Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR - SPEEDREAKS FM
Kim Kitsuragi, you learn, is one nasty Speed Freak.
RHETORIC: And not just because he’s got SPEEDFREAKS FM as his preset in the Kineema.
You’ve heard the radio station in his car a few times.
THE FIRST TIME: The first time is one night in Martinaise, your third. You eaten dinner together in the Whirling-in-Rags, hunched over the table, on the same side.
SHIVERS: Titus, the Hardie Boys, and Garte stare at you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The two of you stare back.
SHIVERS: Behind you are the windows, the dark wilds of Martinaise at your backs.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Come on,” he says, when he finishes. “I’m going to radio in to my station.” His sidelong glance makes it clear that you are invited, if you wish.
YOU: You scramble after him. Outside, it is pouring rain, a hard cold thing that makes you hunch your shoulders in, water dripping down your collar and wetting your hair. You bundle into the passenger seat as Kim cranks the heater up, holding his gloved hands to the vents as he radios in.
KIM KITSURAGI: Afterwards, when he hangs up the receiver, he shoots a glance over at you, and then turns on his preset. “I don’t want to go in just yet,” he says to you, as if it’s a great confession.
YOU: Tensions are high in the Whirling-in-Rags. The body’s down, but Titus and his Boys are not your biggest fans right now. You have more clues and dead ends than you can ever remember having. “Yeah. This is much nicer.”
KIM KITSURAGI: An almost smile.
KINEEMA: You sit in silence for a few songs.
DRAMA: Now this is music, my liege!
SAVOIR FAIRE: This shit is filthy.
EMPATHY: What does it say about the lieutenant?
LOGIC: [success: godly] That he’s…filthy?
RHETORIC: Hmmm….maybe.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Let me be the judge of that!
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim taps his foot idly to the overdriven guitar. The song is one of those that picks up the pace every time the chorus repeats, frenzied and tense, until your heart is pounding in your chest with it.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: A common effect in songs.
YOU: “Do you know this song?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. They play it quite often.”
YOU: “Oh. I don’t know it.”
LOGIC: You don’t know anything. You just learned your own name yesterday.
SHIVERS: Rain falls on the car, on the pavement, on the ground.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You probably wouldn’t,” he says. “It’s a bit of a niche song.”
YOU: “I like it, though.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A rare smile - your fourth from the lieutenant, you’ve been counting - breaks through. “Yes,” he says. Another confession. This is beginning to be a pattern. “Me too.”
THE SECOND TIME:
The second time you hear SPEEDFREAKS FM is when you are coming back to Jamrock in the Kineema. The other MC, with Jean and Judit and Trant, is full, and based on the way the others - your partner, your team - look at you, it’s clear they don’t want to share a motor vehicle with you.
PERCEPTION: At least not until you’ve taken a shower.
YOU: You’re still easing yourself down into the seat when Kim gets in and starts the Kineema, so you almost miss the low sigh he lets out. Just a little noise, shaky on the exhale.
EMPATHY: This has been hard on him. It would be hard on anyone.
PERCEPTION: The rest of the noise is drowned out as the radio kicks on with the motor, the overdriven guitar and fuck-you attitude of SPEEDFREAKS FM cutting in on the silence, drowning out the sound of gulls, the lazy crash of the sea. The song spits something unintelligible at you. Kim seems to understand, though, because he reaches out and turns it down until it is barely audible.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s loud from when he had driven the body back, leaving you behind in Martinaise to get up to who knew what.
INTERFACING: You struggle with the cross-body seatbelt to your right, unable to twist your swollen and aching torso into the position needed to catch at it.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant reaches over suddenly across you. “Here,” he says, quietly. “Let me.” He reaches and catches the belt above your right shoulder, his arm around you in a near embrace.
PAIN THRESHOLD: When’s the last time you were held? Of course, you don’t remember.
YOU: You sit back, helpless as a child, hands useless on your lap. Your eyes smart and you blink once, twice. Kim’s head is bent before you as he latches the belt snugly, fingers brushing your hip as he does so.
VOLITION: It’s been a long day.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim waves at the rest of the RCM officers - your team - to go on first. When they do, he shifts into gear and begins to follow.
RADIO: “You’re listening to SPEEDFREAKS FM, the freakiest station in Revachol!” Another song starts, the first, second, third, fifth, seventh, and tenth words being fuck.
PERCEPTION: Kim’s fingers twitch, like he wants to turn it up. He darts a glance at you.
YOU: “Go ahead, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He turns it up. “This song is called ‘Fuck Machine,” his soft precise voice says.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Is that a suggestion?
PAIN THRESHOLD: You could not fuck anyone right now if you tried, brother.
YOU: You look over at Kim as he takes you onto the overpass back to Jamrock, soaring over the water. Taking you away from everything you know. It’s late afternoon, and the sun cuts in yellow through the window, almost gold, glinting off his glasses. The sun picks up spots of dirt on the windows - on the outside, of course - the salt-water-air scum of Martinaise.
EMPATHY: It’s driving Kim nuts. The first thing he’ll do when he gets back is wash it.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: No. The first thing he’ll do is get you settled somewhere. The Kineema can wait.
YOU: You fidget in your seat, hands between your knees. Your thigh aches. Your shoulder aches.
KIM KITSURAGI: The overpass takes you up, up, until you’re almost in the sky. Kim’s looking straight ahead, far ahead, almost leaning into the turns. Predicting them. There is a very careful looseness in his posture that makes you want to do something unspeakable to him.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Not with that shoulder, you won’t.
YOU: You twist back to look down at the island as you pass it, hoping to see one last glimpse of the phasmid, but all you see is gold: the sun glittering across the water. You grunt, falling back.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim is looking at you, taking his precious eyes off the road.
YOU: “I’m fine.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant makes a small noise like he doesn’t believe you. He says, “You need to see your station lazareth. And then, likely, a debriefing. And then, perhaps, we can find your address.”
YOU: “You’re not coming to the 41st precinct, are you?” Your chest and stomach are lead.
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks over at you again. His eyebrows are raised slightly. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
YOU: “God, no. I just…you’ll probably get stuck with me, you know. If you do transfer. I get the sense that everybody else is sick of me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat and flexes his fingers on the wheel. “Harrier, although your methods may be - unorthodox - I have greatly enjoyed our partnership so far.” His voice is incredibly stiff, and his ears are very red.
EMPATHY: This is practically a marriage proposal from Kim Kitsuragi.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Remember, nobody really gets married in Revachol anymore.
[Secret task unlocked: get Kim Kitsuragi to marry you.]
KIM KITSURAGI: “Now,” he says. “I would like to hear this song.” And with a pointed look, he turns up the radio precisely two notches, and the filth-ridden strains of a song later introduced as “PUSDOG” vibrate through the Kineema and over your skin, throbbing into your aching wounds. Kim’s eyes are on the road, his chin is lifted, and he is flying you both home.
THE THIRD TIME: The third time you hear SPEEDFREAKS FM in Kim’s car, Kim is picking you up for work. Your first day back. You have an important meeting with the Captain to determine if you are still fit for duty. “Just a formality,” it had been explained to you, but your armpits are swampy and your shirt is sticking to your back.
INLAND EMPIRE: You are on thin ice, Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois. Being late to this meeting could be what gets you finally and irrevocably fired.
You: Even if it’s not my fault?
INLAND EMPIRE: Oh, but so many things were.
YOU: You have been watching the clock in the Kineema as you run up on one traffic jam, then another, and another.
SHIVERS: A lorry carrying FALN gear has overturned on the 8/81 and there is a mad rush on tracksuits that have literally fallen off the truck. Traffic has been diverted to the side streets and into your way.
KIM KITSURAGI: Clearing one traffic jam, Kim slows as he comes up on another two lanes of slow moving traffic.
YOU: “Ah, shit, Kim, I’m going to be late.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks over at you, his eyes flickering over you. Assessing you.
INLAND EMPIRE: Not so much can-opening as checking your expiration date.
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans over and reaches for your seatbelt, slipping a curled finger in between your chest and the webbing, He tugs. “Khm,” he says.
EMPATHY: He’s satisfied.
KIM KITSURAGI: He settles back into his seat, shuffling his hips very slightly.
YOU: Grounding himself with the car, you have enough time to think, before he says -
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hold on.”
And then he goes.
YOU: You tumble out of the Kineema some nine minutes later in the parking garage of the precinct. “Holy shit,” you breathe over the sound of your pounding heart and the SPEEDFREAKS FM spilling out from the radio. “Kim, that drive should’ve taken us fourteen minutes without traffic.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans over the passenger seat to look at you. The look on his face is almost rakish. “Go on,” he says, and nods to the stairwell. “I did not violate eighteen Revacholian Motor Vehicle laws so that you could be late.”
