YOU: You go back to the cinema one night in August, bottle of Commodore Red tucked into your jacket, another already sloshing around inside your swollen guts. You pay for a ticket, mumbling something, and stumble down the aisles, hands on the back of the seats to keep you upright.

CINEMA D’AUTOMNE: It’s hot in there, stuffy, the fans roaring so loud you can barely hear the dialogue.

ENDURANCE: It doesn’t help with the heat.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re sweating.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Your shirt sticks between your shoulders as you wrestle your way out of your your disco-ass blazer, ball it up on the seat beside you.

YOU: You wipe at your forehead with your forearm.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Slump down in your seat, long legs sprawled out, one hand shading your eyes from the glare of the screen.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And drink.

PERCEPTION: The wine is cloying, too sweet. The movie black and white.

LOGIC: An old one.

INLAND EMPIRE: This is so familiar. You used to drink yourself into a stupor, washing down the sleeping pills you’d palmed from a suicide case, because then you’d dream of her, could plead and try to get her back. Try again. Again. You’d fall asleep here, watching old black and white romances.

DRAMA: Even without the words, you can tell something awful is happening on screen. It’s a detective movie, one of the old ones before Dick Mullen. Back when detectives could still be hurt. There is a beautiful woman - blonde, of course - in the detective’s office, and she is pointing a gun at him.

RHETORIC: Betrayal, thy name is woman.

YOU: You can’t breathe, suddenly, and you take in one great big breath through your nose. Clearing snot.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re crying.

ENDURANCE: The movie’s just fucking started. God, you’re not going to make it, are you?


 PERCEPTION: The woman leaves, closing the door behind her, and a noise bursts out in the cinema over the roar of the fans.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: A wounded animal.

PERCEPTION: Something flashes up the aisle, out of the corner of your vision.

HALF LIGHT: Potential victims fleeing the scene.

YOU: You curl up around your bottle of Commodore Red.

INLAND EMPIRE: You’ve done this before. Come to this very cinema, sat in this exact seat - a third of the way from the back, best view of both the screen and aisle, close to the pisser, nearly invisible if you’re slouched down. There’s a dead spot in the house lights, a hole in the cinema, a spot of nothingness you can wallow in. Once or twice - or five or six or a dozen times - you’d passed out there and slept, unnoticed, until the next day.

DRAMA: You’d watch the saddest films you could find.

EMPATHY: They’re all sad to you, Harry. You’re so sad. You’re too sad.

HALF LIGHT: There would be a clear circle of seats around you no one would sit in.

SHIVERS: Legend has it that the CINEMA D’AUTOMNE is haunted by the Green Ghost.

PERCEPTION: The breaking of glass. Groans and whimpers and curses.

DRAMA: Why, the ghost will say sometimes, or, please.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: A romantic story has sprung up around the Green Ghost - a man unhappy in love, spurned by a young actress -

LOGIC: The ghost, it was noted, appeared most often on nights there was a blonde actress -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Who, although she promised her love to the Green Ghost, ran off with a film producer, crossing the Pale where he couldn’t follow. The man died of a broken heart in this very cinema and haunts it to this day.

LOGIC: Of course the CINEMA D’AUTOMNE workers know the truth.

VOLITION: It’s just you.

SUGGESTION: It’s always just you.

EMPATHY: Just a sad bloated drunk with RCM patches on his clothes, who they’d find covered in bodily fluids and weeping.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Turning dumb, desperate eyes on them.

INLAND EMPIRE: One girl tried to drape your patrol cloak over you, once.

REACTION SPEED: But you had woken suddenly, grabbing her arm tight.

PAIN THRESHOLD: “Dora?” You’d cracked.

HALF LIGHT: She had turned in her smock and never come back.

SHIVERS: “Previous experience?” The girl says, shifting. “I used to usher at CINEMA D’AUTOMNE. But really, I’m very passionate about hairdressing.” She tries to smile. Please, she thinks, please don’t make me go back there.

RHETORIC: You are a monster, brother. You destroy everything you touch.

INTERFACING: You should cut off both your hands.

LOGIC: Might be hard to do the second one, though.

EMPATHY: You could ask for help?

VOLITION: You should ask for help. Not with that. This is getting bad. You should get up, get out of here.

PAIN THRESHOLD: This film has nothing new for you.

DRAMA: We’ll spoil it for you. Boy loves girl, girl double-crosses boy. Swears she’ll love him forever, that he’s got a vast soul, that she’ll always come back to him.

YOU: And then?

DRAMA: And then she doesn’t, genius.

YOU: Maybe that’s not how it ends. Maybe it’ll be different this time.

LOGIC: That’s not how it works.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Not for you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Maybe - hear me out. What if it was another boy? Maybe then it would be different.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Excuse me?

REACTION SPEED: No, no… let’s hear him out.

RHETORIC: Women are the font of treachery, after all.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: A blonde man…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No, no, we like dark-haired men.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: I can’t believe I’m hearing this right now.

YOU: I do like dark-haired men.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: I think I’m going to be sick.

DRAMA: Don’t be dramatic.

RHETORIC: We just learned about the homosexual underground with Kim -

ENDURANCE: No, we’re actually going to be sick.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Don’t you dare blame this on the Commodore -

PAIN THRESHOLD: It is absolutely the Commodore. Get up - get up -

YOU: You make it to the bathroom just in time to unleash a stream of red-dyed acid into the toilet.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Shaking -

PERCEPTION: As the world spins around you.

YOU: You wish someone were with you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Their hand on your back. Pat pat pat.

HALF LIGHT: You are alone.

PERCEPTION: The buzz of the light. The fan. Your dry heaves, with a little sob on the end.

AUTHORITY: You’re pathetic.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You’re a wreck.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You knocked over your bottle of Commodore Red on your way in here. It’s currently flooding down the aisle - a river of red soaking into the carpet.

PAIN THRESHOLD: No one will ever love you.

LOGIC: Man or woman.

COMPOSURE: You’re scum, Harry.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: The whole point of a ghost is that no one can ever love it.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Most entroponeticists postulate that “ghosts,” or hauntings, are not a paranormal phenomenon, but rather isolated spots of Pale, nothing more than strong memories or emotions fixed in place by their very vividity.

INLAND EMPIRE: Love concentrated, fixed in place, heedless of time.

RHETORIC: After the world, the Pale. After the Pale, the world again.

INLAND EMPIRE: These ghosts are what the world will be remade of after the Pale.

EMPATHY: You will haunt every place you’ve ever been. Your love will bring this world back.

SHIVERS: You will keep me on this earth.

YOU: Somehow you find yourself on Kim’s landing.

SHIVERS: The 31 bus route connects Central Jamrock with the GRIH.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Fifteen stops to Kim’s.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Your pocket is lighter by seven reál.

HALF LIGHT: And your lifetime shortened by an hour and a half.

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: What are you even doing here, anyway?



YOU: I’m trying to see Kim.

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: Do you know what time it is?

YOU: Uhh….

VISUAL CALCULUS: Uhhh…..

ENCYCLOPEDIA: 20:00 hours?

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: Try again. That’s a figure of speech. Don’t actually try again, you drunk fucking asshole. Look, Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s a hard-working man. What are you doing here, bothering him?


 YOU: I need him.

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: It’s all you, you, you, isn’t it, bud? I know your type. You ever think about what Kim wants? What Kim needs?


 EMPATHY: All the time.

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: And you’ve come to the conclusion that it’s you? Really?

1) You’re right. I’m a piece of shit. I should just go home.

2) No, fuck you, door! I don’t let doors talk to me like that. Do you know how many doors I’ve broken down in my day?

3) I can’t help it. I’m just so sad. [Slump, sobbing, to the floor.]

YOU: No, fuck you, door! I don’t let doors talk to me like that. Do you know how many doors I’ve broken down in my day?

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: Yeah? How many, tough guy?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Seventeen.

YOU: Seventeen, you cheap hollow-core fuck.

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: Let’s see what you’ve got, then.

VOLITION: You know…I don’t think Kim would appreciate having his door broken down at 23:00.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Oh, now you chime in. Nice. Real nice.

LOGIC: You could just…knock? Ask Kim to sort it out?


 RHETORIC: Between you and the door? Impossible. He’ll always choose the door.

1) Knock.

2) Kick the door in.

3) You’re right. I’m a piece of shit. I should just go home. [Turn around and leave.]

4) I can’t help it. I’m just so sad. [Slump, sobbing, to the floor.]

YOU: You knock, aiming for something jaunty and disco.

DRAMA: The baseline to an O.O. song you’d heard on the radio last week.

SAVOIR FAIRE: What you get is RCM officer, open up.

PERCEPTION: A noise inside, as if of someone crossing to the door and looking through the peephole.

KIM’S APARTMENT: He swings the door open, quickly.

REACTION SPEED: You nearly fall in, catching yourself with a hand on the doorframe. You grin down at Kim, winningly, who is wearing his cargo pants and a loose shirt.

SAVOIR FAIRE: The pants have been hastily pulled on.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “Who were you just talking to out there?”

1) “No one. You’re imagining things.”

2) “That punkass door of yours. I bet it lets in all kinds of people when you’re not home.”

3) “Myself. I’m the best conversationalist around, wouldn’t you agree?”

YOU: “That punkass door of yours. I bet it lets in all kinds of people when you’re not home.”

KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR: I’ll fucking get you, motherfucker.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I certainly hope not.” He eyeballs the door, then you. He sighs, then steps aside. “Come in, detective.”

YOU: You do, brushing past him in the process.

KIM’S APARTMENT: His apartment is clean, and a little cool, the windows open to the night.

HALF LIGHT: It feels small after the cinema, in a comforting way.

KIM KITSURAGI: “And what brings you to the GRIH this time of night?”

1) “I had a thought about a case, Kim!”

2) “I didn’t want to be alone.”

3) “Someone had to teach your door a lesson.”

