Wild Horses

by BigTechTouchdown

Summary:

Kim Kitsuragi has come out of the Martinaise mercenary tribunal with a hole in his chest, trauma in his mind, and a baby in his stomach. He only signed up for two of these things when he joined the RCM.

Notes:

Got this idea from the bad ending of the military tribunal, seemed to have a lot of opportunities for angst. Let's say this takes place after a communist playthrough where Cuno joins the RCM junior officers. Beginning will probably be Kim-heavy, more Harry POV will be added as the fic goes on. This might end up being long, don't know how long it will be yet though.

In the sex scenes in this fic, Kim's genitals will be described using words like "dick" and "cunt".

This chapter has violent imagery, and the rest of the fic will have graphic imagery as well.

Chapter 1: Chapter One

As the nylon of your jacket grows warmer and wetter, the familiarity of this situation tugs at your prefrontal cortex. This is not the first time this week that you have collapsed against the body of the man beneath you. Just the night prior, you had been in a similar position. Resting your weary body against his more robust figure, recovering from the first sexual activity you have had in years. 

 

Now, the circumstances are so much worse. 

 

The wound hardly even hurts. Your body is now flooded with adrenaline, but with the location that the bullet hit, you doubt that the constricting of your blood vessels will do much to save you now. A blur of noises surrounds you, each wavelength ricocheting around your skull as if it was empty. Maybe the effects of the Pale Latitude Compressor haven’t faded yet, but your head hurts more than your chest. 

 

Your body feels like it has been cored like an apple, a jagged slice being ripped from your lung. Putting all of your concentration on breathing doesn’t help. Viscous fluid floods half of your chest with each gurgling breath, crimson streams pouring down your chin. Not even a minute before, you had been terrified of entering this situation. Now, knowing that the worst has already happened calms you, and you hope things pass before the adrenaline wears off and the pain gets really bad. 

 

What happens next?

 

The man beneath you feels warm. Given the current frigid temperatures, this is something that you would usually be thankful for. Now, it’s just a reminder of how much of your blood his clothing has soaked up. A lot of it is probably his, too. You hope he didn’t get shot in an artery. Honestly, you hope you didn’t either, but even in your semi-conscious state, you know that your wounds are far more severe. Fatal, even.

 

He tried to warn you. Just milliseconds before it happened, an attempt at a warning spluttered through his lips. You made the right choice to trust him. If you don’t pull through, he’ll blame himself. And if both of you die here, everything that you have done in these past four days will have been for nothing. 

 

Odds are that you’re dying. You can’t tell if your glasses fell off or if the light itself is fading, but darkness is now ebbing at the corners of your vision. Your body isn’t even coughing out the blood anymore, it has given up on ridding your lungs of fluid. Above you, Titus screams something, or maybe it’s Eugene. The only noise that you can actually focus on is the nonsense pouring from Harry’s mouth. Distressed little noises that you can hardly make out the meaning of. 

 

Despite anything, his words soothe you. As much as you regret dying, you feel oddly comfortable that your last moments are with him. The world is now a painting of white and red, the few things you can make out in your fading vision are blending together like oil. 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Later, you are told that the first thing you tried to do upon waking up in the hospital was scream in pain. This led to a coughing fit that tore your wound, blood being expelled out upon your bare chest. You don’t remember this, and you suspect this may be due to the unimaginable pain, the immediate administration of anesthesia, or your brain just being unable to comprehend the stress you were under. 

 

You’re not dead. At times, you almost wish you were.

 

A concoction of painkillers have been injected into you to prevent you from passing out from the pain every time you cough. This hardly makes the agony bearable. The first day that you’re actually somewhat conscious, you are terrified of breathing out of fear of ripping your lung open again. Beneath your left pectoral, a tube has been inserted to drain your pleural space of a rancid yellow fluid. After accidentally seeing a nurse empty the drainage containers, you decide to avert your eyes from further cleanings. 

 

You haven’t seen your face since before the tribunal, you can’t even get out of bed. But from the way your fingernails have turned blue, you imagine that the mask of cyanosis has already taken hold. If you can’t get enough oxygen into your body, then you’ll add brain damage to your list of injuries. 

 

For an indiscernible number of days, your perception of time is so thoroughly fucked that you can’t even tell how long you have actually spent awake in the hospital. Your body seems to prefer the sweet relief of unconsciousness, as the moments you are awake only last a few minutes at most. Or maybe they last hours, you don’t know. Two days after the accident, you know that Jean Vicquemare visited you, so you were lucid enough for long enough to tell him what had happened. 

 

There is a thick wall between outside stimuli and your barely-functioning brain. Occasionally, nurses and doctors come in to fret over a spike in temperature or a blood-soaked bandage, but you can’t really hear what they’re saying. Trying to preen your ears only results in an ungodly migraine. Your sense of touch is in an odd purgatory between everything being torturous, and barely being able to discern what is touching your skin. There is a chasm in your chest where you were shot, but you’re not in the right mental state to tell how bad it is. 

 

You’re not able to eat. As a result, your sustenance is inserted directly into your stomach via a tube in your nose. At one point, you noticed that you have an IV in the crook of your arm, presumably to keep you hydrated and as comfortable as possible. It is impossible to breathe in deeply enough to smell anything. 

 

It still feels very likely that you could die from this. While you have not abused your body as much as Harry has, you haven’t been the most wholesome in your lifestyle habits. You are now at the point in your life where your body is slowing down, and this may be too unsurmountable of a hurdle…

 

No.

 

No.

 

You aren’t going to die. Not here. Not now. Not before knowing if what you did actually meant anything. Not before you get to talk to him again. 

 

The feverous husk that is your body will recover. You are going to live. The idea of dying here, the idea of giving up, is too revolting to even consider. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

One punctured lung. Two ribs shattered in both the front and the back. A tunnel of soft tissue damage. You are lucky. Had the bullet been even a few millimeters off, it would have hit your pulmonary arteries. 

 

It isn’t until a week after the incident that you are sentient enough for Harry to visit you. Despite the personal hell that you are in, you are actually lucid during the entire conversation. 

 

Okay, maybe “conversation” is giving it too much credit.

 

The instant he walks into your room, you can already see Harry begin to break. Your heart sinks as you see the pink glaze upon his eyes, the quivering of his lip. His smirk is gone; he wasn’t able to get rid of that expression even when notifying a woman of her husband’s death. You must look so fucked up now that you have permanently wiped the smile off his face.

 

Before, you wanted to talk to him. Now, you wish you were literally anywhere other than here. 

 

Without a word, he pulls out the stool beside your bed and perches beside you. As distraught as he is, you cannot notice any sign of inebriation. That makes you feel a bit better. He looks so much older now than when you last saw him a week ago, to the point where you are momentarily worried that you were in a coma for years. 

 

Luckily, no coma for you. Just massive red bags under his eyes. You wonder if he’s been losing sleep over you. If you had just a few years less experience in the RCM, you would have dismissed his feelings as unprofessional. 

 

You shift about on your bed, trying to find comfort that you know won’t come. When a sharp pain jolts through your chest, you bite your tongue to prevent yourself from groaning. You don’t need Harry in more despair than he already is in. Each time you look in his position, the air seems thicker than it actually is. You have to occasionally glance through your window to prevent yourself from choking on the tension in the room. As you fruitlessly readjust yourself, Harry doesn’t say a word. Looks like you’ll have to start this talk. You really don’t want to.

 

“Hi, Harry.” It takes so much effort just to say those two words. Your lung is so badly damaged, your voice is hardly much more than a raspe. Shit, what if your body never recovers enough to go back into service? What will you do then? 

 

“Kim, I… I…” He shakes his head, trying to come up with something to say. “I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

You had a feeling this is how it would go. Even with his superstar persona, he certainly says sorry a lot. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“This is my damn fault.” Your words have gone on deaf ears, apparently.

 

“No, it’s not. These things happen.”

 

Harry is barely listening, now firmly pulling his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t do it. I failed. I couldn’t warn you in time. You were there for me the entire time, and I fucked up when it mattered for you.”

 

“Harry, stop talking like that right now.” You croak out, already running out of breath. “That day, you proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that you belong in the RCM. If you hadn’t been there, I imagine many more people would have died.” You don’t know the casualties yet, but you know that there were casualties. There is no way there wasn’t.

 

Harry stares down at your blanketed legs. “Three of the Hardie boys died. Five people died in total. We didn’t win. Nobody did.” 

 

“And if I weren’t injured, would that have changed anything? That’s still five people dead. This wasn’t a situation that could have been won.” You try to ignore the way your stomach twists upon hearing the actual numbers. When you shot Ruud, you could hear another shot in your direction. A shot that missed. 

 

A shot that hit someone else. One of the Hardie boys died so you could live. 

 

“Kim, you barely made it out alive.”

 

“But I am alive. That’s better than I was expecting. You got hurt, too, you should be worrying about your own injuries.” Wearily, you reach over your arm to give Harry a gentle squeeze on the knee cap. Rubbing your thumb against the bone soothes him; he relaxes just a bit in his seat. 

 

Harry manages to talk more clearly, although you can see the tears begin to pour into his mutton chops. “My injuries weren’t even close to how bad yours are. Our situations aren’t even comparable. This shouldn’t have happened.”

 

“You are correct, none of this should have happened. This is just inevitable in our work-” Suddenly, your body has had enough. You had been too preoccupied with calming down Harry that you hardly even noticed the pain your body was in, begging you to stop talking. Instinctively, you grab for the glass of water as soon as your body starts convulsing, a fit of coughs wracking your body as you try to take a drink. In an instant, Harry is at your side, one hand on your shoulder while he helps you drink with his other hand. As the doctors rush into the room, you can taste a hint of blood. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You are given three months of leave to recover from your wounds. That should be enough to recover adequately, both physically and emotionally. Three weeks after being admitted into the hospital, your lung is stable enough so that the doctors don’t think it will collapse on its own. Everything still fucking hurts, though, and it will probably be well over a month until your ribs have fused back into acceptable form. 

 

As far as you are considered, three months is way too long of a leave. Even if you can’t go onto field duty right now, you can still work at the precinct just fine. You feel fine. Everything is fine. You are raring to go back to work, you’ve sat around on your ass long enough. 

 

The doctors are already talking about letting you go back home. They just want an eye on you for just a bit longer until they send you off. As soon as you are released, you plan on going to your precinct and requesting to be allowed to work again. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Just a week later, the vomiting starts. You wake up in the dark hours of the morning nauseous, sicker than you have ever felt in your entire life. It hits you so suddenly and violently that you can’t even hope to make it to the bathroom in time. A nurse finds you puking on the floor, collapsed on all fours.

