Archive of Our Own

Cuno's tarantula dies on June 2, 53. It's late at night when he discovers her corpse with its caved-in legs and quiet rigor mortis. She should have lived another decade, at least. Cuno has failed her. For a long time he just sits in front of her glass terrarium, tears dripping down his face. The crickets that were meant for her chirp, forgotten, in his lap.

Stupid. She was just a spider. Fuck does Cuno care, anyway?

Suddenly, he can't stand to look at her. He lifts her brittle body between his hands. Her hairs tickle his palms. He touched her so rarely while she lived that this feels impolite, somehow. He wants to apologize. Cuno is glad that Harry isn't home, because it means he can carry her unseen through the apartment. Even in death she is beautiful, like a shining crown created by some madman blacksmith.

He opens their trashcan and sets her on top of the trash, gently. After a moment of contemplating Harry's reaction to seeing her corpse—all the conversations Cuno doesn't want to have—Cuno decides to cover her with a tissue. Putting her to bed. Thank you, she whispers, for the last time.

Then, he takes her terrarium into the alleyway behind their apartment and stomps the fucking thing to pieces.

x

Harry tells Cuno he loves him on April 17, 52. Well—Harry tells Cuno he loves him all the time, but he also does it on April 17, around 8pm, right after Cuno's finished smashing up the apartment and screaming himself hoarse. He grabs Cuno into a hug so tight he can barely breathe, like he wants to crush the anger out of Cuno. If that is what he wants, it works. Like magic, Cuno's anger bursts and reveals itself as the vast sadness inside of him. He cries, then, until his head hurts too much to keep doing it, and afterwards he makes Harry swear to never tell a living soul.

Harry swears. Cuno knows he means it.

x

"Leave me alone," Cuno says, on August 20, 48.

The boy's name is Egil. He's younger than Cuno, and stupid on top of that, and Cuno fucking hates him. His mother used to make them play together, but ever since she died Cuno has done his level best to avoid him. Egil's mother cuts his hair with a bowl and he loves bugs, too, so he thinks he and Cuno have something to talk about when they don't. If Cuno is not careful, Egil will follow him all over Martinaise, rambling on and on, oblivious to how much Cuno hates his guts. "...and the coolest thing about their wings is—"

"I said fuck off!"

Egil's open-mouth shocked fills Cuno with so much anger that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Egil takes a step back. "But," he stammers, "I was just saying..."

Cuno lunges. "You stupid f*****!" he screams. He grabs Egil by his stupid bowl-cut hair, and he yanks him forward and down. He beats him until Egil is sobbing uncontrollably. As he does, he bellows, "I told you to leave me the fuck alone! Do you understand me? Huh? You understand these hands, you stupid bitch?"

They are never friends again. But then, they never were friends at all.

x

On June 3, 53, Cuno is on stable duty. He likes it, so he complains about it loudly to encourage his sergeant to assign him to it. Their mutual hatred is something Cuno considers himself above, for the most part. The horses all know Cuno by sight. Most of them like him well enough, by horse standards. He's preparing a number of horses for their upcoming shifts, brushing them and saddling them and generally talking them up so they remember to be tough shit and not die out there because a paper bag rustling in a gutter scared them stupid.

"Do they assign you to the horses often?"

Cuno turns. He hadn't heard the swishing of Lieutenant Kitsuragi's jacket thanks to the huffing and general chatter of the horses. "Yeah," he says. "What, you need one?" He peers past Kim down the stable alley, looking for Harry, but he's come alone.

"No," Kim says. "I just like to visit them. Usually when I can't stand to look at paperwork for one more second." He approaches the mare in the stall next to Cuno, a dappled grey mellow girl who likes to have her left jaw scratched in slow circles. Kim knows the exact spot. "Sometimes I still go to my old precinct just to see the ones I knew there. I suppose that's sentimental."

"Yeah, well, no surprise that you're soft," Cuno says, not unkindly. "You're like, nostalgia to the max. All stuck in dead times. That's why you and Harry get along."

"Oh?" One thing Cuno likes about Kim is that he listens, so long as Cuno doesn't start off antagonistic; he's listening now, turning Cuno's opinion over in his head. "You think Harry is stuck in dead times, too?"

"Brother, his girlfriend dumped him eight years ago and he still cries about her in his sleep even though he's all love-locked with you. No shit he is."

Cuno resumes brushing his horse; they lapse into silence. Out of the corner of his eye Cuno watches the mare press her soft nose to Kim's face; the lieutenant lets her with an indulgent smile, his hands framing her pale nose.

"How are things?" Kim asks, once he's decided he's had enough of the nuzzling.

"Fine," Cuno says. Cuno runs his hand down his horse's neck, applying a little pressure, enjoying the unflinching ridges of the muscles against his palm. "Same as. Sarge Dickhead still won't get off my ass."

"Welcome to the RCM," Kim says.

Cuno wonders if this is actually a professional visit. Lieutenant Kitsuragi is up the chain from Cuno's sergeant, and therefore Cuno's boss, sort of. Maybe Kim is fishing for something. Has Cuno fucked up recently? Probably. Or maybe Kim really does just like the horses, too. Cuno drops the brush into its bucket and begins prepping the tack.

"So nothing has happened recently?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. Harry must have seen the body in the trashcan and said something about it to Kim. Like it matters. Cuno clenches his teeth and refuses to turn around. He shrugs. "Took a nice shit yesterday," he says. "Only took one wipe to clean. It was downright mystical."

"Wow," Kim says. "Spectacular. Anything else?"

It's just a fucking spider, Cuno thinks. "Far as I know nothing's happened," he says. "Do you know something I don't?"

Kim looks at him, inscrutable and searching. "You have no idea," he says, flatly. "I have seen some shit."

It's just bait. Cuno refuses to take it. He's no fucking fish. "Yeah, well," he says, "welcome to the RCM."

x

Kuuno's mother dies on August 21, 44, while the air sits heavy over Martinaise. The late summer heat makes all four of them sweat until their clothes stick in wet patches to their exhausted bodies. Kuuno is so little that he doesn't really understand what's happening. Whatever comes for his mother has been coming for her since the start of the year. His mother explained it as a monster in her chest that is eating her alive.

Aside from Kuuno's father, there is also a nurse in the apartment. She comes twice a day to administer painkillers. Today is going to be her last day. Kuuno knows that because his father and mother have told him as much—that there would be an end to the nurse's visits, and that the end is today, and that it's okay, because it's what his mother wants. That doesn't make a lot of sense to Kuuno. Without the nurse, who will administer her drugs? They don't let his father do it. Will Kuuno?

Kuuno's mother has become tiny, like a living skeleton. It frightens him to look at her, but at her weak beckoning he climbs into her bed and lets her press her paper dry lips to his forehead. She must say something to him. He will not remember it.

He stays there until she isn't breathing, anymore, and then, with no more fanfare than that, Kuuno has no mother. Two union men come in and wheel her bed out of the apartment, and the nurse leaves for the last time. Kuuno and his father are left standing there in the heat, alone.

The next day, he asks his father when his mother will be wheeled back home. His father grabs Kuuno by the hair, pulls him forward and down. He starts slapping Kuuno about the head and face and, when Kuuno curls in to shield himself, slaps his shoulders and back, too, over and over, screaming, "You fucking idiot. You f***** pussy, don't ask me stupid fucking questions. Do you hear me? Huh? Huh?"

Loud and clear.

x

It is February 50. Cuno's nose drips blood onto the snow.

"I'll kill him," C says. "I'll fucking kill him, Cuno. I'll do it." She is more serious than Cuno has ever seen her.

