Chapter Text
what’s the future? who will choose it?
≠≠
YOU: You’re trying to decide what kind of man you are.
ENDURANCE: Nix Gottlieb had told you, after releasing you to return to duty, that not many people received the chance to start over so completely. “Whether or not they deserve it,” he had said.
RHETORIC: Implying that you did not deserve it.
YOU: Funny. You don’t feel like you’re starting over. You feel a little like you’re trapped in someone else’s skin. It had been easier in Martinaise. Here, everyone knows you.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Every step you take is walking on the grave of the man whose skin you now wear.
VOLITION: So you’re trying different things. Right now, you’ve decided to be the kind of man who has an RCB radio.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: RCB - or Revachol Citizen’s Band radio - is a form of short-wave radio that allows easy communications between members of the general public. There are dedicated channels for the RCM, for lorry drivers, and for passing ships, as well as general-use channels for the public.
INTERFACING: You’re a little bit inspired by Kim, by the way his fingers twirl the dial in the Kineema, which he was allowed to keep in his transfer. The way he responds to calls. Cool, confident, and self-possessed.
AUTHORITY: You do not know what dirt Captain Pryce had on the Captain of the 57th precinct, but it must have been good.
YOU: Also, you have the clever idea that if you have the RCB radio, you won’t need to keep up with your phone bill, which is in hopeless arrears. Much like the rest of your affairs.
HALF LIGHT: It seems as if you had not planned on returning from Martinaise.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Really? You couldn’t pick something cooler as your first hobby? RCB radio is for torque dorks and old men. You could’ve picked something like - like -
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Lo Manthang stick fighting?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Drinking?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Research into the obscure mysteries of Atlantide?
DRAMA: Single-handedly reviving disco?
YOU: Chill, guys. I’ve got this.
INLAND EMPIRE: No. This is good. This is important.
YOU: You buy the WHITE KNIGHT 250XS with your third paycheck.
HALF LIGHT: The first paycheck is plucked out of your hand by Officer Vicquemare - “to pay for your damages,” he says.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Your second paycheck is garnished - heavily - for the loss of the Coupris 40.
ENDURANCE: The paltry remainder is taken up by consumables. A stock of Hjelmdallmann dinners, which can be reheated, metal tray and all, in your oven. A carton of Astras, several bottles of Commodore Red, a bottle of Touloula vodka. There is also fifty reál slipped to your landlady, who comes all the way down from the top floor to take up residence in your kitchen and sit there until you give her the money just to go away.
YOU: But your third paycheck -
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Which is also garnished for the loss of the Coupris 40 -
PAIN THRESHOLD: You’re going to be paying for that one until you die, Harry boy.
HALF LIGHT: Like the rest of your sins.
YOU: - is spent on the WHITE KNIGHT 250XS.
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: The WHITE KNIGHT 250XS is a portable RCB radio, available at Radio Revachol in kit form. A great beginner’s choice, this radio is customizable and approachable. It’s the perfect one for you!
YOU: One Friday in May, Jules Pidieu - RCM radio operator and payroll administrator - walks around the C-wing, handing out checks. He pauses just before your desk.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Don’t give it to him, he’s just going to spend it on drugs.”
YOU: “I don’t have to pay for my drugs, Jean. I’m a cop!”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He flings a rude gesture at you over his shoulder.
YOU: “I don’t have to pay for that, either!”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “That’s because you couldn’t get any even if you paid for it.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: That’s not true. We could have sex whenever we wanted.
SUGGESTION: Oh yeah, jackass? With who?
YOU: You look around the precinct, as if looking for ideas. Your gaze falls first on your new partner, Kim Kitsuragi -
SAVOIR FAIRE: Okay, maybe Kim is too cool for us. But there’s got to be someone else who wants you.
SUGGESTION: Sorry. Don’t think there is.
[-1 morale]
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Okay, so sex is out. But how about the sweet rush of a new purchase? Like…the WHITE KNIGHT 250XS?
SUGGESTION: You need to convince Jules to give you your paycheck.
YOU: You explain the radio to Jules, digging the catalog out from your drawer. You smooth a palm over the wrinkled page as you expound upon its features, its breadth of signal, its perfect clarify, its portable status with-attached-carrying-strap.
JULES PIDIEU: You win him over easily, and he glances over his shoulder at Jean - who is angrily stamping paperwork, by the sounds of it - and slips you your check. He even winks at you.
YOU: “Thank you, Jules. This act of beneficence will not be forgotten.”
SUGGESTION: It does not take much work to convince Kim to take you to the Frittte to cash your paycheck, then, clutching your newly-gained reál, to the Radio Revachol to pick up your new toy.
EMPATHY: Kim thinks it would do you some good to have a hobby.
SUGGESTION: It takes only slightly more work to convince him to come back to your apartment for Samaran takeout and a movie rented from the Video Revachol.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You have made your peace with the Video Revachol. It is not its fault you are essentially unloveable.
THE JADE SKUA: The Jade Skua is the fifth Dick Mullen movie, and promises to be about a mysterious stolen artifact.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You enjoy watching the Dick Mullen movies and attempting to guess the endings. Kim has watched one or two with you previously, claiming that although he has seen them before, one is much the same as the other, and he has no objection to watching them again.
KIM KITSURAGI: He is not watching the one on right now, however. He seems to be more invested in what you are doing, which is attempting to put together your new RCB radio.
PERDITION AND MAIN: It is dark outside, and the lamp by the couch is on, as is the kitchen light. The televisual set is an extra from the precinct, which you had dragged home one night while no one was around. Someone seemed to have put their foot through your old one.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim sits close to you on the couch. He has no choice, as the cushions sag badly towards the center. He watches you open the box housing the WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS and scatter parts over your battered coffee table, then crumple and uncrumple the instructions.