 

This bout of illness was not a random event. For the next few days, you are constantly hit with the overwhelming urge to puke your guts out. You get into the habit of carrying a garbage bag or trash can around so you don’t have to inconvenience anyone at the hospital with cleaning up your vomit. The nausea gets so severe and so constant that it is difficult for you to keep broth down. You are very displeased at this turn of events. Not only are you constantly projectile vomiting, but this has delayed your return to the 57th precinct. 

 

Your doctors are worried that the soft tissue damage in your body has led to an infection or some other complication. After a brief examination, they decide that a CT scan is the most effective course of action at seeing what the hell is happening in your body.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

When the doctors tell you to sit down, you know that something came up on those CT scans. You can’t read their expressions, have been terrible at doing so your entire life, so your heart is racing in anticipation for whatever news they have to tell you. 

 

It’s probably cancer. Or internal bleeding. Or permanent scarring inside of your body that will never heal and will hurt forever and will lead you to an early grave. 

 

You aren’t expecting them to ask about your recent sexual activity. 

 

There’s no point in going into the nitty gritty of it, so you tell them all they need to know: you had sex the night before you arrive at the hospital. You don’t go into detail about the lack of effective protection against conception or disease, that’s too embarrassing. 

 

Turns out, they didn’t find anything wrong with your injuries. In fact, the wound in your chest was healing fine. The anomaly they did find was located lower down in your abdomen. 

 

No matter how long you stare at the prints, you can’t comprehend what you’re actually seeing. The doctor’s words are only background noise to the fog in your head, as thick as the pale coiled around the isola.

 

They didn’t mean to photograph it. But in your stomach, there is what appears to be a little sac. Apparently, there is an embryo inside of it, but you can’t really see it. You aren’t trained to discern these types of images, and your eyesight doesn’t make it easier.

 

There’s not much visual information in the scans to go off of. It doesn’t matter, you get the rundown of what’s happening from your doctors. The little sac inside of your belly is evidence of Harry’s failed pullout game. 

 

The doctors are startled when you start to laugh. You have hardly even smiled the entire time they’ve seen you, but here you are, your body abruptly shaking with laughter like you just heard the funniest joke in the world. It’s probably too soon after the incident to be laughing like this, so you eventually dissolve into a painful fit of coughs. Even as the doctors rub your back and fetch you water, you’re still chuckling.

 

You swear this shit only happens to you. 

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Summary:

Before receiving an ultrasound, Kim reminisces about his time in Martinaise.

Notes:

A bit of smut in this chapter, later chapters will go more in depth.

Abortion is brought up briefly in this chapter. I tried to give Kim reasoning for going through the pregnancy without coming off as pro-life propaganda.

Had it not been for the fact that you had to share a bathroom, this may not have happened.

 

The young woman neighboring you, Klaasje, may have had the luxury of privacy, but this was not granted to you. This didn’t end up being as bad as you were expecting. Aside from the horrific condition the bathroom was in, the situation was surprisingly tolerable. You and Harry did just fine taking turns showering and using the restroom, and you didn’t cross each other for the first two nights. 

 

Maybe blaming it on the bathroom situation is a bit unfair. The third day of the investigation was, for lack of a better term, more intimate than the previous days, not even taking into consideration the fact that you two had sex. 

 

You don’t know how Harry got you to dance with him. It was probably a result of his can-opening technique, using the perfect sequence of words to get through your thick wall of composure. Or perhaps he just looked so damn charming, pulling off those moves with the condition his body was in. He had no reason to be dancing like that at his age, but the inappropriateness of it was oddly endearing. The same grinning expression that mildly unsettled you when you first saw him now beckoned you towards him. 

 

You liked him. You felt safe with him. You wanted to dance with him.

 

And it felt right to do so. He seemed to like your dance moves, if the way he was staring at you meant anything. In all likelihood, he was pleased to finally see you open up a bit. With its disintegrating infrastructure, the church was barely above freezing, but you managed to warm up pretty quickly. You didn’t expect to enjoy it so much, dancing with a group of delinquents and an amnesiac detective in a dark, decrepit church. But that night, you felt alive, enveloped in the glows of orange and green. The reflective force from your boots hitting the rotting wood was like electricity. 

 

You spent the rest of the night with each other. He dragged you to the Whirling-in-Rags so he could dedicate a karaoke song to you. And after that, you demolished him in a board game while waiting to collect his gun, all while taking in the priceless frustration on his face. The two of you didn’t get back to the hostel until it was nearly midnight, having to quickly notify the Hardie Boys of the elderly woman in the fishing village before going upstairs to your rooms. 

 

After a full day in subzero weather, a hot shower sounded like what you needed before falling asleep. As such, you gathered up the sweatpants and T-shirt you had as sleepwear and entered the bathroom. The door to Harry’s room was closed, so you decided to notify him of your presence. You wrapped the door with your bare knuckles three times.

 

“Harry, I’m going to be taking a shower. Do you need to use the restroom first?”

 

He took a moment to respond. “No, go ahead.”

 

In its current state, the bathroom was barely usable. The liquor bottles once filling the bathtub were picked up by Harry at some point, but that doesn’t really change the mysterious stains covering multiple of the bathroom’s surfaces, or the ever-present cloud of steam from the broken sink. As you undressed, you took extra care to make sure none of your clothes were placed in an unsanitary location.

 

The moment you stepped into the shower and felt the hot water hitting your back, you were already sighing in relief. You are in relatively good shape for your age, but that doesn’t help much with the stress of running around everywhere for three days straight. This shower was your reward for dealing with the detective’s Jamrock shuffle. Or a consolation prize.

 

You were in the process of lathering shampoo into your hair when you heard the detective knock on his door. He wasn’t gentle like you were, and the abrupt thuds on the door startled you. Stepping out of the water, you asked him what the matter was.

 

“Nothing’s wrong. Uhh, can we talk? After you’re done showering?”

 

An odd request, especially at this hour. You couldn’t really predict what Harry wanted, given how much of an enigma he is. Still, you knew that if you refused, you would just get paranoid thinking about what could be wrong. This grown man is going to run you ragged, put more gray hairs onto your head. 

 

“Yes, I’ll be done in around five minutes.”

 

You dried off abruptly, hair still wet by the time you pulled on your shirt. You didn’t bother shaving, you could do that in the morning. Now that you were warm and clean and just a bit damp, you felt ready to sleep. But you couldn’t do that yet. As soon as you knocked on the door to tell Harry that he could come in, he was already entering the bathroom. 

 

The two of you stood there for a few moments, and you suddenly felt very awkward. You cleared your throat, gesturing to the room behind you.

 

“Maybe we should have this talk in the bedroom.”

 

Wordlessly, Harry followed you. You chose to sit in the chair beside the desk, giving Harry the bed to sit on. The bed creaked as he sank his weight onto it. As he thought about what to say, you pulled your right leg across your left knee, resting a hand on your bare foot. 

 

The talk started off somewhat normal, with Harry talking about his complicated new feelings, and how he was scared of the world around him. This was reasonable, and despite the fact that he is a disaster incarnate, you found yourself empathetic to his words. You found yourself trusting him more.

 

You were up later than intended, talking about the events of the last three days. Everything changed when he cupped your cheek and, without elaboration, brushed his lips against yours. He still stunk from the week he had been having, and that sent a hot wave of blood to your ears.

 

After a moment, you returned the affection, giving him full tongue in his first kiss in his new life. You thought you could taste hints of alcohol in his saliva. You couldn’t tell which was worse: if he was drinking recently, or if the stench of alcohol was completely absorbed into his flesh. Earlier in the day, you explained to him that you didn’t have the anatomy that most other men have, and he seemed to internalize that okay. He didn’t seem bothered as he squeezed between your legs, feeling a patch of wetness instead of a noticeable erection. 

 

At some point, you pulled him out of the bed and onto the floor between your knees so he could suck your cock. His lips were surprisingly soft, forming a wet little seal around the throbbing piece of flesh in his mouth. He seemed a bit out-of-practice in regards to giving oral sex, which could be explained by him forgetting the previous forty-four years of his life. The only sounds in the room were your occasional hitched breathing and the wet noises coming from between your legs. 

 

You later had him sit in the chair so you could fuck him there. You crawled on top of him and fucked him raw, because what’s the point of using protection when you’re middle aged and haven’t had a period in years. He may have been out of shape, but he was packing a lot more than what you’re used to. Your entire lower body cramped when you were first trying to fit him in, and it took a few minutes for your muscles to finally relax around him. As you rode him, you grabbed his love handles to keep balanced. Occasionally, you could feel his wet kisses across your upper chest and shoulders, his saliva tainted with your own come. 

 

He tried to pull out, but he couldn’t lift you off fast enough before he finished inside you. That’s fine, you doubt that anything can come from this. At your age, the chances of becoming pregnant during a cycle are in the single digits. 

 

After briefly cleaning up, you crawled into bed, exhausted from the events of the day. You wondered if you would wake up the next day immediately regretting what you had done. But as your dick continued to burn and twitch against your hand, it didn’t feel all too bad now. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You groan as the doctor presses her fingers against your lower belly, getting a feeling of your internal organs. The blanket is pulled across your legs just below your hips, and your sweater is hiked up to expose your entire abdomen. Bandages are poking through the top, part of your bandaged chest exposed. There’s not any swelling in your stomach to look at now, but with your low body weight, you imagine that won’t last for long. 

 

“Have you had any bleeding or spotting?” The nurse asks, her Graad accent low and steady.

 

“No.”

 

“Any cramps or pains?”

 

“Aside from my injury, no.” Even weeks later, the injury still hurt very much. You’ve gone off painkillers ever since the pregnancy was detected, not wanting to hurt the little thing growing inside you.

 

“That’s good. Well, I think now is a good time to start an ultrasound so we can look at your baby.”

 

Outwardly, you know that you look calm and collected, like usual. On the inside, your heart is racing. Whatever it is you’re about to see, you’re not ready for it. 

 

An assistant rolls in a large device, which contains a small radio computer. The machine is large, nearly as large as the man rolling it in, and he has to angle it in awkwardly to get it through the door. As the assistant hooks up the machine, your doctor places a pillow beneath your back.

 

“Have you ever had an ultrasound before, Lieutenant?”

 

“No. This is my first time being… you know.” You don’t want to say it out loud, you don’t really want to acknowledge it in front of these people you just met.

 

“There are uses for ultrasounds aside from just monitoring a pregnancy. Today, what we’re going to do is squirt a bit of liquid on your belly and use this wand,” she points to the instrument in her hand “to look inside your uterus. We might even be able to hear a heartbeat.”