4) “I saw the saddest movie in the world, Kim.”

YOU: “I had a thought about a case, Kim!”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh? Which one?”

REACTION SPEED: Uh…hmmm…

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Would you believe we can’t think of a single fucking case right now?

DRAMA: The rest is silence!!

KIM KITSURAGI: He crosses his arms over his chest while you flounder.

1) “I had a thought about a case, Kim!”

2) “I didn’t want to be alone.”

3) “Someone had to teach your door a lesson.”

4) “I saw the saddest movie in the world, Kim.”

YOU: “I saw the saddest movie in the world, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: Something softens around his eyebrows. “What movie?”

YOU: “The Messinian Cockatoo.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “The detective movie?” His arms uncross as he frowns.

COMPOSURE: Your traitorous lower lip starts to wobble.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective. I’m sure it’s not so bad as all that?”

EMPATHY: He’s really trying to understand.

INLAND EMPIRE: It is so bad as all that.

PAIN THRESHOLD: And so much more.

YOU: You nod, then shake your head, then nod again, biting your lip.

KIM KITSURAGI: He puts a hand on your shoulder, another on your arm, and steers you into the living room, where he picks something off the couch -

VISUAL CALCULUS: The crossword.

KIM KITSURAGI: And gently pushes you down. He folds his legs up and sits facing you, knees brushing your thigh.

PERCEPTION: The lamplight behind his head, seen refracted through your watering eyes -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: There’s that halo again.

EMPATHY: He’s so good.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry…” he says.

COMPOSURE: Weighing whether he should ask.

KIM KITSURAGI: “What happened?”

1) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. I’m a piece of shit, Kim.”

2) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. Those are the risks you take when you’re a superstar, Kim.”

3) “Are there any movies that aren’t sad?”

4) “I’m trying so fucking hard, Kim, and it seems like I’m not getting anywhere.”

5) “Kim, have you ever been in love?”

YOU: “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. I’m a piece of shit, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re not a piece of shit,” he says sharply.

AUTHORITY: You cringe back against the couch cushion in the face of that force.

YOU: “Okay,” you say, dumbly.

1) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. I’m a piece of shit, Kim.”

2) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. Those are the risks you take when you’re a superstar, Kim.”

3) “Are there any movies that aren’t sad?”

4) “I’m trying so fucking hard, Kim, and it seems like I’m not getting anywhere.”

5) “Kim, have you ever been in love?”

YOU: “I’m trying so fucking hard, Kim, and it seems like I’m not getting anywhere.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I know,” he says, and clears his throat. He leans forward and puts his hand on your knee. “But what you are doing, Harrier - it is very impressive. Extremely so.”

EMPATHY: He’s not just saying that.

ENDURANCE: He respects you immensely.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He has tried to quit his one cigarette a day four times now since meeting you, and has failed, each time.

YOU: “Even though I keep relapsing?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes.”

1) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. I’m a piece of shit, Kim.”

2) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. Those are the risks you take when you’re a superstar, Kim.”

3) “Are there any movies that aren’t sad?”

4) “I’m trying so fucking hard, Kim, and it seems like I’m not getting anywhere.”

5) “Kim, have you ever been in love?”

YOU: “Kim, have you ever been in love?”

KIM KITSURAGI: He shifts, uncomfortably. “Yes.”

SUGGESTION: With who?

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Do we know him?

HALF LIGHT: We’ll kill him.

KIM KITSURAGI: “A long time ago.”

VISUAL CALCULUS: He doesn’t look at you.

DRAMA: He’s lying.

SUGGESTION: Press him on it.

INLAND EMPIRE: Don’t. Not yet.

VOLITION: To be loved by Kim Kitsuragi would be a wondrous thing indeed.

1) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. I’m a piece of shit, Kim.”

2) “What happened? I got too drunk in public and threw up, that’s what happened. Those are the risks you take when you’re a superstar, Kim.”

3) “Are there any movies that aren’t sad?”

4) “I’m trying so fucking hard, Kim, and it seems like I’m not getting anywhere.”

5) “Kim, have you ever been in love?”

YOU: “Are there any movies that aren’t sad?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Live Fast and Die Young. There is no actual dying. Well. Plenty, but only the ‘bad guys.’” He leans forward and pulls a video cassette case off the coffee table and hands it to you.

LIVE FAST AND DIE YOUNG: A handsome dark-haired man levels a gun at you, the viewer. Two absolute foxes pose on either side of him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Now that’s what we’re talking about, baby!

HALF LIGHT: They’ll probably just betray him, in the end.

KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not the most highbrow, but…” he shrugs.

YOU: So you watch the movie as the alcohol thundering through your veins slowly integrates, and you start to sober up. You curl around a pillow while Kim drags his crossword back over and works on it, leaning into the lamplight to see.


VOLITION: This is nice, isn’t it?


 CONCEPTUALIZATION: Cozy.

SUGGESTION: You could stay here forever.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim bitches, quietly, about the car chases and their general inaccuracy. At one point, he leans into you and says, “This one is particularly bad.”

YOU: “You’ve seen this before?”


 COMPOSURE: The tips of his ears flush.

PERCEPTION: It’s dark, but you’re close enough to see.

KIM KITSURAGI: “I, ah.” He clears his throat. “Just finished it earlier this evening.”

YOU: “Is it that good?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “No.”

EMPATHY: He’s watching it again for you.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Something clogs in your throat.

YOU: You gulp and nod.

LOGIC: You must fall asleep during the movie, because you wake a few hours later to an almost unfamiliar darkness.

PERCEPTION: Rough fabric beneath you. A scratchy blanket over you. The spill of red neon light on the floor -

VISUAL CALCULUS: The TV screen off, the faint sound of someone else’s breathing.

LOGIC: You’ve fallen asleep on Kim’s couch.

INLAND EMPIRE: You are safe now.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Comfortable.

VOLITION: Go back to sleep.

YOU: Your eyes fall back closed, and you sleep….

INLAND EMPIRE: You do not remember your dreams.

YOU: The next morning, KIM’S APARTMENT DOOR swings shut on your finger, giving you a nasty blood blister you nurse the rest of the day.

PAIN THRESHOLD: With silent hopes that the lieutenant notices and kisses it better.


PERCEPTION: He does not.

LOGIC: It doesn’t really work like that, you know.

YOU: No, I don’t know, because no one’s ever kissed my wounds better.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Oh, does baby have a widdle boo-boo? Is baby going to cwy about it?

INLAND EMPIRE: Your mother, surely. Maybe her…?

YOU: You feel kind of like crying right now, actually.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, are you alright?” He puts a hand on your shoulder.

1) “I’m totally fine, Kim.” [Be a man.]

2) [Burst into tears.]

3) [Hold out your finger, wordlessly.]

YOU: You hold out your finger, wordlessly.

INTERFACING: He takes your hand in his, leather warm on your skin.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Kim’s holding your hand!

VICUAL CALCULUS: He inspects it, finger tapping yours. “Blood blister,” he says. “Where’d you pick that up?”

1) “Your punkass door.”

2) “I don’t remember.”

3) “Doing something totally manly.”

YOU: “Doing something totally manly.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says, and drops your hand.

YOU: You feel the loss immediately.

KIM KITSURAGI: “You should put some ice on it, detective.”

YOU: “Okay, yeah. I’ll go do that.”

YOU: But you forget, and it’s some hours later when you come back to your desk that there’s a small styrofoam cup of ice there.

PERCEPTION: The ice rattles as you shove your finger in.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s head doesn’t raise from his paperwork, but you swear you see him smile.

YOU: You’ve got a full case load at work - LIBRARY BLUES, THE CASE OF THE MISSING VASE, THE TIRE-TRACK MARKS -

ESPRIT DE CORPS: THE CASE OF THE DROWNED MAN, THE CASE OF THE DROWNED WOMAN, THE CASE OF THE MAYBE-DROWNED MAN, THE RETURNED GOLD NECKLACE -

RHETORIC: You reopened THE CASE OF THE STOPPED CLOCK almost by accident, flipping to it at your desk one day while you’re eating lunch with Kim, saying through a mouthful of sandwich, “do you think he could have faked his own death for the insurance money…?”

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim shaking his head, but wiping his fingers clean with a napkin as he’s already reaching out -

INTERFACING: The crime scene of THE LOCKED ROOM is in the same neighborhood as THE CASE OF THE MISSING CAT, so might as well talk to all the suspects again - check the dumpsters - maybe there’s something you missed -

SAVOIR FAIRE: Like that cozy fuzzy blue housecoat you snag, barely worn, only a hole in the elbow that Kim says he’ll mend for you if you launder it first.

ENDURANCE: You have nineteen active cases - two murders, five suicides, ten missing property cases, two drug-smuggling rings - fifty-six cold cases, and thirty-four semi-active cases. Not to mention the couple of new calls you get each day, fairly simple cases, like domestics, stolen property, robberies, muggings, welfare checks -

DRAMA: It’s easy. You’re a superstar. You can handle it.

ENDURANCE: You arrive at the precinct at 07:30 and leave at 18:30 most nights, so tired that sometimes Kim gives you a ride home.

KIM KITSURAGI: He stops outside your apartment, the streetlight coming in the car, throwing shadows on his face.

PERCEPTION: He looks tired.

SHIVERS: After you go inside, he takes his glasses off and rubs his burning eyes before preparing to drive the half-hour back home.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officer Jean Vicquemare walks over to Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s desk while you’re in the bathroom. “You’ll have to tell him to stop,” Jean says to Kim. “He won’t slow down on his own. He’s going to wear you out.”