"No," he says. "No, it's okay. It's Cuno's fault. Shoulda known better. Cuno's fine, C, he's fine..."

x

Cuno is caught stealing speed from the evidence locker on June 3, 53. Gazsi is a rookie too, who joined a couple months before Kuuno did, though he was actually old enough to join when he enlisted. They've been partnered for a month, mostly because their sergeant hopes some of Gazsi's mellowness will wear off on Cuno. So far no luck. As far as Cuno can tell, he is an extremely boring pig. When he sees the bottle in Cuno's hand, he doesn't react right away. He does not regard Cuno with any level of suspicion. He has no idea Cuno is a speed fiend. Cuno's been sober for nearly five months, and before then they never spent enough time together for him to notice.

"What are you doing, De Ruyter? The sarge is looking for us."

Cuno looks at the bottle. It only takes him a second to do the mental calculus. His craving for it is stronger than his interest in earning Gazsi's respect. He pockets it, then stares straight into Gazsi's eyes, unintimidated despite the seven inches Gazsi has on Cuno. Gazsi looks surprised, then uncomfortable. Then it passes to neutrality and he shrugs. They're needed elsewhere. It's not his business.

Cuno will say this for Gaz: He knows when to leave well enough alone.

x

Cuno's tarantula introduces herself to him on April 19, 52. Before then, she spent her time studying him with her many shining eyes, stepping carefully about her terrarium, and keeping her thoughts to herself.

Cuno started talking to her right away. It helps him to vocalize things, see, makes his brain sync with the world a little easier, and before her, he just talked to himself when Harry wasn't around. As far as Cuno is concerned, it's just convenient to have a thing he can direct his words at. He's blathering on about his ideas for a Man from Hjelmdall story—Cuno's got some good ones, all ultra-violence and mysterious forests and rescuing Tyrbald from a monstrous cryptid—when his tarantula creeps toward the glass and lifts a leg.

Storyweaver? she says.

Cuno freezes.

Storyweaver? she says, again. I like stories.

Harry has explained in some detail how the world speaks to him. Cuno's seen enough to know it's legitimate, even if it sounds batshit insane. In fact, Cuno has experienced something similar, albeit rarely, and it happened more when he was a kid—he's always experienced it as a funny little tingling down the spine and a knowing in the pit of his gut. It's how he found cool bugs before he learned more about them and could find them based on logic. Once he found a smart blue cap thanks to the feeling, which he wore until a gust of wind swept it off his head and out to sea.

But nothing's ever talked to him like this. Cuno has been off speed and alcohol for almost two months. He talks to the mandated RCM shrink once a month, like all the other new recruits do, and the man has never put at-risk on Cuno's paperwork. Even Cuno at his worst, when the withdrawals convinced him he was dying, has been altogether sound of mind, at least when it comes to hearing shit. This—this is real. This is really happening. This is the same thing Harry experienced with the Insulindian Phasmid. Miracle of miracles, gifted now to Cuno.

The tarantula lowers her leg, then the rest of her body, until she is hunkered down.

"Cuno likes stories, too," Cuno says. He wishes Harry were here. "Uh, my name's Cuno. What's yours?"

She stares. She waits, and doesn't answer.

"What kind of stories do you like?" Cuno asks. "I can tell you a good one."

Nothing.

Cuno opens the lid of her terrarium and reaches for her—but she doesn't like that, scurrying away before he can even get close. She takes shelter under a piece of wood. Cuno withdraws his hand and shuts the lid. He sits there for a minute, thinking hard.

"So," he says, finally, "so, like I was saying, the Man from Hjelmdall wouldn't even realize what's going on at first..."

x

"I love you," Harry says on June 25, 51, halfway through a game of cribbage. Cuno has done nothing more notable than tell a joke that made Harry laugh.

Cuno doesn't know what to say. Nobody loves Cuno. Loving Cuno should probably be an interisolary crime. "Gross," he says. "That's fucking gross. Why are you so fucking gross?" Harry, to Cuno's confusion, just laughs and says it again. "Stop it," he says. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Harry says. "That's the point."

x

It is January 49. Cuno opens the door to his apartment and stops short. There is a girl in the hallway, hunched up as small as she can get, dripping wet, shaking. Her hair is as red as Cuno's. She is huddled inside of a coat that is too big for her. She does not appear to see Cuno at all.

Cuno has to go to school. It's not his fucking problem. He leaves without speaking to her.

She's still there when he comes back. Still alone.

"Hey, you. Bitch," he says. "What're you doing here? Nobody told me anyone was moving in. This is Cuno's turf, you know."

She doesn't look at him. Just keeps shivering. Her mouth opens and closes like she's talking, but nothing is coming out. The skin of her white knuckles is broken; she twists her hands against the sleeves of the coat compulsively. She is a wild thing. Inhuman, almost. As Cuno stands over her, the smell of piss hits him, and he flinches.

Cuno's dad is home when he steps inside their apartment, but he's already wasted. Cuno takes a pot out of the sink, rinses it, fills it with water, and begins making dinner. Just pasta and some toast done in the oven with garlic powder sprinkled on top. If Cuno wants to eat anything other than trash, he has to cook—it's been like that since his mother died. Cuno's dad is listening to the radio, and he alternates between taking noisy swigs of his beer and criticizing Cuno's cooking—the racket he's making, the stupidity of it all, his certainty that Cuno will burn the food so what's the point—but it's easy to tune him out when the strange girl is occupying Cuno's thoughts so completely. Cuno makes one plate for himself, one for his dad, and a third one for the girl.

She doesn't touch the food that first night. But she finally looks at him when he brings it to her. Their eyes meet, and they see each other.

She could be his sister.

For a few years, she is.

She never tells him her birth name. As far as Cuno's concerned, she doesn't need one. Whatever—whoever—created her abandoned her. Left her for Cuno. A miracle: The gift of a kindred soul.

She becomes Cunoesse. She was always Cunoesse. She will always be Cunoesse, to Kuuno de Ruyter.

x

It is April 16, 51. Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare steps into the junior officers' classroom, where their teacher is going over station calls. He glances at Cuno, who sticks his tongue out at him—that's right, I'm still here, dinky-ass bitch—then approaches their teacher. They talk, briefly, under their breath. Then, Vicquemare points at Cuno and says, "Alright, you, with me. Bring your things."

No one laughs. It'd be better if they did and gave something for Cuno to sink the fangs of his nerves into. Cuno's not really worried; something weird is probably going on with Harry. He follows Vicquemare out of the room, fully prepared to start insulting him as soon as the classroom door shuts behind them. When they step out, however, Vicquemare beats him to the punch.

"Your father is dead," he says. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi's waiting for you outside. He'll take you to the morgue to ID the body. I'm sorry."

Cuno was fully prepared for Vicquemare to act like a bitch; because of that, he barely even hears the first part. "Sorry?" Cuno repeats. "Cuno bets you're..." The words sink in. Your father is dead. Morgue.

"There are some resources for junior officers who've lost someone or been orphaned," Vicquemare continues, though Cuno is no longer listening, or indeed even on this isola. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi or I can go over them with you when you come back from the morgue. Go on, now."

Cuno walks numbly to the front door of the old silk mill and steps outside. It is a beautiful spring day, the sky so blue it hurts Cuno's eyes. Kim straightens off his Kineema when he sees Cuno. His brow furrows as Cuno approaches. "Kuuno," he says. "I'm so sorry. Come on. Harry is in Martinaise already."

"He wasn't fucking with Cuno?" Cuno says.

Kim opens the tank for Cuno and gestures for him to get in. "I'm afraid not," he says. "Listen..."

Whatever he was about to say trails off. Cuno has begun to laugh.

Once he's started, he can't stop. Kim says nothing, just shuts the door behind Cuno and climbs into the driver's seat. Cuno can't believe it. His father is dead. Praise be to Dolores Dei, the dick is finally dead.

(But—he still remembers his father reading to him before bed—the warmth of his father's arm slung around Cuno's tiny shoulders, his steady voice weaving whole new worlds, his cracked fingernail following each word on the page to help Cuno understand which shapes turned into stories, and how.