 

“Okay.” You can already feel yourself gripping the cushion beneath you. It’s subtle enough to where the doctor seems not to notice. If it weren’t for your wounded lung, you would be able to breathe more deeply to calm yourself.

 

Your skin tingles as the gel is applied, being wiped across your flat stomach by the assistant. Once your abdomen is thoroughly coated with the cold fluid, the doctor hovers over you with the ultrasound wand. She is surprisingly firm with the instrument, pressing it firmly into your abdomen.

 

Part of you is not expecting anything good to come out of this. After the hell your body has gone through in the past month, you can’t imagine that an embryo would be able to survive inside of you.

 

The room is dark, so the only thing illuminating the doctor’s face is the yellow light from the computer and the blue glow from the attached screen, the two sources intermingling to form a pale green. Both the doctor and the assistant stare at the screen intently as she drags the wand across your lower stomach, just barely above the sheet covering your lap.

 

Your heart is racing, and sweat is starting to suffocate your wound. It’s taking every bit of composure you have not to break out into a coughing fit. The fabric of your gloves is the only thing stopping you from digging your nails into the table.

 

For a few moments, your doctor is as stoic as you are, her wrinkled face too concentrated to show her emotions. When she turns from the computer to face you, you can feel your heart skip a beat.

 

“Everything looks good so far, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. You’ve got yourself a healthy eight-week embryo.” She gives you a small smile.

 

A shaky breath emerges from your lungs, the left side of your body cramping as you exhale. You were not expecting to feel as relieved as you do now.

 

“…Good. I’m glad everything is okay with it.” You say tightly.

 

“Would you like to see it?”

 

For a second, you freeze. Do you want to see it? The idea of seeing what’s growing inside you makes you vaguely nauseous. But at the same time, it feels wrong to refuse.

 

“Yes.”

 

You hoist yourself up on your elbows as the doctor repositions the screen, which is attached to a hinge that allows it to rotate around the device. She initially brings it too close, so you have to remind her to keep it at a far enough distance so you can actually see what’s happening. Even then, it’s difficult to tell what you’re looking at. Everything sort of looks like a blue mass of static in a black pocket.

 

The doctor can tell that you’re confused from your narrowed eyes, so she points to the screen. “If you look over here, that’s the head, the forehead sort of juts out a bit. And this is the body. The limbs are just starting to grow. It… doesn’t look much like a person yet. It won’t start looking like a baby for a few months longer.”

 

You slowly nod, eyes not leaving the screen. You’re staring at it so intently that your eyes are watering. “I can kind of see it.” It’s difficult for you to comprehend that this creature on the screen is actually growing inside of you.

 

“Yes, it’s magnified quite a lot. The embryo itself is very small right now, no bigger than your fingernail.” 

 

She says a few other things, but you’ve mostly tuned her out. It’s taking a lot of your mental space just to try and make sense of what’s happening to you.

 

“Lieutenant, I am going to unmute the computer so we can listen to your baby’s heartbeat. Is that okay?”

 

You nod, your thoughts too suffocated to really allow for any other response.

 

She flips a switch on the computer, and a periodic noise emanates from the device. Despite the staticky quality of the sound, it’s oddly organic. This situation is very familiar to you. Just weeks ago, you had been constantly hooked up to a heart monitor, and now you’re listening to the heartbeat of an impossibly tiny creature inside you.

 

“You’re lucky. Usually, it’s difficult to get a heartbeat this early, but your embryo must be in a good position. It’s got a fast and strong heartbeat.”

 

“I’m relieved to hear.” Your words are hardly above a whisper. You shut your eyes as you continue listening to the heartbeat. Despite the circumstances, it’s an oddly soothing noise. For a while, you just lay back and wait for the doctor to finish scanning your belly.

 

“Lieutenant, would you like me to print a photo of the scan?”

 

Your eyes crack open, readjusting to the subtle lighting of the room. The entire situation has left you both uneasy and a bit numb, and you have to think for a moment before making your decision.

 

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

 

As the photo prints, the doctor offers you a paper towel to clean yourself off with. You sit up as you wipe the gel off your belly, being gentle with your movements. Realistically, you know that you aren’t going to hurt it, especially with the firmness the doctor was just using. But it still feels so volatile, as if you could lose it with just one wrong move.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, is the father in the picture?”

 

Your stomach twists in dread. You do not want to tell Harry about this.

 

“No, he doesn’t know yet. Things are… complicated between us.” This is a lie, it’s kind of hard for things to be complicated when you’ve only known each other for a bit over a month.

 

The doctor looks over a clipboard, full of papers detailing you. “Your body is in a delicate state, considering both your age and your recent injury. It’s definitely not unheard of for people to become pregnant after forty, I’ve treated multiple geriatric patients in my career. However, if you decide to go through with the pregnancy, we’ll have to be very careful.”

 

You feel agitated by the use of the word “we.” As if the moment you became pregnant, you lost some of your bodily autonomy. As if your decisions are no longer your own.

 

The cutoff for terminating a pregnancy in Revachol is fourteen weeks. You would be in the right mind to do so. Considering everything going on with your body right now, there’s non telling the complications that could eventually arise. You could potentially lose your life from this.

 

But the idea of losing the embryo is crushing. As much as you hate to admit it, you’ve already become attached.

 

“I have decided to go through with this. As for what happens afterwards, I’ll have to decide that before the delivery.” If the pregnancy even results in a delivery, you don’t add.

 

The doctor nods, placing a hand on your shoulder in a move that you have to fight the urge to shove off. “In that case, I suggest you notify your precinct of the pregnancy. Normally, I would suggest a follow up appointment in four weeks, but I would rather we do it in two weeks.”

 

For the rest of the appointment, the doctor asks you about your diet, particularly in regards to your morning sickness. You have lost weight since arriving at the hospital, and this worries her. Along with recommendations on foods that will be easy on your stomach, she gives you prenatal vitamins.

 

You don’t really pay attention to what she says. You’re too preoccupied with the blurry photo in your hands. It wasn’t this blurry before.

Notes:

The beginning of this fic is still Kim-heavy, there will be Harry POV soon.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Summary:

As Kim returns to the hospital, Harry and Jean investigate a suburban death.

Notes:

Finally some Harry POV

Warnings in this chapter for mentions of suicide, drug overdose, domestic abuse, and descriptions of a corpse.

You’re cleared to return from the hospital a week after the ultrasound. They send you out with a goody-bag of wound care products and prenatal vitamins. This return to home is conflicting. On one hand, it will be nice to be inside your own home again, away from the constant chaos and noise of the infirmary. On the other hand, you’re not sure how you’re going to take being alone right now.

 

Although, you guess you aren’t really alone.

 

Luckily, you don’t have any luggage to take home. The moment you stumble out of the Kineema, muscles violently contracting in pain, you realize that you probably wouldn’t be able to haul anything other than your body up to your apartment. It takes a bit under ten minutes to drag yourself up the stairs. You are wheezing so heavily that it sounds like a leaking water bottle has been shoved into your chest cavity. The precinct offered you to have the escort of another officer to help you come home, which you probably should have accepted. But you didn’t want that, didn’t want to be treated like a child. When you called Alice earlier today, she seemed unaware of the true nature of your condition. That’s good, you’ll have a bit more time to straighten out your thoughts.

 

Once you reach the top of the stairs, you nearly collapse against the railing. Your head spins as you grab onto the chill surface for dear life, on the verge of passing out. You hope nobody else can see you like this, or they’d surely call an ambulance. Briefly, a wave of nausea passes over you, but nothing comes of it. That may be because you’ve already vomited twice today. Eventually, you manage to stand up slowly enough to prevent your vision from going dark. You don’t have to walk much further to finally reach your apartment door, and the solace within.

 

As soon as you reach the old, stitched-up couch, you collapse in it, too exhausted to think about going any further. You don’t know if it’s your wound, or if the embryo itself is sucking the life out of you. Maybe you’re just too fucking old for all of this. 

 

On the bright side, you already feel a bit better. The apartment is typically as sterile as the infirmary, but your absence has resulted in a thin layer of dust coating the room’s surfaces. Whatever, that gives you something to do when you don’t feel like you’re on the verge of death. Languidly, you wonder if any of your herb plants have survived the past two months. They’re hardy enough to remain outside during the winter, but they haven’t had a regular watering routine lately. Your model cars and planes will probably need some maintenance, just enough cleaning to remove any dust or cobwebs.

 

After having a few minutes to gather your bearings, you slowly shift your body into a lying position, pulling out your notebook from your black bomber jacket. The blue notebook was unfortunately saturated with blood beyond recovery, so you had to replace it with a new green one. Flipping through the few pages you’ve written in, you come to your task list for today.

 

Call precinct

 

Take vitamins

 

Check out of hospital

 

Call Harry after arriving home

 

Try to eat

 

You groan, massaging the bridge of your nose with your gloved fingers. As much as he needs to know, you haven’t been able to talk to Harry since you found out. He’s certainly wisened up to the fact that you’re avoiding him, and you know that he’ll want to open you up as soon as he’s within your vicinity.

 

You’re nine weeks along. You imagine that you’ll start showing within a week or so. Once you do start showing, you’ll grow fast. As much as you dread having to tell Harry, you’d rather him know before everyone else in your precinct. It would be fucking bad if someone else told him.

 

But the idea of calling him takes the wind out of your battered lungs. What are you supposed to do, pick up the phone and say “Hi Harry, I’m out of the hospital now. Also, I’m pregnant.” No, you can’t do that. You need to tell him in person.

 

How will he react, though? You trust that he would never intentionally do anything to hurt you, he has a gentleness that betrays his rugged appearance, but he’s in a world of shit that you cannot even imagine being in. He’s practically only existed for around two months, and now you have to spring this on him.

 

Harry has the right to know, but you can’t do it now. You just have to wait a bit longer, then you can tell him. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

When you wake up a few hours later, you feel like you got hit by a motor carriage, being pummeled full-force through the ice into the sea. A hiss exits your mouth as you clutch at your throbbing brain. This is one of your bad headaches, the ones that make you consider the merit of self-trepanation. You must look so feeble right now, curled into yourself more tightly than the actual embryo inside you. By the time your body has decided to have some mercy on you, the sun is already beginning its dive beneath the Pale. 

 

God, the Pale. If this kid makes it out of you, they’ll probably have to deal with that some day. Or their children will, or their grandchildren. 

 

Trying to force that thought out of your mind, you manage to stand up. You’ve decided not to call Harry today, but you still need to eat. If not for you, then for the little being in your stomach that you would rather keep alive. Before going to the kitchen, you decide to crack open your window, suddenly feeling miserably warm. The chill spring air is hardly a relief, it’s not fresh enough to actually feel good.

