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YOU: You are watching a body fall to the ground. This is not the first time. It will not be the last.
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Whose body?
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Where am I?
PERCEPTION [Impossible: Failure]: …
INLAND EMPIRE: There’s no denying the undeniable. Sobriety has dulled the blade of your knife. You no longer dream of your own dead face. You don’t know how.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: I could’ve shown you everything. The universe and all her secrets spread out on your sheets every night. We could’ve had a ball, baby. We could’ve been superstars.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Look at him now, old friend. How frail the mind, how soft the shell… he’s going gray.
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Where am I?
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: If you could know, tiny man, you would know.
PERCEPTION [Trivial: Success]: Cramped tenements. Gulls. The tang of salt. Below you, cobblestones. Beyond you, light.
LOGIC: …Somewhere on the coast, maybe? Grand-Couron?
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I thought I’d opted out of prophetic dreams.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You think we wanted this, do you? Think we’re here by choice? Slumming it in your measly, crumbling synapses? That’s on you, boy. You’re the sorry bastard who dredged us up.
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…Why the hell would I dredge you up?
LIMBIC SYSTEM: The bloated body forced your hand. Fear is distilling through its blood, shunted around by that clumsy old heart of yours. Fear of the creature on your chest. Just look at how still you are, Harry! You’re already a corpse.
PERCEPTION: A heavy thud, somewhere close. The body’s slow motion fall has ended. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last.
VISUAL CALCULUS: A man lies face-down in the middle of a cobbled harbour slipway—the kind favored by pleasure yachts and fishermen. The collar of his military frock coat is turned up. His hands are crushed beneath him. There is a black hole on the small of his back.
LOGIC: No, no, not that kind. A literal black hole. A bullet hole.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Lovely view.
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Yes, it is.
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No, it’s not.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: No? I thought love was your deal now, Harry. Your thing.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Look at him. He’s drenched in it. Drowning all over again, inch by inch. You think he would’ve learned, after the first time...
PERCEPTION: The body gives one final, hypnic twitch. The road beneath it glistens in the dark. Somewhere in the fog, a church bell begins its lonely business, tolling slowly…
LOGIC: Time of death, 0300 hours.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success]: According to Le Caillou’s folklore, an infant born at three in the morning is a chime child, gifted with the ability to commune with the dead. According to every other isola, this is hogwash and superstition.
VISUAL CALCULUS: This man was broad-shouldered when he breathed; muscular, six foot tall, perhaps taller. His corpse is crumpled and small. His black hole weeps onto the cobblestones. He has been emptied of himself.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Get it through that thick skull of yours. This is it, you understand? This is what love really looks like. She did this to you. Love did this to you.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: He’ll do this to you. Give it time.
PERCEPTION: In another world, your skin is being pricked. A thousand tiny needles are rippling under it… or into it? It’s hard to tell. There’s something weighing on your chest, too, clawing at your throat—
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Feel that? You’re not smart enough to ride with us forever. Not anymore. That sluggish body of yours is stirring, whirring to life…
LIMBIC SYSTEM: It’s time for some puppetry, Harry boy! Time to make trouble. Time to wake up.
HALF LIGHT: You are meeting a bloody and murderous end right here, right now, on this mattress. You are going to die, and the taskforce will never solve your murder, and nobody is going to come to your shitty little funeral, or water your shitty little plants, or tell Kim that you—
YOU: Riding an abrupt wave of adrenaline, the sheets pooling in your lap, you lunge with both hands for the thing currently gnawing on your throat. You drag it away by the scruff of its neck and hold the writhing body at arm’s length, face to face with your murderer at last…
LOGIC [Trivial: Success]: Kitty!
HALF LIGHT: My bad.
PERCEPTION: Very orange. Two months, judging by the size and teeth, although it could be older—Revacholian strays are notoriously undernourished. Also, it’s filthy.
YOU: Why do I know…?
INLAND EMPIRE: He liked them. The man you were before you.