But—he remembers springtime on the boardwalk, his father teaching him to fish, carefully squishing a worm's wriggling body onto a hook. The way his father indulged him as Cuno ran his finger along the feathers of a lure. The cheering when Cuno caught his first fish, his father clapping his back, proud.

But—but, what about the miracle of his father's smile?)

If Kim has any thoughts on Cuno's behavior, he keeps them to himself. By the time Cuno has stopped laughing and caught his breath, they are halfway to Martinaise. Cuno presses his forehead against the glass window of the tank and watches the city pass them by.

"Kuuno," Kim says, finally, as they wait for clearance to cross into the harbor. "I should warn you. What happened to your father..." He pauses. "It isn't pretty."

"Yeah, so?" Cuno says. "He's dead. Of course it isn't."

Kim hesitates. "We are opening a criminal investigation into his death," he says.

"Great. He was a criminal. One of his old business partners probably did it. And guess where that'll take you?" Cuno presses his index and middle finger to his temple and mimes shooting himself. "La Puta Madre. I'd bet anything."

"Don't be so quick to wager on assumptions," Kim says. "Harry thinks..." Kim drums his fingers on the steering levers. "He thinks it's personal. You will be part of the initial investigation, Kuuno, as a suspect."

Cuno straightens up. "I didn't," he says. "The fuck? No, seriously, what the fuck? I haven't seen him since I left. I haven't even called the fucker on the phone!"

"I know," Kim says. "Still, we will need to interview you. Formalities, you know."

"I didn't fucking kill my dad!" Cuno's screaming now. "Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"I know," Kim says again, steady, so steady. "Listen. I believe you."

It's as if Kim's belief in him unlocks understanding in him. Cuno knows. He knows what happened. How could he not?

Oh, C, he thinks. C. You've really fucked it up, now.

x

It is March '51.

Cuno builds himself a city—

A city of rage—

A city of locusts—

A city far, far away—

—one that can only be reached on a bolt of lightning—

—a place that is safe.

x

Storyweaver? his tarantula says. She has not told him her name, so she remains nameless. Cuno doesn't need to know a creature's name to love them. Hungry.

"Okay," Cuno says. "You'll like this one. Once upon a time, there was a city of locusts."

Yum, she says.

"For hundreds of years, no one went to the city. They'd seen the great black clouds of locusts from all the way off and decided fuck that. They're not risking it. Because locusts are burnt earth, you know? They can descend on a field and eat everything, even other bugs, even cows and shit. They don't discriminate. They don't have picky palettes like spiders. So, for hundreds of years, as far back as anyone could remember, no one ever went in or came out of the city....

x

"...until," Cuno says, leaning against C, feeling her breathe, "a couple of kids went looking for it." It is early fall and thundering outside. C isn't afraid of thunder, not exactly, but it's close enough to gunfire that it can trigger her all the same. "They'd heard that there were mad treasures in the locust city, if you weren't afraid."

"Why would there be treasure in a creepy locust city?"

"Because the locusts ate everyone right where they were standing," Cuno says. "All the rich ladies and gents got eaten, but locusts can't chew through gold or bones, so that was all that was left—bones and gold and locusts and the ghosts of all the people who couldn't get out before the locusts came. The kids knew that all they'd have to do was make it inside the city, and they could become fucking royalty."

"That's stupid," C says. "If the locusts ate everyone else, they'd eat the kids, too."

"That's what everyone told em. But the kids knew a secret. They knew how to survive the locusts."

x

It is early November 50 when a boy drops with a gasp into the sea. Cuno says, "Fuck, fuck, what did you do?"

Cuno says, "Where is he? Cuno doesn't see him anymore."

Cuno says, "We need to leave, now."

Cuno is trembling uncontrollably as he says, "It was an accident."

Cunoesse does not look at him. Her sour, closed-off expression, her hunched shoulders, her dogged silence, all pose one question: Was it?

x

It is June 3, 53. Kuuno de Ruyter has not had any alcohol or speed in 138 days.

He stops at a Frittte and buys a bottle of wine. The girl does not check his ID, because he is still wearing his RCM uniform, because she has seen him in here before, because, who cares?

From there, Cuno walks. There's a park not far from his and Harry's apartment with a nice dense copse of trees with a clearing inside. The trees are too tightly-packed for most adults to pass through. Harry has been sober for 462 days. Cuno's not going to bring this shit home and tempt him. It's bad enough that Cuno wants to ruin his own life.

The branches scratch him as he pushes his way through. It is the sort of place C would love, if she were here. Cuno does not know where she is. He does not know who she is with, or what they are doing. The last time he saw her, she smiled at him, congenially, and opened a butterfly knife to show him its white edge. "Come here, Cuno," she'd said, grinning. "Let's see who's earned that name, huh?"

Storyweaver, his girl called him, before she died. She was just a spider. Just another hobby that Harry hoped would take up Cuno's time while he stays out late, night after night, case after case.

There is magic in the world. There is beauty. There is hope.

Right now, Cuno can't see any of it.

But if he takes speed, he will. His brain will light up, crackling, magnificent; all neurons will fire in the name of pleasure and understanding. The universe will open up to Cuno. He will be able to touch her secrets. He will see himself and all others clearly.

Cuno opens the wine. It smells god awful. It smells divine. What it is, he knows, is failure, and therefore an old friend. He lifts the bottle. "Cheers," he says, to his long line of ghosts, and then he drinks.

His tolerance is shot and it tastes like shit, but he forces himself to take several deep gulps anyway. The relief is immediate and physical, like his body has been holding its breath all these months and now he can finally let it out. He sets the bottle down on a level patch of grass and takes the speed out of his pocket.

He doesn't have to take it. If he does take it, Harry will know, Kim will, Jean will, everyone will. Detecting signs of drug use is one of the things the RCM trains its recruits on and Cuno's not that good at hiding it, not like his dad was. He never had to, before Harry. Nobody ever cared what Cuno did.

Cuno tells himself that he doesn't care if they know. They already know what sort of fuckup he is. It will come as no surprise to anybody.

He cracks the bottle open and bends forward. He takes his dose of magic, and rides the lightning.

x

By November 50, Egil has not been Cuno's friend for long enough that he should know better. But he always was stupid. Even when Cuno throws rocks at him and curses him, he loiters at the periphery of Cuno's life. C fascinates him, for one thing. There's not that many kids their age in Martinaise, for another. He is lonely. Even Cuno gets lonely sometimes, and he at least has C. Egil has no one but his ma.

He follows Cuno and C at a safe distance. C has been having a bad couple of days, because Cuno's dad went off on Cuno in a major way and she had to stay put in the closet or else risk blowing their cover. Cuno's still limping. His left forearm has turned into a yellow and purple map of his father's violence. It's fine, Cuno thinks. It doesn't matter. He just wants to spend the afternoon at the boardwalk with C without worrying about Egil eavesdropping or setting off C.

C nudges Cuno with her elbow. "The idiot is back," she says.

"Forget him," Cuno says.

They sit together against the rickety old railings, legs and arms poking through. Watching aerostatics hover out on the horizon. Talking, or trying, because C keeps getting distracted by Egil, who's settled in further down, out of earshot but within eyesight. Cuno's heart beats hard in his chest every time C turns to glare back at him.

"Cuno," she says, finally. "Watch this."

x

C tells him the truth all at once on a frozen night in January. They ran out of speed the day before yesterday and they're running on fumes. They've been playing card games for hours and Cunoesse still has the stack of cards in her hands, but she's just thumbing and shuffling them because they agreed they were bored.

They're in Cuno's shack; he's made them a little nest under the table which is a stinking mess. Cuno doesn't fucking care. He's on his back, feet pressed up against the underside of the table, his hands folded behind his head. For a while, there is silence except the rhythmic whir of the cards against C's fingers.

She stops. "You know snuff radio?" she says. "It's real."

"No shit it's real, Cuno's read the papers. He's heard the talk. Cuno is gonna run one, one of these days, gonna do that tough killer shit and no one will suspect nothing because he'll have those, like, voice distortion things, and...like...a secret hideout, like this one, and shit."