 

The cupboards in your apartment are mostly stocked with canned foods and other dry goods that you can eat if you don’t have enough time to cook, which is a very common occurrence. For a few minutes, you peruse the selection, trying to find something easy on your stomach. Rice, vegetables, oats, maybe some broth. 

 

One moment, you’re trying to decide if your stomach can handle canned vegetable soup right now.

 

The next, you’re back in Martinaise. In front of the Whirling.

 

You can feel the piercing gazes of three blood-thirsty mercenaries, can see the hatred in their eyes. Your head rings as Harry fires the first shot, Kortanaer’s blood spraying out of the wound on his cheek. Despite the freezing weather, you don’t feel anything on your skin, not even the nylon of your jacket. All you know is that if you don’t do anything right now, everyone will die.

 

Your lips feel numb as they mutter a gentle prayer to God, and you expect your shot to miss embarrassingly. It doesn’t feel real when the blood is violently ejected from the mercenary’s face, the blood is so obscenely red that it feels like a cartoon. You hear the bullet meant for you strike Glen, his screams your last ever memory of him. What fucking good you were as an officer.

 

You remember the despair at seeing Harry collapse beside you, the Deja vu. The panic when you felt his blood flowing through your fingers and it just wouldn’t stop and he was dying and you fucked up again and now you’ve lost two partners because you’re a failure.

 

And how he tried to warn you, he tried to say something, but you were too stupid to remember that woman behind you. You can still hear the vitriol in her voice, in her breath, and now she is shooting you and you are going to die. The blood is flowing in both directions, the bullet wound the crossroads for your demise. It’s so cold, you’re freezing, you can’t get any warmth and your veins are shrinking from the blood loss, your blood pressure dropping as you grow wet and sticky with your own lifeforce-

 

When you finally come back to reality, you’re crouched on the ground, hugging your knees. Your heart beats so loudly in your skull that you can’t even hear yourself think, not that you really are able to think of anything right now. You think you’re retching, or sobbing. When you feel yourself gag on stomach acid as tears pour down your face, you realize that it’s both.

 

“Oh god… oh god, why… help…”

 

Your body shakes uncontrollably as you cough up rancid pockets of slime, feeling all too similar to the sangrine flooding your windpipe. Between each heave, you sob more, now reduced to a wet, tiny, pathetic little caricature of who you once were. 

 

Out of all your body parts, your back feels the dampest. You don’t know if it’s extra sweat or your own blood.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You’re probably lucky that the first case you had in your new life was the Hanged Man. Not because of the horrifying injuries that you and Kim sustained, but because it set the standard. It’s difficult to get much worse than a body a week into the decaying process.

 

Empathy - It’s unethical to compare the appeal of people’s corpses, those were living, breathing human beings with hopes and dreams.

 

But god, if it wasn’t a relief to walk onto the crime scene and not immediately feel like your stomach is going to turn itself inside out from the stench. 

 

The call came from a husband in a Jamrock suburb. He arrived home from work in the afternoon to find his wife in their bathroom, unresponsive. They had two children, both of which were apparently asleep during the incident. The wife had a history of drug abuse and had been in rehab for a few months. She was declared dead at the scene by first responders.

 

As Jean drives towards the house, you notice the abrupt change in scenery. Namely, the shift from rotting, barely-functioning apartments to upscale homes with perfect lawns and vibrant paint jobs. 

 

Inland Empire - They don’t even try to hide it, do they? The pedestal they sit upon to gawk at the ants below them. 

 

Jean is apparently hyper-aware of the way you’re staring out at the surrounding buildings. “Look, considering how you are now, I know that you probably think that this is some ‘petit bourgeois’ neighborhood or whatever. Don’t go on a fucking tangent in front of the husband, now’s not the time.”

 

He knows you well. The new you, at least. You’re not sure what political ideology you had before, but your shift to being a leftist has baffled him. It doesn’t matter, though. Your time will soon come, you and Jean have both been planning so with Pryce. 

 

You stretch in your seat, feeling the way the position tugs at your shoulder wound. As much as you have healed in the past two months, you still have a bit longer to go before your flesh stops being so tender.

 

“Sure, can I do it in front of the kids, though? Gotta keep the movement fresh.”

 

“If you do that I will literally never forgive you.”

 

“I doubt you’ve ever forgiven me.”

 

“Easy for you to say when you don’t remember a damn thing that we’ve gone through.” Jean mutters, rubbing a thumb against the dimpled skin of his cheek while stopping to check for perpendicular traffic.

 

The caller’s house is located at the end of a cul-de-sac, a pristine house with shimmering walls and decorated hedges dotting the front yard. There’s no shortage of room to park, so it doesn’t take long for the two of you to exit the vehicle and make your way to the front of the house.

 

A young man who you assume to be the caller is sitting on the porch, glancing down at his lap. As you approach, you see how his eyes have gone dull, unable to focus on anything. The little dashes of light present in most peoples’ expressions have vanished. This is not the face of a man who only lost someone. No, this man has come across the broken remains of a person he loved.

 

Shivers - Across the street from an ancient video store, an apartment room is being renovated. Stains are being removed, windows replaced, drywall filled in. A corpse still remains. Multiple corpses, actually. This apartment has been filled with the ghosts of one man, each hollow specter more rotten than the last. A woman has witnessed multiple of these deaths firsthand, the others she’s had to clean up. 

 

He doesn’t notice you until you’re right in front of him. The man pulls his head up, stares blankly at you for a pause, then slowly gets up. 

 

“Hello.” You start. “I am Lieutenant Harry Du Bois of Precinct 41.” You flip out your badge as evidence of your identity, although it still feels like you’re proving it to yourself as much as you’re proving it to others. 

 

“Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare.” Jean steps forward, repeating a similar motion. 

 

The man in front of you doesn’t stretch out his hand in greeting. You don’t, either, this doesn’t feel like the right circumstance to do so. The widower stands there for a moment, seemingly unable to say a word. Eventually, he blinks, shakes his head, and steps forward.

 

“I’m the husband of the… of the woman. The woman you came for.” Another pause. “She’s still there.”

 

“Still where you found her?” You ask.

 

“Yes. The paramedics moved her around a bit, but…” the man’s voice is hitched violently in his throat, unable to let out another word.

 

Empathy - For as long as he’ll live, he’ll never get the images of what happened out of his head. 

 

As fresh tears emerge from the man’s eyes, Jean leads him to sit back down. He doesn’t have a handkerchief to give him. And neither do you. 

 

You wait for the man to calm down a bit before moving on to the next question. “Your children don’t appear to be on the premises. Do you know where they are?”

 

“Yes. They’re with their grandmother, my mother. She picked them up shortly before you arrived.” The man’s voice comes out uneven and hollow.

 

Pain Threshold - The same way Kim talks with his punctured lung.

 

“Is there anyone else in the home right now?” Jean asks, crouched beside the widower.

 

“No, it’s just me. The only ones who lived here were us and the kids. I’m just here so I can answer questions. I… I don’t think I’ll be able to go inside, you’ll have to find your way around with the instructions I give you.”

 

Finding the master bedroom is easy enough, considering the fact that it’s located at the top of a grand staircase. The house is well-lit, if a bit drab in the sterility of its interior. Its garish looks betray the horrible secret hiding within.

 

The corpse lays next to the bathtub, having been removed hours prior by paramedics attempting CPR. The woman is not yet in active decay, but from the twisted position of her joints you can tell that rigor mortis has begun. She’s wearing a white nightgown, which is stained with pale vomit. Her mouth is coated in thick liquid, which makes you think she was foaming through her lips before she died.

 

Suggestion - There’s no water in the bathtub, and she’s still fully clothed. This woman was not here to take a bath. She intentionally overdosed here so that her waste would be easier to clean up.

 

You try to imagine her final moments. From the way her arms and neck are bent, you can see that she spent her last moments hanging over the side of the tub. Her fingernails are bloody and jagged, which you imagine to be a result of clawing at the porcelain in a desperate bid for life. When the paramedics reached her, they would have immediately known that she was dead from her stiff body. This woman has been dead for hours, much longer than before she presumably would have put the kids to bed.

 

Looks like you’ll need another talk with the widower.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

The widower wasn’t being completely honest. He left out the detail that there had been a domestic violence dispute that morning. One that the children had witnessed. According to him, his wife had been the one to hit first. Without any other testimony, it’s impossible to know how true that is.

 

The kids had been at their grandmothers’ since before noon. Their mother took her own life hours before the widower arrived from running some errands. That was the new story he gave, at least. Now, you have enough suspicion to go off of to justify a field autopsy.

 

Jean watches from beside as you place your gloved hand on the woman’s chest, feeling the stiffness of her body even through the rubber. Since the Hanged Man case, you have gotten into the habit of doing this, giving the deceased their last rites before their autopsy. After a few seconds, you pull back, and begin to search her clothes.

 

White silk nightgown, designer brand. Same with her undergarments. There are a few blood stains on the sleeve of her nightgown, and the front of it is spattered in a mixture of vomit and what you believe is either tears or saliva. 

 

The woman is twenty-eight years old. One-hundred and sixty-eight centimeters tall. Covered in dark body hair, as opposed to her pale head of hair. Lividity has already set in, although not yet pronounced. It is consistent with the position she would have had in the bathtub. As you noticed before, her fingernails are shattered and coated in dried blood.

 

The woman’s body is covered in light bruises, ranging in shades from light green to dark mulberry. The worst bruises are on her neck and chest. You search throughout her body for any other injuries, any other signs of struggle, but everything is consistent with what her husband said. This was a domestic abuse case that ended in an intentional drug overdose.

 

You turn your head over your shoulder to look at Jean. “We should take him in. We have enough evidence of domestic abuse occurring in the household.”

 

Jean narrows his eyes. “Yes, that’s what it looks like. We should probably collect more testimonies from the other family members first before we do so.”

 

“I get that, I just don’t want the kids going back to him if he’s an abuser. If this is how things ended with his wife-“ You gesture to the corpse beside you “I don’t want the same happening to his kids.”

 

With the autopsy complete, you and Jean seal the woman inside of the body bag. Despite your suspicions about the husband, you decide that it’s for the best that Jean goes out and warns him that you are about to bring his wife’s corpse out of the home.

 

As soon as Jean leaves you alone in the bathroom, your vision shifts, like images in a film roll.

 

Esprit De Corps - Thirty kilometers to the northeast, Lieutenant Kim “Pinball” Kitsuragi is collapsed on the floor of his apartment. He is trying valiantly to breath as he coughs out mouthfuls of vile slime, his lungs unable to fill completely. He’s trembling like a leaf, a small red spot has formed on his white tank top. 