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: The radio is largely already assembled. The unit is a portable RCB radio, snugly encased in white plastic. Blocky and rectangular, the device features several dials - one for channel, one for volume, one for squelch.
YOU: What’s a squelch?
PERCEPTION: The noise you make when you heave your sweaty self off the couch.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The squelch filters out static and background noise. This is extremely important, as all radio communications in Elysium are prone to background static as a result of the Pale.
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: The kit includes an antenna and power adapter, as well as a large, heavy battery, all of which you need to install.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim leans forward and tugs the antennae out of your hand, flipping it around and putting it back in your hand.
INTERFACING: Your fingers brush.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A strange swooping sensation inside of you. Right around your lungs.
YOU: “I knew that.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course.” His eyes glitter behind his glasses.
YOU: You insert the antenna - the battery -
PERCEPTION: On the screen, Dick Mullen does a tricky bit of maneuvering and knocks a gun out of a hidden assailant’s hand - there is a gunshot, going wide - a flash of light -
YOU: And turn on your new radio.
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: Greetings, my liege, and welcome to the world of Citizen’s Band radio! There is nothing you can’t hear, no one you can’t talk to. With me, your faithful and steady servant, by your side, none can stop you. The entire world is yours, sire. Now, onward, brave one!
YOU: You fiddle with the dial, searching for -
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: “All available units, code 31, I repeat, code 31 on la rue de Roi - any units available? Over.”
A crackle. The pop and burst of static. McCoy’s drawl. “Jules, I’m five minutes away, heading over. Over.”
“Understood, Officer, five minutes away. Over.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Jules Pidieu’s cigarette smolders, forgotten, in his left hand, while he presses the heavy plastic buttons, rotates a dial. “Officers, Officer McCoy is on his way, five minutes, over.” The air is full of hazy smoke and dim radio lights, other calls, other conversations flashing all around Jules, if he chooses to listen in. Sometimes he does.
SHIVERS: On la rue de Roi, Officers Pavlok and Strapelli are hunkered down inside their Coupris 40, cursing. “Tell him to hurry the fuck up! Over.”
YOU: Fuck. Should we go?
VISUAL CALCULUS: You will not reach them in time.
SHIVERS: I WILL NOT LET THEM COME TO ANY HARM.
YOU: You turn to Kim, beaming.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Very impressive, detective.”
DRAMA: He means it. He leans over and reaches for the radio, then pauses, gloved fingers just short of the dial. “Ah. May I?”
EMPATHY: He understands how men can get about their toys.
YOU: “Be my guest, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods, grave, then moves through the dial.
PERCEPTION: “Buy now to receive-” “I really don’t think-” “do you mean it, sweetheart?” “Suspect is getting away on-” a burst of music from the pirate radio channels off the shore -
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The entirety of human civilization inside this small box on your coffee table.
INTERFACING: This radio is capable of receiving signals from a radius of up to 62 kilometers. That is the best you can expect with a cheap portable model with such a small antenna.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: What’d you say about my antenna?
SAVOIR FAIRE: It isn’t the size of the antenna, but the manner in which you use it.
INLAND EMPIRE: If you tried, could you reach Mirova?
LOGIC: No. RCB radio talk is distorted by the Pale. It comes through imperfectly, out of time. Sometimes years early, other times months late.
YOU: You tune back into the 41st’s channel and turn the volume down, just enough to hear the faint hiss and crackle of dead air space. You can make out the faint sound of Jules providing updates as you and Kim finish the movie - “I knew it,” you say triumphantly, when the plot twist is revealed, and Kim says, “Detective, this is a very popular movie. I am sure you’ve seen it before.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: But we don’t remember any of it.
SUGGESTION: You grab your pack of cigarettes and offer one to Kim. He shakes his head, rising to his feet.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A movement that takes some effort against this couch.
KIM KITSURAGI: He stands, looking down at you. “It’s late, detective,” he says.
EMPATHY: Is that a hint of regret in his voice?
1) Ask him to stay. Please, don’t leave me alone.
2) Let him go.
YOU: You let him go.
EMPATHY: You are learning to let your loved ones have some breathing space.
HALF LIGHT: From you. Because you’re too much, Harry. You’re so sad. It scares people.
COMPOSURE: Not Kim.
LOGIC: No. Just not yet. You wear everyone down in the end.
YOU: You insist on seeing Kim to the door, where you light your cigarette and lean on the doorframe. You watch him as he ascends the basement steps into the upper world of Revachol.
VOLITION: He will have his cigarette at home, out in the springtime air on his balcony, thinking of your sleeves rolled up. Of your forearms. Your deft fingers working the screwdriver.
YOU: Oh, really? Why? Does he think I’m…cool?
SAVOIR FAIRE: The coolest.
PAIN THRESHOLD: An apricot-scented breeze shivers through your apartment from a wardrobe that you have not yet been strong enough to deal with. You wrap your arms around your stomach, hunching over.
PERCEPTION: Then, the electrical-kitten roar of the infernal engine, muted by your building’s walls, as the Kineema starts and Kim roars away.
SUGGESTION: You know - you should test out your new toy.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s not a toy. It is an invaluable tool to reach your fellow officers. Or for them to reach you.
SHIVERS: A roar as the Coupris Kineema gains the 8/81, growling low in its throat -
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It breaks for breath at the gear changes -
SHIVERS: Pitching higher and higher and higher -
INLAND EMIPRE: Now.
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: You fiddle through the dials, landing on the station for Precinct 41 - the one Kim’s Kineema is always tuned to. You flick the switch into TRANSMIT mode, pick up the radio, hold it to your mouth. Inside, buzzing crystals take the words from your mouth to the radio waves.
AUTHORITY: You are here. You are alive.
