Chapter Text
You’ve been here before. The new you, the one that smokes like a chimney but doesn’t drink or shoot up, has been here before; 2 or maybe 3 months prior, riddled with insomnia, performing the usual ritual of walking the streets until something made sense or pulled you in. You’d stood in the early morning haze and felt something unknown and external tug at the centre of you, like an unpleasant hook through the bellybutton.
Standing here now, deeper inside the carcass of this long abandoned warehouse, swarmed at the edges by RCM patrolmen, the pull comes again, unusual and unsettling. You don’t have enough words to speak it through with your partner yet, and you hadn’t wanted to think about it before either; for once the desire to explore had been unceremoniously extinguished.
You weren’t so lucky this time.
Kim is stood beside you, scribbling preliminaries into his notebook. He clips the pen away and gestures with the closed blue leather: After you, detective.
A man, late 30s, sprawled on the concrete. A streak of viscera in an arc reaches from his head towards the nearest wall, almost as if a violent brush stroke. You stand over him in the dark and find nothing that makes sense.
He’s the second in as many weeks— apparent suicide, no identifying items in their pockets, clothing suggesting a far more well-to-do citizen than their end destination signifies. Signs of struggle, but no real evidence of a perp. Instead, messages: writing on walls, in what appears to be the victim’s own hand (and own blood), mental anguish writ large over brick and mortar. Almost as if they were only struggling with themselves.
You’re hardly one to dismiss such physical manifestations of internal turmoil, but you’re pretty sure you’ve never actually corporeally fought one of the myriad voices in your head.
“Again: doesn’t work in the adjoining factory, visually not down on his luck, probably nothing in his pockets; most likely mentally incapacitated by depression or similar,” Kim shakes his head and looks at you. “Why here?”
“I don’t know…,” Was he expecting an answer? You’ve not given him one anyway. There’s a ringing in your ears, an electrical buzz; the RCM lights, maybe, but you’re beginning to realise that’s not it either.
He doesn’t probe you further. Most people who work with you, who really work with you, learn to leave you be in this state, ambling over crumbs and silently assessing. Jean got it eventually. Your new partner picked it up within the first week of knowing you, but that’s Kim for you. You sneak a peek at him, still off kilter from the unknown buzzing, and his profile is a welcome balm for your nerves. He’s good for that too.
You don’t mention the buzz until you get back to the station. It’s the first few hours of the morning and you’re both exhausted from being woken so early, but that’s what coffee is for, so you get to work. You watch as Kim splits the files down into their requisite individuals again, ready to add the latest in a long line of ‘John Doe’s (and the singular Jane).
“D’you hear that noise, by the way, at the scene? Like…an electrical tone, like a constant zip…?” He glances up from the paperwork to study your face.
“I did not, but I’m not so sensitive an instrument as you,” You stick your tongue at him through your cheek at the gentle rib. “Are you sure it wasn’t the equipment? The lighting perhaps?”
“No, I went and listened to the lights just to check; it wasn’t that,”
“Ah…yes, I recall the patrol officer on duty giving you the strangest look for that one,”
“Yeah? I didn’t notice,”
The smallest of smiles: “No, you never do…,” He clears his throat and finishes sorting the piles of paperwork in front of him. “If not the equipment, what was it, do you think?”
There are damp stains patching the ceiling above you—you’re connecting them arbitrarily like constellations as Kim waits for a answer. Nothing seems to help.
“I don’t know…it wasn’t just external either, half the time it felt like…I was hearing it from inside,”
He’s less humorous now. “Harry, that sounds like a head injury; concussion or at the least, tinnitus. Have you—has there been an accident recently, or—,”
“—No, no; I’ve not had any mishaps—honestly, Kim! And it’s gone now anyway,” He’s not convinced. You know deep down nothing like that has happened—this isn’t like that, familiar as it is.
Something that feels like the fizzing of your brain tubes. The beginning of losing ego before a porch collapse.
…It felt like the Pale.
Don’t tell Kim about that.
“Hah…fuck, who knows. Maybe I was tired and my brain hadn’t switched on properly. That place was just weird. I’ve been there before, fairly recently—felt kinda weird then too. Creepy vibes, y’know?”
“You’ve been there before? Pre…Martinaise, or—?”
“No, post Martinaise. On an insomnia walk,” At his raised eyebrow, you add: “When I can’t sleep, I go on walks in the middle of the night. Good way to relearn Jamrock,”
“…does this happen often?”