 

The image is so vibrant in your head, you know it’s real. You know that you can see him in his apartment right now, suffering. Kim is in trouble.

 

Before you know it, you’re rushing out of the bathroom, bumping into a startled Jean as you rush out to find a phone. 

 

“Harry, what the hell are you doing?”

 

“I need to call someone immediately. Is there a phone nearby?”

 

“What- who do you have to call? Can this not wait?”

 

“It can’t, Kim’s in trouble.”

 

“Kim?” Jean spits out, flabbergasted. “How is he in trouble? Didn’t he just get released from the hospital? How do you even know this?”

 

You pay him no mind, running out onto the balcony and finding the husband.

 

“Where’s the phone?”

 

“What?” The young man looks up from his lap, eyes more bloodshot than they were before the confession.

 

“Your phone, where is it?”

 

“Uhh, it’s in the kitchen, below the bedroom. Why do you-“

 

He hasn’t even finished his sentence by the time you’re hurrying back into the house, running past Jean again. Your crocodile shoes squeak against the floor as you skid to a halt beside the phone. 

 

Interfacing - It takes you three attempts to dial in Kim’s number, your hands shaking like crazy, somehow shaking more than he was.

 

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. The anticipation grows with each ring that is not picked up, and by the time the phone rings for the eighth time you’re ready to jump into the car and drive over to Kim’s apartment. That is, if you even had his address.

 

He picks up on the ninth ring. It startles you a bit, hearing nothing but his shallow breathing on the other side. 

 

“Kim, are you okay?”

 

“…Harry?” 

 

“Yes, Yes, it’s me. Harry. Are you okay?”

 

He’s gasping for air, and you think he’s on the verge of another coughing fit. With how long it’s taking for him to respond, you wonder if he can even really talk right now.

 

“Yes. I’m fine, Harry.” 

 

Inland Empire - He’s not fine, he sounds panicked. You should pry into this, but gently. 

 

“Did you make it back from the hospital okay?”

 

“Yes.” He swallows hard, a lump audibly forming in his throat.

 

“Good. You haven’t been talking to me in a while, man. Are you sure nothing happened?” Dumb question, you immediately realize. The fuck you mean are you sure nothing happened? What kind of question is that?

 

“ Yes, I’m quite sure nothing happened.” He wheezes out. “Just leave it, Harry.”

 

Before you can even begin to digest what just happened, Kim has hung up on you, leaving you alone with just the sound of static.

 

You don’t even know what to make of this. For the first few weeks of his recovery, things had been going fine. Kim seemed to be in good spirits during your visits to the hospital, despite the obvious pain he was in. No matter how uncomfortable he was, no matter the vigor of his rehabilitation, his mood brightened whenever you walked through his doors.

 

Drama - He might regret that the two of you had sex. After all, you only knew each other for three days when you did it. 

 

Logic - If he regretted it, wouldn’t it be a gradual process? You would be able to see him become more uncomfortable as time went by, he wouldn’t just suddenly decide that he hates you.

 

Oh god, did you say something stupid the last time you saw him? Shutting your eyes, you think back on your last visit. He smiled at you when you walked in, that small, private smile that he likes to keep in short supply. If he was mad at you then, he wouldn’t have smiled at you. You even brought him a container of those caramel candies he pretends not to like, a welcome break from hospital food.

 

Did you say something stupid to him? All you really talked about was how things have been going since the Hanged Man wrapped up, how Cuno was adjusting to the RCM, the interviews about the Phasmid. He told you about how much better he felt, and how he would like you to join him with working on his Kineema once he left the hospital. 

 

Kim may be reserved with his emotions, but you knew he was happy. Whatever happened, happened after the visit. Thoughts flitter through your head at what misfortunate may have befallen Kim: permanent disability from his wounds, a hate crime, a falling out, a demotion…

 

New task: Find out what is wrong with Kim.

Notes:

Still trying to get into the DE style of writing.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Summary:

Kim and Harry both meet up with old friends.

Notes:

Warning for more mentions of suicide, specifically regarding children.

You didn’t even need to call Harry; he called you. All you had to do was just say something, tell him that something was wrong, that there was an issue you needed to discuss. And now you’ve blown it. It’s unbearable how pissed you are at yourself.

 

The wound continued bleeding lightly for the rest of the night, and you decided the next morning that you should return to the infirmary to get it checked out again. It’s unlikely that you’ll need more stitches, but now is not the time for you to get an infection. In fact, you don’t think there is a right time to get an infection, but especially not now. 

 

It’s early May, so the temperatures have risen to a pleasant lukewarm. At least, it would be pleasant if you didn’t have a tight, pulsating hole in your chest. Your body feels flushed and overheated, and you fear that you may have developed another fever. With all the shit your body is going through, you don’t expect this kid to make it out alive.

 

And if they somehow do pull through, what then? 

 

You’ll have a baby on your hands, and there’s no guarantee that Harry will be in the picture. Revachol is not a suitable place to be a single parent, and you’re one of the least qualified people you know to raise a child. But you don’t know how many people are looking to adopt right now, especially with the way the world is right now. You don’t want this kid to float around in the foster system for years like you did, you want to be sure that they have a loving, stable home. And there’s no guarantee that the family they end up with will treat them well. Hell, there’s no guarantee that you will treat them well. 

 

Eventually, this kid will grow up. If they do stay with you, how will you cope when they eventually turn into a teenager? Just thinking about your time as a juvenile crime officer causes a bitter taste to claw at your throat. 

 

The first fatality you saw was only six months in. A fourteen-year-old boy was brought in after an attempted robbery. His gun had been confiscated, but he hadn’t been checked thoroughly enough for other weapons before being put into a holding cell. You tried to stop the bleeding when you entered the room. It was no use, the wound was too deep. You’ll never forget the way his mother screamed when you told her the news. 

 

Then there were the numerous drug-related cases you had to deal with. The primary culprit was amphetamines, but opioids and heavy alcohol use were not uncommon. One kid was brought in after killing four people in a head-on collision. You don’t know how she has dealt with that guilt, if she’s even still alive. 

 

You saw more than a few children who had killed a parent. Those weren’t even the worst cases you worked on.

 

Instinctively, you want to curl your arms around your abdomen and turn away from the world, but both your hands are too preoccupied with driving. You’re left with your own thoughts during the short drive, not even the wind in your hair and the background noise of Speedfreaks FM doing much to distract you from the baneful prison of your mind.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

The damage to your wound was superficial, just a minor tear to the scabbing tissue. It doesn’t take long for it to be cleaned up and redressed, and you’re told to wait in the infirmary before the doctor can clear you to leave. You lay waiting on bed, not even covered by the sheets, and you can feel yourself dozing off. There’s no helping it, it just feels so nice to have clean, dry bandages on, and you’ve been drowsy these days.

 

You jolt when you hear a woman call your voice. Within a second, you have sat up in bed and retrieved your glasses from the nightstand, ready to face whoever is here. With your glasses now on, you can more clearly see the young redhead in front of your bed. Despite everything, your lips barely form a smile.

 

“Hello, Alice. It’s nice to see you.”

 

“Nice to see me?” She scoffs, taking a seat on the side of your bed. “Is that so? I find that hard to believe when you haven’t talked to me in weeks. In fact, I think you’ve hardly talked to anyone.” Her weight has shifted the distribution of the mattress, and it feels as if she has become the center of gravity in the room.

 

So this is the conversation you’ll be having. That’s nice, definitely what you need right now. Your smile fades. It takes all you have to fight the urge to fidget with your gloves. 

 

“Of course it’s nice to see you. You should know by now that my absence is not personal. Besides, I have talked to you. I called you yesterday morning before I left the hospital.”

 

“That doesn’t count. You know it’s different when you’re calling me for work reasons.” She brings a leg up on the bed so she can cross her feet beneath her. Her eyes scan you over as she taps on her knee. “Is your injury healing alright?”

 

“Yes, the injury is healing as expected. If all goes well, I should be back on field work within a month.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“Last night, I tore my stitches slightly. It’s nothing serious, it just needed to be cleaned.”

 

Hearing this, she lets out an exasperated groan. “Kim, why didn’t you take the escort? They would have helped you bring everything in.” Everyone else at the precinct has to call you Lieutenant, but you are fine with Alice being casual as long as you two aren’t on the job.

 

In response, you lean back and cross your arms, eyebrow muscles tensing in preparation. As much as you appreciate Alice as a friend, you are not going to let someone over ten years your junior lecture you like this.

 

“This was not something an escort could have prevented.” You consider your next words carefully, not wanting her to know too much. “I leaned down too far on the ground and tore my injury open. I should have listened to the pain my body was in, and I won’t make that mistake again.” You’re technically telling the truth, all that’s missing is the detail of having a flashback to Martinaise.

 

This explanation is hardly satisfactory to Alice, but she pulls back from you just enough so you have more breathing room. Which is good, but you’d also like your broken ribs to give you even more space to breathe.

 

“Khm… okay. You might just need someone to look after you once you’re out of the hospital, at least for a few days.”

 

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, but thank you.”

 

“But if you go home by yourself, you might just open your injury again.”

 

“I’ve demonstrated today that I’m perfectly capable of driving myself to the hospital. You don’t need to fuss over me like-” Like I’m pregnant “-like I’m sick, I have recovered enough to take care of myself.”

 

“Can you even pick anything up off the ground without ripping your back open?”

 

Part of you wants to tell her that in a few months’ time, you probably won’t be able to pick things up off the ground for an entirely different reason. 

 

“I don’t have a lot of things lying around the floor in my apartment. I should be fine.”

 

“Kim, that’s not, that’s not what I’m- ugh, you’re doing that thing again!” Alice has now cupped half her face in her hand.

 

“What thing?” You ask defensively. 

 

“The thing where you take everything everyone says to you literally. Look, it doesn’t matter what you do and don’t have on the ground, it matters that you can hardly move right now. Don’t think I can’t see how exhausted you look, I can probably count how many times you’ve blinked on one hand.”

 

Hearing this, you reflexively close your eyes. You can feel your eyelids rub against the dry, rubbery surface of your cornea. You’re not going to say it, but she’s right about one thing.

 

“Kim, I don’t think-“ She cranes her head to look over both her shoulders, seeing the occasional nurse make rounds through the room “-I don’t think this is a really good place to talk. Maybe you can come over to my place tonight? I don’t think I have much to eat right now, but I can find something. Or maybe we can get takeout, if you feel like it.”

 

You keep your eyes closed. “I’m forty-three years old, I’m a few decades too old for a sleepover.”