YOU: “Testing - testing - this is Firewalker - are you getting me? Over.”
INTERFACING: You flick the radio back into RECEIVE mode.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Keep in mind, everyone currently tuned into this frequency can hear you. That includes Jules Pidieu, any officer currently using the channel, and Officers McLaine and Torson, who have a bootleg RCB radio in their apartment.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm - This is Lieutenant Kitsuragi, over. Yes, I am getting you, loud and clear. Over.”
YOU: “Ha! Yes, Kim! It works! Over.”
KIM KITSURAGI: You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Detective - get off the radio. Over.”
YOU: “But I’m testing! Over.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What if there is an emergency, detective? Over.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: There is no emergency in the 41st precinct.
SHIVERS: THERE IS, BUT IT HAS NOT HAPPENED YET.
INLAND EMPIRE: There is, and it is happening now, and it is happening always, and never, and still.
PERCEPTION: Silence. You can hear neither Kim nor the radio.
HALF LIGHT: Icy dread creeps down your spine. You adjust your sweating grip on the receiver.
PERCEPTION: And then the world is back.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Lieutenant Kitsuragi to Firewalker, did I lose you? Over.”
1) “No, everything’s disco. Over.”
2) “Are you okay, Kim? Over.”
3) “Did you hear that, Kim? Over.”
YOU: “Did you hear that, Kim? Over.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I didn’t hear anything. Over.”
LOGIC: Technically true.
HALF LIGHT: This is bad.
YOU: What? What is bad? What just happened?
LOGIC: Kim probably just went through a dead spot, is all. Drove under a Coalition airship. They’re known to have RCB radio-jammers.
RADIO: “Will you faggots get the fuck off the radio. You’re worse than a bunch of goddamned kids.”
DRAMA: This angry voice just forgot to say “over.”
RHETORIC: An absolute violation of Revacholian Citizen’s Band Radio regulations. How are you to know if they’re done talking? How is *anyone* to know?
YOU: “You forgot to say, ‘over,’” you add, helpfully. “Over.”
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: A stream of curse words. Then, “over.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: In the Kineema, Kim laughs, his eyes glittering, head thrown back. There is no one here to see him, so he does not hide it.
YOU: “Bye, Kim! Firewalker out. Over.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Goodnight, detective. Over.”
YOU: You flip the radio back into RECEIVE mode for the evening and set it down on the coffee table.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You are still smiling. You can tell, because it hurts your face.
PERDITION AND MAIN: It is quieting down outside as the evening slips into full darkness. You hear a motor carriage drive past. The sound of high heels. Women’s laughter. You are in your apartment, with the yellow lamps on, and a warm feeling in your chest an awful lot like the lamplight.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know what would go great with playing with your new radio? With that bright and light feeling in your chest? A drink. Imagine it. A glass of whisky, that sharp burn in your throat as you lean forward to turn the dial.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Eavesdropping on the city, learning all of humanity’s deep, dark secrets.
SAVOIR FAIRE: A gentleman and his communications device.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Oh, we’re imagining it, old boy.
VOLITION: Don’t do it, Harry. You’re so close to bedtime. Just go to sleep -
YOU: What, so I can do this all again tomorrow?
ENDURANCE: Unfortunately, yes. This is how it works. This is how it is always going to work. If you’re going to stay the course, you have to make this choice again…and again…and again…
YOU: You slump over, an elbow on your knee, head in your hand. With the other hand you pull the radio into your lap and twiddle the dial through the channels.
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: Blips of noise. Conversations, music. You keep going into the highest channels, the ones that are nothing but static - the very end of everything, when -
PERCEPTION: SILENCE.
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: Coming from the radio.
PERDITION AND MAIN: And your apartment. You can no longer hear the sound of tires in the street, the drip of the faucet that some drunk has broken prior to your tenancy that you have been unable to fix. You cannot hear your own breath. You hear nothing. It reminds you of -
WHITE KNIGHT 250XS: The radio crackles to life- -oo bw, - —- cinct for ——- fif —— te. —- fifty —— te ——-eight ———
VISUAL CALCULUS: A man’s voice, raspy and grating. Vespertine accent. The man is in clear distress, the gaps in his message eaten up by silence.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This man needs your help.
YOU: You throw the switch to TRANSMIT. “Hello? This is Detective Du Bois - I’m having trouble hearing you, over-”
REACTION SPEED: You throw the switch to RECEIVE, turn the volume up, pressing your ear close.
PERCEPTION: The man’s voice, again, rasping in your ear.
PAIN THRESHOLD: He is in pain.
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: -oo bw, - —- cinct for ——- fif —— te. —- fifty —— te ——-eight ——PLEASE—
PERCEPTION: And then the silence swells, pressing in your eardrums -
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: And then the noise is back. The thick crackle of static, deafeningly loud in your ear. You jump, yelping, and drop the radio.
PERDITION AND MAIN: Your upstairs neighbor slams on the floor above you in protest.
YOU: “Sorry!”
PERDITION AND MAIN: There is no response.
HALF LIGHT: Your neighbors are by and large afraid of you. This is likely based on the actions of your former self.
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: Heart pounding, you retrieve the WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS and turn the volume down. You pat its slick white shiny casing and press it to your ear again, but there is nothing. Only static.
YOU: “What was that?”
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: A communication, sire! Someone in dire need of our help!
YOU: Who?
WHITE KNIGHT 250 XS: I don’t know yet. Rest assured that together, we can figure it out!
YOU: You sit back on the couch, heart still pounding, and prop the radio up on your knee. You stay tuned into that channel, listening. But if a message comes through, you do not hear it.
≠≠
PRECINCT 41: A week later, Officer Chester McLaine brings some *extremely* valuable information into the precinct.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “What’s your birthday?” he asks you.