Is he worried? “Yeah; I mean, not too often—I get enough sleep overall. It’s just…some nights…,” You scrunch your mouth and Kim seems to understand what you mean. He may not be battling substance withdrawals, but he gets it—most definitely, there are…some nights.
“You know you can always call me if you’re having trouble…sleeping, anything,” He’s back looking at the files again, hiding. These sorts of things are still hard for him.
“I know,”
“…Call me next time you go for a walk, ok?” The look he gives you, over the rims of his glasses, makes you feel warm and noticed—less of a hinderance and more like something worth caring for. Kim always makes you feel considered, rather than discarded. You give him your best smile.
“Thanks, Kim,” You don’t say ‘You may regret that’; you’re learning to quiet those sorts of voices around him—he hates hearing them. He’s back in his paperwork bubble, chin tilted down into his chest as he reads. His glasses sit straight on his face in this position. Most people, a little voice chimes, have an asymmetrical face, so their glasses are often minutely lopsided—somehow this isn’t the case with Kim. He must have perfectly symmetrical ears.
You’re not sure why that’s so appealing.
“I still feel like there’s something I’m missing here,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. He’s studying the photograph from the Jane file, the back of her coat collar, where a small plastic tag still holds a battered scrap of card—a tag from something. You’ve been back and forth with him before: a price tag hastily removed? A coat check? He continues to circle back to it from time to time, something about it like a bur in his thought process. He cannot brush it off.
Something is different this time. You meet eyes briefly and he says: “I know where I’ve seen this before,”
He doesn’t elaborate, but rises, leaves the office at a pace. You fumble your coffee and knock over a file or two in your haste to follow him.
It’s still early enough that Jules has not made it to the Communications desk yet—instead, a younger assistant startles when Kim anchors himself to the desk and requests she put him through to the 57th Precinct. You lean next to Kim as the junior officer blusters and runs unsteady fingers through a small gauntlet of switches and connections. You have a good idea who he’s trying to reach.
“Will she be in yet?” You mutter.
“She always gets in before her father, as a matter of principle,” He replies, and then the headset crackles to life and a familiar voice breaks through.
“This is Precinct 57, how may I assist you?”
“Good morning, Alice,” There’s a smile in his voice, a big-brother sort of friendliness that he doesn’t flatter anyone else with. The two of them trade pleasantries in a similar vein, Alice teasing him gently until he resorts to calling her ‘Officer DeMettrie’, much to her amusement.
“I’m going to need your help locating a file—from a couple of years ago. You remember ‘The Case of the Fallen MCs’, right?” After a brief confirmation: “Do you think you could send the file over?”
“I can do one better, Lieutenant—I’ll bring it over myself, on one condition,” You laugh to yourself as Kim relents; as per usual her one condition is lunch. And, as per usual, it’s on him.
You’re finally out of the precinct doors at 1pm, feeling for all the world like you’ve got a full day under your belt (if only you were so lucky, boy-o). Alice’s figure across the street makes the thought of another 6 hours at least minimally more bearable. She’s all smiles and subtle ribbing, and you love how it brings Kim out of his usually stoic shell. He’s been far more subdued than normal lately, and her presence seems to erode his somber attitude quite nicely.
You wonder the same old thoughts: Why isn’t she working at the 41st? You know her father is high up at the 57th, but it sounds like she’s not all that hot on being stuck in the same precinct as him—maybe you should mention it to Kim? Get him to invite her. C-Wing gang!
…Maybe there’s a reason he hasn’t done that. Maybe he doesn’t want you talking to her so much. Maybe he’s protecting her. From the Bloody Murder squad. From you.
You’re so caught up in your own musings that you almost trip over the diner’s floor mat on the way in. The waitress rolls her eyes, and Kim gives you a concerned glance.
“Are you ok, detective?”
“Yes, yes, just disco,”
Alice snorts beside you. “Just showing off for the waitresses?”
“You know it!” You click your tongue and beam at her and she laughs. There’s a small exhale of air from your partner.
“I’m sure they found that incredibly appealing,” He takes the menu from the aforementioned waitress once you’re all seated and glances back at you. “A veritable demonstration of grace and poise,”
“Oh, she was impressed. I definitely saw her give me the once over,”
He coughs into a fist. “Yes, she looked once and then it was over,”
Let that one go, bratan.