"Yeah, but have you ever heard one? Like really listened to one?"

Cuno hesitates. C always knows when he's bluffing or lying. It won't serve him, here. "Well...no, they're all locked up tight, aren't they? All mega secret and shit."

C doesn't say anything for a while. She sets the cards aside and lies down so her arm is pressed against Cuno's side. It's the closest the two of them ever get to hugging. Cuno scoots a little closer to her. "I want to tell you something," she says. "But you have to swear on your life to never, ever, ever tell anyone, ever. Or I'll fucking murder you, Cuno, do you understand? I mean it. I'll slit your fucking throat."

"Whoa...easy, C, no one's gonna murder nobody. Cuno can keep a secret." His heart thuds in his chest; his body is tingling and hot with a rush of anxiety. Sometimes the speed does that to him, but this is all on C, on the gravity with which she has spoken.

C folds her hands on her stomach. She doesn't speak, and doesn't speak, and then, as if some dam inside of her has finally cracked open, the words come tumbling out.

Cuno listens.

x

Tuesdays are Harry's regular day off, and, because of that, they're also always Kim and Cuno's day off, too, unless there's classes Cuno can't miss. Considering the way Harry works himself like a dog the rest of the time, Cuno is always surprised by how regular Harry is about it. It's a major case that keeps Harry from it. On Tuesdays, Harry and Cuno start the day with a long run together. Sometimes Harry will treat Cuno to breakfast at the end of it, or they'll eat at home. Harry insists that Cuno's better at cooking eggs than him, so usually he takes charge of that while Harry brews coffee and cuts fruit or makes pancakes.

After breakfast is the library. Usually that's the point of the day where Kim joins them, weirdly quiet in his civvies as he approaches Harry in the hushed aisles. Harry always checks out ten books or so, apparently at random, bearing the stack between his hands and leaning forward to accept Cuno's on the pile before checkout. Kim checks out more tapes than anything else, nonfiction and absurdly long fantasy tomes for long drives and before bed. Cuno doesn't dare tease him about it, though he desperately wants to. It's unbelievable how nerdy they both are.

Cuno checks out respectable books, like the latest Man from Hjelmdall or Johnny Slaughter. Maybe a Dick Mullen if he can hide the title from Kim, who he senses judges him for enjoying them. It's not Cuno's fault the guy can write a kickass murder mystery. When he branches out, it's for Pale thrillers or sailing tales.

From the library, they go wherever. If there's a TipTop race on, they'll join the noisy crowd there, occasionally with Jean, who Cuno never gets used to seeing in civilian wear. If there isn't, anything is game. Sometimes they go to the video rental to pick a movie, sometimes on a drive, sometimes on a hunt through the city for interesting graffito or treasure. Sometimes they go straight back to Harry's apartment and do nothing, or play board games. Kim tries to avoid talking about casework on their days off, but it still happens half the time. Cuno likes it when it does, because he misses doing detective work with Harry. Rookie work is boring as shit.

On work nights, Cuno never bothers trying to stay up to see if Harry will come home. He will or he won't, and if he doesn't, it's because he's at the station or with Kim. On Tuesdays, Harry always stays. Cuno drifts to sleep listening to Harry and Kim talking, their voices mellow and warm, full of love, as inexplicable to Cuno as another language.

x

Here's what Cuno doesn't understand: What Harry gets out of it, bringing him along. Cuno would be fine on his own; in fact he hadn't expected to end up living at Harry's apartment when he first rode with them to Precinct 41. He'd been fully prepared to sleep in trashcans if he had to, or up in the station's rafters. Instead, Cuno falls asleep on a bench while waiting for paperwork to be processed, and wakes in the back of Jean's 40 to the sound of arguing in the front seat.

"I'm not fucking around. I'll take his ass back to Martinaise first."

"Come on, how bad can my apartment be?"

"It's not about how bad or good your apartment is, it's whether or not I think it's morally fucking objectionable to leave a kid in your care. Even one who is '15.' He's in the RCM. That's enough."

"How is he supposed to commute with the harbor locked down, Jean? Come on. I'm good with kids. He's not gonna explode overnight, and we can figure something else out tomorrow. Set him up at the Pit or something."

"Why are you pigs talking about the Cuno like he's not in the backseat? Acting like he's a dumb caged animal? Huh? Doesn't Cuno get a say in what happens?"

"I thought you promised to cut that shit out."

Cuno's shaking. He's furious. "Stop the fucking car, then, let me out. I'm not going back there. That was the whole point of coming along in the first place."

"See?" Harry says. "He's not going back. It's almost two. Just...take me home. Please. We can talk tomorrow."

Jean wrings the steering levers like he wishes his hands were around Harry's neck instead. "No," he says, suddenly relaxing. "You really don't want him to see your shithole. You don't want to see it. Last I saw it...no. He can stay with me. One night," he adds, quite forcefully. "And you can bet that we'll talk in the morning about where he'll live after that. His dad is still alive, Harry. You can't just...take him. He's not some stray cat."

"He's a stray Cuno," Harry says.

Cuno laughs, but the sound is slightly hysterical and extremely angry. "You? You want me to go to your place? Cuno doesn't even fucking like you. Cuno doesn't know you from Dolores Dei. I don't care if there's literal shit on the walls, I'm ride or die with this bitch. Do you hear Cuno? Are you listening, deaf-pig?"

"Oh my god," Jean says. "Fine. Fine. I don't care. Just shut the fuck up before this headache turns into a full-blown migraine, please."

"Your friend's fucking rude," Cuno says to Harry.

"Thank you," Harry says to Jean.

Jean just takes the next turn. Cuno shuts the fuck up, before either of them change their minds.

x

By December 50, no one talks about Egil, anymore. His body washes ashore in early December, half-eaten, bloated. It is, by all accounts, a tragic accident.

Cuno drinks, and snorts speed stolen from his dad, and shares cigarettes with C in his shack. When he crashes, he sleeps for days at a time. When he is awake, he thinks only of how to survive. He refuses to dwell on the places C goes without him.

x

June 5, 53 is a Tuesday. Kuuno has not been home since the third. Hasn't seen Harry or Kim since Kim spoke to him in the stables. Guilt eats away at his insides as the early morning gives way to the first gloomy purple haze of dawn.

He can't justify staying away, but he doesn't want to talk about where he's been or what he's been doing. He paces around their block for hours as the sun rises. He never does summon enough courage to go inside—instead, at 7:45, Harry steps out for his run, like always. Cuno is half a block away when he does, and doesn't see him in time to hide.

"Hey!" Harry shouts, his voice booming down the street. "De Ruyter! Stop right there, this is the police!"

Cuno groans and scrubs his face with his hands. Harry's jogging footsteps are as familiar to Cuno as his own. "You are the worst," he says, as Harry approaches.

Harry claps a hand on his shoulder. "Cuno," he says. "You're just in time for our run. Come on! Keep up!"

Off he goes.

Cuno doesn't really have a choice. He follows, though the speed is wearing off and he's exhausted himself with all his nervous walking. Harry takes their usual course, which ends up being a four mile run. It wasn't when Cuno first moved in with him, but these days Cuno can usually keep pace with that. Today, he makes it to mile two and begins to flag. He's too hungover, and squinting against the sun has made the headache worse. He stops around mile three to vomit in a gutter. Harry stops, too, panting, watching him.

"You worried the shit out of me, you little cretin," Harry says.

Cuno pukes a little more in response.

"Ahh, okay. All is forgiven," Harry says, and rubs his back. "Hey, every day is day one, right?"

Cuno sniffs and wipes his mouth on the hem of his shirt. "Whatever helps you sleep at night," he says. "Let's finish it."

Harry doesn't argue. They take the last mile at a slower pace, but even so Cuno feels like death by the end. Usually he gets a nice dose of runner's high, but today it eludes him. The stairs up to Harry's apartment nearly kill him. At the threshold, Harry pauses and looks at Cuno. "You smell like shit," he says. "You should go take a shower."