YOU: You nod, and stumble for the steps, hoping that your brain catches up now that you are no longer going SPEEDFREAKS speed.
≠≠
When summer comes, Kim decides he’s going to teach you how to drive.
YOU: “But I already know how to drive.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He raises one eyebrow, and your knees grow weak.
COMPOSURE: You have never known anything, brother, and it is not likely that you ever will.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh? You remember, then?”
YOU: “Yeah. It’s just like riding a - a- ”
1. ????
2. ??????????
3. Horse?
YOU: “Horse?”
SAVOIR FAIRE: You cringe at the question mark in your voice.
KIM KITSURAGI: A look of self-satisfaction slides across his face. “Detective, I had to tell you what the starter and steering levers did just three months ago.”
1. “I was just checking to see if you knew.”
2. “Jeez, can’t a guy forget everything he’s ever known and live it down?”
3. Say nothing. You are sweating freely now.
KIM KITSURAGI: “A partner who can’t drive the Coupris Kineema in a time of trouble is a liability.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You don’t want to be a liability, do you?
1. Baby, I’m nothing but a liability.
2. Liability is my middle name.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [success: mythological] What is your middle name?
1. Harrier Raphael Ambrosius Costeau Du Bois.
2. Harrier Harry Du Bois.
3. Harrier Liability Du Bois.
4. Harrier Guillaume Le Million Du Bois.
5. You know what, this is stupid. None of these are right.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You don’t even know, do you? Pathetic.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s eyebrow comes back down to normal heights. “Presumably you drove for many years. Come on,” he says, and walks to the passenger side of the Kineema. “It will be fun.”
EMPATHY: He doesn’t mean that.
VISUAL CALCULUS: He hesitates a half-second before he opens the door and climbs in. It is an entirely foreign seating position for him.
INTERFACING: You climb into the driver’s seat of the Kineema, wiping your hands off on your pants first.
1. Turn it on.
2. Grab the steering levers.
3. Do a sick-ass burnout.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective…what are you doing?”
INTERFACING: What are you doing? You need to turn the vehicle on, jackass. It won’t run off your neuroses alone.
YOU: “Just, ah, getting used to the controls.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course.”
YOU: “I think I drive better when I’ve been drinking. You don’t think…?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. I don’t think.”
INTERFACING: You start the car.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You remember how the gearing works, right, detective?”
YOU: “Uhh…..”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim gives you a comprehensive lowdown on the clutch and shifter. Numbers spin and dance across your vision like a particularly nasty case of the DTs.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Got it?”
1. “No. Can you go over that again?”
2. “I don’t think I can do this.”
3. “Yeah. Let’s rock, baby.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Well, stick to the back streets and go slow.”
EMPATHY: His tone is supposed to convey encouragement. Instead, it mostly conveys nervousness.
VOLITION: You can do this, tiger.
INTERFACING: Carefully. Left hand on the left steering lever, shift into first -
YOU: You do it smoothly, muscle memory. Kim nearly beams beside you -
INTERFACING - right hand on the right steering level. You pull out into the street.
YOU: “I’m doing it, Kim!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, well, eyes on the road. Here, turn right here.”
INTERFACING: Failure!! Your left hand doesn’t know what your right hand is doing.
INLAND EMPIRE: A skill you’ve worked very hard to cultivate in the past.
PERCEPTION: There is a nasty bump as you are jostled in your seat, and a loud BANG.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You’ve run up over the curb and hit a bin.
REACTION SPEED: You panic and try to reverse.
PERCEPTION: There is a crunching noise and the Kineema jars.
LOGIC: You’ve struck something. Better hope it wasn’t a person.
REACTION SPEED: You hit the brakes hard and wheel to look behind you. Kim lunges to shut the vehicle off while you are distracted.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Out. Now,” he growls.
YOU: You get out. Your legs are shaking. Kim gets out too. You are off the curb by now, but have backed into another vehicle parked on the street.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You feel sick.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim is at the front of the Kineema and is muttering angrily. “Eight years,” he says, “eight years, what was I thinking.”
EMPATHY: He is angry with himself. It’s his fault.
RHETORIC: You wreck of a man. You can’t even drive a motor carriage. Even children can drive motor carriages.
LOGIC: Yes, but they probably shouldn’t.
[Damaged morale -1]
YOU: “Kim. I’m so sorry.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim doesn’t answer you. Instead, he goes to the back of the motor carriage and crouches to survey the damage between the two cars. “Goddamnit,” you hear him say.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your throat feels like there is a soccer ball in it. You are probably ten seconds away from breaking into -
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Oh, there is is. You rub at your eyes with the sleeve of your disco-ass blazer, which is specially designed not to show tears.
KIM KITSURAGI: There is a long, heavy sigh. He stands up from his crouch. His face, when it looks at you, is very angry.
INLAND EMPIRE: You cannot bear the weight of his glance. You ruin everything you ever touch, brother.
YOU: You look away at the pavement, which dances in your watery vision, and wait for Kim to tell you that you are never riding in the Kineema again, and also, he is done being your partner, and also, he is moving to Mirova and never coming back.
KIM KITSURAGI: He says none of these things. Instead, he says, “Perhaps I should have started you out slower.” He sounds tired. “Maybe next time.”
1. “Next time?”
2. “There shouldn’t be a next time, Kim. I’m scum.”
3. “Cool, maybe next time we can get on the 8/81.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs. He puts a hand on your shoulder and your vision swims. “Detective, this is a working police vehicle. It has occasionally even been used as a pursuit vehicle. Do you know how many things I’ve hit with it?”
1. “Uh….five.”
2. “Uh….twenty-four.”
3. “Uh….none?” [Scuff foot on ground.]
KIM KITSURAGI: “Three,” he admits. “And one of them was because I was in a hurry.”
YOU: You raise your eyes to his and look at him, shocked. The great Kim Kitsuragi making a common mortal mistake?
SUGGESTION: Perhaps he’s making it up to make you feel better.
PERCEPTION: His ears are red.
DRAMA: We think he tells the truth, sire.
KIM KITSURAGI: “There will be a next time,” he says. “But I believe we should go over the basics first.”
≠≠
Kim spends two lessons going through every function and feature of the Kineema in painstaking detail. Clutch, gas, brake, right lever, left lever, shifter, odometer, tachometer, radio, windshield wipers. Then, he opens the hood and goes through everything under it.
SUGGESTION: This is torture.
LOGIC: This is so you have a good practical understanding of the vehicle.
EMPATHY: This is making Kim happy. Look at the way his eyes are shining.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Also, look at how close his hand is to yours on the frame.
Another lesson is devoted to you mastering the controls of the car. Then a lesson is spent on parking. Then a lesson for crawling at parking lot speeds around the parking garage until you prove you’re probably not going to run into anything this time.
And then Kim lets you out on the road.
INTERFACING: A few times he puts his hand over yours on the steering lever to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. Have you not been paying attention?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Not really. Now fuck up again so he touches you more.
VOLITION: You really want to get better at this so you don’t disappoint Kim. And you do.
INTERFACING: It turns out your muscle memory, as has been demonstrated for most other things, is still intact. You are a fine driver.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You struggle a bit with the Revacholian Motor Vehicle Code, though.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jean Vicquemare tells Kim Kitsuragi this isn’t a new thing for you.
KIM KITSURAGI: When he decides you’re ready, he shows up at your apartment early one morning.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Very early.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s got a steaming thermos of coffee in his hand. A large one. “Come on,” he says, as you hang on the doorframe and stare at him with half-open eyes. “Let’s go driving.”
DRAMA: It’s pitch black out. You won’t be able to see. You’ll wreck and kill the both of you!
KIM KITSURAGI: “There are fewer people on the roads now.”
YOU: “Where are we going?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He shrugs. “Wherever you want.”
YOU: You drive the two of you to the small diner in Martinaise that you had always wanted to try. You both sit down and order breakfast as the sun starts to break loose over the water.
PERCEPTION: Your pancakes taste somewhat like fish.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You are ravenous, wolfing them down. Kim watches you with some amusement.
KIM KITSURAGI: As you are eating, he flips open his notebook to review his case notes on THE CASE OF THE WASHED-UP WHALE. You had talked yesterday to a woman who, in addition to being a crucial eyewitness to a body being pulled out of the water, also happens to be a marine biologist. You had quizzed her in great detail about the likelihood of a land mass at the bottom of the ocean, and if so, where it would be located, and, based on that location, what kinds of fish would make up its population?