Alice has chosen to sit next to the lieutenant at the booth, and you can’t help but feel a little like you’re under scrutiny—like some sort of job interview where both interviewers are terrifying and beautiful in equal measure. Alice pushes a puce coloured folder across the table to Kim and he opens it with interest, menu forgotten.
“So, what was it about this case that the other one triggered?” You lean forward, chin cushioned by a palm. He hasn’t seen fit to explain himself to you all morning, and you’re desperate to know. With a deft flutter of fingers he plucks a photo from the assorted papers and holds it up for you to see.
It’s an inventory record, likely from the vic in this particular case. Specifically, it’s a small ticket, like an appointment or business card, a logo printed vividly across it, a hastily scribbled name in the intended section below. The corner of the logo feels familiar, a collection of colours and shapes that you’ve seen before. It matches the ripped tag on your Jane Doe almost perfectly, right down to the card grading—recycled and flecked through.
“Couron Wash Tub,” You read aloud. When you glance back up at his face, it’s the usual sedate facade, but you can see it behind his eyes. He’s more than a little proud of himself. Which is fair enough, because you’re very proud of him too. “Brilliant,” You say and he gives you the smallest of smiles.
Alice seems to find this very amusing. “Are either of you going to explain, or do I have to pry it out of you?”
“A vic from another case; they have the remnants of one of these tags on their clothing, and I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it before. Until this morning,” He turns the photo back and forth. “We don’t have a reference number or name, but maybe if we describe the coat to the laundrette owner they might remember it…if it was recent,”
“I have faith,” You’re not sure where that came from, but you do, absolutely, have faith in Kim’s lead. Alice is still attempting to hide a smile behind one hand, either at your insistence or Kim’s minor embarrassment, you don’t know.
After lunch you wait at the Kineema, a lit cigarette in one hand, and studiously ignore the two of them speaking quietly several paces away by Alice’s beat-up Model 50. It’s not your business, and Kim can have conversations with mutual friends without you, sometimes. You won’t fade away. A healthy boundary or two wouldn’t kill you, shitkid.
…Still, you want to know what they speak about when they talk like this.
It’s over. She waves at you brightly once they part, before disappearing into the carriage, and you return the wave, Kim ambling unhurriedly to join you at the Kineema. He watches you stamp out your cigarette butt.
“So, what’s The Case of the Fallen MCs about?”
“Sorry?”
“The other case. What’s it about? Were people going about tipping carriages over or something? Someone get pancaked?”
The imperceptible smirk arises. “Not quite. It involved a model shop owner. He was found under a small mountain of model MCs. Like they’d all fallen from a high shelf and buried him,”
“What!”
“He was dead before the avalanche of tiny metal toys though. The laundrette ticket was found in his hand, crushed. It was his recently fired shop assistant’s collection tag. He’d been poisoned, and we found the corresponding accoutrements in the assistant’s flat. Turns out he’d been sleeping with him, and the assistant was now trying to blackmail him for money—threatening to tell his wife, the usual. Relatively simple case. A relatively stupid one too…still, I got some new models out of it, at least,”
He watches the cavalcade of expressions gurn across your craggy face and coughs, pulling the driver door open.
“Well, shall we?”
It takes a couple of hours to cross the tangled mess of Jamrock’s highway system and reach your intended destination. Couron Wash Tub is a fairly nondescript commercial building, brown panelling and glass, the logo newly touched up and odd against the fading signage. It’s trying to be a bit 30s, maybe, but it just looks a bit naff. Quite like you, actually, so you’re sympathetic to its weathered fascia—still, you’re not sure brown is really the best colour for a laundry related business…
Kim takes point and introduces the two of you to the man behind the counter. Like most people, he seems less than enthused about two RCM officers in his establishment, but he won’t put up a fight.
“And what exactly can I do for you, officers…?” He eyes you wearily, and you see Kim slightly incline his head towards you—the smallest of movements, but one you’ve learnt quite well. Your turn, Detective.
You give the man your most disarming grin: “Nothing to worry about, just wondered if we could see your dry cleaning records. Tying up loose ends and all that, y’know,” A wink. Kim looks away. “We can provide a description of the item we’re cross-referencing, but we don’t have a name—that’s what we’re hoping to find out. Do you record that sort of information…?”
The man sighs, like this is greatest imposition on his time, one hand on his head. “…do you have any idea of when this item came in at least?”