YOU: “Uh - uhm-”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: ?????
VOLITION: 11 March, ’51.
LOGIC: But you’re just a baby.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Not old enough to legally drink.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Not even old enough to -
ENDURANCE: This is ridiculous. You are a forty-four year old man. Your birthday is, ah - uhm - it’s, uh -
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “26th of May,” Jean says, swooping in, cloak swirling around him, bringing in the smell of cigarettes and the stables.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Your savoir.
YOU: You shift hopefully and look in his direction.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He does not look at you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “But that is coming up, detective.” A flip of his notebook, a scribble.
VISUAL CALCULUS: He is writing it down.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: See? With two of your brothers remembering this for you, it will never be lost again.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “We will have to bake a cake,” he sneers.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You even know don’t what kind of cake you like.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Ah, of course! I should have known. You’re a Twin. Explains everything.”
LOGIC: It does?
CHESTER MCLAINE: He hops up to sit on his desk, knees spread wide, facing the room. “Vic, you’re a Goat. Heh. No wonder the two of you don’t get along.”
YOU: “We don’t?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: The look Jean gives you could strip nicotine out of the walls.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You shrivel like a deflating birthday balloon.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Kits, when’s your birthday?”
KIM KITSURAGI: His lips press together, the only sign that he hates his new nickname.“Astrology is a foolish pseudoscience. The date of my birth has no bearing on my personality.”
YOU: “His birthday is in August!” you say cheerfully. Kim sighs.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Of course he’d be a Maiden.” He snickers.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I will assign you every night shift in The Shades for the next five months.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: His eyes widen. “I just meant, ah, because you’re such a skeptic.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course.” He pulls the duty roster towards him and Chester eyeballs him nervously.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I’m sorry to say Lieutenant Kitsuragi is right. There really is no basis for any of the tenants of astrology-”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Hurry, someone distract the professor before we get a three-hour dissertation.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: No, I want to hear this!
JUDIT MINOT: “Why all this focus on our birthdays?”
MACK TORSON: “Met a girl.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “I met a beautiful woman last night-”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh, here we fucking go-”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Don’t be jealous, Vic. Not a good look on you. Her name’s Brielle, she’s gorgeous. 10/10.”
MACK TORSON: Behind his back, Mack shakes his head and holds up six fingers.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Red hair, so you know she gets me - built like-” he gestures in the air.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He’s being generous.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Knows her way around a sword.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sadly, he means an actual sword.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “And get this. She’s a fortune-teller. How cool is that?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Let me guess. She read your palm.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Yeah!” He brightens. “She said I had one of the most interesting love-lines she’d ever seen, but I told her that was just from that one time I caught my sword when I dropped it.”
EMPATHY: No one has ever taken such an intense interest in him before.
YOU: “What did she see?”
INLAND EMPIRE: In a sticky booth in the corner of a dingy bar, a red-haired woman leans over Chester McLaine’s hand, tracing his palm with one finger. “And this,” she says, “means you will face many trials, but emerge triumphant-”
Chester McLaine grins stupidly, and downs a glass of whisky with the other hand, his lungs practically glowing.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “She’s super smart. She was really interested in the Pale and stuff. She was asking about the church in Martinaise, your freaky one-”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: Jean groans, loudly. “Fuck. I hope you at least got laid.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Yeah! Course I did!”
DRAMA: He’s lying.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And in exchange for RCM classified information from an ongoing investigation, she told you about…?”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “The stars! See, the stars you’re born under dictate so much of your life - look, here, listen to this-” he says, hopping off his desk and coming over to Kim’s. He grabs the paper -
AUTHORITY: Kim raises an eyebrow, but Chester does not see it behind the open paper -
CHESTER MCLAINE: And reads. “See, I’m a Bull, and my horoscope says, uh, ‘New friends may bring promising developments. Focus on your-’”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Nobody cares.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “And yours, Vic, says, ‘Watch your back. Beware of accidents, which may come from an unexpected quarter.’” He points an accusatory finger at Jean. “Vic, are you riding your horse today?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He ashes his cigarette. “How did he ever guess?” he asks the room at large.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The stars, apparently.”
YOU: “Maybe he got psychic powers - you know - sexually transmitted.” You wiggle your eyebrows, then wink at Jean.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: The tiniest twitch to the corner of his mouth. “I have to ride my horse because somebody drowned the fucking motor carriage in the fucking sea. Did the stars predict that?”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Probably,” he says, only half listening, reading on, with his finger following the lines. “Mullen, here’s yours. ‘You will receive an important message. Keep your eyes overhead. Choice is important. Remember - it is our decisions that make us who we are.’”
PRECINCT 41: Lieutenant Berdyayeva stalks into the room, tossing a case file on your desk. “Looking for crimes in the paper, McLaine?” she asks.
REACTION SPEED: You lunge for the case as it skitters across your desk and miss. It hits the floor with a pathetic thwap.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: You bend over to get it and, coming up, hit your head off the desk.
CHESTER MCLAINE: He cackles. “Keep your eyes overhead! The stars said!”
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: She stares at him until he shrinks back down behind Kim’s paper.
KIM KITSURAGI: There is a small smirk playing around Kim’s mouth.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “When is the last time you saw the stars? There is always fucking cloud cover in this city. It is the cloudiest city in the world.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Perhaps it is just his personal raincloud. Looking at the dome above your head, it looks fairly clear at the moment.
RHETORIC: You should point this out to Jean. I bet he never thought of it that way. He’ll really appreciate it.
YOU: You open your mouth to point this out when -
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Trant Heidelstam saves you, beginning to explain clouds, weather, and climate -
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: Lieutenant Berdyayeva clears her throat, and Trant falls silent. “Later,” he mouths at Jean, who grimaces.