KIM KITSURAGI: While you’re shaking your dick off, Lieutenant Kitsuragi stiffens, shoulders coming back, every ounce of tiredness wiping off his face -

VISUAL CALCULUS - except around his eyes -

KIM KITSURAGI: Lieutenant Kitsuragi says, “We will be fine, Satellite-Officer. Thank you for your concern.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Suit yourself,” Jean snaps, “but don’t come asking any of us to cover your shifts when you burn out.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I will not, thank you.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE: That night in his brown and dim apartment, Jean lays on his couch, smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. He only moves to ash his cigarette, ashtray resting on his chest. He’s thinking about calling you, but you haven’t come to him, and he’s made his bed, he thinks, let him lie in it.

YOU: You’re doing so well, though. He doesn’t need to worry about you. Nobody does. It’s easy.

VISUAL CALCULUS: When you say things like this, brightly, around the coffee maker, everyone watches you.

HALF LIGHT: They’re doubting you, bratan.

LOGIC: They should. You always do this…

YOU: But if I don’t solve these cases, no one else will. Therese Tristesse, Rene Artaud, Janice Joyce, Patrice Barbier, the drowned woman with the mirror in her pocket, the woman who lost her cat, or was it her vase - what’s her name - ?

SHIVERS: They’re all counting on you, detective.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: So you get some speed and you take it - just a little bit, and then you drink so you can fall asleep, and then you take more speed the next day, and…

VICUAL CALCULUS: Kim watches you wherever you go.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: They all do: Jean and Judit and Trant and Torson and McLaine and -

RHETORIC: Just waiting for the other snakeskin shoe to drop.

YOU: It all comes to a head one morning when you and Kim corner a suspect on PREPTIDE TANGO, and your suspect -

HALF LIGHT: A purported hitman for La Puta Madre, suspected of killing your star witness, and currently holed up in an abandoned safehouse -

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Comes at your partner with a prybar.

SAVOIR FAIRE: A cowardly blow, struck from behind.

VISUAL CALCULUS: A killing blow.

HALF LIGHT: You come at him with a larger, heavier prybar.

PERCEPTION: The sound it makes as it strikes the man’s head.

PERCEPTION: The sound the man’s body makes as it hits the ground.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Lifeless.

INLAND EMPIRE: You have never liked killing.

PERCEPTION: The light pours into the room through the slotted blinds, lighting up all the dust motes.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Where a second ago there had been three living humans, now there are only two.

INLAND EMPIRE: The light pours into this room like this from nine to ten-thirty each morning. It made him feel shitty. Made him miss his girl, his little boy. Days holed up in here, waiting for the pigs to stop looking for him, so he could go home. Just this morning he’d been watching the TV screen, smoking nervously, yelling at his girlfriend on the phone. That phone right there. The tears audible in his voice. I don’t know when I’m coming home! Both of them - so young. Terrified. Give Emile a kiss for me, he’d said. I love you.

HALF LIGHT: Love is a terrible, awful thing.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: He was a father.

LOGIC: And you are not.

RHETORIC: You fucking murderer.

DRAMA: Everything dies at your hand.

YOU: You are crouched down by the edge of the couch, the light pouring in, relentless, your hands over your ears, shaking.

PERCEPTION: There is an awful noise, an unending low babble.

LOGIC: It’s you.

HALF LIGHT: Someone crouches down beside you. “Harry, please!”

VISUAL CALCULUS: It’s Kim Kitsuragi.

COMPOSURE: Pull yourself together. You’re an officer of the RCM. A lieutenant double-yefreitor. Two hundred fifty-two solved cases. Four confirmed kills.

LOGIC: Five confirmed kills. Now. With Pierre Martin, father of Emile Martin.

SUGGESTION: Two of them since you’ve been reborn. Is this the kind of man you’ve been reborn into? A killer, a murderer?

ESPRIT DE CORPS: It never gets easier.

KIM KITSURAGI: He tugs your hands away from your ears.

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: You sway, and start to fall -

REACTION SPEED: He catches you, pulling you into him and falling backwards onto his ass, hard, all at the same time.

HALF LIGHT: You’re half-cradled in his arms, your side pressed into his stomach.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Harrier. Harry. It’s okay.”

EMPATHY: It will never be okay again.

INLAND EMPIRE: A great sorrow washes over you.

KIM KITSURAGI: He wraps one arm around you slowly, then the other.

COMPOSURE: He is shaking.

YOU: You clutch one of his biceps.

VISUAL CALCULUS: A meter away, a dead man lies, his eyes staring at nothing. The TV is still on. I just don’t know what you see in him, one woman says to another on the TV.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: And now this man will never know.

KIM KITSURAGI: You shift, and turn your head so you don’t have to see the man.


AUTHORITY: To see what you’ve done.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The adrenaline is fading -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You are so sober, it’s going to kill you.

RHETORIC: Like you killed this man.

THE MURDERED MAN: I was just afraid. He stares at you with wide and clouded eyes.

INLAND EMPIRE: He had wanted to be a lion tamer when he was a boy.

RHETORIC: You don’t even remember what you wanted to be.

YOU: You mumble something even you can’t understand.

KIM KITSURAGI: He leans forward. “What, detective?”

YOU: “He was scared, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. So was I.”

YOU: You meet Kim’s eyes, dark and serious behind his glasses.

KIM KITSURAGI: He shifts, then, and you pull back. He gets up and goes into the kitchen -

HALF LIGHT: He is leaving you here alone with this corpse. He will lock you in here forever with the body of the murdered man. You will never escape -

PERCEPTION: The opening of a cabinet door - the rattle of glasses - the running of water -

KIM KITSURAGI: He comes back into the room, holding out a glass of water.

YOU: You rest your head on the couch and look up at him.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: He’s lit from behind. The water glass is full of gold.

YOU: You lever yourself up on the couch, then take it from him.

INTERFACING: You drink.

INLAND EMPIRE: Put your mouth to where the murdered man’s mouth has been.

PERCEPTION: The water is cool, tasting of Jamrock.

SHIVERS: L’Esperance, treated to potability.

KIM KITSURAGI: “We need to make a full report, detective. This is a serious matter.” He offers you his hand, and pulls you to your feet.

PERCEPTION: Up close, there is no halo.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Just your partner. Tired, and scared, and worried about you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He wants to reach out, to touch your face, your hair.

COMPOSURE: But he won’t let himself.

YOU: Why? Why would he want to do that?

EMPATHY: We don’t know.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Maybe he wants to - have fuck?

AUTHORITY: Not the fucking time.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s always the fucking time, spoilsport.

THE MURDERED MAN’S SAFEHOUSE: You and Kim go through the safehouse, searching for evidence. You find some empty Preptide packets, a crudely drawn map of the harbors, and two Villiers.

ENDURANCE: “Why don’t you get some air,” Kim suggests, but you shake your head.

PERCEPTION: Kim stands over the body and writes what seems like a thorough report.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He goes through several notebook pages, then flips to the autopsy form.

PERCEPTION: The whine of his camera flash. The flare.

EMPATHY: Finally, he crouches down to perform the Stations of the Breath, one hand on the man’s chest.

HALF LIGHT: A man who would’ve killed him, and who you killed first.

YOU: I didn’t mean to kill him.

RHETORIC: The whine of murderers everywhere.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You do your job. You help Kim bag the body, help him carry it out into the bright of day, under the watchful eyes of the neighbors, and load it into the Kineema.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says, and steps close to you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He doesn’t quite dare to put his hand on your shoulder now. Not under all these eyes.

KIM KITSURAGI: “These things - they happen, sometimes. They are part of the job. And while I am not glad that a man is dead, I am grateful it was not me.”

INTERFACING: He is so very close.

HALF LIGHT: You want his arms around you again.

SUGGESTION: Your heavy head resting on this shoulder.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know what would really help numb this pain?

PERCEPTION: Quiet it down?

VOLITION: Make it so you can live with it?

INLAND EMPIRE: Make the dreams stop?

YOU: Are there going to be dreams?

INLAND EMPIRE: You betcha, baby.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: Jean’s riding back into the precinct yard as you pull up, and he trots alongside the Kineema for a few paces, glancing in.

EMPATHY: He sees the look on your face.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This man is your partner, too.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He reins his horse in, sharply, in front of the Kineema, forcing Kim to stop suddenly. “Dolores Dei, Harry,” he says to you, then to Kim, “What’s happened?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “A fifty-two,” he says, shortly.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: RCM-code for a civilian killed by an officer.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fuck,” he says, and looks at the bag in the back.

YOU: You sit in the passenger seat, hunched over, your hands between your legs.

INTERFACING: Trying to make yourself small.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Trying to disappear.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You alright?”

EMPATHY: He really means it.

KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs. “Yes, we are fine.”

EMPATHY: He is touched that Jean is asking. He can tell Jean means it, too.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You bring the body into the morgue and then go give Captain Pryce a rundown of what happened.

CAPTAIN PRYCE: He puts a hand on your shoulder. “Detective,” he says, gently. “It doesn’t get easier.”

AUTHORITY: What does he know, the fucking pencil-pusher?


HALF LIGHT: He has killed seventeen men and has regretted every one.

AUTHORITY: You and Kim are both sent home for the day, to come back tomorrow. Captain Pryce sends you out of the room to talk to Kim alone. As you leave, you throw Kim a desperate look.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: That of a drowning man.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: Jean Vicquemare is waiting for you in the C-wing kitchenette.

INTERFACING: You go to get a cup of water from the murky water cooler with shaking hands. You crumple the thin paper cup, spilling water down your arm, leg, and onto the floor.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He’s watching you, leaning against the counter -

HALF LIGHT: Judging you, laughing at you -

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He pushes off the counter, comes over, and takes the crumpled cup from your hand. He throws it aside, gets another one, fills it three-quarters full. He hands it to you.

YOU: You drink. You hold it out, wordlessly, back to him.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He refills your cup, again and again, until your stomach hurts.

YOU: “Thanks,” you croak.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Don’t mention it.”

YOU: Everyone’s staring at you in the C-wing, so you escape onto the rooftop. You’re trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers when someone comes up the steps and across the roof towards you.

VISUAL CALCULUS: They’re walking louder than normal on purpose. They don’t want to startle you.