 

“I never said anything about a sleepover , I just want to check in with you. It can be like the old times.”

 

You lift up a finger to her lips in a shushing motion. Nobody in this hospital can know about the old times. After a few moments of staring at each other, you sigh.

 

“Fine. After I’m cleared from the infirmary, I’ll meet you at your apartment.”

 

Realistically, you don’t know how much you’re going to tell her. But seeing that you can’t talk to much of anyone about your ordeal, it might help to have company from someone who has a few degrees of separation from this situation.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Despite the age difference, you and Alice have a lot of similar interests. Alice has her own collection of car models, although hers are very different from yours. The models she has on her shelves are from a comic series about human-car hybrids. You have been sworn to utmost secrecy to not let a single soul know about her collection. That’s probably what drew her to you, the fact that you won’t judge her for what she likes. Odds are, you are the least judgmental person in the 57th precinct.

 

On her way back from work, Alice had picked up Samaran takeout. That means she probably got plain rice or vegetables. Even on bad days, your stomach can handle both. Some of the fragrances from the takeout are a bit upsetting, though. Alice hands you a plate and fork while she removes the containers of food from the plastic bag.

 

There’s a decent selection of food, as far as two officers from the RCM are concerned. Meat, rice, vegetables, sauces, some soup, but most of it sounds terrible right now. As Alice prepares herself a heaping serving of steaming food, she does a double take when she sees the meager rations you are giving yourself.

 

“Why are you giving yourself so little? Are you not feeling well?”

 

“I’m fine, just a bit sore. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.” That’s half true. Or a third true. It has to be at least a quarter true. Unfortunately, lying by admission is still lying, according to RCM rules.

 

“I paid ten reál for this food.”

 

“You can have it as leftovers.”

 

“You’re acting strange. Isn’t your appetite supposed to increase while you’re healing?”

 

“It’s difficult to want to eat when I have a throbbing pain in my chest.” Another half truth, the wound isn’t hurting as bad as it was last night.

 

Alice lifts an eyebrow as she blows on a spoonful of soup. “Are they not giving you painkillers?”

 

“Yes, but they’re only so effective.” Full-on lie. You haven’t taken any in weeks. This time, it couldn’t be helped.

 

“They should up your dose, if you’re in so much pain that you can’t even eat. You’ve lost weight.” Alice adds the last part quietly, lowering her spoon without even taking a bite.

 

She’s right. You don’t even know your exact weight right now, but you’ve had to fasten your belt an extra notch.

 

“I know. Look-” You grab one of the spoons and add more vegetables to your plate “-I’ll eat more, if that makes you feel better.”

 

Your words seem to have gone unnoticed. She’s staring off in no particular direction. “When I saw you for the first time, after what happened… I thought you died. Your skin was so pale, and your eyes…” She trails off into incoherent noise, a visible shudder going through her body.

 

“It must have been difficult. I’m sorry you had to see that.” You place your hand on the back of hers, as if to keep it warm with the fabric of your glove.

 

For a few seconds, her gaze lay unfocused on the joining of your hands. Eventually, a small smile forms on her lips.

 

“Only you would apologize for getting injured.” She lets out a wistful chuckle.

 

“I just don’t want you worrying about me.”

 

Her smile fades. “It’s hard not to, though. Especially with how you’ve been acting.”

 

“I’ll talk to you more, I promise.”

 

“It’s not just that. You’ve just seemed off lately. It’s like you’re not even there half the time, and when you are there, you look so miserable.”

 

You clear your throat. It certainly can’t be that bad. While you haven’t been in the brightest of moods lately, you haven’t felt terrible. Well, not mentally: Your physical condition is a completely different story.

 

“I think I’ve just been tired due to the stress of healing. Everything should be as usual in a few months’ time.”

 

Alice meets your gaze. “And if things are not as usual, will you say something?”

 

You should say something now. Tell her how much pain you’re in, how awful the tribunal was, how you keep fucking up and having people die or get hurt. Talk to her about Eyes’ death, and how you can’t even think about him without wanting to vomit from despair. Confide in her about the bullshit you have to face every day because of your heritage, and how you’ll always be a second-class citizen in the eyes of the RCM. Just tell her that you’re fucking pregnant and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, and you don’t know how to tell the father or what to do next, and you’ve never been this terrified in your life.

 

You pat her heavily on the shoulder. “Yes, I will.”

 

For the entirety of the night, you manage to go without puking. In the morning, you retch some stomach acid into the toilet, but nothing substantial comes out. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Walking out of Pryce’s office, your mind lingers on two things: the best radio station to dial into tonight and the process of arming five police officers to the teeth with mercenary-grade weapons. The latter issue has been more complicated than initially planned; Pryce wanted there to be blood on the streets tomorrow. Well, at least you can still listen to some disco music while you finish up paperwork. 

 

You and Jean arrested the widower from yesterday, and most of your time since then has been spent collecting and organizing testimonies from the family members. Occasionally, you would turn to your side to make a remark to Kim, only to be met with Jean’s chronic frown. Apparently, you’ve known this man for years, but Kim was a constant for the honeymoon period of your new life. It’s not even that you dislike Jean, all things considered. It’s just that it’s all too much, all at once. 

 

Perception - Beneath the layer of noise from the whirring ceiling fan, someone is trying to stifle their breathing. An old pair of wool socks provides slight friction as a small figure lumbers behind you. 

 

Half Light - Duck, now!

 

Ducking was a bad idea, given that you are sitting down in a shitty old swivel chair. You can’t move out of the way enough to avoid Cuno vigorously squeezing his arms around your neck, and all you’re really succeeded in doing is nearly spraining a muscle. 

 

“Hah, got you that time! Cuno’s got the drop on anybody. Back where Cuno’s from, they call that shit ‘guerilla style’. If Cuno weren’t a kind soul, you’d be fuckin’ dead without even knowing what happened.”

 

After trying a few times to weakly pull Cuno’s arms off your neck, you grin. “That’s a cool technique you got there, kid. But I’d like to see you handle the ‘Du Bois’ style.”

 

Before Cuno can interject, you hook him around the shoulders with your right arm and pull him in front of you. You stand up behind him so you can keep him in a headlock with one arm while digging your knuckles through his hair with the other arm. Cuno’s noises of frustration are barely muffled by the sleeve of your jacket.

 

“Let the fuck go of the Cuno!”

 

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m not much of a kind soul.”

 

“Yeah, damn right you aren’t.”

 

“All I’m saying is that you might be a goner.”

 

You laugh as Cuno continues to squirm in your arms. Considering his size, he’s actually strong for his age, and he manages to put up a decent fight. Unfortunately for him, a twelve-year-old is no match for a former gym teacher in rehab.

 

Jean’s leather shoes plod against the ground as he approaches your desk. Looking at his face, he looks mildly irked, but not entirely at you.

 

Empathy - Is that a hint of fondness in his eyes? 

 

“Okay, break it up, you two. We don’t need one of you having a heart attack or snapping a vertebrae. Also, keep your mouth clean, Cuno.”

 

Cuno stumbles a bit as you release your grip on him. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep it clean. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Jean regards Cuno as you hand him the folder. “Kid, how’s junior officer training going?” He seems almost scared to ask.

 

“It’s going, all right. We haven’t been able to do any of the cool shit- the practical shi- uhh, the practical things like using a gun yet. Mostly just running around and weight training, and a bunch of legal things. Bunch of writing we have to do.”

 

Does Cuno know how to write? Revachol’s literacy rates are generally abysmal, especially in neighborhoods like Maritnaise. 

 

Logic - You’ve caught glimpses of his desk in the C-Wing before. Aside from the barely-hidden copies of books from the Man From Hjelmdall series, you’ve also seen the nearly illegible scribbles that he keeps in his notebook. He’s literate, although likely not the most profound author.

 

“I think the others have caught on to the fact that I’m younger. It’s either that, or they think I’m some sort of midget. Doesn’t matter,” Cuno leans into your ear, away from Jean “Cuno takes shits bigger than these kids.” You can hear the grin on his whisper.

 

You are sure that Jean could have easily heard what Cuno just said, but he pretends not to listen. “It will be a while before you get started on the ‘practical’ part of police work. But you seem to be enjoying yourself so far.”

 

Rhetoric - Beats standing around chucking rocks at a corpse while a demoness screeches in your ear. 

 

Ever since you wrecked your motor carriage, Jean has been in charge of driving both you and Cuno home from the precinct. Cuno currently lives in quarters provided by the RCM for junior trainees. It’s not necessarily good quartering: you swear that you have to go out once a week to help Cuno fix something in his dorm, but it’s better than Cuno’s former living situation with his father.

 

When the three of you leave the station, the sun has just begun to set. At this time of year, you’re in broad daylight until 8:00 PM, so you have more natural lighting to work with when out on the field. It’s pleasant, almost too pleasant for there to be bloodshed. As Cuno climbs into the back of the motor carriage, you wonder what you’ll do with him to keep him safe during Le Retour .

 

While Jean pulls out of the parking lot, your mind inevitably returns to Kim. Earlier today, you tried calling the 57th precinct’s lazareth, but he was unable to divulge any information aside from “Kim is alive.” Apparently, doctors abide by some sort of oath of secrecy.

 

If Kim found out what you were up to, he’d surely be cross with you. He’d shoot you silent commands with his eyebrows to mind your own business and stay out of his, to let him have his privacy. But god, it feels like every day he’s slipping further and further out of your hands. You don’t know what you’ll do if you lose him completely. 

 

When Le Retour begins, will Kim fight back? You know about his Moralist leanings, he might be wary of an uprising in his beloved city. But he doesn’t seem to have a strong attachment to any political party. He’s spent the past four decades drifting along in the ideological ocean that is Revachol, through fascism and advanced capitalism. You doubt that this is the one he’ll really fight back in.

 

Or maybe you don’t want to think that he would kill you.

 

Shivers - At an airport ten kilometers southeast of Martinaise, an Oranjese airship solemnly waits for the boarding of three corpses. The corpses have been stored in the 41st precinct’s processing unit for well over a month, and only now have Oranjese officials arrived to collect the remains. They are surprised that there’s not a fourth corpse. The fourth mercenary has long since fled the city, escaping the wrath of both the RCM and the Union.

 

One of the cadavers is vile, a horrific mass of black slime wrapped in green skin. This one had to be triple-bagged, and he’ll probably have a closed-casket funeral beside his brother, another one of the corpses.

 

The third corpse stands out. The wound that killed this one was not a bullet through the mouth or the cheek, but a perfect bullseye, a textbook shot made while the target was wearing a full suit of armor. As the officials examine the corpse, they have a difficult time imagining the incredible marksmanship of the officer who killed this man. 