KIM KITSURAGI: He has risen to his feet, hands behind his back. He looks respectfully at Lieutenant Berdyayeva.
HALF LIGHT: You jump to your feet as well. You are a little afraid of her.
AUTHORITY: As you should be. You can still feel the ass-chewing she gave you a month ago before your official return to duty. You have been sober -
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Mostly.
AUTHORITY: -every day you have to come to work since.
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: “There’s a dead fortune teller at the Night Market. Somebody called it in this morning. Looks like murder. You and Du Bois, get out there,” she says to Kim.
YOU: “Hey Chester, maybe it’s your girlfriend.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: His face instantly falls. “But we weren’t anywhere near the Night Market.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
MACK TORSON: “Boss…that’s kind of fucked up.”
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: “Dolores fucking Dei.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you with extreme disapproval.
EMPATHY: Way to go, asshole.
[-1 morale]
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Did you walk her home?” At Chester’s nod, he says, “Statistically, then, that’s unlikely, unless, perhaps, you’re suggesting Officer McLaine did it…?”
LIEUTENANT BERDYAYEVA: She looks supremely unimpressed with all of this. “Hadn’t you better find out?”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim is already getting up, slipping his notebook and pens into his jacket, cleaning his glasses.
YOU: You linger awkwardly near McLaine’s desk. “I’m sure it’s not her, Chester.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Hope not, boss. I liked her. I’m supposed to call her in-” he checks his calendar, where he has drawn in a big red star - “two days.”
YOU: “Two days? I thought you said you liked her.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Gotta keep ‘em waiting! You taught me that one.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Playing hard to get. Works every time. You taught him everything you knew.
PAIN THRESHOLD: It worked on you, didn’t it? She’s the hardest to get of all…and you’re still waiting.
≠≠
YOU: You read the case file out loud on the drive over, leaning into the front seat of the Kineema to speak over the sound of traffic around you. There is not much more information than Berdyayeva had provided. A fortune teller by the name of Madame Shushan had been found in her tent when the Night Market on la rue de Gregoire had been closing - around four in the morning. It appeared to be a murder.
THE NIGHT MARKET (DAYTIME): The Night Market, during the evenings, is set up at the intersection of Gregoire and Broadway. By daytime, the street looks relatively commonplace. Along the left, the river; along the right, a handful of businesses with apartments above them. A greengrocer’s, a shoe repair store, a dentist’s office.
HALF LIGHT: The man smoking a cigarette out front of the dentist’s office does not seem the type you would want to pay to remove your teeth for you.
INTERFACING: No, but he’d get the job done.
PERCEPTION: Across the river, the smokestacks of the furniture factory. L’Esperance is cluttered with the many boats of the drug market, most of them small punts. Upon seeing you, they scatter, clinging to the far shore.
VISUAL CALCULUS: One of them is watching you with binoculars.
SUGGESTION: Call them over for a friendly chat. Tell them you’re all friends, here.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yes, let’s!
SHIVERS: This street transforms utterly at night. This block, as well as the next, and all the cross-streets, fill with tents and stalls and carts. Hundreds of people buying and selling. Street music, kebab carts, life under the sodium lights.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Imagine it, Harry - all bright lamps and string lights, the smell of street food and bodies.
YOU: You nudge at a greasy flattened paper boat with the toe of your disco shoe.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm - I believe that’s our crime scene.” He points ahead of you.
PERCEPTION: A single lonely tent sits perilously close to the river, its red and gold fabric expertly patched. A small and battered sign says MADAME SHUSHAN, Fortunes Told. There is an even smaller sign that says Closed.
HALF LIGHT: A shiver up your spine.
EMPATHY: In the sunshine, the tent looks pale and faded.
MADAME SHUSHAN’S FORTUNES: It looks its best at night, in generously dim lighting.
SAVOIR FAIRE: As do you, Harry.
HALF LIGHT: There is a dead woman in there.
YOU: You nod at Kim, who nods back. And then you enter the tent.
MADAME SHUSHAN’S FORTUNES: The tent is a small space, approximately two by three meters. There is a small gas-stove in the corner, which is still lit. In the other corner is a small cot. The center of the space is filled with a large folding table with a handful of cushions arranged around it. There are string lanterns overhead that you knock your head against, and the sun pours brightly through the thin fabric. There is a carpet spread underneath, which deadens your footsteps.
MADAME SHUSHAN: The fortune teller lies in front of the stove where she has fallen. The carpet around her is sodden with blood.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim kneels beside her as you look around. He strips his gloves off to change them to rubber ones.
YOU: You cannot help but stare at his hands as they appear. It’s as if the mysteries have been parted for you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Smaller than yours - though not by much - and less hairy. You can see his long fingers, his swollen knuckles.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Arthritis in winter, worsening in his old age. If he gets there.
YOU: You feel sick, suddenly.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, are you alright?” He pauses, one glove off.
YOU: “Uh - yeah - I’m fine.”
ENDURANCE: He has to make it.
KIM KITSURAGI: He resumes changing his gloves while you look around.
MADAME SHUSHAN’S, FORTUNES TOLD: A handful of broken tortoise shells are scattered across the table and floor.
LOGIC: Signs of a struggle.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, a hand?” he says, and you help him turn over Madame Shushan.
MADAME SHUSHAN: Madame Shushan is a Seolite woman in her mid-fifties. She is wearing a long silken over-robe, very exotic -
DRAMA: Playing to her clients, sire -
SAVOIR FAIRE: Which is sodden with blood. She is also very, very dead.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The deceased has been stabbed, here and here-” his fingers linger. “They are the likely cause of death.”
EMPATHY: Don’t say it -
1) “You’d think she would have seen that one coming.”
2) I shouldn’t joke about murder. It’s not funny, and it’s unprofessional.