INLAND EMPIRE: It’s Kim.

INTERFACING: He comes around and stands stiffly next to you as you struggle, then succeed, to light your cigarette. He looks at it longingly.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: This is the closest he has ever come to breaking his rule.

PERCEPTION: It’s bright on the rooftop.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Too bright.

SHIVERS: It’s dark, down in the morgue, in the little coolers.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective…” he says.

EMPATHY: He doesn’t want to leave you alone. He wants to ask you to spend the rest of the day with him. The night. But he can’t figure out how. Lunch seems garish. He’s not trying to celebrate a man’s death. Besides, he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want to work on the Kineema, knows he’s just going to make mistakes. All he can think of to do is to go home and stare at old case files.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Would you like to…” he says.

AUTHORITY: I need you to…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Don’t kid yourself, kid. You know exactly what it is you need.

KIM KITSURAGI: And so does he.

EMPATHY: Better he does it with me to keep an eye on him, he thinks, somewhat desperately.

1) “I would like to get extremely wasted, Kim.”

2) “Anything. Please. Just don’t leave me alone.”

3) [Go get drunk, without Kim.]

YOU: “I, uhm, I’m just gonna go - for a walk,” you say, forking a thumb over your shoulder and down into the street. “Relearn the city.”

SHIVERS: This would be best done with a friend.

KIM KITSURAGI: Something in his expression falters, and then closes off.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He drops his hands behind his back, straightens his shoulders.

YOU: "I’ll call you,” you say, trying a smile.

PAIN THRESHOLD: It’s the Expression, all the way, kiddo.

YOU: The next ten hours disappear into a haze of pain and misery and booze.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And drugs. You can’t forget the drugs.

SHIVERS: A wreck of a man - drunk and sweating, red-faced and cursing - staggers from bar to bar, scuttling through the harsh puddles of sunlight to the safety of the dark bars.

VOLITION: You’d saved up some money - seventy reál, not much -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Gone. All gone…

RHETORIC: You’re just spreading your wealth, is all.

YOU: You come to as you push open a familiar dark door.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Or try to. The door is surprisingly heavy, and you grunt, falling against it, before leaning your shoulder in and using it to push the door open.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Tequila!” he says, and then gets a good look at you.

EMPATHY: Something crosses over his face like a shadow.

YOU: You stumble over to the bar and mumble something that might be construed - by those in the business - as a request for a drink.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He pours you one, clear and full.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Tequila.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oblivion.

YOU: You down it and hold your glass out again, wordlessly.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: The bartender refills it again. He doesn’t put the bottle away.

YOU: You finish it. Hold the glass out again.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: After the third time, he tugs your glass out of your hand -

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The weak thing at the end of your arm puts up little resistance.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: - but doesn’t refill it just yet. “Dolores Dei, Tequila. What’s eating you? Haven’t seen you drink like this since before you went missing.”

YOU: “I killed a man today,” you say, and look at your hands.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Congrats,” he says. “Me too. Well, not today. Want to talk about it?”

YOU: You shrug a shoulder, a movement that aims for nonchalance and ends up with your face much closer to the bar than it was previously.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He starts to refill your glass.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Cheers, mate. You’ve earned it.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He grabs another glass and pours a second drink. He pushes yours over to you, slaps the rims together. “Cheers,” he says, shortly. You both drink.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Brothers.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: How many murderers are in the bar right now?

INLAND EMPIRE: Three who have already murdered someone. You, the bartender, and that woman in the corner, who killed her ex-partner, who used to beat her. Upcoming murderers? Another two. That man there will smother his sick mother in three years because she begs him to kill her, and he can’t stand it anymore. That woman there will kill her current partner’s mistress, which you and Kim will investigate. Are we counting abortions?

VOLITION: Oh, god. Let’s not go there.

PAIN THRESHOLD: No, let’s. Whose fault is it? Hers? Yours, for being the reason she did it in the first place?


 ENCYCLOPEDIA: At five months…

VOLITION: We’re not getting into this right now.

INLAND EMPIRE: And why not? Why try to hide from it? From all the things you’ve done wrong, all the pain you’ve caused in this world?

SUGGESTION: You would’ve been a good father.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: No, you wouldn’t have.

YOU: “I was almost a father,” you slur out.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Yeah?”

LOGIC: He’s heard the story before. A million times.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: Your brother gets you a bottle of beer - “Maybe slow down, just for a bit, yeah?” he says, and then leaves to serve another customer.

REACTION SPEED: You could totally lean over the bar quick and grab that bottle of tequila from the well. Take it out behind THE SPOTTED DOG, or maybe go into the church next door, Slump down in a pew and stare at her.

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: We won’t make it.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: If we lean our stomach on the bar, we’re going to throw up.

LOGIC: And then we’ll get kicked out.

VOLITION: And then we’ll die in a gutter somewhere, and we don’t want that, do we?

DRAMA: We don’t?

VOLITION: Hey, uh. Maybe you should call someone?

YOU: There’s no one to call.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kitsuragi? Officer Vicquemare? Kim has already called your apartment twice. Once a little before 18:00, once a little after 21:00. Jean has called you once at ten, hoping you’ll be in from whatever bender you’re on, but before you pass out. Neither of them get you. Soon, one of them will call the other.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Kitsuragi, you hear from him?”

KIM KITSURAGI: “No. I was hoping you had.” He’s smoking a cigarette, his hand trembling very slightly.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fuck.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”

YOU: Does the murdered man’s girl know the he’s dead?


ESPRIT DE CORPS: Yes. Officers Vicquemare and Minot had gone out in the afternoon to tell her. Still cleaning up his shit, Jean Vicquemare thinks, but he doesn’t mean it, not really.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Emile, the little boy, looking up at them from the open door, them and their horses between him and the sun. Great statuesque figures.

INLAND EMPIRE: He will remember this moment in hazy patches for the rest of his life. Half-images seen as he slips into dreams…

ESPRIT DE CORPS: They had suggested, gently, that she might want to send the boy to his room, and she had started to cry, knowing what was coming.

YOU: Does the boy know yet?


 ENCYCLOPEDIA: Not yet. She can’t figure out how to tell him.

SHIVERS: A dead man lies in the morgue, cold and still, eyes staring at nothing.

YOU: You stagger up and go to the bathroom, knocking over your stool when you untangle yourself from it. The bathroom is dim, and small, and smells of urine. You lean hard on the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror.

VISUAL CALCULUS: The face of a killer. Eyes pouchy and dark, hair ragged and greasy from running your hands through it. You have a handful of pills in your pocket from -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: From Bertrand’s apartment, friend of Therese Tristesse, of THE CASE OF THE SADDEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You had found him last week and issued him a citation. You couldn’t actually arrest him. While going through his flat, you’d found some pills on top of his dresser and palmed them.

YOU: You look at them in the weak light. White and yellow, strange shapes and sizes.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: What are they?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Beats us.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Take them. Take them now.

YOU: You take them now, sucking them out of your clammy palm.

INTERFACING: They scratch going down, get stuck in your throat.

YOU: You cup a hand to the weak trickle of water coming out of the faucet and wash them down. You stare at your face awhile longer, panting, then turn to stumble out to the floor.

ENDURANCE: Maybe they’ll kill you.

YOU: Good.

VOLITION: Uh - maybe you should call someone??

SHIVERS: You won’t reach them. Neither of them are at home.

LOGIC: Kim hadn’t wanted to leave his phone, just in case you called, but Jean had convinced him you were more likely to be found passed out at one of your old haunts than calling them on the phone.

SHIVERS: Two men are out searching the city in an RCM-issued Kineema. It is dark out, and the streetlights do not illuminate every shadow, every dark corner where a drunk could be passed out. There are a lot of them. The men are beginning to feel despondent over the magnitude of their task.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “It’s not like I want to control what he does,” he grunts, “but I know what he gets like when he’s killed someone.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “The detective seems to feel everything very deeply,” he says, hands gripped tight around the steering levers. His eyes dart between the left side of the road and out front. Jean plastered to the window looking out the other side.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You have no idea. Dolores Dei, as long as he doesn’t fucking try to off himself-”

KIM KITSURAGI: He glances over at Jean, and drives a little faster.

SHIVERS: They will pass within four streets of you, somehow just missing you. In their concern, neither of them will think of this bar. They’ll split up soon, one of them on foot, one of them in the motor carriage.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You could call…her.

[-1 morale]

[-1 health]

SUGGESTION: How about a nice song on the jukebox, yeah? Or three of them?

DRAMA: Music doth health the soul.

YOU: You don’t even have any money for the jukebox. It’s all gone. You’ve drank it all.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He gives you some money and you go over to the jukebox, leaning on it heavily.

INTERFACING: You watch your hand rise -

VOLITION: The hand of a killer -

INTERFACING: As if it belongs to someone else. It punches in the numbers 16, 5, and 10.

PERCEPTION: A chunk. A whirrrr.

YOU: You stumble back to your stool as the music starts to play.

EMPATHY: You start to feel so damn sad.

RHETORIC: Too sad.

EMPATHY: It’s scary to watch.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: In no time at all, there’s a hand on your shoulder, shaking you, waking you up. “Hey,” he says. “You want me to call someone?”


 VISUAL CALCULUS: It’s last call. It’s late. There’s no one here. Only a two or three old soaks, yourself included, with no place to go.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: There is clear concern in his eyes when you push yourself to your feet, try to stand, and sway, alarmingly.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Everything going black on the edges, tunneling in.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You can’t feel your knees. Oh, god, you can’t feel your knees. Or your shins. Or your ankles. Wait, do you normally feel your shins?



LOGIC: When you hit them on something.

LOGIC: Maybe you should hit them on something to see if you can feel them.

YOU: In slow motion, you pick up the stool you’ve been sitting on - nearly falling sideways - and bring it down on your own shin.