EMPATHY [Medium: Success]: Its tiny teeth are bared in a snarl, eyes slitted, fur on end. This creature is beside itself with fury. It really didn’t want to get caught. Especially not by such a strange, strong-handed giant.
SUGGESTION: Scratch behind its ears, Harry. Go on.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Give it some warning first! Nobody wants to be caught off-guard in enemy territory.
YOU: “Ah… hello.”
???: Two beady eyes snap open, staring at you. A squashed nose sniffs the air.
PERCEPTION: The truth here is unfortunate, but unavoidable—there is nothing about this face that denotes cuteness. ‘Cute’ is not an adjective this animal could ever hope to be associated with. Even by Revachol’s standards, this is an ugly kitten.
CONCEPTUALISATION [Challenging: Success]: The *Cuno* of kittens.
CUNO CAT: …
YOU: …
CUNO CAT: …
YOU: Slowly, with a gentleness that belies your nerves, you scratch the cat behind its ears.
CUNO CAT: Two gummy eyes slit closed. A grinding noise begins to emanate from deep within. It reminds you of a garbage compactor, or that horrendous sound you became acquainted with yesterday: the dull screeching of a beloved Coupris Kineema scraping its undercarriage on a pothole.
YOU: Man, poor Kim. Wonder how he’s holding up?
EMPATHY: …Wait.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Wait.
DRAMA: Oh, GOD—
INTERFACING [Challenging: Success]: Listen to me very carefully. I will only say this once. This is the Villiers-Grand Couron Hotel, third floor, room 39. It is 7:30am on a Wednesday morning. You are meeting your partner, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, at 7:45, outside the tourist information office. You are wearing boxer shorts (clean), a single sock (filthy), and no shirt. You are sober and uncaffeinated. Your suitcase is open under the window. You are not, for the time being, late for work. You have fifteen minutes to get your shit together.
SHIVERS: ʙᴇ sᴛʀᴏɴɢ, ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴅᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜɪs.
VOLITION [Medium: Failure]: Fuck off, bino. No he hasn’t.
NEW TASK: Get your shit together and meet Kim at the tourist office (speedrun!)
YOU: Shirt, on. Tie, on. Clean boxers, keep those on. God ass jeans… woefully inappropriate for a murder investigation, but they’re clean. Put them on. Patrol cloak, yes. Sunglasses, no. Socks—
INTERFACING: Ten minutes and counting.
YOU: Forget the socks. Shoes…
INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success]: Something waterproof, easy to clean.
YOU: Cavalry boots it is, then. A hasty swipe of your fingers through your hair while peering in the bathroom mirror, a swig of mouthwash that burns your throat—
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS!
YOU: …And the face looking back at you resembles something approaching a human corpse. With a little more time and TLC, who knows? Maybe you’d look like a fully human corpse. That would be a fun surprise for your coworkers.
VOLITION: There is a map in your patrol cloak pocket, but you won’t need it. The tourist office is perched on the boardwalk overlooking the bay, a five minute walk from here. Left, then right, then another right. You and the lieutenant drove past it yesterday. Now, just get yourself out the door and—
PAIN THRESHOLD: And you’re being stabbed. Again.
CUNO CAT: Cuno Cat has attached itself to your pant leg, clawing upwards with grim determination.
[Physical Instrument: Medium] Remove the Cuno Cat.
[Rhetoric: Challenging] Reason with the Cuno Cat.
[Composure: Impossible] Ignore the Cuno Cat. It’s all gravy, baby.
RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure]: This seems like a rational, well balanced animal. You are a rational, well balanced man. Explain the situation, rationally. He’ll understand.
YOU: “You can’t come to my crime scene, Cuno.”
CUNO CAT: Those beady eyes bore unblinkingly into yours. The knife-paws inch perilously close to your shirt’s hem.
PERCEPTION [Challenging: Success]: A distant echo, faint but audible…
INLAND EMPIRE: Cuno Doesn’t Fucking Care!