“Most likely the last few months,” Kim pipes up. There’s steel in his voice when he next speaks: “The faster you help us, the quicker we can get out of your way, Mr…?”
“Aubert. And fine, fine—let me get the book,” Mr Aubert disappears into the back office; you take a chance to give Kim a once over. It seems far too early in the conversation for Kim to have lost his patience. To anyone else, he looks perfectly normal, but his shoulders are just that little bit too taut underneath his bomber. He’s been like this for a while now, not just today. Nothing you do seems to make it better, either.
Maybe it’s you.
…No. He did ask you earlier to call him next time the insomnia hits—if he hated your company surely he wouldn’t have offered. It’s fine. It’s something else. It’s probably this case.
Mr Aubert has returned with a large, leather bound binder, spine marked to cover the last 4 months of this year up to the present. He dumps it unceremoniously on the counter and steps away.
“I’ll leave you to it, gentlemen; I’ve got some work to do. If you can’t find it, I’ll give you the previous half year accounts to go through,” And with that he saunters off to tend to another customer further down the counter, who has been giving you a look that could curdle milk. You give them both a jaunty wave: “Thanks for your help!”
Kim is already pulling through the pages, starting around the time of your victim’s discovery—it’s easy to lean in next to him and whisper conspiratorially.
“Lovely people, huh. You’d think we had the pox or something,”
He glances at you briefly. “We might as well have, detective,” Nobody wants to talk to the RCM.
You’re a bit useless—Kim has taken charge of the book, so you just pick haphazardly at the leftover tack of some sticker or another on the counter top, fiddle with the small plastic decanter of business cards and take a couple. You’re building a little impromptu house with them when Kim clears his throat beside you.
“Detective…I think I’ve found something,”
He’s indicating a large order that takes up almost the whole page, multiple items listed—where his index finger rests is your Jane Doe’s coat, an emerald number with fur trimmed cuffs. He removes his finger, and you read the rest of the entry with growing concern.
“Wait…! The fuck—,”
“It’s all the other victim’s items,” He mutters under his breath. His glasses are slipping, despite the frown wrinkling the bridge of his nose. “Brown quilted trench coat, that navy blue blazer from the 2nd vic…multiple pairs of slacks…the Jane Doe’s red dress,” His lips pinch as he reads out the name of the customer. “John Doe. The customer name is John Doe,”
“Are you fucking kidding me!” The curdled-milk-woman from earlier gives you another sharp glance at your outburst, and Kim nudges you.
“Quiet, Detective,”
“Sorry, Kim—I just—this was such a good lead, you did such good work and this is just a fuckin’ slap to the face…,”
His face softens minutely. “It’s fine…it at least proves one thing: even the victim’s outfits are manufactured. These people aren’t even wearing their own clothes…,” He busies himself taking everything down in his notebook and you manage to flag Mr Aubert down again.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mr Aubert, but you wouldn’t happen to remember the man who brought this large order in, would you? About 3 months ago?” You do your best to be genial, after swearing up a storm in his laundrette, but he seems uninterested—Kim appreciates your effort, at least, and that’s what matters here. Aubert observes the entry upside down from his side of the counter, and then drums a fist several of times against the wood in thought.
“Yes, I remember this man. Very odd, obviously not his real name, paid in crisp bills. The address isn’t real, either, but it’s not my business. He paid in advance, I’m not delivering, so I didn’t quibble,” There’s regret there now; either that he didn’t push his mystery customer, or that he’s in the process of ratting him out, you’re not sure which. Kim has finished copying down the entry and glances up at him briefly, back to hard-edged authority.
“Can you give me a description of the man in question?”
“Yeah…dark hair, dark eyes, kinda average build. No scars or tattoos that I could see—he was in a suit, so pretty much entirely covered. Nothing that really made him stand out…sorry, officer,”
He’s telling the truth, and Kim knows it too. Still, Aubert has the good sense to be embarrassed. You thank him for his time and pocket one of his little business cards before shuffling out.
Kim kicks the front tire of the Kineema when you return to her and does what constitutes sulking for Lt Kitsuragi—that is, he looks mildly peeved and says nothing. Not even an apology to the vehicle. It’s on you to lighten the mood, and you’re desperate.