VISUAL CALCULUS: Kim had studiously worked over his case notes as you asked this question, you had thought at the time, but as you see now, when he flips his notebook open, there are little doodles of fish in the margins of the Atlantide map that were not there before.
YOU: You want to go around Martinaise and say hello to everyone, but Kim reminds you that you both have to meet with Captain Pryce at 09:00 to go over your current case load.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Perhaps we can come back,” he says as he looks around.
EMPATHY: He is uncomfortable.
INLAND EMPIRE: This place is a place of rebirth for you and a place of death for him.
YOU: “Maybe another day.”
KIM KITSURAGI: His shoulders loosen slightly as he nods.
YOU: On your way back into Jamrock, you pass Jean on horseback. You slow down, taking your hands off the steering levers, and let him have the barrel of both finger guns as you pass. You whistle the refrain to “Marc-Jean’s Last Dance” loud enough to be heard outside the Kineema.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He, in his turn, flips you the two-finger salute with both hands, reins wrapped lazily around one of them. But he’s grinning.
KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs, and shakes his head. “Hands on the steering levers,” he says, and you hurry to obey.
AUTHORITY: The lieutenant has a lot of rules about you driving his Kineema, the most important of which is that you must be sober for at least one week before touching the steering levers.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Carrot, meet stick.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: If by carrot, you mean Kim, and by stick, you mean…
VOLITION: Down, boy.
KIM KITSURAGI: Once you prove your mettle driving to Martinaise without running over any curbs, bins, dogs, other motor vehicles, or into the sea, he lets you drive, occasionally, to and from crime scenes.
AUTHORITY: It is very clear, however, that this is still Kim’s Kineema, and he is only letting you drive occasionally, as a little treat.
VOLITION: You’re fine with that.
INTERFACING: It is a little treat.
YOU: You enjoy driving. It returns to you as your hands fall on the steering levers. You do much better after the first time.
INTERFACING: You push and pull, the car responding to your touch.
DRAMA: You are a god in his chariot, looking down on the puny mortals below!
KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer,” says a voice beside you. You look over. “Don’t you think you are a little close to that vehicle?”
PERCEPTION: His right thigh is flexing slightly, as if he would like to be pressing a phantom brake.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You are a meter off the motor carriage’s bumper. It is going exceedingly slowly.
HALF-LIGHT: Speed up. Run them off the road. They don’t belong here, and you do.
EMPATHY: You are making the lieutenant nervous.
INTERFACING: You raise your right foot the slightest bit.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The space between your vehicle and the one in front of you increases.
HALF-LIGHT: Chicken.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim lets out the faintest sigh of relief.
Once, when it is pouring, a cold February rain that you think might drown the city if it keeps up, Kim lets you drive the Kineema to your apartment. When you get out, he slides over into the seat you’ve just vacated and waves at you, just a little thing.
YOU: You stand there watching him like an idiot in the soaking rain until his taillights disappear out of your sight, bleeding red on the wet pavement.
One day, you tell Kim you want to go to Grand Couron on your day off to check out the remains of Le Jardin. It’s possible you bat your eyes a little. You have been reading up on it from a library book you have gotten Kim to get you, because you are afraid to go back into the library.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Like the little pansy-nerd you are.
INLAND EMPIRE: You don’t know how you know this, but you know the MEAN LIBRARIAN has one hell of a right hook.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Great. Let’s go.”
When he gets to your apartment the next day, he hands you the keys. When you slide into the driver’s seat, it is warm beneath you and behind your back.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Like a hug.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You still have not hugged the lieutenant.
PERCEPTION: The steering levers are warm too, and you flex your fingers around them, fitting them to Kim’s touch, chasing his heat.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Like holding hands.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Like holding -
SUGGESTION: Yes, we get it.
LE JARDIN: The garden is unremarkable in winter, soggy and gray and wet in the rain, but you grab takeout after and eat it in your apartment and convince Kim to place a game of wirral that lasts until it is 01:00 and Kim has to stay over on your couch.
INLAND EMPIRE: It is an excellent day.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim begins letting you drive the car sometimes after hours when neither of you have other plans, “to get you more practice,” he says.
SUGGESTION: It’s a great excuse for spending more time together.
YOU: You make another game of it, as the two of you do. You study your OVERSIZED ATLAS at nights and come up with routes you want to try out, and do your best to memorize them. You have Kim hold onto the map as you drive to tell you if you miss a turn.
KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs as he looks at it. Defacement and theft of library property.
YOU: You tell him, a little guiltily, that you did slip twenty reál into the drop box one night.
RADIO: He lets you listen to SPEEDFREAKS FM when you’re not on the clock. Once, the song you remember from the rainy night in Martinaise comes on, and you lean over, whooping.
YOU: “Kim! It’s our song!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.” He adjusts his glasses as his ears turn red. “I’m not sure I would call this - you know what, fine. It can be our song.”
YOU: You turn it up two more clicks. He bites the inside of his lip to repress a smile.
Other times, you drive and drive and drive and drive until you find something you want to look at. You take Kim to see the NEXT WORLD MURAL. You park across the street and tell Kim what you discovered in your case notes.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. A little bleak, isn’t it?”
YOU: “I don’t think so.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “We don’t get a next life, detective.”
SUGGESTION: You did. So did he.
YOU: “Not everyone does. But I think - we did.” When he turns to look at you, you say, “When I woke up in Martinaise, it was. I would say that’s a new life. And you-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you. He looks a little tired. It has been a long few months at the precinct. He has dark bruised smears under his eyes, and his crow’s feet are standing out just a little more than usual. He looks -
EMPATHY: Hopeful.
SUGGESTION: Make it good, Harry.
YOU: “When you came over to the 41st precinct. Wouldn’t you say that’s a new life? A new Kim Kitsuragi?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He is thinking about it. Deeply. He looks at you, at the mural, back at you. “I might, detective.”
RHETORIC: You’ve made your point well, bratan. Let him stew on this one awhile.
YOU: You go other places, too. You drive past your old house in Perdition, which means nothing to you now except physically.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your hands are trembling on the steering levers. There is a ball of lead in your gut, in your lungs.
YOU: “Maybe you better drive back,” you say to Kim, and you must look bad enough that he doesn’t argue, swapping with you. He watches you occasionally as you ride back, your hands between your thighs to steady them, staring out the window.
YOU: Once, in The Pox, you come across THE PITA CART that has the best pita sandwiches you have ever had.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim spots it first, as you are busy watching the road ahead of you for stray dogs. Like a good driver. “There’s the cart!” Kim says, as close to a yell as you have ever heard him. He flings an arm across your vision.
PERCEPTION: Kim really liked those pitas.
REACTION SPEED: You run the Kineema up on the sidewalk to block the cart’s escape.
THE PITA CART: Nearly getting run over by an RCM vehicle is not even the strangest thing that’s happened to this man this week, he thinks as he hands over your pitas.
YOU: “And another for the road,” you say around a mouthful of meat and bread.
KINEEMA: You drive and you drive to half-familiar places, and then you park under a streetlight and lean over Kim to dig the OVERSIZED ATLAS out of the glovebox.
OVERSIZED ATLAS: The atlas is happy to be kept in the Kineema for whenever you need it. You have even caught Kim using it a time or two. Now, the atlas is spread between the two of you. You bend your heads over it and try to find where you are.
YOU: “We’re here.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No, we’re here.” Your hands cross and overlap to point at different parts of the map. Hands still touching, you lean forward to look out the windscreen for a street sign. Nothing.
SHIVERS: You are in neither place. You are in some third place, half-real, half-imagined. A place seen by motor vehicle is never the same as a place lived in.
INLAND EMPIRE: You’ve relearned the city by foot; now, you are relearning it by car.
ENDURANCE: What’s next? By horse?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: That’s not a terrible idea. You should get Jean to show you how to ride.
INTERFACING: Again. You’re pretty sure you already know how.
(JEAN VICQUEMARE: You ask him the next day, going to find him down in the stables as he is brushing his horse.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Currying. He is currying his horse.
HALF LIGHT: Sounds delicious.
LOGIC: Not like - you know what? Never mind.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You want me to what?”
SUGGESTION: Use the Eyes on him.
YOU: You use the Eyes on him.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fine!” he says. His horse stamps its foot irritably. “Fine. Come around sometime. We’ll see if you fall off as much as you used to.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Don’t listen to him. You probably didn’t fall off that much.
SUGGESTION: You don’t like the smirk on his face. It suggests that you do.)