"You smell like shit," Cuno grumbles. That doesn't stop him from making straight for the bathroom and shutting himself in. He strips and takes the longest, hottest shower he can stand, then dries himself off slowly, wasting time. Maybe Harry will go to the library without him, and he can get some rest.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, though, he finds not just Harry, but Kim, too, the both of them sitting at the rickety table and drinking coffee.

"Finally," Harry says, "I'm starving. Cuno, can you make me an omelette?"

"He wouldn't let me touch the stove," Kim says. "Apparently I burn them."

"Kim, I love you, but you can't cook eggs to save your life."

Kim shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. Cuno sighs.

"What am I, a slave?" he grouses, heading for the fridge. Harry likes his omelettes with ham and cheese and red pepper; Kim likes his with scallions and almost burnt. Cuno's on his last leg, but he actually likes cooking, especially when it's something he's done a thousand times. He lets himself space out as he slices the scallions and a red pepper, then the ham, which must be fresh; they were nearly out last he was here. Harry buys cheese in huge blocks, and it's while Cuno is shredding one into a bowl that Harry joins him at the counter and starts toast.

Nobody talks as Cuno cooks, but the radio is on, and Kim turns it up as the morning news starts. It's a comfortable silence, all things considered. Cuno pours himself a cup of juice instead of coffee and sips at it as the first omelette sets in the pan—this one's for Kim, since Cuno will have the same type of omelette as Harry and Kim's palette is more particular than either of theirs. He tries not to think. Mostly he doesn't.

"Thank you," Kim says, when Cuno hands him his plate.

Harry elbows Cuno as he starts on Harry's omelette. "You're gonna need more cheese than that," he says, gesturing at the full bowl.

"I'm really not," he says.

"There's still half a block of cheese left!"

"Cry about it to someone who cares," Cuno mutters. He scrapes half the ham and pepper in, then most of the cheese, hoping it'll shut Harry up.

Harry slings an arm over Cuno's shoulder. "I was worried you wouldn't come back," he says, "and that..." He sniffs dramatically and dabs a nonexistent tear from his eye. "I'd have to eat Kim's eggs."

"Ah, go fuck yourself," Kim says companionably around a mouthful of toast. "See if I ever cook for you again."

Harry gently noses the side of Cuno's head. He means it. He worried. Cuno isn't used to feeling guilty like this. He shoves Harry away. "Yeah, yeah, Cuno saved the day. Now quit sweating on me."

x

It is April 16, 51.

The salt smell of the sea is potent, drifting in through Kim's open window. Cuno spots Harry first, leaning against a trashcan and smoking, and a moment later sees Cunoesse next to him, smoking too, and smiling. Kim parks the Kineema outside of the morgue and lets Cuno out. Cuno doesn't think. He crosses the street and stops in front of C.

She has a black eye. She doesn't stop smiling. "Came to join the party, huh?" she says.

Cuno's hands are shaking. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut; what he can see of it is bloodshot. The smell of alcohol is coming off her strong.

"What's the matter?" she asks. "Got something to cry about?"

"We should go," Kim says. He touches Cuno's shoulder gently. "You can talk after. Stay with her," he adds, to Harry. "Come now, officer."

That wipes the smile off C's face.

Kim walks a step behind him. Cuno doesn't hear what he says to the technician. He doesn't see the ugly pea-green hallway or the busted flickering lights. They lead Cuno into a room. His father is waiting on a metal table, covered in a white sheet. Cuno is going to be sick.

"Show me," he says.

The technician rolls the sheet over his father's face. His right eye has popped halfway out of its socket, bulging horribly. The right side of his face is vaguely caved in, his cheekbone shattered. There is a flat dip on his skull where someone stomped it in.

Cuno reaches for the sheet and pulls it down to reveal his father's torso. The autopsy incisions have been laid together loosely; his organs are visible in the faint divide, pink and wet. He's been stabbed so many times that Cuno can't count them all before the technician hastily pulls the sheet back up. The puncture wounds look like red eyes. Like the eyes of the universe, staring Cuno down.

"That's him," a voice says, from far away. Cuno's voice. "Cuno knows that stupid beard." He looks up at Kim. "Is that all?"

Kim pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger. "Yes," he says. "That will do."

The hallway has grown since they went into the room. Cuno's feet keep moving but it doesn't make a difference, it goes on and on and on. At some point, Cuno stops. He bends forward. He's surprised when a trashcan appears in front of him, because he hadn't realized he was going to throw up until he is. As he does, he is hyper aware of the pressure in his sinuses, behind his eyes. He claps a hand over his right eye. Kim rests a hand between Cuno's shoulder blades. He's saying something but Cuno can't hear.

He says it enough times that Cuno eventually understands: It's okay, it's okay. You're okay. Deep breaths.

You're wrong, Cuno thinks. Nothing about this is okay, except the most basic fact of his father's death.

He's calmer when he steps outside. C, however, is screaming at the top of her lungs. "Rape! Rape! Pedopig is threatening to kidnap me!"

Cuno grabs her by the arm. He drags her away from Harry and Kim, down the street, walking fast. They don't stop until they reach Cuno's shack. He shoves C inside.

"What?" she says.

Cuno doesn't know what to say. "Why?"

C's jaw works back and forth. The sight makes cravings surge in Cuno, so strong that he almost asks her if she has some speed to share. She swipes at her nose with the back of her hand. "Why what?"

"You killed him," Cuno says.

"I've killed lots of people. You gotta be more specific, Cuno."

Cuno could hit her. He wants to so badly. But the smooth dent in his father's skull keeps him rooted in place.

"Do you know why I kill people?" C asks, when he doesn't answer. "Not just cos I like it. And I do, Cuno, oh, I love it. It feels so fucking amazing. I kill people because they deserve to die. Because they fucking betray me. Are you listening, Cuno? Are you hearing me, pig?"

"He did that to you, didn't he? He hit you."

She smiles. "Only once."

Cuno crouches down. He clutches his hair. He can't take this. He can't do this. He can't. He can't.

"And you know what?" C says, crouching with him. "That? Is on you. You're the fucking coward who never did what needed to be done. You're the little bitch who left me with him. So what now, Cuno? What should I do with you, hm?"

Cuno starts to cry. He's never cried in front of C. He hasn't cried in front of anyone in years.

C sighs and strokes his hair, gently. "Oh, Cuno," she says. "You dumb pig. You rat. I won't kill you. Not yet. No...not yet."

She presses a kiss to his head. She stands, and lets sunlight into the city of night. And then she is gone.

x

"It was some peone, probably," Cuno says. "Fuck does Cuno know. Or care."

He rests his forehead against the window. Harry doesn't speak for a while. When he does, it is carefully. "You know your father better than anyone. Are you sure you don't have any idea who might have done it?

"Not a clue," Cuno says, without inflection.

x

As C speaks, she begins to cry. In her first weeks with Cuno, she cried all the time, in furious fits. That was a long time ago. She presses her face into Cuno's shoulder; her slim body trembles.

"She was so small," she says. "So little? Smaller than me? And when they were all dead, we fell into the sea. And the fisher-people bled into the water, and they screamed and drowned. I saw her change...her legs became a tail. But she was already dead. That's when I turned."

Cuno listens.

"I would kill them again, and again, and again. In my dreams, I do. But she is there, too. And she cries, but I've already killed her? The knife is still stuck between her ribs. And the microphone is there like a black eye...the eye of god looking at us and..." Suddenly, she lapses into her other language, muttering frantically into Cuno's shoulder. He doesn't understand the words, but he knows the heart of it:

Forgive me. Forgive me. Please.

Cuno wants to say, I love you. But those words froze in him when his mother died. He wants to say, I forgive you. But she isn't asking it from him. He holds C against him and listens to the thunder rend the sky.

x

"If," Harry says, "someone came forward—if they told me why they did it—if, say, that person had been through the Pale, illegally, without proper training or protection—I could help them. I could make sure they don't go to prison. Because no one would convict them. They'd want that person to be helped."