“D’you think…maybe the messages are manufactured too? Everything at the scene is? And that our new John Doe is some sort of deranged dry-cleaning sequence killer??” He looks up at you briefly, and you catch it again—something flitting across his features that feels like…he’s grateful? He’s so guarded these days you’re no longer sure of yourself.
“If it was, each message would be in the same or similar hand, don’t you think? They’re different enough from each other that I still believe each individual wrote them…the words are different enough each time too, not much of a pattern…,” He settles next to you against the chassis and huffs. “It’s going to take even longer to get back to the precinct now, aux heures de pointe,”
“Is it that late?”
“We’ll hit it mid way,”
“Huh,” And then you both lapse into silence.
Well. This is awkward. Why aren’t you talking? He’s not talking, so you should probably be talking. This is going on for too long. He’s going to think you’re an idiot—
“Kim…it’s not going to become one of those, you know…,” You almost don’t want to say it out loud, like you’ll jinx it. A cold case. He doesn’t respond for the longest time—you jinxed it anyway. You wish you’d kept your mouth shut.
“Come; we should go, detective,” He finally breaks his silence and leaves your side, bundling himself into the driver’s seat. You scrabble in behind him and he pulls out, radio still switched off, focused on the road ahead. He’s not talking again, and you’re not talking either—for once you’re not really sure what to say to him.
You’re both on this case, but the fury you feel is entirely on his behalf. He deserved more than another dead end. Kim deserves more than a dead end, and it’s somewhat irrelevant to you where you are in this. You think about this nondescript man at the laundrette, the most bog-standard and boring facade, and you wonder who he really is. If he’s the killer, you can’t figure out what his motive or intended message is. Look how mentally ill these people I’ve dressed up are? What kind of a motive is that?
In the back of your mind, you know it’s more than that. The memory of the low electric hum at every scene. How uncomfortable you’d been each time.
It felt like the Pale.
You don’t tell Kim.
Kim drops you off at your place. He’d been right, it took an obscene amount of time to get back into Jamrock central, and given the hours you’ve both worked today, 6pm seemed like a sensible cut off. He winds down the window as you alight and leans out slightly to you; his face has softened in the interim drive, and he just looks tired instead of angry.
“Harry…what I said earlier at the precinct, about the insomnia…,” He glances away, briefly, swallowing. His ears are pink. You’re pretty sure the whole of your face is pink too. “I meant it. Please…if you need someone to talk to, you can always call me,”
Oh boy. “Even if it’s 3am?”
A small huff of laughter. “Yes, even if it’s 3am,” He smiles, and everything sharp and miserable in your chest peels away into light. “I’ll see you tomorrow, detective,”
“See you tomorrow, Kim,”
You don’t walk up immediately. You stand on the curb in the cold and the wind and watch until the Kineema disappears completely from your sight.
She visits you in the night. Except, this time, you’re awake, and she’s a little different. A memory, maybe, clear as day in your mind’s eye. An overwhelming waking dream you can’t leave.
She’s wearing a coat—green, trimmed with fur at the cuffs…wait, that’s not right. She never wore anything like that. As middle class as she was, she never owned anything so ostentatious, you’re sure of it. Even more so when you notice the red dress underneath: Dora, in the entirety of your Jane Doe’s outfit, twisting and turning in the light, a look on her face that makes you want to run. But you can’t escape the machinations of your own brain.
“Harry,”
No, don’t talk to me, don’t look at me; god, go away and leave me alone!
“Don’t be foolish, Harry,”
Shut up!
“Doesn’t it look good on me, Harry? Don’t I suit this sort of thing? Such a shame you couldn’t provide anything like this,” She tosses the skirts from side to side and laughs at you, and it feels like she’s put a knife in your stomach.
Leave me alone!
Her demeanour changes in an instant, like you turned a key and her smugness turned over. She stalks up to you and takes you by the lapels, shaking you with more strength than she could possibly contain and you want to run, why can’t you run!?
“How many people are you going to disappoint with this case alone, do you think? How many people need to die before you even have the vaguest understanding of what’s happening here? Hmm? Well?!” You struggle in her grasp and it tightens, raw and painful as she clenches skin and hair underneath the fabric.
Please—I don’t understand—!
“No, you don’t. You’re too stupid. A sad, stupid little man who ruins everything he touches. Maybe if someone else were on this case it would have been solved already. Your stupidity is holding him back, you know,” Her voice is low, and her face is feral, distorted, not her, not anyone. “He thought his career would have a chance at the 41st but you ruined that too,”
No…
“Yes; how could he have agreed to partner with you, he wonders? How big a mistake was this transfer? And now he can’t go back—,”
No!