YOU: On these drives, you and Kim keep talking about Atlantide. It is an idle game you play on long stakeouts, in the office, over games of Suzerainty, smoking a cigarette on Kim’s’ balcony. Do you think…? What if…? You have called Kim once or twice to tell him things you have thought of, and although he does not do the same, he occasionally appends them to the end of his phone calls to you that are, on the surface, about work.
TELEPHONE: The two of you, late at night, speaking through the telephone lines. You laying on your back in bed, Kim curled up against the arm of his couch.
ATLANTIDE MAP: You keep working on the map. It now spans several pages in the back of Kim’s notebook: a bird’s-eye overview, a closeup of the city center, and a multi-page blowup of the island, with each page numbered where it fits in with the others.
One day, in a fit of whimsy, you draw your own house and Kim’s house on the map, little square boxes with names and arrows.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.” He might even be smiling. “Why so far apart?”
INTERFACING: You erase your house, and move it closer to Kim’s, which is near the aerostatic hanger.
KINEEMA: One day you are driving back from the docks with a dead body in the back of the Kineema when you look over at Kim. He is drawing something on the map of Atlantide. You study the curve of a particular road winding away from the piers.
INLAND EMPIRE: It looks eerily familiar.
YOU: “Wait! Kim!” His head flies up in alarm as you lean over to scavenge in the glovebox, the back of your hand hitting his knees. You fumble out the OVERSIZED ATLAS as you pull over to the curb.
KIM KITSURAGI: “What is it? Did you think of something?”
YOU: “Kim, look!” You tug his notebook out of his hands and flip to the map of Atlantide - the close up of the city center - and hold it down against the OVERSIZED ATLAS page.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.”
EMPATHY: He feels incredibly foolish for not realizing sooner that you have essentially cribbed the map of Revachol for your map of a make-believe city.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: This is a foolish dream. Happiness is not possible in this world, not for you. Tell him what really happened to Atlantide. Save him the trouble later.
INLAND EMPIRE: You are the next life. Atlantide is the next world. Don’t say anything. You can remake Atlantide anew, the two of you.
YOU: You look between the map of Revachol and Atlantide. They are very close. “What are the chances, huh, that Revachol looks just like Atlantide?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you a minute, as if to see if you’re serious. And then he smiles. “It is very common for newer cities - like Revachol - to be built on the same layouts as ancient cities. A sort of hereditary memory. Trant was telling me something very interesting about that the other day.”
ATLANTIDE: You have saved the city. Thank you, polis-man.
≠≠
Now that you are driving again, your dreams are full of it.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: This is no dream, Harry. This actually happened.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Don’t you remember the thump, the jar, the way your eyes kept closing and opening and you were further along the road than you remembered being?
You are home and you are drinking, you are finally, finally drunk. It takes some effort for you now. It’s been a shitty fucking week, a shitty fucking month, just as bad of a year, and all you do all day is think about going home to her, she’ll make you feel better, she always does, but she doesn’t, not anymore, and that makes it all worse. So you get home, drop your ledger on the counter, covered in crime scene filth, and pour yourself a drink, and grunt your way to the shower, and grunt your way through dinner and another two or three drinks, and you and her fight about something or other. There’s a preset three or four that are easy ones, good things to pick at when you don’t have anything else to talk about, so the house doesn’t fill with your silence. You drink until you don’t care anymore, and so you are drunk when you get a call from the precinct. Jules’ voice is a welcome reprieve from the kitchen which buzzes in the silence between her sharp words and your loud slurred ones. She stands there, arms crossed over her chest, while you listen. There is a motor vehicle accident you have to go to. There’s a police horse involved.
You down the rest of your drink and put your green snakeskin heels back on. You grab your keys, stumbling for the door.
“Harry! Where are you going?” She asks you, getting up and following you, and you try to tell her, but the words don’t come out right, you’re having trouble with your tongue. Damn thing. You stumble out of the house and down the two steps, falling onto the hood of the car, which is parked much closer that it should be, at a rakish angle.
DOLORES DEI: “If you leave, Harry, I’m leaving too!” Her words rise in a shriek like a police siren.
You don’t believe her. She’s always threatening it. She won’t go. She loves you, brother.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Are you sure about that?
Yes. Love means forever.
DOLORES DEI: She is literally begging you not to go. “You’ll kill yourself, Harry!”
“Good!” You bellow at her. A curtain twitches in the next-door neighbor’s house. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Solve all your problems?”
DOLORES DEI is crying, her mouth downturned as she shakes her head. She reaches for you.
“I have to go. She needs me.” You mean the city. You pick yourself up off the car hood, which is covered in flower blossoms from the tree above it. They stick to your jacket, your face, and you sway as you look down and try to pick them off.
DOLORES DEI: “I need you!”
YOU: “You have your parents. You don’t need me! Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
DOLORES DEI has no response, which means you’re right. A victory which feels hollow and cold.
She is sobbing as you peel out into the blackness of a Revacholian spring night, speeding to the scene of the crash. Literally. You can’t see out the windscreen. Your eyes burn as you squint. There are blossoms plastered to it like snow, is it snowing? You try to use your wipers, but it just smears them further. You squint. The snow obscures your vision but you have to go. Your city needs you. And if you kill yourself on the way, well, who the fuck cares? She’ll get over it. There’s nobody else to miss you. You roll down the window and lean out, looking around the windscreen, the wind slicing through your hair and across your burning eyes.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: And this one….
Or the other dream, where you are in Martinaise and you are sick of this case, sick of yourself, you are an animal and you hate it, you hate everyone, you want everyone to be hung from a tree behind a shitty hostel, to have rocks thrown at them by shitty kids. It’s no more than they deserve. You’ve driven everyone away and you are driving - where? To leave? To go home? You have no home. You have a shitty stinking little den you crawl to to lick your wounds. You’re driving and then you look over and see her. She is in the passenger seat and you are so happy, finally. Everything is right again. You reach out to put a hand on her leg, you’re so happy she’s there, and your hand falls through nothing and touches the seat, crusty with spilled booze and god knows what else. You are terrified. And still DOLORES DEI is there, and she says, softly, "He’s so good to me, Harry,” so soft and sad, and she says, “look,” and you don’t want to look don’t look don’t look don’t look, but you are weak, so you look. You take your eyes off the road and see one perfect hand caressing her stomach, which is swollen and rounded, and you scream, a sound of animal rage, and you wrench the wheel, tears blinding your eyes, the icy sea rising up to meet you, please you think, please, but you can’t even drown yourself right, you stupid fuck, you have to climb out of the ruined motor carriage in your wet clothes and walk back to the hostel crying, snot and tears dripping down your face…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Do you see what happens when you drive? People get hurt, Harry. Animals get killed.
The next day afternoon, on the way back to the precinct, Kim goes to the passenger side of the Kineema, tucking his notebook back into his jacket. Something falls, hot and sick and unpleasant, low in your stomach. A wave sends acid crashing back up your throat.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Not unlike the surge of water as you had driven your own Coupris into the sea.
YOU: “Oh, uh. I think you should drive back.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Why is that?” His eyes behind his glasses are sharp.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Trying to determine if you’ve been drinking.
1. “I, uh. I had some bad dreams.”
2. “That’s right. I’ve got party eyes, Kim.” [Lie.]
3. “A terrible portent, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “About…?”
RHETORIC: You’ve got nothing.
SHIVERS: The wind blows a piece of hair across your face. Across the city, thousands of people are driving motor carriages right now.
VOLITION: What are you afraid of?
HALF LIGHT: Everything.
YOU: You push the hair out of your eyes, and are surprised to see your hand shaking.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant notices it too.
1. “I, uh. I had some bad dreams.”
2. “That’s right. I’ve got party eyes, Kim.” [Lie.]
3. “A terrible portent, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “About driving?”
YOU: “I think - I think I used to be a bad driver.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “From what I have seen, you are not a bad driver. You may have been-”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Drunk. High.
INLAND EMPIRE: Damn near suicidal.
KIM KITSURAGI: “-reckless in the past, but I’m confident you will not be so now.”
EMPATHY: Not with me in the car, he thinks.
INLAND EMPIRE: Oh, fuck, did he really just-
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit. So this is what it feels to be can-opened.
YOU: “I’m an animal, Kim.” Your voice cracks. “Animals shouldn’t operate vehicles.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Something twitches in his jaw. “I once saw a bear riding a tricycle.”
YOU: “You think I’m a bear?”
KIM KITSURAGI: A half-smile. He’s hysterical inside. “Yes. Very much so. Listen - you will be fine. I promise you. Whatever you dreamed about will not happen. Okay?”