 

Notes:

I like the idea of Kim and Alice being friends. Alice just joins the RCM one day and now her work best friend is a middle-aged dork who is obsessed with cars.

Writing this fanfic has made me think about what a Kim x Harry kid would look like, and I've made the harrowing realization that if they had a daughter, there's a good chance she would just look like Meg Griffin.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Summary:

Harry meets up with Kim to discuss the current status of Revachol.

Notes:

Warning in this chapter for brief mentions of transphobia, racism, and homophobia, along with graphic content. It might be safe to assume that every chapter of this fic will have some sort of graphic content.

“People your age pay a lot of money to get pregnant, you’re so lucky!”

 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit selfish? It’s more likely that the baby will have health issues.”

 

“Your biological clock nearly ran out, didn’t it?”

 

Those are the comments you expect from people when they find out you’re middle aged and pregnant.

 

“Why did you even get pregnant? Don’t you guys usually get that shit cut out?”

 

“Won’t your kid be confused? You know, since their dad is actually their mother?”

 

“Will your kid also be a transsexual?”

 

Those are the comments you expect when people find out you’re a pregnant man.

 

“Damn, another Seolite. This damn city’s being overrun.”

 

“I guess we’re going to have another monkey fucker running around soon.”

 

“This city’s about to become part of the Shao Empire. We’ll be speaking Seolite before we know it.”

 

Those are the comments you expect when people realize that you have Seol heritage and are pregnant. These words will be behind your back, of course.

 

It’ll be a few months before you’re showing enough to receive such comments. At least, you hope so. You might be able to play it off as just being fat for a while. Or a stomach tumor, a stomach tumor might make more sense in this case. Although, people usually don’t show up to an obstetrician for a stomach tumor.

 

The clinic that you chose is a general fertility-health provider. You chose this place so that when people see you in the waiting room alone, they’ll assume that you’re there for something like low sperm count or chronic erectile dysfunction (you might have to bring Harry here someday). This clinic is a bit far out, around forty-five minutes away on a good day, but it’s worth it for the small amount of anonymity surrounding your condition.

 

There are a few expecting women with you in the waiting room; none of them can be much more than half your age. Seeing the range of progress that they are into their pregnancies, you wonder how big you’ll be by the end of this. It seems heartless to hope for a small baby, but you don’t want to be carrying around an elephant fetus, either. 

 

You’re ten weeks along. Had you been younger, or not currently injured, you wouldn’t have had a follow up for another two weeks. But you guess that the doctors need to keep a close eye on both you and the embryo. Wait, is it still an embryo? You’re actually unsure of when it will be considered a fetus. 

 

“Kim Kitsuragi?”

 

Hearing your name, you immediately stand… before falling back down when the muscles in your back seize up. The room grows silent as the other patients turn to look at you, and you have to gather every bit of self control you have to not start panting. Your ears are red-hot as a young nurse runs toward you, placing a hand on your knee.

 

“I’m fine, don’t worry. It’s just some back pain.” You ignore the hand the nurse holds out, choosing to ever-so-slowly push yourself out of the chair. The young man eyes you down, clearly expecting you to fall over again. Flustered, you tilt your head towards the hallway, before making your way over. 

 

The nurse takes your vitals in a small, dark room. At 170 centimeters tall and fifty-five kilograms in weight, you’re at the lower end of ideal body mass. The nurse purses his lips when he sees that you have lost a few kilograms, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

“Do you know what I’m seeing, Lieutenant?” The woman has enough humor in her voice to let you know that nothing bad has shown up.

 

You narrow your eyes at the screen. “…An embryo, I guess.”

 

She nods. “To be precise, a healthy ten-weeker. I’m happy with the progress your baby is making. By next week, your odds of miscarrying will drop dramatically.”

 

That makes you feel a bit better. Despite everything, the little thing is still hanging in there.

 

“Now, I don’t mean to pry, but I would like to know about your work. Are you still on leave?”

 

“Yes. I am scheduled to return to work in the middle of June. It won’t be anything strenuous, just work around the precinct until I’m cleared to resume active duty.”

 

“And will you resume active duty before or after your baby is born?”

 

That wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. You furrow your eyebrows.

 

“I am capable of deciding when I work and what work I do. I hope that you trust me to do what is best for me and my child.” Just saying the words “my child” causes a shiver to go up your spine. 

 

“Does your precinct know that you’re pregnant?” The obstetrician doesn’t appear to be listening to you. 

 

“That’s not your business, madam.” You say tersely.

 

“As long as I am your obstetrician, the health of you and your baby is my business. I cannot tell you what you can and cannot do, all I ask is that you think about your decisions.”

 

Leaning back against the pillow, you sigh as you turn your head away from her. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.”

 

“Is this thinking of any value?” She lifts an eyebrow.

 

Oh. Oh no. She is not trying to beat you at your own game. You might be in her domain, but she’s picked a fight with a king.

 

Just like you’ve practiced so many times, you ever so slowly position your eyebrow into the right position. You’ve perfected this method, you might as well have patented it, no one can do it as well as you can.

 

The woman stares blankly at you for a moment, before shrugging. “Who am I to doubt your judgement, Lieutenant.” She seems more annoyed than anything, but you’re satisfied: this is a win in your book.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

“How about Kitsuragi?”

 

Just hearing that name nearly causes you to choke on your mouthful of coffee. The Lieutenant has consumed your thoughts for nearly your entire new life, so it’s strange for his existence to be mentioned in the tangible world. At times, it feels like he doesn’t even exist, like he was just the byproduct of your starved mind.

 

Composure - Look at the way Pryce is looking at you. You dumbass, why are you making that face just from hearing Kim’s name?

 

You force the coffee down your throat, groaning as it singes your esophagus. Pryce tilts his head slightly, cigarette smoke surrounding him like a mountain erect in the fog. 

 

“Do you have a problem with Lieutenant Kitsuragi?” Pryce asks. “You seemed to work well together in Martinaise.”

 

There are seven of you crammed into Pryce’s office: You, Pryce, Jean, Judit, Gottlieb, Mack, and Chester. The room is hotter than an engine bay and it stinks like the breath of a thoroughbred. There’s only so many men (and one woman) you can cram into a room before the musk and cigar stench becomes unbearable. 

 

It would have been nice to do this in a more spacious area, but your current discussion matter requires utmost privacy. So far, you’ve been conservative in how many officers you’re bringing into Le Retour. All it takes is for one of you to blab off to the wrong person, and then the entire thing’s ruined before it even begins.

 

You clear your throat. “We did work together well.” Exceptionally well, you don’t add, being aware of Jean’s presence in the room. “I just don’t think the guy’s really politically motivated. Besides, I think things turned out pretty shitty for him last time something like this went down. He said that his parents were killed.”

 

“Were his parents killed by the Coalition or the revolutionaries?” Gottlieb asks, wiping off his glasses with his shirt. “If they were killed by the Coalition, that might make a difference.”

 

Chester turns towards Gottlieb, arms still crossed behind his head. “No it wouldn’t. Either way, his parents were killed in the Revolution. If we go to him with this, he’ll just be thinking about all the people who will die.” 

 

“Maybe Dick Mullen here will be able to convince him.” Mack’s head is nearly crammed into your armpit as he hits you on the back. “Jean, remember when he told you that mayonnaise was a dairy product and you fucking believed him?”

 

You don’t remember this incident, but from the way Jean is scowling at Mack, he clearly does. “Shut the fuck up, Mack.”

 

Drama - Is mistaking mayonnaise for a dairy product really that big of a deal? Holy shit, this guy is a primma-donna. Unless you’re forgetting something. Yeah, you’re definitely forgetting something. For all you know, this could have been the most traumatic event of Jean’s life.

 

Pryce’s face lightens up; a gentle bloom of sunshine behind a cloud of smoke. “That might be worth trying. Kitsuragi would be a valuable asset, so I think it’s worth a discussion.”

 

“But isn’t he still recovering from his wounds?” Judit asks, squeezed between Jean and Chester. “If you want things to begin this month, then we might have to reconsider him.”

 

“With how things have been going lately, I doubt that we’ll be able to do it this month. We were too ambitious with our estimate.” Pryce responds, tapping his cigar over a steel ash tray. 

 

Judit frowns, somehow more unhappy with Pryce’s remark than the sardine can of men she’s been crammed into. “But if we take too long to do this, then they’ll catch onto us for sure. For all we know, they might already be suspicious.”

 

“I would rather we actually plan this out than just run in and get immediately obliterated.” Jean says while lighting his own cigarette. “There’s a good chance we’ll all come out of this as nothing more than a red smear on the ground.”

 

“Holy shit, man!” You exclaim, giving Jean a quick squeeze on the bicep. “Lighten the fuck up. It’s too early to be talking about ‘red smears on the ground.’”

 

When Jean grabs you by the wrist, you can barely see the vein pulsing under his temple, a small sheen of red on the canvas of his pale skin. “You’re the one I got that from, shitkid. It was from that case with the young couple found on the train tracks, you literally called that case ‘THE TWO RED SMEARS.’” 

 

“And what would you have named it?” You ask, pulling your hand from Jean’s grip. “Are you saying that you would have given it a completely wholesome and respectful name?”

 

“I wouldn’t need to name it. All cases are assigned a name.” 

 

“So you would have called it a bunch of gibberish? Or would you have given it an actual name like every other functional member of the RCM does?”

 

“Hey Mack, look, the two lovers are quarreling again.” Chester says, laughing softly. 

 

Suggestion - “Lovers” is his own way of saying “faggots.”

 

“Cut it out. All of you.” Pryce demands, picking up the ash tray to slam it back down on his desk. His eyes dart in your direction. “Harry, you should talk with Lieutenant Kitsuragi at least once. It doesn’t have to be that deep, just try to get an idea how he might feel about our project.”

 

Well, this sucks. 

 

No, it doesn’t just suck. This might be the worst possible situation you could have ended up in. You have been trying to talk to Kim for weeks now, and now you’re expected to talk to him just to enlist him in a dangerous act of rebellion? Oh god, he might hate you forever for doing this. 

 

But then you remember that night in the church, the sweet voice in your head, the way you felt the will of Rechachol herself in your lungs, your breaths the byproduct of the city’s will. Millions are relying on you to keep them alive from an unimaginable disaster. 

 

But does that justify bringing Kim into this? Taking advantage of his trust in you, his patience, his fondness?

 

———————————————————————————————————————

You might not be able to smoke anymore, or drink, or eat soft cheeses or rare meat, or get into a bath that’s too hot, or lift anything above a certain weight, or even return to your fucking job…

 

But you can still work on your car. This is one thing that you won’t let them take from you.