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: “Hey! What are you doing?”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Nope. Sorry. Nothing. Try it again.

LOGIC: You’re going to feel it in the morning.

VOLITION: If there is a morning. You need to call someone. Now. This is bad. Like, pump your stomach bad.

PERCEPTION: The lights in the bar glitter and gleam on all the bottles, on the second barroom just behind all the bottles, in which a wild-eyed monster is beating himself with a piece of furniture, teeth bared -

YOU: “There’s no one to call.”

VISUAL CALCULUS: You can barely make out the words you’re saying. You’re slurring, badly.

SHIVERS: There are many to call, but they won’t pick up, because they’re out looking for you.

YOU: “No one. I’m a monster. It’s fine. M’going next door. Sleep it off.”

THE SPOTTED DOG BARTENDER: He stands at the door to watch you leave.


EMPATHY: He doesn’t feel good about this one.

YOU: You struggle with the heavy church doors, finally getting them open. They slam open wide, loud in the night.

DOLORIAN CHURCH: There is no one in there. It is empty, except for you, and Dolores Dei, shimmering behind the altar, one delicate white hand reaching out to you.

HALF LIGHT: It is vast. Huge. It opens up above, you forever and ever, it keeps going, the hole in the world.

PERCEPTION: The altar glimmers and shimmers in gold, so bright you have to shield your eyes.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Thousands of candles.

YOU: You drop to your knees and crawl the last few thousand meters. You’re crawling forever, pulling yourself forward, sobbing. And then - and then -

INLAND EMPIRE: Look up.

YOU: You look up.

PERCEPTION: The stained glass behind the altar and to the right - lit with a thousand suns glimmering and shining -

INLAND EMPIRE: It’s him.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s come for you.

PERCEPTION: Lit from behind, from within, from all around, clothed in orange and light, his head bent down towards you - reaching out with one hand, the other behind his back -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Always holding himself back, always helpless but to reach out.

PERCEPTION: His eyes blind with light, his lungs aglow, a halo, halo -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Saint Kim Kitsuragi.

YOU: “Kim," you croak, and crawl forward, pulling yourself on your arms, “please, please-”

and then you’re gone.

PERCEPTION: Something hits your foot, hard, sending a jar through your body all the way up to your stomach.

PAIN THRESHOLD: A surge of nausea rolls through you like the sea.

YOU: You groan and try to curl up around yourself, but your stiff body is so heavy you can barely move it.

PERCEPTION: “Poor son of a bitch,” you hear someone say, and then your foot is hit again.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Someone’s kicking you.

PERCEPTION: Another voice. “Should we…”

PERCEPTION: The first voice. “Have to get him out of here before service, which is in-”

PERCEPTION: The second voice, softer than the first. “Twenty minutes, give or take.” A sigh. The sound of sloshing water -

VISUAL CALCULUS: Prepare yourself -

INTERFACING: You’re drowning. You gasp and choke under the sudden deluge of water.

LOGIC: Someone’s thrown a bowl of water on you.

INLAND EMPIRE: Sunrise, parabellum.

YOU: You struggle up, groaning, try to focus your eyes to see -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Saint Kim Kitsuragi and Saint Jean-Heron.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The saints of benders.

HALF LIGHT: The saints of regret.

INLAND EMPIRE: The saints of love.

YOU: You blink and it’s just Jean and Kim standing over you.

PERCEPTION: One in black and one in orange.

INTERFACING: They lean down and pull you up, one hand under each arm, and you stumble between them, arms on their shoulders. Pulled a little crooked due to their height difference. They half-lead, half drag you through the church.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Shitkid, can you hear us?”


 YOU: You groan.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Doesn’t mean anything.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Perhaps the lazareth-”

ENDURANCE: He’s puffing a little under your bulk.

YOU: You look at the windows behind the altar as they drag you past it, a blur of light and color.

VISUAL CALCULUS: A saint in orange, but which one, you don’t know.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: You don’t know why you should be looking at this.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Pump his stomach, maybe. That’s it. Think he remembers us?”

YOU: You are dragged outside into the bright light.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like being in the middle of a fire.

YOU: You groan, louder, as they drag you across bumpy, rough ground, and drop you down against something hard, and cool, and smooth with age.

HALF LIGHT: A gravestone.

YOU: Your head slumps to the side.

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim pats your cheeks, things verging on slaps.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Cool leather.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It feels good.

YOU: You groan and turn into it.

JEAN VICQUEARE: “Dolores Dei. Is he…?”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: RISE AND PREPARE FOR WAR.


 KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says.

EMPATHY: It would be flattering if he weren’t nearly unconscious, he thinks, and files this under Du Bois, Harrier, in his mental notebook.

KIM KITSURAGI: He squats down in front of you. “Detective, do you know who we are?”


 ENCYCLOPEDIA: Who you are? he thinks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: You’re Harrier Du Bois, lieutenant double-yefreitor, forty-four years old. Abandoned by all those you love, disco holdout, and murderer.

PAIN THRESHOLD: It feels as if some lunatic has broken furniture over your shins.

YOU: “I’m a murderer…” you say.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “He’s fine,” he sighs. He leans over you, one hand on the gravestone behind you. “Do you remember the last time you killed someone? No, you don’t. It was because they were going to kill me first. You shot them before they could. I had to pull you out of the shower in the precinct that afternoon. Make you vomit.” There’s something in his eyes, dark and deep.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: The gray and lightless bottom of the ocean.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I wasn’t around for the first two. You remember the last time I killed someone?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Officer Jean Vicquemare. Total solved cases: 134. Total confirmed kills: four.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I had a panic attack, and you talked me down.”

INLAND EMPIRE: He didn’t only have a *panic attack,* he thought very seriously about killing himself for months.

PERCEPTION: Your eyes are opening and focusing more and more as you hear Jean speaking to you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Jean is a dark heron hunched over you.

PERCEPTION: Saint Kim Kitsuragi crouches beside you. One hand is reached out as if he wants to touch your knee, your shoulder.

COMPOSURE: He’s holding himself back.

PERCEPTION: It’s bright in the graveyard. The sound of birds, raucous and bright. At the church, a bell begins to tell, slowly and mournfully, splitting the air.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He is flushed, but his gray eyes, washed pale in the sunlight, have not once left yours. “Yes, you killed someone. But would you rather have Kitsuragi dead?”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: A world without Kim Kitsuragi is not one worth living in.

YOU: You shake your head. Everything spins around you.

LOGIC: Because you’re a monster.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: As if he hears your thoughts, he says, “It doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you human.” He sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “Come on,” he says. “I think they’re planting today. We should get him out of here unless we want him planted by accident.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ll take him from here, officer.”

AUTHORITY: A glance between them.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: A passing of the guard.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll take the bus back to the precinct.”

YOU: You follow Kim the back way out of the graveyard, around the block to the Kineema, where you get in gingerly. You expect him to take you to the precinct - it’s Tuesday morning, after all, late - but he doesn’t. Instead, he starts moving slowly, in the opposite direction.

SHIVERS: Towards the harbor.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You groan at the light as he takes you through the streets, the bars jumping and shuddering as you go past them -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The aftereffects of the pills - Speaking of, you know what would really help you right now?

VOLITION: No.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’ve done enough damage to your body.

PAIN THRESHOLD: If you put anything else in me, I am going to literally dissolve.

KIM KITSURAGI: He leans over you, the back of his forearm brushing your knees, and opens the glovebox. “In there,” he says.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You pull out the Shades of Self-Destruction and fumble them on.

PAIN THRESHOLD:. It helps. A little.

KIM KITSURAGI: He drives to the quays in the GRIH and parks.

VISUAL CALCULUS: The sea stretches out gray and endless before you, broken up here and there by the colored dots of ships, small in the distance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like your loveless future.

HALF LIGHT: Beyond and far out, the Pale.

YOU: You hunch over, hands between your knees, expecting a beating.

HALF LIGHT: He’s going to chew you out. Tell you he’s going to leave if you don’t get your shit together.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Tell you you’re a liability, a problem.

PAIN THRESHOLD: A danger to yourself and others.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: A murderer.

SUGGESTION: He’ll beg you to change. Tell you he knows you’re a better man than this.

KIM KITSURAGI: He just looks out the windshield, looking off at the harbor.

PERCEPTION: Martinaise is a thick blue haze, off to the right.

EMPATHY: He look exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.

ENDURANCE: He’s had a long night.

VOLITION: Your fault.

KIM KITSURAGI: Then he half-shakes his head and turns to you. “Harry…what did you take?”

1) “None of your fucking business, narc.”

2) “Why, you want some?”

3) “Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough.”

4) “I don’t know.”

YOU: “I don’t know.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He closes his eyes very briefly, then reopens them. It’s none of my business, he thinks, it’s none of my business, it’s none of my business -

YOU: “But it is your business, Kim,” you say, and he startles a little. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Don’t-” he says, and shakes his head.

INTERFACING: He reaches out a gloved hand.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It flutters in midair like a bird, then falls to the shifter.

INLAND EMPIRE: Don’t let this bird fly.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Even saints need help sometimes.

REACTION SPEED: You grab his hand and hold it tightly in yours.

KIM KITSURAGI: He startles, turning dark eyes on you.

LOGIC: His brows are furrowed.

YOU: “I’m not going to say I’ll do better. I think I’ve done that too many times before.” You make a face.

KIM KITSURAGI: He half-smiles. His breaths are shallow, his eyes darting between your eyes and your joined hands.

YOU: “But I do want to be better, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat. “I know that, Harrier.”

EMPATHY: He does. You can see it in his eyes.

VOLITION: It gives you courage.

PERCEPTION: You can hear the sea crashing against the docks.

INLAND EMPIRE: Eternally.

PERCEPTION: The light streams in through the Kineema window, over Kim’s face, illuminating him, flaring through his glasses.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He is still looking at your joined hands.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Lit excruciatingly.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He is beautiful.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: You love him.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Oh god, you love him.