LOGIC: That’s because it already has.
VOLITION: You can do better, this time.
YOU: You swallow and nod. “Okay,” you say.
KIM KITSURAGI: He smiles, then.
YOU: You get in behind the levers of the Kineema. Your hands sweat on the grips. You take a deep breath.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective.”
YOU: You look at him.
KIM KITSURAGI: Another smile. Lieutenant smiles today. “I’m right here.”
YOU: You release your breath, and you drive.
≠≠
In late winter, you and Kim go undercover to infiltrate a drug-smuggling operation. This has taken several months of talking to the right people, of disguises and funny voices, of walking the streets and can-opening, of purchasing drugs and turning them over immediately to Jean for the evidence locker.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Except that one time.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Everyone was very, very disappointed in you.
Finally, you score an invite to the apartment of the weakest link in the smuggling operation. You know with the opportunity to can-open, you will have them within minutes.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim groans as he drives you both there and parks the Kineema a few blocks away.
YOU: “Come on, Kim! We’re going undercover!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I hate going undercover."
EMPATHY: He does. Every time, he worries he’ll lose the tight control he has on himself. Enough of that, he thinks, and anything will be possible.
DRAMA: You love going undercover. You have come up with an elaborate backstory, just in case anybody asks. You are Harold and Kit, roommates, possibly lovers.
LOGIC: You need something to explain the way the two of you are so in sync.
SUGGESTION: Better that they assume you’re lovers than that you’re cops.
YOU: You find yourself in a shitty little apartment that stinks like piss and body odor and and marijuana. Within are three small-time dealers - MARTIN, JULES, and AMIEE, who are young and posturing and very very scared.
HALF LIGHT: Especially with how Kim has been subtly referencing La Puta Madre since you walked in the door and arranged a sale.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s the whole good-roommate, bad-roommate routine.
YOU: You have them bragging about their supply process in no time, largely by bragging about your own fictional drug-selling business. You have promised to sell them some speed you get from a guy who knows a guy in the RCM. You wink at them.
MARTIN: “Oh, yeah, the RCM. Bunch of fucking junkies. You know, there’s this one cop…” He leans forward and you dart a glance at Kim.
DRAMA: Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
MARTIN: He tells you the most ridiculous stories you have ever heard about yourself.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The problem is you’re not sure if they’re true or not.
LOGIC: You do know you didn’t kill an entire platoon of mercenaries in Martinaise, though.
AIMEE: Aimee rolls her eyes and rustles around in a drawer. She pulls out -
PERCEPTION: The smell of hash, heady and strong, fills the air as she packs a bowl. She hands it to Kim and raises her eyebrows.
HALF LIGHT: A challenge. This one is tough. She has been watching you non stop the whole time. She is more cunning than the other two.
SUGGESTION: The lieutenant has made it clear these days are behind him. He will find some clever way to refuse, but it will shutter the entire investigation. They will stonewall you, and when you come back, the apartment will be empty.
INLAND EMPIRE: Don’t look at him.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You turn to look at him anyway.
REACTION SPEED: Your mouth nearly drops open in shock as you watch Kim!! Kitsuragi!! Smoke hash!!!!!
KIM KITSURAGI: The lighter sparks, lighting up his face briefly, and his eyes flutter close as he inhales. You watch his chest expand.
MARTIN: “Right on, Kit!”
AIMEE: Aimee watches him with sharp eyes.
ENDURANCE: Don’t cough Kim, don’t cough, don’t cough -
KIM KITSURAGI: He pulls his mouth away and blows out a stream of smoke directly at you. He does not cough. His eyes, now half-lidded, meet yours briefly, then move on.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh fuck yeah, Kim!!!!
INTERFACING: He hands the bowl over to you and your fingers brush.
VOLITION: You don’t have to do this, you know.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: For the city…
VOLITION: Fine, then. But only a little.
YOU: You smoke only a little and hand it off.
AUTHORITY: Good boy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You watch it go….
AIMEE: “Your friend’s a bit of a lightweight, isn’t he?” She is speaking to Kim.
KIM KITSURAGI: “He has really scaled it back.”
YOU: You settle back, your body going loose and warm while your brain continues whirring. You let your eyes relax while you take in everything around you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hey kiddo, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think that was just hash.
YOU: What was it, then?
1. I don’t know, but it was way better.
2. I don’t know, but it was way worse.
3. No fucking clue, kid. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? You’ve been out of the loop of what’s cool. Good luck, man.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Wait. Kim.
YOU: You look over at Kim, who is talking very seriously with Martin about the results of the ’49 Tiptop Tournee. He appears to be giving him a play by play per lap.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Although it varies based on track, the ’49 Tiptop Tournee held in Graad was 57 laps long.
PERCEPTION: Kim is only on lap 12.
LOGIC: You’re going to be here for awhile.
AIMEE: Aimee catches your eye and jerks her head towards the balcony.
YOU: You get up and go to the balcony. You tap Kim’s shoulder on the way past and sign two discreet signs behind your back.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: RCM communication for, going right, and, watch your back.
You see his reflection in the dark glass before you get to the windows watching you with heavy eyes.
AIMEE: It is cold out on the balcony, and she lights a cigarette. She doesn’t offer you one. You light up your own. “You’re cops, aren’t you?”
1. “I would never be a cop. I fucking hate cops.”
2. “Yeah, you got a problem with that?”
3. “How’d you know?”
YOU: “How’d you know?”
AIMEE: She snorts. “You just look like cops. Plus, the way you reacted when Martin was talking about that crazy cop. You know him or something?”
INLAND EMPIRE: Or something.
AIMEE: She shoves her hands into her coat pockets and pulls on her cigarette. The cherry glows bright in the darkness. She says, “If I turn snitch for you guys, can you offer me protection?”
RHETORIC: Say yes.
HALF LIGHT: Maybe. Maybe not. Informant is a dangerous game. The RCM is only occasionally able to relocate people…
YOU: “We do what we can.”
AIMEE: “That’s what I thought.”
YOU: The cloud cover clears briefly and you can see the aerostatics move overhead. You wonder how far it is to them. The silence stretches out between you as you smoke. Then you say, “Why?”
AIMEE: “Why? Because I’m sick of it, that’s why. Sick of those two idiots-” her gesture includes Kim, but you graciously choose to ignore it - “sick of always having to look over our shoulders. Sick of threats and sneaking around.”
EMPATHY: Sick of being high all the time.
YOU: “Sick of being high all the time?”
AIMEE: She shoots you a look.
YOU: “It’s okay, I get it. By the way, what did we just smoke in there?”
AIMEE: She grins. “Why? You want to buy some?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: HELL YES.
VOLITION: NO.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: For…science?
VOLITION: Still no.
1. “Yes. God, yes.”
2. “Maybe later.”
3. “I’m just wondering if I need to get him to a hospital.” [Nod at Kim.]
AIMEE: “Nah. Should wear off in about twelve hours or so.”
LOGIC: You have to go to work in ten.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Maybe call and ask if you can come in late?
AIMEE: “Sorry for getting you and your - she pauses - ‘roommate’ stoned.”
RHETORIC: Now she’s thinks you’re gay, and cops.
YOU: “It’s probably the most fun he’s had in awhile.”
AIMEE: “And you?”
YOU: You consider it. You honestly do. But in the end you answer… “No. Not really.”
AIMEE: “Hmm,” she sighs. She sounds…
1. Wistful.
2. Sad.
3. A little jealous.
4. All of the above.
YOU: “Informants typically receive some protection from the RCM. But…it is dangerous.”
AIMEE: She smiles at you, a little sadly. “Yeah. But I’m sick of all this, you know?”
YOU: You get the sense that you really do. In another lifetime.
YOU: You go inside and, after an appropriate amount of time that makes it seem like you and Aimee were not colluding outside, collect Kim and leave. The street is a shocking change from the apartment, a dark glittering night with the sodium lights shining down like moons. You throw your head back and look up at the clouds which have closed in again. Your swinging arms bump into Kim’s every so often, or maybe it’s the other way around.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Fuck,” he says. “This is very unprofessional.”
YOU: “Don’t let it bother you too much. I have it on good authority the RCM doesn’t care that much.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, well.” It takes you a few tries to find the Kineema, and Kim fumbles with the keys. He stops, frustrated, and huffs out a breath. “I think we should wait awhile before we drive back. But I don’t like the idea of being found here with the Kineema.” He looks around and shivers.
YOU: “I can drive.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Absolutely not.”
YOU: “Come on. Do you know how many times I’ve driven stoned?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No, and I don’t think I want to.”