“—You’ve trapped him here in your mire and now you’ll destroy him too—,”
Stop it!
“—Just like you destroyed everything else—,”
“SHUT UP!!”
You launch yourself up and out—she’s gone, there’s no one but you in the apartment, and it’s dark. You stand, panting, in front of your sofa, the only light a soft filter through the blinds from the streets below. At your feet your coffee table has been upended, the singular mug once on its surface now smashed across the floor.
What the fuck was that…? We’re having bad dreams whilst we’re awake now?
It takes a few more moments before you’re able to sit back down. You can’t even remember how this started, or what you were doing before—or even how much time passed since it began. Your heart is still thundering in your chest. The image of her burns in your subconscious and you feel sick.
In the end, you think about drinking. You sit in the dark, on your threadbare sofa, and you think about drinking. The nearest Frittte is just 2 streets away. You could easily get yourself something to calm your nerves. To lull you into a stupor. You’d be useless tomorrow, but what’s so different about that?
He’d notice. He’d know you broke your sober streak. He’d be so disappointed in you.
Kim.
You should call Kim.
He picks up after 3 rings. His usual greeting (“Kitsuragi,”) is a statement, not a question. He knew you’d call, he knows it’s you. He’s just confirming that you dialled the correct number.
“Kim…hello,” You get stuck.
“Is everything ok, Harry?” There’s worry in his voice, through the static. You feel terrible for bothering him. A quick glance at your watch tells you it’s not quite 3am, but instead almost midnight. Not so bad. He might not have gone to bed yet.
“…D’you fancy a walk?”
As it turns out, Kim can’t sleep either. He agrees to your walk suggestion without much hesitation, and you meet up near the Frittte, both in your civvies, no halogens. He doesn’t seem to require details as to the whys (or the future wheres), he just falls into step beside you.
You walk in silence for a while, as usual not really sure where you’re going. You sneak little peeks at Kim all the while, trying to be subtle but probably missing the mark. He doesn’t say anything, but you realise his face is minutely changing each time, bemusement creasing deeper into the lines by his mouth, his eyes. For once, he’s not in his usual bomber—instead he wears a slightly padded leather iteration, a buckle loose about the waist, a TipTop patch on the arm and some sort of aerostatic patch over the heart. His jeans are dark and his boots are the usual. He looks very, very cool. Meanwhile, you’re the same old disco mess—cords and earth tones and your faithful crocodile heels. You had the good sense to throw a dark jacket over it, to make you slightly less noticeable. There’s something about these walks that makes you want to blend into the background, uncharacteristically. And this time…you’re worried about embarrassing Kim.
He might be the only human being in existence to invoke that response in you. You have a reputation for brash behaviour, leaping before looking, totally oblivious to others’ discomfort, and it’s well earned. But you are hyper-aware of Kim, at all times, and you want to please him so badly.
If you work hard enough maybe you can be half as cool as him one day. Maybe that would be enough. For who, you’re not sure.
“…I don’t believe I’m familiar with this area,” His voice is startlingly loud near your ear, in the quiet into which you’ve wandered. You stop, a little spooked by his intrusion into your thoughts and he waits patiently for you to come back to the reality you have to share with everyone else.
“Warehouse district,” You manage. He gives you a look like no shit, really detective, but he doesn’t speak. “It’s a bit more interesting in the dawn hours—I mean, if you like dodging lorries and fishing trucks…and dogs,” He raises a singular brow and you grin. “I only got chased once!”
“I’m concerned over the safety of these midnight walks, lieutenant…,”
“It’s fine, honestly—like I said…just the once,” You’ve started walking once more, but something is beginning to tug at the edge of your being, a discomforting familiar pull. Your conversation is falling away again, but this time it’s not Kim you’re lost in.
“…What is it?” He’s so good—he knows the difference between your usual distraction and the times when something is wrong—you scan the buildings around you and try to find a good enough answer for him.
“Something’s…off…like before,”
“At the crime scene?”
“Yes…I don’t know what it is though,” You start in a seemingly random direction but the feeling gets stronger and stronger as you continue.
“The buzzing?” Kim’s voice is low beside you—he’s getting better at keeping up with your district shuffling.