VOLITION: You love him so much.

KIM KITSURAGI: He sees something on your face.

DRAMA: Everything. It’s all there.

KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes widen, his mouth opens -

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: His hand clenches yours, as if compulsively.

COMPOSURE: He pulls himself together.

INTERFACING: Pulls away, tugging his hand out from yours.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your hand falters and falls, like a wounded bird.

ENDURANCE: You’re having trouble breathing.

VISUAL CALCULUS: The light, is it coming from outside, or your lungs…?

PERCEPTION: We don’t know.

KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat. “Now, it is eleven. If we get back to the precinct, we can still-”

YOU: You groan. “Kim, I am so - I feel like shit.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He pauses. “Lunch, then?”

YOU: You perk up.

KIM KITSURAGI: His face gets impossibly soft for a minute before he catches it. “I thought so,” he says, and swings you out into the street.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Harry, Harry, Harry…what are you doing?


 YOU: Look, I’ve had a long day. You think it would be too much trouble to just…you know…let me off easy tonight?


 LIMBIC SYSTEM: We’re doing this for your own good, Harry. We try to point out patterns where we can. We can’t watch you suffer anymore. It’s bad, Harry. It hurts….

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You’re doing it again, you know.

YOU: Doing what again?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Seeing saints. Throwing around that word again.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Love…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Like it’s not what did this to you in the first place. Like it didn’t almost kill you.

YOU: Pretty sure I almost killed myself, so take that.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You poor, poor baby.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: He’ll never get it. We shouldn’t even try. He’s hopeless.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: We have to keep trying. To try to protect him…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Where do you think this is going to go? Really, Harrier. You’re a washed-out, bloated, late-stage alcoholic. You killed a man yesterday in cold blood. You’re insane. You talk to your clothing.

YOU: Technically, my clothing talks to me.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You do get how that’s worse, don’t you? You’re emotionally unstable, suicidal, occasionally violent, a pitiful, pathetic, sad excuse of a man, who got left six years ago and has been trying to kill himself ever since. And now someone makes the mistake of being kind to you, and you think you’re in love?


 LIMBIC SYSTEM: It’s even worse than that, brother. He is in love…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You are going to die alone and no amount of praying at the altar of love will save you.

YOU: But Kim cares about me. I know it.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: For now…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: He will leave you in the end, like they all do. And this one, Harrier, is really gonna hurt. He will leave you quietly and logically and you will not be able to refute it. He’ll have one foot inside the Kineema - leaning on it, looking at you. His face will be utterly unreadable. And you, standing there, hands hanging by your sides, empty and useless…

YOU: No. No. Kim won’t leave me. He changed precincts for me…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: He changed precincts for himself. You were just something to be weighed in the Pros and Cons list he wrote for himself, and guess which column you were in, kid?

YOU: No -

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: And after he leaves you, you won’t even want to know what happens next.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Finally…the darkness…the quiet…

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Look, we’re just trying to help you. That’s all we ever do. If you won’t listen to us, maybe you’ll listen to her….

THE CHURCH IN CENTRAL JAMROCK: You are in the church in Central Jamrock, standing at the altar, and Dolores Dei is standing at the end of the aisle, suitcase in hand, about to leave you once again. The light shimmers all around her as you run down the aisle, footsteps clattering on the wooden floor.

YOU: “Wait!” You grab her sleeve as she turns to you, but it’s cold as marble, smooth and lifeless, and your hand slips right off.


DOLORES DEI: “Harry. We can’t keep doing this…”

YOU: “Hey, you keep coming to me.” You shoot her a pair of finger guns, but she doesn’t even smile.

DOLORES DEI: “Harry, what are you doing? Didn’t you learn your lesson before?”

YOU: “What lesson?”

DOLORES DEI: “Why do you keep trying love people, Harry? Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Her face is sorrowful; one hand rests above her lungs. She really feels sorry for you, but she’s an Innocence; your pain troubles her like a dead dog in the street. It’s a pity, but it’s got nothing to do with her.

YOU: “This time, it’ll be different.”

DOLORES DEI: “Oh, Harry, it’ll never be different. Either he’ll destroy you, or you’ll destroy him. My money’s on you destroying him.”

YOU: “I won’t. I won’t destroy him.”

DOLORES DEI: “Like you promised you wouldn’t destroy me? After the first time I left, the time I came back? Do you know I can’t have children anymore, Harry?”

YOU: “That’s not my fault. I didn’t make you make that decision.”

DOLORES DEI: Her smile is bright and sharp, the curve of a censor through the darkness. “But you did, Harry.” She shifts the luggage to her other hand. She’s going to leave the church. Going to leave you. “You make people into monsters, Harry. You take everything that’s human in them and you hollow it out to find yourself a place to live in. Like a rat, or a disease. Remember, Harry - the first oblivion is in the heart. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself so far in him there’s nothing left of you.”

YOU: “He’s so much better than I am.”

DOLORES DEI: “Of course he is. But is that any reason to destroy him?”

YOU: “I won’t. I won’t-”

DOLORES DEI: “Goodbye, Harry,” she says. “Until tomorrow night…”

YOU: You awake.

PERCEPTION: There’s a bell tolling, long and slow.

DRAMA: That fucker’s tolling for you, brother.

VISUAL CALCULUS: The bell is on the radio: it begins to be overlaid by soft light piano notes, shivering out into the air.

PERDITION AND MAIN: Coming from the living room.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You get out of bed, aching -

ENDURANCE: You spent all of last night passed out on the floor of a church. What do you expect?

YOU: And pad out into the living room of your apartment.

PERCEPTION: The light streams in from the streetlamp weakly, water beaded on the high windows, faintly lighting -

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim Kitsuragi, who is asleep on your couch, his chest and stomach rising and falling very slowly. He is curled on his side.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Some of his hair falls down forward into his eyes.

INTERFACING: You want to reach forward and brush it away.

LOGIC: Don’t. You’ll wake him up.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You shuffle down on the floor, leaning your back against the couch.

PERCEPTION: Kim breathes slowly behind you.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Watching your back.

PERCEPTION: The light spills into your apartment.


HALF LIGHT: You are not alone.

THOUGHT COMPLETED: THE RELIGION OF LOVE:

Love is the only thing you know, the one scrap that’s remained, haunting your rotten soul. When you die, you’ll haunt Elysium, every place and person you’ve ever loved keeping you tethered here. You’ll never be free. You’re incapable of not loving. It’s your religion, your guiding belief in the universe, the only thing left that remains to you. You worship at the altar of love, kneeling until your knees are bloody and your back is broken. With the hair shirt and the scourge, you keep coming back for more. Despite everything, despite being so incredibly hurt before, you can’t stop believing in it. Love will save you this time. This time, it’ll be different.

+1 Conceptualization [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Empathy [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Physical Instrument [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Endurance [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Suggestion [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Inland Empire [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Shivers [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Drama [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Esprit de Corps [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Half Light [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

+1 Electrochemistry [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Composure [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Savoir Faire [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-5 Pain Threshold [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Hand-Eye Coordination [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Rhetoric [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Logic [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Volition [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

-1 Authority [In love with Kim Kitsuragi]

YOU: So. I’m in love with Kim.

HALF LIGHT: You’re in love with Kim.

PAIN THRESHOLD: We’re doing this again?

EMPATHY: You heard what she said.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: This will destroy one of you, brother.

YOU: Please, let it be me.

PERCEPTION: Behind you, a small noise.

KIM KITSURAGI: A murmur. He shifts, and his hand falls down heavy on your shoulder.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He’s still asleep.

YOU: But you grab his hand and hold onto it as hard as you can, until you fall asleep again.

YOU: A month passes, and suddenly, it’s autumn, and you’re still in love with Kim Kitsuragi.

VOLITION: In a remarkable turn of events, you have kept this fact to yourself.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: This love purifies you.

HALF LIGHT: Gives you a reason to live.

RHETORIC: Unlike the other one.

LOGIC: Exactly like the other one. It’s just that he hasn’t left you yet.

HALF LIGHT: If he ever leaves you…

LOGIC: If you don’t tell him, he won’t leave you.

SAVOIR FAIRE: A saint like him would never love scum like you.

AUTHORITY: A saint like him would be desecrated by a love like yours. Keep it to yourself, keep it hidden.

YOU: So you keep it to yourself. You keep it to yourself when Kim calls you on the phone late at night to talk about a case, except after ten minutes, you stop talking about the case and start talking about other things instead, like the radio, or the latest TipTop Tournee, or the cafe down the street you want to check out.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You keep it to yourself in the Kineema and on stakeouts, and late in the precinct, just the two of you and the green-shaded lamps, the scratch of Kim’s pen.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You keep it to yourself over dinner at a dozen cafes and diners.

DRAMA: You keep it to yourself when you and Kim go to the Cinema D’Automne to watch the new Dick Mullen movie, and Kim teases you about the Green Ghost, asking if you want to investigate it. You tell Kim very seriously the ghost is you, and he puts his hand on your arm, and says, “You seem very much alive to me, detective,” and he smiles at you, a quick flash, and you have to keep it to yourself.

YOU: And then one afternoon at the precinct, Kim is discussing your latest sartorial choice -

SAVOIR FAIRE: A big furred coat that fits you perfectly.

VISUAL CALCULUS: You’d found it behind an old bunker in the Pox.

COMPOSURE: “It has eyes,” Kim shudders.

RHETORIC: And a fantastic sense of humor, and quite a nuanced understanding of ‘20s cinema and film…

MAGNIFICENT FUR COAT: You’re goddamn right I do, toots.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And for some reason, there’s always a pack of smokes in the pockets.

YOU: “It’s a great coat, Kim! It’s, it’s warm, and it’s smart-“

KIM KITSURAGI: Looking, Kim thinks, a little desperately, he means smart looking, which it isn’t, it’s moth-eaten -

MAGNIFICENT FUR COAT: At least I’ve only got two eyes instead of four. Bino.