PERCEPTION: A door slams. A shriek of laughter. Kim’s shoulders jump up to his ears.
YOU: You give him the Eyes.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Fine,” he says. He must really be having a bad time if he is letting you drive. “But if you get a single scratch on it…”
YOU: “I won’t,” you promise.
YOU: You don’t. You keep it between the lines and drive a perfectly appropriate, if slightly slower than usual, speed. Kim is alternating watching the gauges with looking out the window at the lights as you pass them. Your time with the OVERSIZED ATLAS is paying off, as you can take back roads back to Kim’s apartment easily.
ESPRIT DE CORP: Not that anyone is going to stop a cop car, no matter how it’s driving.
YOU: You tell him about your conversation with Aimee as you go through a tunnel, lights slicing into the car, strobing over Kim’s face, his hands. Bands of dark and light.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh my god. You really do drive better impaired.”
1. “Told you.”
2. “I do everything better drunk.” [wriggle eyebrows.]
3. “Yeah. That’s probably bad, huh?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It is extremely useful at the moment,” he says, carefully.
YOU: You look over at him. He is as near to boneless as you have ever seen him.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I’ve got a bone he could have.
SUGGESTION: Somehow I think he’s got a bone for you, detective.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah, sure, whatever.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And we’re good with that?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I mean…yeah.
ENDURANCE: Yeah.
SUGGESTION: Absolutely.
Finally, an indeterminate amount of time later, you take Kim back to his place. He collapses on the bed. He is disheveled. His jacket is half-off his shoulder, his hair is mussed. His eyes are mostly closed and very, very red.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: So this is what the lieutenant looks like stoned.
YOU: “Oh, shit, Kim, I’m so sorry.” You put your hand over your mouth to cover the rising giggles.
EMPATHY: Don’t let him see you laugh at him. The lieutenant does not like being laughed at.
KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s okay. Come here.” He pats the bed beside him.
YOU: You sit down on Kim Kitsuragi’s bed.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You sit DOWN on KIM KITSURAGI’S BED!!
COMPOSURE: Good luck, pal. You’re on your own on this one.
KIM KITSURAGI: He slumps bonelessly back on the pillow, his legs pressed into yours. “It is funny,” he admits.
1. It’s fucking hilarious, Kim.”
2. “Drugs are no laughing matter.”
3. “You know what would be really funny? If we kissed right now.”
4. “Knock knock.”
5. “Kim. I didn’t want to say it before, but I don’t think that was just hash.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. Me neither.”
YOU: “What was it?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “If the great Harrier Du Bois doesn’t know what drug we just willingly ingested while on duty, we are fucked.” Then he snorts. Actually snorts, then claps his hand to his mouth and stares at you as if betrayed by his own body.
VISUAL CALCULUS: But the crinkles at the corner of his eyes suggest he is still amused.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It would be nothing at all to roll over and take him into your arms. To kiss him…
VOLITION: Not like this.
HALF LIGHT: But it’s terrifying sober.
VOLITION: Don’t do it while he’s high.
EMPATHY: Or while you are, either. He won’t like that. He wants to be something you remember. He wants it to mean something.
YOU: You roll over, but keep your hands stuffed underneath your head in lieu of a pillow. He notices and shuffles so that he is only on half of his pillow. He pats the other half, and when you stare at him, pats it a little harder.
INTERFACING: You put your head on Kim’s pillow.
YOU: “Kim,” you say.
KIM KITSURAGI: He removes his hand from his mouth. “Yes?”
YOU: “We’re going to be okay, Kim. You have Tequila Sunset’s solemn promise.” You put your hand, clumsily, on your heart.
INLAND EMPIRE: You wish it were Kim’s.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh.” A huff. So close it brushes across your lips. Your lips part to take it in. “That’s good, then.”
YOU: “We just - ugh,” you say, as you try to move. Suddenly, everything catches up to you and swims slightly. The corners of the room throb at the edges of your vision to a sweet disco beat. “Maybe we should stay here for awhile.”
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes are closed. He is breathing softly.
YOU: “Kim?” You say. “Kim?” You put a hand on his shoulder.
KIM KITSURAGI: He snorts and wakes. “Huh?”
YOU: “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m not-” the rest of it is lost to his pillow. You watch as your thumb, which has found its way inside the collar of his jacket, strokes the bare hot skin of where his neck meets his shoulder. Kim shivers a little.
YOU: “Here,” you say. “Your glasses. You should take them off.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You should take them off.” His eyes are closed.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: !!! This is it!!!
VOLITION: Down, boy.
INTERFACING: You take Kim’s glasses off, hands trembling a little. You go very slowly and carefully. When they are off, he sighs and burrows his face the rest of the way into his pillow.
COMPOSURE: Kim is going to be so embarrassed in the morning.
RHETORIC: Why? You’ve done way worse things drunk.
LOGIC: Yes, but he hasn’t. Also, he’ll be hungover.
YOU: “Kim, I’m going to put your glasses on your nightstand, okay?”
KIM KITSURAGI: There is no response.
YOU: You lean over him to reach it, your bulk pressing him into the mattress. He makes a noise underneath you. When you settle back, his eyebrows are raised very slightly, but not in a scary way.
ENDURANCE: You’re pretty tired yourself. You feel your eyes slipping closed as you rest your head back on Kim’s pillow.
PERCEPTION: It smells like him. You can hear his breathing as your own slows to match it…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Welcome back, Harry…
You are driving on Atlantide, racing across the land, looking to get from one end to the other, and Kim is in the passenger seat beside you, and he is telling you to slow down, that you are being reckless, that you are high, and you are, you realize it, time slipping every time you blink, and suddenly there is a great wrench and you are in the water and Kim is bleeding from the head and unconscious, you are in the water, and water is filling the Kineema, and you can’t get the door open, and you can’t get Kim out, he’s going to die, he’s going to drown, and you are crying, water is pouring from your eyes down your face, you’re gulping, you can barely breathe, you’re the one who’s doing this, you’re sinking the Kineema, you’re sinking the whole island -
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You know you’re the reason the island sank, right?
PERCEPTION: “Shh,” you hear. “Harry, it’s just a dream.” There is a hand on your hair. “Harry, you’re only dreaming…
YOU: You want to see who is talking to you. It sounds important. It is someone you are missing, someone at the bottom of the sea, but your eyelids are heavy. You can’t open them. They drag you down into darkness….
≠≠
It’s spring again. The dirty slush has melted into the pavements, darkening them, and the sun shines bright through the sometimes-blue sky.
VOLITION: You’ve made it. A whole year.
YOU: You have. It feels good. You have been more or less sober, most of the time, for longer than you can remember.
LOGIC: And longer than anyone else can remember, too.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The C-wing Major Crimes Unit is functioning at a high-level. There is an excellent sense of camaraderie among everyone.
AUTHORITY: You having your shit together helps. So does you and Jean not fighting each other all the time. Or you belittling and emotionally abusing everyone. Also, the presence of Kim Kitsuragi seems to make everyone want to do better.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You even go find Jean in the stables one fine April morning. You steal some sugar cubes out of the break room.
VISUAL CALCULUS: They were hidden on the top shelf, behind a spare sleeve of styrofoam cups.
INLAND EMPIRE: Hidden from yours truly. You used to eat them all.
YOU: “Hey, Jean.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What are you doing here, shitkid?”
YOU: “I was hoping you would - I was thinking maybe we could go riding?” You try a grin and hope it’s not the Expression.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: His gray eyes flash over you. “Sure,” he says. “I don’t have anything better to do today than drag you into Gottlieb when you break your neck. And I mean that, that’s not sarcasm. Well, go on, pick one out.” He gestures at the lineup of horses.
HORSES: You walk back and forth through the stables sizing up the horses. There are mean horses, tired horses, brown horses and black horses and horses colored like the sun. You pass, and repass, and then stop in front of a big-broad-hipped mare who lips at your hand when you offer her a sugar cube.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You remember her name?”
YOU: You shake your head.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You called her Daisy. She was yours before you got the Coupris 40.”
DAISY: Daisy missed you, but she understood. Animals wear out. They wear down. She was happy not to have to carry you, despite missing you.
INTERFACING: You are not a very good horseback rider. You are too top-heavy. Also, you are usually too drunk.
YOU: You stroke Daisy’s nose, which is velvet-soft, and lean your head against hers.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: When you turn to look, Jean is looking at you with something raw and open on his face. He shutters it immediately and pastes on a smirk that does not meet his eyes. “C’mon, shitkid,” he says. “Let’s see what you remember.”
YOU: It turns out you do not remember very much.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You don’t fall off, which is a good thing.