"Listen—listen, Cuno doesn't know what you're talking about. He doesn't know who did it. Doubt you'll ever figure it out, either. Everyone wanted him dead. I wanted him dead. Maybe Cuno killed him. Sleptwalk all the way to Martinaise for a little murder chat. Maybe he did."

Harry's eyes are impossibly sad. Cuno can't stand to meet them.

x

Kuuno's mother doesn't know she is sick, yet. Her red hair hangs in a braid over her shoulder, and she holds Kuuno's tiny hands in hers and spins them round and round in the sea. She is smiling, laughing.

"Munchkin, munchkin," she sings, "I love my little munchy-munchkin."

Her lip is swollen. There is a red scab there. Kuuno knows where it came from, but his daddy is at work, so it's okay.

Maybe she'll swim with him out to sea. Maybe they'll swim away forever, someday. Today, they spin in the water. Today, Kuuno is loved.

There are no monsters here. Just little fishes and white sea foam.

x

Cuno calls Harry names, and Harry doesn't hit him. Cuno hits Harry, and Harry doesn't hit him. Cuno breaks his things, and Harry doesn't hit him. Day after day, Harry does not hit him, even when Cuno deserves it, even when Cuno wants him to, even when Cuno begs him to.

Cuno doesn't know when it happens, exactly, but he stops expecting it. When he does, something settles inside of him, like a rock coming to rest at the bottom of the ocean floor.

It's then that he knows he would die for Harry. He would do anything for him. He loves him.

x

It is April 26, 51. Cuno stole a bottle of Preptide from the evidence locker a few days ago. Took the last of it yesterday, and came to the precinct anyway, because he's a walking bag of bad decisions. But he can't bring himself to go inside, can't stand the thought of having to line up with the other cadets and go through all the stupid petty motions of becoming a version of himself that he hates.

Instead, he goes to the stables, to hide and decide on his next move. A trainer is there, to work with a new filly, but he doesn't know Cuno and is too focused on her to spot him as he slinks into an empty stall and crouches down. Cuno picks and picks at the clean straw. His mind is running at full tilt, his thoughts sprinting every which way.

"Oh, great, it's you," a tired voice says from the stall door.

Cuno leaps to his feet. "Yeah it's the fucking Cuno, fuck off if you know what's good for you."

Jean Vicquemare folds his arms on the stall door. His expression does not so much as budge from his exasperation. "You keep missing class and they'll kick you out," he says. He doesn't seem particularly fussed about the prospect. "And, more importantly, if you keep screeching like a teratorn you'll scare the horses. So, shut the fuck up."

"Oy! Cuno's not screeching!" Even in his drugged state, Cuno is aware that he has, in fact, just screeched that. He clears his throat and folds his arms across his chest. "Mind your own business," he says, at regular volume.

Jean taps a cigarette out of his pack and lights it. "Word to the wise. The RCM is going to be a lot less kind to you when Harry dies. He's pulling a lot of weight for you. And you might have six months with him, if you're lucky. Shitkid has been on death's door for a while, now."

The words ring in Cuno like a bell, making all other noise go quiet in his mind. Harry, dead. Harry, pale and broken on a metal slab, his unseeing eyes staring into the final abyss. The man should mean nothing to Cuno. Instead, he means everything. Cuno stares up at Satellite-Officer Vicquemare and, for a moment—just one—they share an understanding. Harry's roots run deep in them both.

Jean sighs, letting out a long stream of smoke. "If you're gonna skive off in the stables, you should know how to behave around the horses. They haven't covered that yet for your group, right? Horses aren't cats. You can't tie firecrackers to their tails and expect to come away alive."

"I don't fuck with..."

Jean waves his hand, dismissing the idea altogether. It's irrelevant. "Sure you don't. Come out of there. Come on." Cuno reluctantly creeps out of the stall; Jean claps a hand on his shoulder and turns him toward the nearest horse, a tall brown one with a white diamond on its nose. "O-K. So. Rule one: Horses are fucking stupid. Whatever you just thought, you're wrong—they're stupider than that. Think rock bottom stupid. Rule two: Horses are fucking smart. Don't insult them or fuck with them, because they'll remember and they'll fuck with you right back. Rule three..."

x

Cuno's always had anger problems. Even before his mother died, he threw tantrums, he screamed, he had fits where all he could do was sink his teeth into whatever was in reach, including his own arms and hands. His father's anger fed off Cuno's, or vice versa, or both. It was a problem after his mother died, all that pent-up rage in one tiny apartment. When C came to him, his anger mellowed, or matured—she had a knack for directing it, and, consequently, helping disperse it. As a result, Cuno was actually fairly chill when he met Harry, compared to the nightmare he was before.

But when Cuno's father dies, he must have left his rage behind, hooked in Cuno's lungs. Cuno's hatred for the world doubles. Triples on a bad day.

He takes it out on Harry, on Kim and Jean, on his sergeant and fellow recruits. He takes it out on pens and books, on clothes, on the flimsy walls in Harry's apartment. He revels in taking it out on his peers—the bastards who loiter in their neighborhood and think they own the place until Cuno shows them his pocketknife and sharp teeth.

Most of all, he takes it out on himself. Biting and scratching his arms, his back and face and stomach and legs, pulling at his hair, screaming in the shower, into his pillow, into the cold night air. It's like his father's death started a war between Cuno and the world.

One early autumn day, after a shit week where Cuno's been beyond himself—enough of a terror that Harry hasn't been home in two days—the front door opens, while Cuno is listening to the radio and angrily shredding paper. It's Kim, alone. Cuno has never been alone with the man except the day his father died. They stare at each other, Cuno stunned, Kim doing some inner calculations.

"Come with me," he says.

"Is—is Harry dead?" It's the only reason Cuno can think that Kim would be here by himself, summoning Cuno.

Kim blinks. "No," he says. He turns without another word and leaves.

Cuno scrambles to turn off the radio and follows. "Hey! Don't walk away! Cuno's not done questioning you, bino!"

He catches up to Kim in the ground floor hallway, then nearly has to jog to keep up with Kim's long, steady strides. Kim holds the door for Cuno. Outside the apartment is a black and silver motorcycle with two helmets resting on its slim seat; to Cuno's shock, Kim approaches it and puts one of the helmets on.

"What the fuck is that?" Cuno says.

"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?" Kim asks. "Or will you need a primer?"

"You—hold on. Slow the fuck down. Pump the brakes, bino. This is yours? You drive this? What about the Kineema?"

"That is my work vehicle," Kim says. He picks up the second helmet and lobs it at Cuno, maximum velocity style. "This one is for pleasure." He slings a leg over the bike, perfectly calm and comfortable. "Put that on and get on. Make sure to fasten it under your chin and tighten the straps. It's been a while since anyone wore that."

"Where are we going?" Cuno asks, hastily donning the helmet. "On some—secret mission, or...?"

"On a ride," Kim says. Just that. He waits for Cuno to clamber on behind him. "Okay. When I turn or lean to pass a car, you need to lean with me, but not more than I do. Otherwise, stay still. You can hold the seat or onto me, but you had better hold onto something." He starts the bike; the engine trembles through Cuno's whole body, all raw power. "Finally," Kim says, adjusting his mirrors, "feel free to scream. I won't stop unless you tap my shoulder. Understand?"

"Uh," Cuno says. "Yeah?"

"Great. Here we go."

He sets off into traffic at a pace that is exceptionally disappointing, after all that build up. Cuno grabs Kim's sides and leans in. Even riding slow is unsettling, but nothing to scream about. In fact, he's pretty sure Kim is driving under the speed limit, navigating serenely, taking turns slow. He circles a few blocks twice, until Cuno is sitting more comfortably behind him and has figured out how much to lean.