YOU: “You’d think she would have seen that one coming.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The faintest huff of a laugh. “Yes, detective. It is almost as if the future cannot be predicted.”
INLAND EMPIRE: Wrong. It can. But you have to listen. Why aren’t you listening, Harry?
MADAME SHUSHAN: Very funny. Look at the police, always jokers. You know, the man that killed me said that to me as well?
YOU: “Oh, shit, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Of course. Look at you - you were born to be sorry.
YOU: You crouch down beside the body, placing a hand on her silk-clad arm. It is cold and stiff. “Is that my fortune?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: No. Anyone with eyes can see it.
KIM KITSURAGI: He slides his eyes over to you, then parts the woman’s robes and begins to take inventory of her wounds, marking them on his autopsy form.
MADAME SHUSHAN: And by the way… Yes. I did see it coming.
1) “So you just let it happen? That’s cool. I want to die too. Suicide gang, represent!”
2) “Then why did it happen?”
3) “Who did it?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: She mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, Fucking white boys.
YOU: “Ma’am, I am a forty-four year old man.”
MADAME SHUSHAN: You are clearly fifty-eight.
PERCEPTION: The scratching of Kim’s pen on paper. The sunlight bright in the tent.
1) “So you just let it happen? That’s cool. I want to die too. Suicide gang, represent!”
2) “Then why did it happen?”
3) “Who did it?”
HALF LIGHT: Maybe she wanted to die.
INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe some fates can’t be avoided.
MADAME SHUSHAN: I have seen myself die thousands of times.
YOU: “And only one is true?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: No. They are all true, and none of them are true, and only one is true.
LOGIC: God, I fucking *hate* fortune tellers.
1) “So you just let it happen? That’s cool. I want to die too, sometimes.”
2) “Then why did it happen?”
3) “Who did it?”
4) “Did you see this death?”
YOU: “Did you see this death?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Of course. When I was twenty-three, in Seol Cite, waiting for something to happen. For a boat to come in, for sailors to meet, for new fortunes to tell. I hungered for others’ fortunes then like I hungered for water or food. Glimpses of new lives, lives that would never be mine. But in the meantime it was raining. The fire was making the air smoky and humid. My eyes were burning. I heated up the shells until they cracked. The sound of cracking bone. The smell of it. That day I saw this death, here, on the shores of a city I did not yet know. Before that, I had seen myself drowning in an inky darkness, and after that, I had seen myself being robbed in the street and left for dead.
1) “So you just let it happen? That’s cool. I want to die too, sometimes.”
2) “Then why did it happen?”
3) “Who did it?”
4) “Did you see this death?”
YOU: “Who did it?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: A man who still has a future. I saw death, and pain, and fear, and doubt. I saw a church. But I cannot reveal these sorts of futures, although death is the fate that comes to all of us. They don’t want to hear it. I told him instead of a journey, of a red-headed woman he’d meet. He had cut me off. “Now do you,” he’d said. “Me?” I had said, and laughed. It was extremely unusual. He pulled another ten reál out and put it on the table. “Yours.” He leaned over the table in the lamplight, his chest crushing one of the smaller tortoise-shell fragments. I felt uncomfortable. I selected another shell for myself - a small female tortoise I had caught in the river the prior year. I burned it. I leaned over it on the stove.
YOU: “And then?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: And there it was before me - my death. I caught my breath and looked at him. “You see it?” he said with great greed, and then before I could scream or strike out, he had stabbed me.
YOU: “I am so sorry.”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Me too. It did not have to happen this way.
YOU: “But you saw it.”
MADAME SHUSHAN: As I saw a dozen other deaths. The future is not set in bone.
YOU: “So you really could see the future? You weren’t a fraud?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Of course I could see the future. Ask anyone around.
YOU: “Kim, I think the murderer had his fortune told here-” you point at the table - “and then he asked her to go back and do another fortune - and then he attacked her, here.” You point at the stove.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says, scratching in his notebook, propped open on his knee. “Certainly her posturing seems to support that theory. Are you finished with the body?”
YOU: “Do you have anything more to tell me?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Are you paying, officer?
YOU: You check your pockets, but you do not have the ten reál necessary.
MADAME SHUSHAN: Then we are done here.
YOU: You stand. The pattern of the sun on water reflects through the tent walls. It is beautiful.
HALF LIGHT: You feel like you are underwater. You are drowning.
KIM KITSURAGI: He extends a hand over the woman’s chest to do the stations of the breath: eyes closed, chest rising and falling. When he is done, he rises. “We should look around the rest of the tent for more information.”
1) The table
2) The cot
3) The body
4) The stove
YOU: You examine the cot. It is small and narrow, with a woolen blanket thrown over it. Underneath is a change of normal street clothes, a wrapped pita sandwich, a wallet, and a copy of the magazine ROMANCES OF THE REVOLUTION.
MADAME SHUSHAN: There’s a story in there I was reading. You’ll have to tell me how it ends. Ha.
YOU: You pocket the magazine and open the wallet. Inside is sixty reál and a faded piece of paper in a language you can’t read.
INTERFACING: It is worn soft, as if with frequent handling.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim writes this in his notebook, then bags the entire wallet for evidence.
INTERFACING: Beside the cot is a small tape player. The tape has run out.
YOU: You flip the tape over, put it back in, and press play.
YOU: You go over to the tape recorder, which has run out. You flip the tape and put it back in, pressing play.
DRAMA: Unfamiliar music - pretty and light - shimmers through the space like the reflection of the water on the tent.
KIM KITSURAGI: “More theatre,” he says. “The name - the silk robe - the tortoise shells - it’s an ancient Seolite method of ‘fortune-telling.’ All theatre.”
DRAMA: It’s all theatre, Kimmy-boy. The entire world’s a stage. And your act’s coming up…
CONCEPTUALIZATION: At least the music is pretty.