YOU: “It’s roomy. You can hide so much stuff under it that you find in the street.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, yes, the Jamrock Shuffle,” he says, like you didn’t catch him dragging the latest issue of SpeedFreaks out of a bin last week. “Well, in that case, why not priest’s robes? You can fit anything under those-”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He breaks off as the two of you stare at each other.

INLAND EMPIRE: The faint jingle, as if of money.

YOU: “Kim, the gun was cold, when it was pressed to the bartender’s head.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Was it…?” he asks, flipping through his notes.

YOU: “No, he didn’t say that. I just - you know.” You gesture to your temple.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, yes. And?”

YOU: “Well, if the thief was carrying the gun in his pocket for awhile, it would be warm. Not cold.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He’s nodding. “That would indicate the gun wasn’t in his pocket for long."

YOU: “He came from nearby.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “Someplace like the church, maybe…?” When you nod, he says, “The fucking priest.”

AUTHORITY: The two of you peel out of the precinct garage like something out of a SpeedFreaks FM song, fuzzy dice jumping, Kim saying, “I can’t believe we missed-” you saying, “You think he’s been robbing all the other joints-”

DOLORIAN CHURCH: The church is quiet and dark when the two of you hit the doors. There are a few faithful in the pews, the old woman eternally lighting a candle. There’s a young priest you don’t recognize that skitters away at your presence.

PERCEPTION: And her, of course, golden and terrible and beautiful, looking down on you with that smug smile. On either side of her, Saints Kim Kitsuragi and Jean-Heron, in orange and black.

KIM KITSURAGI: The Kim in the flesh - not in stained glass - stands beside you, hands behind his back, feet spread.

HALF LIGHT: You position yourself between the altar and the back door.

FATHER REYNARDINE: He comes out from a side door, straightening his robe. “Detectives,” he says. “What can I help you with today?”

VISUAL CALCULUS: His smile does not meet his eyes.

HALF LIGHT: Tackle him and see if any money rolls out.

REACTION SPEED: Catch him off guard. Get him to confess.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Appeal to his ego. Get him to confess.

1) “So how long have you been doing it?”

2) “How much money did you get?”

3) “Why’d you put a gun to the bartender’s head?”

4) “Why’d you rob THE SPOTTED DOG?”

5) “What’s your favorite saint?”

YOU: “What’s your favorite saint?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “You didn’t really come all this way…well…I suppose Saint Ambrose, if I have to choose.” He chuckles a little.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Ooh! We know this one. Saint Ambrose is the patron saint of murderers. Also, doomed love affairs. See, it was all a misunderstanding…

FATHER REYNARDINE: “It’s funny. No one’s asked me that since I was a child.”

INLAND EMPIRE: And back then, it was Saint Francis of Sur la Clef, who gave everything he had to help the poor.

1) “So how long have you been doing it?”

2) “How much money did you get?”

3) “Why’d you put a gun to the bartender’s head?”

4) “Why’d you rob THE SPOTTED DOG?”

5) “What’s your favorite saint?”

YOU: “How much money did you get?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “Excuse me?”

YOU: “When you robbed THE SPOTTED DOG.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “This is ridiculous. Is this what this is? He takes a step closer to the two of you, looks around. “I didn’t - I had nothing to do with-”

KIM KITSURAGI: “You’ve been implicated, Father.”

DRAMA: He’s lying!

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Father Reynardine doesn’t know that.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “That damned - I didn’t-” Something cracks in him. His shoulders slump. He turns to look at Dolores Dei, looking down at him.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: She finds him unworthy. She finds all men unworthy, in the end.

FATHER REYNARDINE: He turns to Kim. “You know how badly the church needs money.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “The church appears to be doing fine to me.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “I’ve researched you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. You grew up in a Dolorian orphanage, didn’t you? You know the good we can do.”

HALF LIGHT: No one can-opens Kim but you.

YOU: You shift slightly, stepping forward. Putting yourself between the two of them.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He’s eyeing you up. You, Kim, altar. You, Kim, altar.

LOGIC: He’s going to go for Kim.

HALF LIGHT: There is a knife on the altar behind you. A sacrificial and symbolic prop.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Also very sharp.

FATHER REYNARDINE: “I just wanted to help. I only took from places of sin. Bars, brothels. The money went to the food kitchen, the mission trips. Toys for children.” His voice is pleading.

RHETORIC: Are you really the kind of monster to take toys away from children?

1) “So how long have you been doing it?”

2) “How much money did you get?”

3) “Why’d you put a gun to the bartender’s head?”

4) “Why’d you rob THE SPOTTED DOG?”

5) “What’s your favorite saint?”

YOU: “Why’d you put a gun to the bartender’s head?”

AUTHORITY: Because he could. He’d gotten roughed up at a brothel a few months ago during a robbery and had gone out and gotten a gun. It gave him a sense of power, of righteousness…

KIM KITSURAGI: Beside you, Kim is slowly reaching inside his jacket. Kim says, “All this gold helps them?” He gestures all around with his free hand. “The candlesticks, the gold collection plate, all the gilt lungs on the back of pews?”

FATHER REYNARDINE: “You don’t understand.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “No? I think I understand that you like being in charge of the wealthiest church in Central Jamrock. I think you like when everyone asks how you do it, how you get donations pouring in when other churches are struggling to keep their doors open. I think you like the prestige. I’ve heard a great deal about this church, you know, and now I think it is all a fantasy.”

FATHER REYNARDINE: He twitches. Kim’s struck a nerve. He says, “If I cared about that, wouldn’t I go to Grand Couron?”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Here, he’s a big fish in a little pond.

YOU: “You couldn’t cut it there, could you?” He wheels on you, teeth bared. “It’s okay. I know what it’s like over there. All those rich people. It’s like they’re another species or something.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like phasmids.

AUTHORITY: Or they’re the humans, and you’re the rats, scrabbling to get by. All tied up in knots.

HALF LIGHT: You’ve pushed him too far.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The priest lunges suddenly for the altar -

HALF LIGHT: For the knife -

YOU: You jump on him, shouting Kim’s name.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A flurry of limbs - the priest brings his elbow back, hard, into your nose.

PAIN THRESHOLD: A flash of light, of pain, an audible crunch.

PERCEPTION: He slips away from you. There’s the sound of a scuffle, a shout of pain from Kim -

HALF LIGHT: Kim!!

PERCEPTION: - then a gunshot.

YOU: No.

HALF LIGHT: No.

YOU: You scramble up, breathing hard through your mouth to see -

KIM KITSURAGI: Kim, his gun pointed at the side door. “Damn!” he says. “Damn, damn, damn!”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He should chase after the man.

YOU: “Go!” you say, in a thick and nasal voice.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: His partner needs him.

KIM KITSURAGI: He turns around, lowering his gun.

PAIN THRESHOLD: A shallow cut on his chest, visible over the vee of his shirt. Bleeding freely.

YOU: You’re leaning on the altar by then, blood pouring thickly from your poor and battered nose.

PERCEPTION: A smeary red handprint on the gilt.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry,” he says, and there is something in his face, completely unguarded.

INLAND EMPIRE: This man loves you.

PERCEPTION: It shines out of him, his lungs glowing in the stained glass light, not gold but orange. The light is reflecting off his glasses so that you can’t see his eyes. He is haloed from behind with light -

KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry,” he says, reaching out to you with one hand. “Harry, are you alright?”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You fall to your knees at his feet.


AUTHORITY: Where you belong.

PERCEPTION: Above, a bell begins tolling.

YOU: “Kim,” you say. “Kim. Oh my God, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: There’s confusion on his face at first, then realization. Horror and hunger and something else. “Harrier,” he says. “Please get up.”

YOU: You don’t move. You can’t. You are frozen in place.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Please get up,” he says, and then, “Harrier, please.”

COMPOSURE: His voice cracks.

KIM KITSURAGI: He drops down beside you, his hands landing hard on your shoulders to catch himself. He’s breathing, shallowly, almost panting, a smear of blood on his chest, his shirt soaking in blood. He reaches out, slowly, and touches your face, his hand shaking. His eyes dart between your eyes and your mouth.

PERCEPTION: The light doesn’t weaken as you get closer. If anything, it get brighter, enveloping you.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Pouring out of his lungs.

YOU: “Kim, I-” you say, your voice shaking.

KIM KITSURAGI: He shakes his head, still looking at your mouth. “Not here,” he says, and places his thumb on your lips. His eyes are very dark in the glitz and glitter of the church.

PERCEPTION: You can hear footsteps, running towards you.

KIM KITSURAGI: His thumb is on your mouth, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Get up,” he says, looking around, “we are not doing this here.”

AUTHORITY: And you do, letting him take your hand and help you up, stumbling, into the light.

YOU: So you go back to the precinct, and Gottlieb patches Kim up -

INTERFACING: A series of butterfly bandages across his sliced chest - no stitches needed, apparently -

PAIN THRESHOLD: - and gives you an ice pack to hold to your throbbing face. You and Kim watch each other as Gottlieb moves around between you.

INTERFACING: Separated by three meters of space, which you feel expand and contract with every movement of Kim’s.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The repositioning of an arm. The extension of a leg. The swell of his chest.

AUTHORITY: His eyes meet yours across the room, and hold.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You can’t move.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: After Gottlieb clears you, the two of you make your report to the Captain. You’d checked the cemetery for Father Reynardine, but he’d been long gone, and the other priests had been little help.

HALF LIGHT: And, also, terrified of all the blood you were leaking everywhere.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Pryce sends the two of you home for the evening. You climb into the Kineema, Kim wincing as he goes to buckle the seatbelt over his chest. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, and lets it go.

YOU: Kim drives you to your apartment, and even before he’s fully parked, you say, “Come in?”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re breathless.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes."

VISUAL CALCULUS: So is he.