INTERFACING: You don’t really enjoy it, either. You are perched on top of a great swaying beast that has a penchant for Jamrock-shuffling in trash bins and dislikes dogs, motor carriages, and men in hats.
HALF LIGHT: You’re Jamrock-trash. You’re not meant to ride horses.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: Jean, however, is a perfectly good rider, in a way that indicates he has spent a lot of time doing it and spends a lot of time trying to be good at it.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Du Bois and Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare ride through the streets of Jamrock, high above it all, shooting the shit under the warming spring sun.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It brings something back in you: a lightness of your chest, a breath of fresh air in the lungs. You can easily imagine years of this, the two of you like desperadoes. Just the two of you.
YOU: “Hey, Jean, how did I lose these teeth?” You tongue them, then realize he probably can’t see them.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: Still, he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “That was a good one, shitkid.”
DRAMA: It wasn’t. When he says good like that, he means bad.
YOU: “Drunk?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Stoned too, I think. Picked a fight with a suspect. A big one.”
PAIN THRESHOLD: You wince.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Lost us a whole conviction in court. Whole case got thrown out. And it lost you two teeth.”
YOU: “Oh,” you say.
DAISY: You plod along in silence a little longer. A group of kids waves to you, one of them yelling something vulgar. Jean grins through his teeth at them.
YOU: “I’m sorry I was such a piece of shit, Jean. And I’m sorry-” he starts to say something, but you hold up a hand suddenly, pulling on the reins. Daisy raises her head and snorts and you have to pat her neck.
INLAND EMPIRE: Careful. You’re fucking this up.
YOU: “I’m sorry I probably said it a lot, and it never. I mean I just kept going, I think.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You said you didn’t want to get better. You wanted to get worse.”
YOU: You wince. You still feel that, some days.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “So, what, you’re saying you’re all better now?”
YOU: “No. I’m not.” You look sideways to meet his eyes.
EMPATHY: Tell him the truth. You owe this man, your best friend, that.
SUGGESTION: My best friend? What about Kim?
LOGIC: You can have two best friends, dumbass. Besides, Kim is also…something else.
YOU: You say, “I still feel that, somedays. But I - but not all the time. And - I have been trying.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’ve tried before.” He’s tired. Your horses’ hooves clip-clop on the street.
PERCEPTION: There’s something else to his voice.
EMPATHY: Hope. And hatred for the way you always make him feel so hopeful before you let him down again and again and again.
YOU: “And I’m sorry that-” you take a deep breath. “I’m sorry that I don’t remember, Jean. God. I’m so sorry that I don’t remember you. I get these flashes sometimes - I mean, fuck. You’re so important to me, and I can’t even remember it.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: You both have to stop behind a lorry parked in the middle of the road before you can go around it. “Harry…” he says.
YOU: It’s the first time he’s called you by name since -
LOGIC: Well, ever. That you can remember, anyway.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’re - well.” He chews his lip. He does not want to say, You’re so important to me too, even though you don’t remember me, you fucking asshole.
YOU: You beam at him.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Stop doing that,” he grunts out.
YOU: “Maybe we can…go to the gym together?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He stares at you. Then he laughs. “Yeah. Maybe we can work on those scrawny fucking legs of yours, so you can stay on a horse.”
YOU: The two of you grin at each other, and his normally grim face is, momentarily, lit like the sun.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Maybe it is just the springtime sun.
EMPATHY: Maybe, Jean thinks, maybe I can get my friend back. I’ve been so goddamn lonely without him.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: Jean says none of this. Maybe because he knows you already know it. Instead, he says, “Race you back to the station,” and wheels his horse around, and gallops off.
YOU: You watch him go, cowboy of Revachol. Then you whoop, and chase after him.
(You only fall off once, but that is because Daisy is very, very patient. When you get back to the stables he is waiting for you, and shows you how to curry Daisy, “So you don’t fuck it up,” he says, but he is surprisingly patient. When you go up the steps, knocking into each other’s shoulders and laughing about something, Kim looks up at the two of you. When you sit down at your desk, he nods at you in approval. And when you bend your head to your work, still grinning, Kim catches Jean’s eye from across the room and nods at him in approval.
Jean is still grinning, too.)
Spring is kind to you this year. You feel an unfurling within yourself, deep in your chest, as if in your lungs. You’re almost whistling as Kim drives the two of you to the site of your latest call, a potential tipoff about illegal weapons and narcotics.
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks over at you. “You’re in a good mood.”
YOU: You just grin at him.
When you get there, you discover - among the illegal firearms and narcotics, the five building code violations, and a suspiciously bloodstained shirt - a *very* illegally modified street car, a FEVRE 501, a ’52 model. You only know this, of course, because Kim tells you all of it in a half-whisper, walking around the motor vehicle slowly. It’s a sleek blue thing that looks like it was made to cut through the sky. Kim’s rattling on at you about aerodynamics, but you’re not really listening. You’re just watching him.
KIM KITSURAGI: The way his eyes sparkle, the way his hands are out from behind his back and dancing like birds.
EMPATHY: His fingers are itching. He has never seen one of these this close, and has never seen this model year.
YOU: “Why don’t you check this out, Kim? I can handle the suspect.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It is a clear sign of Kim’s unfettered lust that he doesn’t even think to argue.
SHIVERS: Right now, the man is flushing vast quantities of narcotics down into the Jamrock sewers.
YOU: You burst into the bathroom and wrestle him off the toilet, managing to save more than half of the drugs. You handcuff him to the radiator and bag and tag the illegal firearms and narcotics.
VOLITION: You do not sneak even a single one into your pocket.
YOU: You start carrying the contraband out to the Kineema and loading it up in the trunk, leaving the man handcuffed to the radiator for now.
PERCEPTION: You look over and see the lieutenant down on his knees, peering under the motor vehicle. “It’s got -!” The rest is lost to the chassis and the wind.
YOU: You go back inside and issue the young man a citation to appear in court and notify him that you’ll be impounding the vehicle. Because it’s so illegal. You hand him a summons to appear in court, tearing it neatly out of your ledger.
LEDGER: I have seen better days, but I have also seen worse. Thank you for not flushing me down the toilet recently.
YOU: Then, you un-handcuff the man. “Oh, and we’re taking your car, too.”
AUTHORITY: You make a mental note to beg Captain Pryce to allow the RCM to keep it as a pursuit vehicle.
HALF LIGHT: He thinks about fighting you. You bare your teeth at him, and he backs down.
YOU: You go back outside to where Kim now has the hood up and is halfway inside it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Bent over irresistibly. You know you could….
YOU: You join Kim, who straightens up. His hair is a little wild and his eyes gleam crazily behind his glasses.
KIM KITSURAGI: “This car, in its customized racecar version, is driven by the Safre and Mesque TipTop teams. Of the ’52 model, only a few thousand were ever made. Something to do with faulty carbs. This one seems to be free of defects, though.” He sighs. “It is nearly a crime to tow a vehicle like this back to the impound lot. The damage those tow vehicles do sometimes…” He shudders. He’s seen it happen.
YOU: “Why don’t you just drive it back?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. It’s highly irregular-” but the corner of his mouth is already turning up.
YOU: “Gimme the keys. To the Kineema,” you say, when he starts to raise an eyebrow.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: He tosses them to you and you catch them, neatly.
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods once, already grinning, and climbs into the highly illegal car.
EMPATHY: He isn’t aware he’s doing it.
PAIN THRESHOLD: His face kind of hurts, a little.
FAVRE 501: He starts it up, an obnoxious roar that drowns out even the infernal engine of the Coupris Kineema.
HALF LIGHT: You are inferior. You will be run off the road and devoured like the mere scrap you are.
KIM KITSURAGI: You can see him adjusting the mirrors, the seat. Fiddling with something on the console. Then, his eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror.
YOU: You nod, once.
KIM KITSURAGI: He goes. He peels off into the street, the wail of the engine like a lost soul, and then you can see the deep sparkling blue of the car cutting through the street up ahead.
YOU: You catch up to him easily. He is clearly restraining himself, although you see him swerving in tightly controlled swoops across the lane, testing what the beast can do. He takes the long way to 8/81 to begin the swing back to the precinct.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim Kitsuragi, TipTop Tournee driver, has the windows down to hear the sound of the engine. The wind is whipping through his hair and he is grinning. He has even turned on SPEEDFREAKS FM, although it is very low, so that he can hear the car, which is, after all, more important. He drives a careful five over the speed limit, because it is the middle of the day, and there is traffic around, and he is a forty-four year old man and not a teenaged speed-freak.