MADAME SHUSHAN: It is, isn’t it? My sister used to play the third song on side A at night. Every night.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: This is a traditional Seolite instrument called the pipa. A four-stringed lute, it has been played for thousands of years.
YOU: You pocket the tape, too, while Kim watches.
1) The table
2) The cot
3) The body
4) The stove
YOU: You go over to the stove, where a single cracked tortoise-shell rests.
MADAME SHUSHAN: Move on. This fortune is not yours.
INTERFACING: The stove is still on. You turn it off.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Good thinking, detective.”
1) The table
2) The cot
3) The body
4) The stove
PERCEPTION: On the table are the cracked remnants of three tortoise shells of varying sizes.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The fortune of a murderer.
INLAND EMPIRE: Pick up the shells. Look closer.
1) I don’t want to know what the future holds. [Don’t pick them up.]
-1 Pain Threshold: Something’s coming.
2) I need to be prepared. [Pick up the shells.]
+1 Half Light: Something’s coming .
3) Fortune-telling isn’t real. [Don’t pick them up.]
YOU: You pick up the largest shell and look at it in the sunlight, moving it back and forth. It is cracked in several spots, dark splits that mean nothing to you.
YOU: “What does it mean?”
MADAME SHUSHAN: Madame Shushan is silent.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Sorry. It just looks like a bunch of bone to me.
INLAND EMPIRE: This is not your medium. Keep trying.
RHETORIC: You are a child of the future. Your medium is more in-tune with the times than this.
KIM KITSURAGI: “It means ten reál to prove someone a sucker.” He plucks the shell out of your hand. He has changed gloves again, and cool leather brushes your fingers. He stands close, looking at you in the sunlight. “I will radio in for assistance to retrieve the body, and the tent - unless there is something else?”
YOU: “Good idea. Wait - we should tell McClaine it’s not his girlfriend.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A brief smile. “That is a good idea, detective. I think you worried him earlier.”
EMPATHY: Even now, Chester McLaine is turning over a phone number in his hands and looking at a calendar. Contemplating breaking his rule.
YOU: You leave the red warmth of the tent and step outside into the sunlight.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The tent looks strange all by itself - like the last dancer left when the party is over. Blinking foolishly when the lights come up.
YOU: “Well have to come back tonight to interview witnesses.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “That would be best.”
YOU: You shoot your finger guns. “It’s a date.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A quick smile, and then he turns away, reaching for the radio.
≠≠
THE NIGHT MARKET (NIGHTTIME): The night market is very different at night.
LOGIC: What did you expect, genius?
SAVOIR FAIRE: Everybody outta the way! Detective God coming through.
THE NIGHT MARKET (NIGHTTIME): Where before there was nothing, now there is *everything.* A vast array of tents and stalls and stands have exploded before your eyes. It is as if they have come up from the riverbed itself just for the night. The streets seethe with people and music, different sounds and smells coming from every direction you turn your head.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: It is as if you are turning the dial on life.
YOU: It is eleven at night, and you and Kim join the crowd, working your way through the press of bodies. The mass of Jamrock is out and all around you. Life in the city streets. You pass stalls where a woman is dancing for money, where a man is selling spices, where a girl is selling a wide array of savory pastries. You linger before a man playing a saxophone - a tune you half-remember - before Kim pushes you on with a firm hand to the small of your back.
THE NIGHT MARKET (NIGHTTIME): The plot where Madame Shushan’s tent had stood earlier today has already been swallowed up. A young child - around the age of fourteen or fifteen, you would say - is selling a mess of used junk, spread carefully across an old carpet remnant.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You see a toaster, a broken sweeper, a lamp missing a shade. Discarded household items.
RHETORIC: His household?
HALF LIGHT: Someone’s household, anyway.
ENTERPRISING YOUNG CHILD: The child doesn’t know anything about the woman, shrugging when you casually ask. “Got the call there was a space free, yeah? Been trying to get in for ages.”
LOGIC: Could it have been…him?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Doubtful. The kid looks like a wet reed. You chewed kids like him up and spit them out for breakfast at Grand Couron High.
VISUAL CALCULUS: There are tents on either side of the makeshift stall. A leatherworker, an herb-shop. Across the way, a young man of dubious business lounges in front of a tent, eyeing you and Kim with interest. Maybe they heard something.
YOU: You and Kim question all three of them, but learn little of use.
THE LEATHERWORKER: The leatherworker - after a few off-color cracks that have Kim narrowing his eyes - confirms that he had heard a loud thud sometime around 2 AM. When he had called over, Madame Shushan had not responded. He had not gone to check.
PERCEPTION: It smells like well-oiled leather in here. It smells good.
AUTHORITY: This is the kind of smell you want in a lover.
YOU: Beside you, Kim examines a pair of driving gloves, as if looking to purchase them.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yes. Like that.
THE HERB SHOP: The elderly woman in the herb shop spends a great deal of time attempting to get you to buy some of the herbs she has collected herself in the wastelands of Jamrock.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do not buy anything,” Kim says under his breath to you.
HALF LIGHT: Not normally one to dictate to you, he is concerned about the dubious health benefits of these items.
THE HERB SHOP: The shop proprietor had been the one to call in the body. She had stuck her head into Madame Shushan’s tent earlier today to warn her about morning curfew, and had found her dead. She tells you that Madame Shushan had been away for a few days and had only just gotten back.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And do you know where she went?”
THE HERB SHOP PROPRIETOR: “No, I’m sorry, officer.”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: The young man across the street is the most helpful of the three.
SUGGESTION: Something about him reminds you of the Smoker on the Balcony.
EMPATHY: Maybe it’s the same twitch to Kim’s mouth as he watches you talk to the young man.