“No, not yet…,”
The feeling is strongest at the edge of another warehouse; dilapidated, windows still intact but just barely. They shine with the smallest of interior lights, and you can hear something scuffling inside. The two of you exchange a look, a brief return of hand gestures. He nods. You creep to opposite ends and peek inside the windows. It’s too dark from your end, but Kim hurriedly gestures towards you and you scrabble and kneel next to him as he points through the edge of the glass.
A figure, darkly clothed and topped by a shock of blonde hair, possibly a man, is lugging equipment around the warehouse floor, struggling to unpack them from an older, black Coupris shielded by the roll-up garage door. There are only two pieces, but it’s the second one they’re struggling with—both are still shrouded in black protective cloth. Once they’ve got the second piece plonked down away from the first, they pull the cloth away, revealing a polished silver unit peppered with buttons and knobs. The smaller unit is similar, but with a smaller read-out apparatus attached. You share a confused look with Kim as the figure starts to twist and turn the various appendages.
“C’mon, c’mon; I haven’t got all day,” The figure mumbles to the machine—a man’s voice—so there’s that at least. Otherwise you haven’t the faintest idea what is going on. Until he hits a particular button on the second facia.
It’s almost like the electrical hum when you flip on a halogen overhead. Particles vibrating and coming to life. The hairs on your arms stand on end and your heart begins to hammer inside your rib cage. Kim, however, seems unaffected—when he chances a look at you though, he frowns: once more, he knows. It’s like before.
It’s happening again.
“Let’s go,” he whispers.
It’s worse, as you round the corner of the warehouse to the open garage, bearable but uncomfortable. It’s giving you a headache, an ice pick into your soft, unwilling brain matter. You allow the mystery man a brief moment of realisation before you barrel into him from behind and pull his arms up against his back, his body contorting whilst he shouts and curses. Kim’s voice cuts through the bluster easily.
“Enough!”
“Look—fuck!—look, I’ve got nothing here that’ll interest you, it ain’t worth shit! Let go of me, you weirdo fuck—!” In an awkward fakeout, you let one arm free and manage to pull him into a choke-hold before he can wriggle loose. “Fuck—! Stop!”
“I said that’s enough,”
He continues to struggle under your grasp, but at least now he’s stopped squawking, cowed into submission by Kim’s glare and stance. He’s very good at this, at drawing himself up somehow past his already deceptive height into something even more threatening. You’ve danced this dance with Kim before—you, the thuggish muscle; him, the holder of your leash. You enjoy it maybe a little too much. It’s an excellent high at the most inopportune moments, and god knows you want more of those.
“There. Now that you’ve deigned to settle down, maybe you’d be so good as to explain what the hell it is you’re doing,” A low, threat of a question right into his space. Your captive lets out a shaky breath and swallows. The equipment continues to hum.
“Look, I’ve got nothing you need—this is all trash, you wouldn’t get much for it—”
“Answer the question,”
Another swallow. “Just…tests,”
“For what?”
“I dunno, man…just...tests—to make sure this is a good spot,”
A good spot? For what?
Something is starting to encroach upon you--you’re beginning to feel dizzy; the buzzing in your head somehow intensifying—it hits you that your captive smells…botanical? Like ozone and petunias. It makes you lightheaded, and in response you clench your arms tighter and wheeze the remaining breath from his lungs. He chokes and scrabbles at your forearm, leaving half moon indents between the thicket of hair and scars—“All right—stop! Stop!”
You’re falling into a miasma of something, whatever the fuck his little machines were testing for—you have the wherewithal to speak into the space between yourself and Kim before it starts to pull you under: “Whatever it is--turn it off—quickly—,”
You hear rather than see Kim move and punch a fist into a button—your captive wheezes and squeaks as you compress his windpipe but you can’t even feel your legs, your arms. As the buzzing tapers off it’s a miracle that you’re still standing, still holding the man—who is now becoming an unflattering shade of blue under your administrations. You catch the tail end of Kim speaking—the sound hits you as a physical weight, thick and syrupy but meaningless; you finally loosen your arms and drop your fading cargo unceremoniously. You take a step or two backward, hoping you seem more controlled than you feel as he coughs and splutters into the concrete. The slow flicker of images and colours are tainting the edges of your peripheral vision and then fading back; the warehouse comes slowly into focus and your consciousness pours back into your body, makes you a whole man again.