PERDITION AND MAIN: Kim follows you inside, and tugs you to the bathroom, where he sits you down on the toilet lid.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Here,” he says, and he cleans your face carefully, gently, with a hand towel -

SAVOIR FAIRE: Your nicest hand towel.

LOGIC: Not anymore.

KIM KITSURAGI: Dampened with warm water and soap.

ENDURANCE: You are very, very brave, and don’t even whine a little bit.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Although it hurts.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Chin up,” he says when he’s done with the sensitive area around your nose and eyes, and then he cleans off the blood that’s trickled down your lips to your chin, your neck and jaw.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: His touch keeps dragging, slowly, across your lower lip, and his breath is coming faster, now.

VISUAL CALCULUS: This close, you can see the butterfly bandages holding the cut on his chest closed, above the vee of his shirt.

SAVOIR FAIRE: His white shirt soaked with blood. Even Kim’s not going to be able to save that one.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, although his face -

VISUAL CALCULUS: Which is very close to yours.

INTERFACING: You can feel his breath ghosting across your lips.

COMPOSURE: - is calm.

KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes are wild, darting everywhere. “There,” he says, and pulls away.


REACTION SPEED: You grab his wrist.

INTERFACING: Your hand is gentle.

YOU: “Kim,” you say, hoarsely.

KIM KITSURAGI: He sucks in a breath. “Harry,” he says. “This is - you have blood - here.” He gestures at where his chops would be.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: If he could grow them.

COMPOSURE: He is panicking. You’re going to lose him. All his walls are down right now - you can see it in his eyes, lingering on you, slow and dark and deep.

REACTION SPEED: If you don’t act now, he will build the walls back up, even higher than before.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Maybe that’s the safest thing. For you. For him. Keep on loving at a distance. Isn’t it enough that he knows?

EMPATHY: Don’t. The lieutenant wants this just as badly as you do.

YOU: You open your mouth -

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, fuck it,” he says, and drops the towel, and kisses you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yes!!

SHIVERS: Finally.

SUGGESTION: Yippee!

DRAMA: Wahoo!

PAIN THRESHOLD: Ow, actually. This kind of hurts, with the whole broken nose thing?

ENDURANCE: Shut up.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Pussy.

KIM KITSURAGI: His hands come up on either side of your face, warm and damp from the water.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It feels good.

INTERFACING: His mouth is wet, and cool.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: God, his lips feel good on yours.

YOU: You whimper into his mouth, hands coming up to grab his wrist, to touch his hair, to pull him closer -

INTERFACING: Difficult, considering you’re sitting on the toilet lid, so you kind of fall together in a tangle of limbs.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says into your mouth, barely pulling away. “Maybe there’s someplace more suitable for this activity, no?”

PERCEPTION: You can feel his smile.

RHETORIC: Activity?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He means have fuck.

YOU: “You mean-”

COMPOSURE: Don’t say it.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Do not say it.

KIM KITSURAGI: His mouth crashes on yours again, and so the words have fuck are mercifully muffled into his mouth.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: His tongue brushes yours, though, which is exciting.

SAVOIR FAIRE: You have got to get out of these disco pants. They are too fucking tight.

YOU: You let out an undignified whimper.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Come on,” he says, and disentangles himself from you, standing and pulling you after him.

YOU: You kiss your way into the bedroom, groping for the light-switch, before giving up and pulling Kim towards the bed.

KIM KITSURAGI: He takes his glasses off, tosses them on the nightstand. He takes your face in his hands again and kisses you.

PERCEPTION: The light spills in from the windows above the bed, so you can see when you lay down beside him, when you pull him against you, running your hands all over him, keeping your eyes open -

KIM KITSURAGI: His own pressed shut, opening occasionally on yours. A desperate furrow to his eyebrows.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It has been so long.

VOLITION: He wants this so badly.

HALF LIGHT: The amount that he wants this terrifies him. It has been such a very long time.

PAIN THRESHOLD: You can’t stop kissing him, although your face throbs, and you have to keep breaking, gasping, for air.

ENDURANCE: You can’t breathe through your nose right now.

INLAND EMPIRE: Also, your lungs are full to breaking.

KIM KITSURAGI: He’s shaking under your hands as you kiss his chest gently around the wound, and down, down, through his t-shirt. He’s gasping.

YOU: “Kim,” you’re saying, “God, Kim, you’re so amazing, so perfect-”

INLAND EMPIRE: Your entire world is narrowed down to this - the light coming in from the hallway and the windows - the two of you, Kim’s body in the dim light, so warm and close - his limbs, his skin, firm and real as you push his shirt up and hold his side.

YOU: You are holding Kim Kitsuragi in your arms. He is holding your head so carefully as you kiss his neck, big, wet, open-mouthed things.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh,” he’s saying, “oh, ah, Harry-”

INTERFACING: His hips moving beneath yours.

KIM KITSURAGI: He threads his fingers through your hair. “Do you want to-”

YOU: “Yeah,” you say, “Yeah, anything, please, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI: A huff. He pulls your mouth away from his neck with his grip in your hair.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh. Uhm. Hello.

KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s been awhile.” His eyes glitter in the dark.

YOU: “Kim, I literally don’t remember anything.”

KIM KITSURAGI: He laughs, but half-draws in a breath.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s a turn-on.

VOLITION: It’s not not a turn on.

YOU: And then Kim’s kneeling over you, beautiful in the dim light, and you pull each other’s clothes off slowly, carefully, and he touches you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Everywhere.

INTERFACING: His fingers inside you, gentle and relentless.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re sweating, your heart hammering in your chest. You can’t get a full breath.

AUTHORITY: You’re begging.

KIM KITSURAGI: He’s half-smiling, something sharp, but he’s got an expression of wonder on his face, too.

VISUAL CALCULUS: He can’t take his eyes off you, blurry as you are.

HALF LIGHT: With his glasses off, there is no barrier between you. In his eyes, oblivion.

INTERFACING: This is no saint, kneeling between your thighs. This is the body of a man. This is all Kim - the furrow to his eyebrows as he watches you, moving his fingers, cataloguing, making mental notes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Why not both?

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ready?” he says, brushing your hair back from your sweating forehead, and you nod.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He pushes inside you, slowly.

HALF LIGHT: That’s one hell of a weapon, Saint Kitsuragi.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He groans when he’s all the way in, drops his head.

YOU: You’re panting harshly, little whines on the end.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re so full, you didn’t know you could feel so full -

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Full of light - of love - of Kim -

KIM KITSURAGI: “Alright?” he says, half-gasp, and you nod.

YOU:“Yeah. Yeah. Kim-” you reach out for him, gripping his shoulders, and he shuffles, leaning down to wrap an arm behind you -

KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah,” he winces, as his chest scrapes yours -

YOU: Tears are leaking out of your eyes, and you rub them on his neck.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Good?” he says, touching your face.

YOU: “Yeah, yeah - Kim, c’mon, please-”

KIM KITSURAGI: He begins to move, and everything else drops away, nothing but the light streaming over Kim’s shoulders, his bent head, the look in his eyes, the way he feels inside you, his skin under your hands, Kim, inside you and above you, rocking his hips, mouth open, gasping -

COMPOSURE: His perfect composure, coming undone -

YOU: And you feel so good, you have never felt this good, a feeling like light through your entire body.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Divine ecstasy - a true connection with the holy - very common with saints -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: This is it. The good stuff.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: You love him.

EMPATHY: He loves you.

COMPOSURE: He’s trying very hard not to show it.

AUTHORITY: But he’s failing. It leaks out of him. His eyes glowing, his lungs, your name, pouring out of him like breath.

YOU: It pours out of you, too. “Kim, I love you, I love you, I love-”

KIM KITSURAGI: The light from the windows falling on his face, twisted as if in pain, his eyes wild. Sweat beading at his hairline, on his chest, streaked with blood. He’s awash in light. You touch everywhere the light falls, but his skin feels no different. His eyes are clear, and so dark, the darker things you’ve ever seen, fixed entirely on you.

YOU: Your hands on him - no glowing lungs, just a crust of dried blood that you reach out to touch, trembling. Your other hand on his hip, urging him on.

KIM KITSURAGI: His hips stutter as you pull him closer, further into you.

YOU: You groan, eyes rolling back, and you force yourself to look back down, to look at Kim.

VOLITION: It’s hard. You feel so good.

YOU: So complete.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry, Harry, please,” he says, and what is it he wants -

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Everything.

YOU: “Kim,” you say, and you feel yourself, smile, thumb coming to brush his cheek, and with that -

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It’s some time later, Kim laying beside you on his back. You’re draped over him, tracing patterns carefully over his chest, careful around the bandages.

KIM KITSURAGI: “What are you doing?” He has to clear his throat afterwards, his voice hoarse and low.

YOU: “Trying to see where your lungs are.”

KIM KITSURAGI: “You can’t see them?”

COMPOSURE: His ears are red.

DRAMA: A telling confession, dear sire.

YOU: “Here- and here-” you trace, very carefully.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Close enough. And yours-”

INTERFACING: He reaches out one hand, and then, the other. Landing directly on each lung.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Bulls-eye.

PERCEPTION: The way he’s shuffled to touch you, the streetlight falling in on his head looks just like -

VOLITION: Hush. We know.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Just saying.

YOU: You lay there, your chests rising and falling as one.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Saint Kim Kitsuragi the Beloved.

THE RELIGION OF LOVE: THOUGHT UPDATED:

You’re in love, brother, and isn’t it grand? There is nothing else on this earth that has the power to destroy you - or bring you back from the dead. You are love’s high priest, its greatest supplicant, its sole devotee.

[All morale and health healed.]

INLAND EMPIRE: You will pray every day for the rest of your life.

EMPATHY: And he will listen, always.

YOU: I don’t deserve it.

INLAND EMPIRE: Love isn’t a matter of deserving. It’s a matter of belief.

YOU: And oh God, how do you believe.