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “Yeah, I saw a few people go in last night. Madame Shushan was always busy.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And why do you think that is?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “She had a wicked pack of cards.” At the look on your face, he says, “Figure of speech. She did shells mostly, the tortoise shells? I always felt so bad, but she said they didn’t feel a thing when she killed them.”
YOU: “So you got your fortune told by her?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “Of course.” He flicks ash off his cigarette.
YOU: “And what did she tell you?”
EMPATHY: Something flashes across his face - a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spark.
INLAND EMPIRE: Nothing good. With him, she was honest. He asked for it.
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The detective is good at asking personal questions.”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “Mmm. I bet he is.”
COMPOSURE: For some reason, you flush. You tug at your shirt collar to get yourself some more air and he watches the movement.
YOU: “Did you see anything last night?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “I saw a couple of people going in there earlier in the night.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What about around - say, one o’clock? Or a little after?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: He frowns. “Yeah, I saw a guy go in there. He was moving pretty quick, though…built like you, Officer,” he says to Kim. “Dark clothes. I didn’t see his face.”
YOU: “Did you see him come out?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “No, sorry.” He crosses his legs. “I was…busy.”
YOU: “Busy?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Busy. You know. For money.
YOU: You crane your neck to try to look into what you can see of the tent. You don’t see any clothing, or leather-working, or strange herbs, or traffic light lamps, or tapes.
YOU: “What exactly are you selling?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: The man glances at Kim.
EMPATHY: The look says, is he serious right now?
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.” He clears his throat. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”
THE YOUNG MAN OF DUBIOUS BUSINESS: “Someone who got a bad fortune, maybe?” He laughs. “No, that’s awful. I don’t know. She was nice.”
YOU: You and Kim hand off your cards - your fingers brushing the young man’s more than is strictly necessary - and head back into the Night Market.
THE NIGHT MARKET: It is now after midnight. The Night Market is even busier, and Kim keeps close behind you as you bull your way through the crowd. You and Kim ask around about Madame Shushan, but no one seems to know anything. Your questions are met with distrust and stonewalling.
HALF LIGHT: Word has gotten out that you’re cops.
SUGGESTION: Are they protecting the killer?
LOGIC: No, but there is literally an underground drug market -
PERCEPTION: Er, technically, an above-water drug market, surely?
AUTHORITY: Shut the fuck up. The entire Night Market is, technically, illegal. Also, no one likes the RCM. Didn’t you learn that in Martinaise?
YOU: I like the RCM.
ENDURANCE: It’s killing you.
YOU: Kim likes the RCM.
ENDURANCE: It’s killing him, too.
RHETORIC: But he believes in it.
EMPATHY: Because without it, what else does he have…?
THE NIGHT MARKET: You are able to ascertain from a few customers and neighbors that Madame Shushan was, if nothing else, extremely well-respected as a fortune teller.
-“She told me what happened to Raoul.”
-“She told me what happened to Jean-Paul.”
-“She told me what happened to my father."
-“She told me my husband was cheating on me.”
-“She said my mother would die, and she did.”
-“She said the necklace I lost was behind the radiator, and it was.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A lot of this means nothing,” Kim says to you in a low tone as you move on. “An elderly mother is likely to die. Assuming one has already checked the rest of the apartment, it is reasonable to assume that perhaps the necklace fell behind the radiator while cleaning. And there is always neighborhood gossip. According to witnesses, Madame Shushan has been here for twelve years. Long enough to know everything about the people who came to her.”
RHETORIC: His voice is deeply disapproving. He disapproves of such nonsense as this.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: But he saw a cryptid. Why doesn’t he believe?
LOGIC: Seeing an as-of-yet unknown species is not the same as being able to predict the future with tortoise shells.
YOU: You pull Kim to a stop in front of a cart selling small friend honey cakes, your hand on his arm.
PERCEPTION: They smell amazing.
1) “Wouldn’t you want to know your future, if you could?”
2) “Maybe I can tell the future, Kim.”
YOU: “Wouldn’t you want to know your future, if you could?”
KIM KITSURAGI:“Yefreitor, I already know how my future will play out.”
EMPATHY: A long and lonely existence. Work, work, work. Death in the line of duty, and then - mercifully, nothing.
HALF LIGHT: No. We will not let this happen.
EMPATHY: Already, he is wrong. Things are changing faster than he can get a grasp on. Every choice has consequences.
YOU: “Ah!” You wag a finger in his face. “You didn’t foresee the 41st Precinct, did you? You didn’t foresee me!”
IM KITSURAGI: Something passes across his face. It could be a smile. “No. No, I did not foresee this outcome when I was assigned to the case of The Hanged Man. And yet - I never claimed to know the future.”
1) “Wouldn’t you want to know your future, if you could?”
2) “Maybe I can tell the future, Kim.”
YOU: “Maybe I can tell the future, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective, the future has not happened yet. That is why it is the future.”
INLAND EMPIRE: False. The future is happening even now - if you are paying attention, you can stop it.
1) “The world is ending, Kim. The bomb is coming.”
2) “I foresee… a snack. Maybe a fried honey cake?”
YOU: “I foresee… a snack. Maybe a fried honey cake?” You point at the cart behind Kim.
KIM KITSURAGI: A full smile, this time. He turns away to hide it.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: A orange paper-lantern behind his head like a halo.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I suppose we are not getting any more valuable information tonight, are we?”
YOU: “Don’t think so, Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Very well,” he says. “I am a little hungry.”
YOU: So you get an order of honey cakes to share, and Kim’s fingers brush yours when he takes the fork from you, and you walk back to the Kineema together, parked several blocks away.
THE NIGHT MARKET: You look back at the Night Market as Kim pulls away. You can just see the glitter of the lights, just hear the noise. You will have to return again. Maybe soon.