LOGIC: (He doesn’t care.)
AUTHORITY: Enough of this tomfoolery. Improve, adapt, overcome. You have a job to do.
- [Savoir Faire: Medium] Put the cat in your pocket.
SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success]: Somehow, with miraculous dexterity, you successfully detach Cuno Cat from your shirt with all fingers intact. You shove it into the cavernous depths of your patrol cloak, wrench open the door…
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And run.
VILLIERS-COURON HOTEL: This place had pride, in another life. The spiral staircase you’re bolting down is solid oak, and the blue paint peeling off the walls is interspersed with lighter patches, presumably where paintings used to hang.
REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success]: Art is always the first thing to go. Three minutes, by the way.
VILLIERS-COURON HOTEL: You skid to a halt at the bottom of the staircase, panting. The lobby is cavernous and deserted, home to more peeling blue paint, a single check-in desk, an obvious mold problem, and not much else. The only windows are the glass doors ahead of you, facing east towards the sea and flung wide open. Couron proper is spread out below like a map. You pause for a minute to catch your breath.
LOGIC: Left, then right, then another right. Got that?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Knock ‘em dead, kid.
YOU: Finally, at 7:47, you arrive—wheezing, sweating, but, crucially, conscious—outside the tourist office. A squat, flat-nosed head pokes out of your pocket as you slow to a halt.
CUNO CAT: To your surprise, the beast makes no attempt to climb out. It just peers around for a while, swiveling its small head from side to side.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Ocular patdown. Assessing the area. Smart.
YOU: “Sorry about all the running back there, lieutenant.”
LOGIC: …'Lieutenant’?
CUNO CAT: The kitten observes you, expressionless. Gingerly, you pet its ears. Something about its dead-eyed stare prevents you from shutting your mouth.
YOU: “I just don’t want to let Kim down, you know? He’s counting on me.”
DRAMA: You realize, with a jolt of shock, that you are speaking with a creature that has never met Kim. Cuno Cat, thus far, has led a Kim-less existence. A life tragically devoid of camaraderie, brotherhood, and The Eyebrow.
EMPATHY: Poor bastard.
YOU: “Kim’s cool,” you assure Cuno Cat, scratching its ears again. “Super cool. Way cooler than me. We make a good team. You’ll like him.”
CONCEPTUALISATION [Challenging: Success]: That’s why you make a good team. It’s a push and pull.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Six months ago, Patrol Officer Judit Minot found herself at the foot of a staircase in a hostel-cafeteria, watching two strangers huddle in front of it. She was trying and failing to eavesdrop. When the strangers moved, they moved in unison: a single line of motion. Her eyes followed them all the way to the door.
“What the fuck,” Satellite Officer Vicquemare said hoarsely. He sounded torn between incredulity and grief.
“At least he’s working,” Judit said quietly.
“Working,” Vicquemare repeated. His voice wavered, bordering on a laugh or something else altogether. He tipped his head back, eyes closed. Outside, two cloaked figures hurried past the cafeteria windows. The condensation blurred their outlines into one.
YOU: “…And then, after all the shit settled, he transferred to the 41st. Jean’s obsessed with him. It’s awful. They whisper things in Surense and point at me.”
CUNO CAT: The creature stretches sleepily, nosing your hand.
EMPATHY: You really feel like you’ve bonded with each other. Your friendship has come so far from those early days, fifteen minutes ago, when Cuno Cat was massacring your throat. It’s falling asleep in your pocket! How cool is that?
VOLITION: Very cool. Now be a good boy and put the cat down before Kim gets here.
LOGIC [Easy: Failure]: But…
AUTHORITY [Formidable: Failure]: It’s only a baby. Bit of a dick move, isn’t it? Abandoning a baby?
CUNO CAT: Your passenger yawns, eyes scrunching, before disappearing into the subterranean depths of your cloak’s interior.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): There is a brief rustling sound for a second or two. Then, faintly but still audible, the garbage compactor purr.