Then, after the third go-round, Kim breaks away for another street, one that will lead them to the highway. He picks up speed, bit by bit.

Kim hits the on-ramp, and it's there that he fucking floors it.

The experience is full-body—it is impossibly loud, impossibly fast—it is almost as good as speed, and it feeds something primal inside of Cuno. He clings onto Kim, laughing wildly as Kim passes car after car, threading between them, perfectly steady, perfectly in-tune with the road and bike. He screams, because Kim said he could, a wild holler of joy and manic excitement. Perhaps encouraged by it—perhaps oblivious to it—Kim goes faster, leaning forward as he does. Cuno glances at the speedometer over Kim's shoulder and his heart skips a beat, then thunders hard. Yes, yes, Cuno thinks, this is it, this is it, this is what he wants to do for the rest of his life, this is how he wants to feel—fuck speed, fuck alcohol and cigarettes, fuck the adrenaline rush after a fight. Cuno wants to ride.

Kim drives them all the way out of Revachol, all the way past the Burnt Out Quarter to the edge of Wheat Town. At the outskirts, he finally slows down. He takes an off-ramp that quickly turns into a dirt road, and it's there, in the middle of a field, that he rolls to a stop and cuts the engine. Cuno topples off the motorcycle and doesn't even bother to right himself, just lets himself stagger away from the road and drop into the long grass with a whoop.

"Lieutenant," he says, breathless, "you're a fucking mad dog. You're all right. I fuck with that." Inside of Cuno feels all fresh and bright, like Martinaise after a good long summer rain, when the sun comes peeping out. He can still feel the vibrations from the engine inside of his core, rattling his mind clean.

"Mmhmm," Kim says.

"I mean, that was...that was fast fast, like, lightning-fast. Like end of the world shit. You broke the fucking sound barrier."

"Not quite," Kim says. He joins Cuno in the grass, sitting with one knee up and an elbow resting there.

Cuno takes out a cigarette and offers the pack to Kim, who eyes it a moment, considering the offering. "Come on," Cuno says. "Cuno only offers to share once. None of that no-thank-you, I-insist shit."

The corner of Kim's mouth twitches, almost a smile. He accepts the pack and taps one out, then hands it back to Cuno. "Thank you," he says.

Cuno sits up to light his cigarette; his head barely comes above the grass. He takes in the sights, which are approximately fuckall, just grass and far-off trees and a dinky old shack in the field on the other side of the street. Cuno can hear birds chirping some way off and crickets going mad in the tall grass. "So," Cuno says, letting smoke spill out of his mouth as he talks, "did you bring me here to murder me, or what?"

"Of course," Kim says. "I love murdering members of the RCM. That's actually why my precinct was happy to transfer me. Too many unexplained disappearances."

For half a second, Cuno thinks he might be serious. Like, really dead serious. He whips his head around to look at Kim, who is taking a slow drag off his cigarette; Kim glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Again, that not-quite-smile. Cuno shakes his head. "Great," he says, "a sequence killer in the midst of the 41...no one'll believe that shit."

"They won't," Kim says. "Not from you. My secret is safe."

"Guess so," Cuno says. He flicks ash off his cigarette.

They smoke in silence for a little while. Cuno listens to the noises of the field, thinking of the Insulindian Phasmid, her beauty, her surreal eyes, the gentle way she lowered her face toward Harry's. It hurts to think of her, but in a funny sort of way, like he's enjoying the pain.

"Do you like it, working for the RCM?" Kim asks.

It's a strange question. Cuno peers at him suspiciously. "Did you bring me out here to fire me?"

"I didn't bring you out here for anything," Kim says. "But I am curious. And it's within my professional scope to ask."

Cuno scuffs a line in the dirt with his finger. "I don't know," he says. "It's boring as fuck. I thought it'd be...y'know...more murders. Mysteries and stuff that uses your brain. Instead it's all, did you iron your uniform this morning? Fill out this paperwork. Reading lessons and shit. Blah, blah, blah. And everybody's a right fucking dick, like, dick enough to make Vic-dick look like a nice guy. I thought Cuno's pig was unhinged but he's actually pretty cool compared to most of the other pigs." Cuno puffs at his cigarette. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I would never."

Cuno scoffs. He doubts that. Across the way, three birds take flight, rising out of the treeline. Cuno watches them circle and dip. "Plus," he says, "being a pig...I don't know...it feels wrong, sometimes? Like it's not what Cuno really wants, in his gut. In his gut he wants to destroy things and people, but it's also...being a pig, it's all about having a boss, or being the boss. Hierarchy shit that's executed in the most boring way possible. Like, if dogs all decided to bite their masters at the same time for no reason—that's how it feels, being a cop, like I'm the dog who's biting, and...I don't know."

Kim doesn't answer right away, just keeps smoking his cigarette. He's watching the birds, too, but Cuno gets the feeling that Kim is listening closely. "You think the police aren't serving the people the way they should?" he asks, finally. "Like a dog who goes against his training?"

"I guess," Cuno says. "At least, base-pigs. Detectives and shit, you guys actually make a difference. You're out there catching real bad people. But low-life pigs, pigs like me...fuck, man, they just want me to know, like, the tiers for fining people. They just like fucking with people. And Cuno likes fucking with people, too, but it's lame as fuck the way they do it. You know?"

"Everyone struggles with these questions," Kim says. "It will only get worse when you're cleared for patrol. You say that detectives like Harry and I make a difference. From the inside, there are more days where that feels false than true. It's time for you to start asking yourself why you are here, and what you hope to achieve. Having an internal compass is essential if you want to make a career out of this." He pauses to take one last drag from his cigarette, then grinds the butt into the dirt. "For me...I love Revachol. I love her people. And I love the rush of solving a case. The chase, the questions, the mystery. The power, too, sometimes. It's important not to lie to yourself about these things."

Cuno nods. Kim has never spoken to him like this. At most, he is friendly in a distant, polite way, aware that the two of them must share Harry's life. But something between them changed when Cuno's father died.

"Power," Kim says, "that is, true power, comes from self-control. It comes from following your own internal hierarchy. To borrow your metaphor—it is the dog, untrained, choosing to sit at his master's feet because he loves the man and knows it will benefit them both. When you are a master of yourself, no one is your master."

The birds disappear over the horizon. Cuno lies on his back again. "Cuno has no master," he says. "Not even himself. Cuno's wild."

"That's my point," Kim says. "Until you have tamed yourself, you will never be happy as an officer. This anger you feel will never go away."

"I'm not happy because I miss C," Cuno blurts out. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't even thought it to himself before now.

Kim looks at him quietly.

"Because," Cuno continues; now that he has found that truth inside of himself, he has to see it through. "Because she hates me. Because she should hate me." Cuno digs the heel of his hands into his eyes; there is a lump in his throat that wasn't there a minute ago. "I left her. Left her with him. And now..."

Kim touches Cuno's arm. He waits for Cuno to drop his hands and look at him before he speaks. "Do not be ashamed of the things you do to survive," he says. "Shame is dead weight, Kuuno. All it does is hold you back. Let it go."

x

Harry takes Cuno to a petshop on March 20. "No dogs or cats," he says, "cause they'll kick us out. But if there's something else..."

The back wall is all terrariums. Lizards and snakes and little green frogs that gaze at Cuno with bulging startled eyes.

In one tank, perched on a rock, is a Mesque Red Knee tarantula. Cuno's heart skips a beat. She's the second most beautiful thing Cuno has ever seen, second only to the Insulindian Phasmid.

"Oh, neat," Harry says, leaning over Cuno. "Did you know there's tarantulas as big as dinner plates on some isolas?"

There is a zero percent chance that Harry knows more about spiders than Cuno, but Cuno is too enamored with the tarantula to condescend to Harry. "Yeah," is all he says. He presses his hands to the glass and stares, wanting her, unable to say the words.

Harry taps his shoulder. "She likes you," he says. "She says your freckles are like stars. I'm not sure when she saw stars, but..."