RHETORIC: When will an RCM officer ever get the chance to drive one of these extremely illegal motor carriages again?
LOGIC: Never, that’s when.
INTERFACING: You creep up on his bumper and flash your headlights at him. You see him looking at you in the mirror. You’re close enough to see him frown.
YOU: You pull up beside him and flip your lights and sirens on.
SUGGESTION: Race me, you bastard.
KIM KITSURAGI: You can see the exact moment - through your open window and his - that he realizes it. His eyebrows raise, his mouth opens, his eyes widen in wonder. And then he grins.
REACTION SPEED: You have just enough time to notice how his hands tighten on the steering levers and he tears his gaze away from yours to the road ahead.
REACTION SPEED: [Failure:] You hit the gas as quickly as you can, but the Kineema, as beloved and well-oiled and upgraded as it is, simply cannot keep up. The Favre 501 surges ahead like an aerostatic, pulling away from you rapidly.
PERCEPTION: You swear over the sound of your whining engine and his that you can hear Kim laugh out loud.
INTERFACING: You race, you and Kim, cutting up the 8/81. Kim is bolder than you are, weaving in between lorries and busses and other motor vehicles. He is playing with you, leaving you just enough room to keep up. He does not make any dangerous moves that you cannot follow.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: You can only imagine how you look, a speed freak tearing up the 8/81 and an RCM car, lights and sirens wailing, barely keeping up. The other motor vehicles on the road pull over left and right, clearing the road for the two of you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi races up the 8/81, soaring over the city of Jamrock, nearly up in the sky, the only thing in the world is the car beneath and around him, not even himself. Just the vehicle. He is laughing out loud in sheer delight. This is what flying feels like, he thinks.
YOU: You keep up alright for awhile, and then you let him go, soaring over Revachol. You flip your lights and siren off, and settle back to a sedate speed.
41ST PRECINCT: When you get back, Kim has parked the car in the further, darkest corner of the parking garage. You can barely see the deep metallic glitter of its paint as you shut your lights off.
LOGIC: Why? You’d have thought he’d have parked it out front like a trophy mount.
INLAND EMPIRE: A half-memory. The scent of apricots. An uncomfortable feeling. A study full of mounts. Sitting in a too-small chair, hands between your knees, begging for money, because she didn’t want to ask anymore -
VOLITION: Stop thinking about it. Focus on the here and now.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim is leaning against the liberated motor carriage, waiting for you. His arms are crossed. He still has a faint smile curling his mouth. His gloves are off and laying on the top of the Favre 501.
LOGIC: Why…?
YOU: You walk over to him. “Well,” you say, and grin at him. “How was it?”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim grabs you, pulls you against him, and kisses you. His mouth is hard, almost bruising, as he presses his body against you.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Kim kisses like a speed freak, all hands and teeth and hips.
INLAND EMPIRE: It’s time. You’re ready.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Go get em, kid!
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Do the thing with the tongue.
YOU: What thing?
INTERFACING: You’ll figure it out.
YOU: You figure it out. Kim pants against your mouth, grappling with you to turn and pin you, gently, to the 501. Then, still kissing you, he shoves one hand down your pants, grips your cock, and squeezes.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: …..
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: We’ve got nothing.
SAVOIR FAIRE: You make an extremely undignified noise and rut against his hand, your head falling back against the 501.
EMPATHY: He’s gratified by the look on your face right now.
INTERFACING: His mouth is hot and insistent. You are pinned against the car by Kim -
DRAMA: Stuck between a rock and a hard place, my liege?
RHETORIC: Really not the time -
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: …..
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It does not take long at all. Kim’s chest crushed into yours, the quick movements of his hand on your cock. You pant into his mouth, little whining noises as his tongue brushes against yours.
YOU: “Kim,” you manage to pant out into his mouth, “Kim,” and he tightens his grip on you and makes a noise that goes straight into your lungs.
EMPATHY: It means yes.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: That’s it. It’s all over.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Kim.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You slump, boneless, against the 501, Kim keeping you upright with a little bit of pressure. You feel everything, you are falling…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You know what? Take ten. You can have this one, Harry. Plenty of time to feel guilty about it later.
VOLITION. Or not. Look at him.
PERCEPTION: In the dim garage, Kim’s eyes shine behind his glasses, dark and hungry. He pulls his hand out of your pants.
INTERFACING: You find your legs and surge forward, pulling him back to you, arms wrapped clumsily around him. You push your thigh between his legs.
PERCEPTION: He’s so hard you think for a brief confused moment that he might have taken to keeping his gun in his pants.
LOGIC: Except you can see the shape of his shoulder holster under his jacket.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: And besides, you swear you can feel his pulse thud against your thigh. You press against him again.
KIM KITSURAGI: He bucks up against you, a grunt of breath, then he stills his hips and moves back and neatly out of your way.
RHETORIC: Oh fuck.
YOU: “Kim-?”
HALF LIGHT: Way to go, asshole.
INLAND EMPIRE: No. Listen.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Tomorrow night,” he says. His chest is rising and falling rapidly. He is still clearly very hard. “My place.”
EMPATHY: He is enjoying this.
YOU: “Wh-”
LOGIC: You both have the day after tomorrow off.
RHETORIC: Maybe he will let you stay the night.
EMPATHY: He wants to do this right.
YOU: “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. Tomorrow night.”
KIM KITSURAGI: You are granted a rare Kim Kitsuragi smile. It is almost a little shy around the corners.
YOU: You grin back at him, unable to help it. Your chest is as light as air.
[THOUGHT COMPLETE: THE LOST ISLAND]
[All morale healed]
≠≠
SHIVERS: That evening, a man calls into SPEEDFREAKS FM to make a song request. Across town, another man, a different one, is listening to the same radio station at his kitchen table. He is smoking a cigarette with the window cracked. There is a bottle of beer in front of him. He feels strangely buoyant, as if he is still racing up the 8/81, about to fly into the sky.
DJ FLACIO: “Hey man, it’s DJ Flacio, and we got a song request for your Friday night. What’s your name, man, where’re you calling from?”
THE MAN ON THE RADIO: A very familiar voice says, “Yeah, uh - hi. Hey. My name’s Harry. Harry from - I’m calling from Atlantide.”
DJ FLACIO: “W-w-w-w-ild, man. What’s it like there? I mean, really?”
HARRY: “Atlantide? Oh, it’s uh - it’s great. Yeah. It’s really great.”
MAN LISTENING TO THE RADIO: He can hear it in Harry’s voice. He really means it. It really is great.
DJ FLACIO: “And what does Atlantide wanna hear tonight?”
HARRY-FROM-ATLANTIDE: “Can you play that song, you know, that one song that goes - ” Harry clears his throat and sings a small refrain. His voice isn’t bad, just cracked. Hoarse. As if from years of abuse to his body. The MAN LISTENING TO THE RADIO wonders, not for the first time, what Harry would’ve been like in his prime. Not that the man would have preferred it. The man is no longer young either. He just wonders about Harry Du Bois. A young man. A gym teacher, full of life, who probably used a whistle more often than he needed to, just for the sheer joy of exerting his lungs. A man dreaming of love and disco.
MAN LISTENING TO THE RADIO: The man recognizes the song, even though Harry gets the words wrong. It’s their song, as improbable as that statement is.
DJ FLACIO: “Shit, man, why didn’t you just say so? That’s ‘My Back Teeth Are Floating (Mouth Full of Piss).’ Yeah, we can play that for you.”
HARRY-FROM-ATLANTIDE: “Oh, right.” A low chuckle that goes straight to the MAN LISTENING TO THE RADIO’s stomach. “Thanks.”
DJ FLACIO: “You wanna give a shoutout for ‘My Back Teeth are Floating ?’”
HARRY-FROM-ATLANTIDE: “Yeah. It’s for, uh. The only other person on Atlantide. He knows who he is.”
DJ FLACIO: “There’s only two of you? Doesn’t that get lonely?”
HARRY-FROM-ATLANTIDE: “Nah. Not at all.”
DJ FLACIO: “Fucking ww-w-wild man,” he says. “Alright, from Harry in Atlantide to the only other person in the world. Here’s ‘My Back Teeth Are Floating (Mouth Full of Piss).’”
ONLY OTHER PERSON IN ATLANTIDE: Kim Kitsuragi smiles, and leans forward to ash his cigarette. Maybe when this song - their song - is over, he will pick up the phone. Harry will answer on the first ring. There’s nobody else on Atlantide, after all. Who else could it be? “Harry,” he’ll say, low into the receiver, mouth curling up into a smile. “You would not believe what I heard on the radio just now…”