ENDURANCE: More people should keep cats in their pockets. Free hand warmer, free morale boost, free backup. This is great.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: It’s a gift to be trusted. Don’t waste it.
PERCEPTION: A deep, familiar roar approaches you; a sound you’d know anywhere, even in dreams. That’s a Kineema motor carriage. Which means…
LOGIC: KIM IS HERE!
ESPRIT DE CORPS: KIM IS HERE!
AUTHORITY [Medium: Success]: Play it cool, though. Don’t start extolling his virtues. Do not bring up the cat.
COMPOSURE [Medium: Failure]: ‘Extolling his virtues’? Who said anything about virtues? We just think he’s nice.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: *Very* nice…
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And he has great thighs. From a sportsman’s perspective.
VOLITION [Godly: Success]: Which you can think about later, once you’re done with the homicide you were sent here to solve. Shut up and look sharp.
AUTHORITY [Medium: Failure]: A split second before Kim’s motor carriage comes into view, you decide to artfully arrange yourself against the wall in a pose you remember from the cover of a Vespertine crime novel: head bowed to the ground, one foot on the pavement with the other resting on the brickwork behind you, hands shoved moodily in your pockets…
CUNO CAT: Irritated and half-asleep, the foul little beast bites your thumb. Hard.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Just a heads up, champ—you are going to make some noises when you open your mouth, and they are not going to be masculine.
KIM KITSURAGI: With alarming efficiency, the lieutenant has pulled up and parallel-parked on the curb. He hops out the driver’s cabin, pats the Kineema’s doorframe companionably as he locks it, and smiles over his shoulder at you.
DRAMA: Haloed by the morning sun, he looks blinding, beatific, beautiful…
KIM KITSURAGI: “Good morning.”
YOU: Your mouth betrays you, automatically opening to reply and allowing sound to escape…
- [Composure: Impossible] “Morning, Kim.”
- Whimper, pitifully.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant’s smile drops. He clears the distance between you in three quick strides, peering at your face.
LOGIC [Easy: Success]: He’s checking your pupils and smelling your breath. Which, luckily for both of you, is currently minty fresh.
SUGGESTION: Ask him if he wants a taste, if he’s so curious…
PAIN THRESHOLD [Trivial: Failure]: Coherent sentences are not on the cards. I really tried to warn you, buddy.
YOU: “C…Cuno…”
PERCEPTION: The lieutenant stares at you, uncomprehending, as you continue to gesture miserably towards your attacker. Cuno Cat perks up again, peering at Kim with interest—who seems equally intrigued in turn, looking between you and the cat and your bloodied thumb as the pieces fall into place.
KIM KITSURAGI: You can pinpoint the exact moment when this happens, because his pursed lips twitch. A sound escapes them that’s half-sigh, half-laugh.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Come here, detective.”
YOU: You stumble towards him, abandoning your Vespertine pose. He takes your outstretched hand in his, examining it, and reaches into an interior pocket of his bomber jacket.
PERCEPTION: AHOY! That’s a hip flask! And that smell… dirt and peat smoke, bordering on medicinal…
ENCYCLOPAEDIA: All the hallmarks of a pale-aged scotch.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Well, well, well. Lieutenant.
KIM KITSURAGI: “This will sting a little. Try to hold still, if you can.”
EMPATHY: Kim has had secret pocket booze this entire time? And he’s never shared it? What the fuck, man?
VOLITION [Easy: Success]: It’s really not that complicated. You are a career alcoholic, and he is your friend, and he supports your endeavor to retire from career alcoholism. He’s loyal to you, not your vices.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah, yeah. You should still ask him for a little sip, though. It’s cool.
KIM KITSURAGI: His hands make quick work of cleaning your battle wound. The distant sea glitters. In the bowels of your patrol cloak, Cuno Cat purrs.