Cuno looks up at him. Even knowing that they came here for this purpose, Cuno can't bring himself to ask for her, can't bear the possibility that Harry might say no.

Harry smiles. "Let me get the clerk," he says.

x

Before C, Cuno likes to visit the fishing village. He walks up and down the coast, exploring, playing games he's made up for himself and throwing rocks. He avoids the church, because his mother warned him about it before she died, and anyway the one time he peeked inside there was nothing interesting. He hides in long grass to spy on Lilienne, magnificent with her saber and tall proud posture and dark hair. He fishes, and catches bugs to make them battle each other, and investigates dead birds and fish that washed ashore.

For the first month after C appears, she follows him without really questioning him or pressing for more daring games.

In late February, however, she stops him as they are heading for the old Feld building. Her eyes are glued to the church. She says, "What is that old place?"

"Some church," Cuno says. "Like, super old and haunted. Boring as fuckall."

C starts for it. "Yeah right it's haunted. You're so full of shit."

Cuno rolls his eyes and follows. "Hey! You wanna fuck with ghosts, you go right ahead. Cuno's not about that spectral shit. Can't shoot a ghost, can you, C?"

She ignores him and jogs up the rickety old steps. Cuno follows reluctantly, unwilling to look like a coward or a fool in front of her. C shoves her way inside and pauses in the entryway, gazing about; Cuno stays close and keeps his head on a swivel, fully prepared to grab her and run if a ghost—or something worse—appears. There is only the broken mural and splintered floor and an oppressive silence. C approaches the mural and folds her arms across her chest, giving Dolores Dei the stinkeye. "Bougie bitch," she says.

Cuno's not sure if she actually knows the story of Dolores Dei. Maybe. Either way, she is a bourgeois bitch, so he just snorts out a laugh.

C turns her back to it and hops down the steps. She traces the ancient railings with her hand, squinting curiously into the dark corners of the church. "We should make this ours," she says. "We should move in."

Not a chance, Cuno thinks. "Yeah?"

C is about to respond when she reaches a certain point in the middle of the floor.

Cuno does not know what it is about that spot in particular. To him, it is no different than any other spot in the derelict building. But C's body goes rigid—she grabs her head, as if in pain—and she screams.

She isn't herself for days. She never tries to enter the church again.

x

Cuno brings home a stolen six pack of pilsners on February 27, 52. He hadn't expected for Harry to be home, but he is; there is no point hiding the alcohol, and Cuno thinks Harry's attempts at sobriety are pretty stupid, anyway. Cuno can't believe that the world might be worth living in without alcohol. They split the beer. When those are gone, Harry goes out and returns home with two bottles of wine. And they drink—and drink—and as they do, Cuno watches Harry unspool. Death creeps into Harry's eyes, his voice. Harry's words slur. His mind slows.

And Cuno thinks—who is this man?

And Cuno thinks—why did I do this?

Harry spends the next morning vomiting and crying. Cuno calls into the precinct on Harry's behalf, lying, saying they both ate some bad takeout and are just about dying from food poisoning. Jean says, "He got drunk, didn't he?" and Cuno curses at him for several minutes before hanging up.

He sits with Harry on the couch as Harry cries. His father never cried, not in front of Cuno, not even when his mother died. Cuno almost never cries, even in private. The sight of Harry's shaking shoulders makes Cuno feel deeply ashamed. This is his fault. After everything Harry has done for him, Cuno did this.

Not knowing what else to do, Cuno goes to the kitchen. He boils a few eggs and sticks a pan of chopped vegetables in the oven. He cuts a block of cheese into thin slices, toasts some bread, and finally brings the lot to Harry as if in offering. It is the only apology he can think to give. When he does, Harry wraps him in his huge arms and holds him: Thank you, thank you. It's not your fault. I love you. Thank you.

Neither of them know it then, but Harry will never drink again.

x

On June 5, 53, Cuno falls asleep at the table without finishing his food. He wakes early in the evening, in his bed. There are two new library books on his bedside table—a Johnny Slaughter and Cuno's favorite Man from Hjelmdall. He can hear music in the other room, and Kim's steady voice punctuated by Harry's deep laughter.

There is pain in him, still, always. But he feels safe. He feels loved. Tomorrow is a new day.

He shuts his eyes and drops back into a dreamless sleep.

x

On October 11, 53, C finds Cuno in a park. She drops onto the bench next to him without warning. "Hello, Pig," she says.

"Hey," he says. He isn't scared to see her. Just sad, deep inside. She is dirty; her clothes are torn. She is smiling, but looks miserable. "Been a while."

"You miss me?" she sneers.

"All the time," Cuno says. "Every fucking day."

His honesty takes her by surprise, rips the words she had planned right out of her mouth.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he says. "Harry can help you, too."

"I don't need help," she says. "Not from a fucking f***** pig, that's for sure."

Cuno stares at her. She is bright, bright. Still alive. Still a miracle. She will be one until she dies, but she can't see it, can only see the black pit others dug inside of her, the endless pain and rage that she feeds. Cuno leans forward and takes her hand in both of his, like Harry has done for him, a touch that can only ever express love. He wonders when someone last touched her kindly. He wonders if it was him. "I love you," he says, for the first time, knowing it might be the last. "But you can't keep doing this, C."

She stares at him, mouth open in shock. Her pupils are pinpricks.

"Come talk to Harry," he says. "Please."

Cunoesse yanks her hand away. Her rage flares quick and hot, makes her incoherent for several moments. She stands and backs away. "Who are you?" she says, finally.

Cuno doesn't know. Kuuno wants to know.

C spits at his feet. "Fuck you," she says. "Go die. Fucking kill yourself."

"Do you remember," Cuno says, because she isn't walking away, yet, is still a captive audience, "Locust City?"

"What? Locust—the shack?"

"The story," Cuno says. "The concept, C. The thoughts. The children. The dying locusts in their cages..."

"You must be on some good shit, Cuno. You fucking—yeah, yeah, I remember that lame baby shit."

Cuno shuts his eyes. "All that gold," he says. "What's the point, C? What's the point if they're alone? If everyone around them is dust?"

When he opens his eyes, she is staring at him as if she's afraid. But that's absurd. C has always been afraid of Cuno. Every time she's looked at him it has been with fear. Expecting him to hurt her, or leave her, or kill her. Not knowing that Cuno has always wanted only to walk with her through tall grass and talk. "You're crazy," she says.

"Next time I see you," Cuno says, "I'm going to arrest you. And when I bring you in, I'll tell them everything. Are you listening to me, C? Are you hearing me?"

Please. Please, hear me. Come with me. Let me help you.

C's face screws up with rage. She slips her knife out of her pocket and shows Cuno its sharp edge. "Fucking try it," she says. "I dare you."

Cuno grins. "I'll take that dare," he says.

C doesn't know what to do with that. She takes a few more slow steps back. Then, without another word, she turns and sprints away.

x

On a rainy spring day in 49, two children run down a cold and sandy beach, laughing as they go. Death hangs from their necks, but here, now, they are as weightless as locusts in flight.

x

It is August 9, 55. C bleeds from her nose, drip-drip, onto the concrete. She is thrashing and screaming.

Kuuno de Ruyter doesn't let her up. He cuffs her, while Gazsi keeps her legs pinned. "Shh, shh," Kuuno says. "It's gonna be okay. I promise. Go on. Hate me. It's okay." He sits her up. She spits in his face. Kuuno wipes it with a handkerchief, then touches the clean side of the cloth to her nose, soaking up blood. She tries to bite him.

"I'll radio it in," Gazsi says.

"Ask for Lieutenant Du Bois," Kuuno says. "If he's in. Tell him it's Cuno. Tell him we're gonna solve a couple cold cases."

Furious tears stream down C's face. She hates him. She hates him. Kuuno understands. This may very well be what pushes her to kill him.

It is a risk Kuuno is willing to take.

x