Kim clears his throat to prompt your attention. He can’t call you officer or detective here, and he’s loathe to use your name, just in case. You give him a nod of reassurance before you haul your mystery interloper back onto his feet.
“All right, enough; I didn’t choke you that bad…,”
He coughs right into your face for that one. Lovely. “Didn’t—,“ cough “—Didn’t choke me that bad?! Are you—,” cough “—fuckin’ mental?!”
“Who’s your boss, idiot?” It’s too early in the morning to be covered in someone else’s spittle and now you’re fed up—shaking a grown man by his lapels levels of fed up. You’re fairly certain the whole thing has given you a hangover.
“…t-the fuck is it to you?”
Kim comes to your rescue, as always.
“Tell them we have something to discuss. The RCM are beginning to sniff around your operations and maybe…you’d like to stay one or two steps ahead,”
Well, that’s not quite what you expected from the good lieutenant. His face is placid, not a single tell. Play along.
The man squints at him, like he’s not sure how much of this is utter bullshit, before turning his sights on you, your hands still in his collar. This fucker for real?
You raise both eyebrows at your new acquaintance: “Well?”
“…fine. Fine, whatever. You gonna let me do my job now, unmolested??”
“No, you’re leaving,” Kim nods at you and you let go. Your captive stumbles without the support and then stands there, useless. Eying you both, not quite sure what to do with himself. This guy is a cast-iron idiot.
Kim sighs.
“Are you deaf? Pack up your things and leave. Now,”
“So are we on the take now, or…?”
Kim tosses you a small, damp towel and you slap it haphazardly onto your forehead as he lowers himself back down into the couch. You’re both back at your dingy apartment and you’re both completely exhausted. After your mystery-test-man finally hauled his ass out of the warehouse, it started to feel like you might not make it back here at all. Kim had to all but drag you up the stairwell—you know now that it was stupid not to tell him about your Pale concerns, because he definitely knows something is very wrong now.
And he’s mad you didn’t just tell him from the start.
“I don’t think that warrants a response, officer,”
“Kim—look, I didn’t think—,”
“No, you didn’t,” That shuts you up. He stews next to you with his lips pursed together, chewing the inside of his cheek. You push the flannel down far enough that it covers your eyes and wallow in your own special brand of shame. Even memories of your ex-something don’t make you feel half as terrible as disappointing Kim.
“…Do you not trust me?” He says, eventually. The towel is back off again.
“Kim—I trust you with my life, you know that!” God, the expression on his face makes you want to throw yourself off the couch and grovel prostrate at his boots: I’m sorry Kim, I’m so sorry, I fucked up. “I just…I know you don’t like thinking or talking about the Pale…,”
He sighs, deep and long. “Harry…this isn’t about me. You could have been hurt, seriously hurt by this—as your partner I need to know. I almost led you somewhere that could have done you serious lasting damage,”
“You didn’t know that—,”
“Exactly my point,”
“—No, I mean—I didn’t know that either, we didn’t know what that machine was. We don’t know anything about what this shit is, either of us,” This is making your headache worse. He sits with his arms crossed facing you on the couch and studies you until you have to hide behind the flannel again (coward).
It’s a long moment before you feel him twist and lean back into the couch next to you—another sigh. His eyes are closed when you next chance a look.
“D’you want to stay here tonight…? It’s probably too late to go back to yours by now…,” He squints at you with a single eye after you trail off nervously.
“If I want to get a whole 2 hours of sleep tonight that’s probably the best idea, yes; thank you, detective,”
“Hey, man, we started early yesterday AND worked a full day shift, pretty sure we get time-in-lieu to sleep in today,”
He snorts. “What is this—how you say—sleeping in,”
“Remind me to show you some time,” It’s out your mouth before you can stop it—if he does notice how red your face is now, he’s kind enough to ignore it. You shuffle off with your flannel in tow and offer him the bed, which he of course declines, gentleman that he is. He won’t put up with your protestations, either (“Harry, you are eating into my precious sleeping time; go to bed,”).
So you go to bed. Or rather, you lie there in the dark and listen as Kim’s breathing evens out in the next room. You left your door open for that purpose alone, and the other man didn’t query it. You think, maybe, he wanted the same thing.
It arrives on your desk 2 days later. Unmarked, printed envelope, single sheet in the interior, also printed. Kim looks over it first, blankly, then turns it over in his grip to let you read:
Cops. Continue your sniffing. 5:30am. Centre Point gateway.