 

Of course, you’re taking some precautions. Aside from the thick gloves that you nearly always wear, you’ve also decided to use a facial covering to prevent the inhalation of any unwanted chemicals.

 

In the shared garages of your apartment complex, you get a lot of confused looks. You reckon it’s the bandages still covering your chest and shoulder; you look like you should be resting inside. Instead, you ignore the pain as you bend over the exposed wiring of the Kineema. 

 

There’s an odd twisting sensation in your chest; you would have liked for Harry to be present. Probably not having much of an active role, as you don’t really trust many other people to touch your car, but he could have made things more interesting. Playing music, bringing snacks, handing you tools…

 

Fucking you against the hood of the car.

 

When you rub your thighs against your cock, it’s not intentional. But you swear that your libido has doubled lately. Having your dick constantly throbbing would have been nice in other circumstances, but now it’s just a reminder of how much your hormones are changing. At the very least, working on your car with an erection makes things a bit more interesting.

 

Given the semi-public space that you’re in, you don’t have your radio tuned to Speedfreaks FM. It’s currently dialed into the local news station. After all, if you can’t work right now, you might as well try to stay in touch with what is happening in Revachol.

 

As you expected, things have gotten worse since the Hanged Man case. Tensions have been flaring between the city’s unions and indotribes, to the point where workers have begun investing in bulletproof vests beneath their clothes. The city is very much approaching a state of full-on civil war, you just don’t know if you’ll be in the line of active duty when it finally happens. 

 

Suddenly, the droning voice of the news broadcasters is replaced by the shrill alarm from the precinct. You blink a few times when you pull away from the Kineema’s hood, eyes sensitive to the midday sun, before dialing into the call.

 

“Hello, lieutenant.” Alice’s voice is friendly, but reserved.

 

“Good afternoon, Alice. Is there something you need?”

 

“I have been asked to connect you to precinct 41, there’s something Lieutenant Du Bois wants to discuss with you.”

 

“Du Bois?” It comes out as more of an unconscious mutter than an actual question. As you stand up off the ground, you can feel your heart rate pick up a notch. “Is this about the case in Martinaise?”

 

“I’m unsure, sorry. All I know is that the lieutenant is on the line.”

 

For a few moments, you stand waiting, pondering over what this could be about. You take so long to respond that Alice nearly chimes in to ask if you’re still present. 

 

“Okay, put him on.”

 

“Got it.” With that, Alice’s voice vanishes in a cloud of static, leaving you to wonder what Harry wants. You’re not left with your thoughts for long; Harry’s voice eventually takes over.

 

“Hi, Kim.”

 

Holy shit, the deja vu.

 

“Uhh, hello, Harry. What is it that you need?” 

 

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened last time I called you. I was being a dumbass, and I wasn’t really thinking clearly at the time.”

 

“Harry, I really don’t think that this is something you should use the RCM’s radio system for. You’ve wasted Alice’s time with this.”

 

Harry doesn’t say anything, but you can hear his breathing hitch. Okay, maybe that was a bit mean. You let out a long sigh.

 

“And don’t apologize for what happened. I was not feeling like myself the day that you called me, but it was rude of me to hang up so abruptly. It’s just that I…” I was physically unable to talk “I was afraid that I would say something obtuse.”

 

Harry lets out a stilted, awkward laugh. “After all the shit I’ve said around you, I don’t think you could have said anything that bad.” He clears his throat. “Are you still hurting?”

 

“Not too much anymore, I should be able to return to work in a bit over a month.”

 

“Yeah, about work… There's something we need to talk about soon. Like, something related to the RCM. Can you meet up anytime soon?”

 

“Yes, I can meet up, I don’t have anything going on until my wound heals. Is there anywhere in particular you want to meet up?” This might be it, the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. Your chance to tell him about the pregnancy. You can feel your heart in your throat. 

 

“We can just meet at a cafe or something.”

 

You nod, letting out an approving hum to notify Harry that you agree with his judgement. A cafe is a bit too public for the discussion you hope to have, but he might agree to come to your apartment afterwards.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

The Coupris Kineema is built to withstand a wide variety of terrain. Pavement, soil, gravel, snow, even sand. The versatility of the Kineema has allowed you to park on the beach, giving you the perfect view of the sunset. A gradient ranges from dark violet to vivid vermillion, then to tangerine, honey, and the lightest yellow. The ocean’s calm surface reflects the sunset so vibrantly that you can’t even see the oppressive frontier of the Pale.

 

It’s stunning, a view that would usually be obstructed by a crowd of people. In a morbid turn of events, the presence of a bloated corpse on the beach made this view off-limits to everyone except you and Eyes.

 

You had been doing the field autopsy, but this cadaver was a bit more gnarly than usual. Eyes suspects that he had been floating in the ocean for at least a week before the tide dragged him to shore. His mottled skin resembles the sunset, in a way, with the shades of purple and red. The man no longer has any eyelids: his pale eyes look as though they are filled with milk. Combined with the fact that he’s been simmering in the summer sun, you have something unpleasant enough to warrant a break from the autopsy.

 

Even at the distance you’ve put between the corpse and the Kineema, it stinks. During your time in the juvenile crime unit, you didn’t usually have to work with such advanced decay, especially not with a waterlogged corpse. Just another thing you’ll have to get used to with your new position.

 

Poor Eyes seems to be having an even more difficult time than you. From where he’s sitting in the back of the Kineema, legs dangling out of the door, you see how his lips are tightly pursed. He doesn’t have any facial hair to hide his expression, so he occasionally tries to disguise his nausea by coughing into his hand.

 

“Even by our standards, this is rough. I would not blame you for vomiting.” You say, turning your head around the seat. 

 

“And what about you, Kitsuragi? Are you going to join me?” Eyes manages to smile.

 

“No, I don’t intend on doing so.”

 

“Can you at least consider it? You know, so I don’t feel left out?”

 

You stroke your chin with your finger to simulate thought. “Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to see.”

 

As the stunning amber shades evaporate into a dark, dull blue, you curse out in despair. Fuck, it’s like you were there again, like he was there again. Whenever you see him in your dreams, you know deep down that it’s just a memory. But each time, you hope so dearly that it will last, that you won’t wake up alone.

 

By now, you’re used to dreaming about Eyes. You see him in your sleep at least a few times a month, although the content of the dreams differs. Tonight, you were sitting on the beach. Tomorrow, you might feel his body go cold once more.

 

As expected, your sheets are damp with sweat. But you can feel a spot on your pillowcase growing wetter, just below your cheek. Thinking about Eyes usually gives you a numbness comparable to morphine: it’s not often that it causes you to cry.

 

No one is around to see you, but you still cover your eyes with your hand as you quietly weep, your bed shaking from the force of your sobs. You can’t tell if it’s the hormonal changes, or if you’re just going through a really rough patch right now. But god, sometimes you wish you could just forget him. And for wanting to forget him, you feel remorse.  

 

Once you manage to collect yourself, you squint at the clock on your nightstand. 2:33 AM, you’re not supposed to meet up with Harry today until 8:00 AM. That gives you a few hours to try to sleep, or at least calm yourself down a bit.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

Like a metronome, Kim clicks his finger against the rim of his mug. With each tap, a concentric wave breaches the perimeter of his tea. This is new: in the short time you’ve known him, he’s always drunk coffee in your presence. 

 

Perception (Smell) - The tea he’s drinking is not caffeinated, but rather a citrus-flavored tea. It’s probably been seasoned with the rind of a lemon peel.

 

Electrochemistry - God, you thought this guy was square before, but now he’s stiffing out on caffeine? 

 

Encyclopedia - He might have chosen lemon tea due to its mild medicinal benefits. Along with being an excellent source of vitamin C and other antioxidants, lemon tea can also help with digestive issues such as nausea and indigestion.

 

Suggestion - Is Kim constipated?

 

“I just don’t want you thinking I’m angry, because I’m not.”

 

Kim’s words pull you from your thoughts. Your eyes dart up from your own coffee (generously lightened with cream and sugar) and into his dark eyes. He only meets your gaze for a brief second, before looking just past you.

 

Drama - He’s avoiding eye contact, but he doesn’t want to make it obvious.

 

You watch as Kim keeps opening his mouth, thinking for a second, then closing it again. He tries to say at least ten different sentences, but none of them quite convey what he wants you to know.

 

Drama - As the two of you sit in the shadow of a small cafe off the Esperance River, Kim looks as heartachingly cool as he did that first night on the balcony. His legs are crossed, and the thin fingers of his right hand are intertwined with the handle of his mug. The other hand is braced upon the lower curve of his cheek. The small amount of light that reaches Kim is casting shadows on his face that only make him look more handsome.

 

Composure - He holds himself with so much grace that you can hardly believe he’s a real, flesh-and-blood human being. Everything about him is just perfect; the angle of his leg, the spacing between his fingers, the gentle tilt of his head. Right now, Kim is the absolute definition of composure. We should take notes.

 

Just weeks ago, this man had sunk against your chest, eyes dull as his blood poured out of a near-fatal wound in his chest. You can hardly believe the recovery he has made in such a short time. There’s no way someone could go from a pale mass of skin to the pinnacle of equilibrium in the span of two months.

 

Empathy - You’re right. Something’s wrong. With him. His eyes are no longer glazed over, but life has yet to return to them. Even with the light bouncing off of his iris like fire, he looks no more alive than he did when he was dying on top of you.

 

Perception (Sight) - Occasionally, the corner of his lip curls in slightly, each quiver lasting a fraction of a second. His thin moustache seems unkempt, as if he didn’t shave recently.

 

Half Light - He’s clearly struggling, why don’t you *help* him?

 

You reach out to his arm, and he doesn’t realize what you’re doing until he feels the weight of your hand on his nylon sleeve. 

 

And then he flinches. It’s so subtle, but he flinches at your touch. Either you startled him from his thoughts, or he’s actually scared of you.

 

Logic - He’s not scared of you. During the entire investigation, no matter what bullshit you pulled, he never showed any fear in your presence. Shock, agitation, and confusion, yes, but he’s not afraid of people like you. 

 

No, something else has scared him. And he would sooner fling himself into the Pale than admit that.

 

Kim shakes his head. “Look, it’s not that deep. You called me on a bad day. And now I feel better. Let’s move on to something else.”

 

Right. Something else. Time to get political.

 

You don’t want to get political. Not with him. He doesn’t quite care for politics, and you don’t want to force him into anything.

 

Authority - And you won’t. New isolas will form before you force Kim Kitsuragi to do anything he doesn’t want to. 

 

Exactly. You’re just testing the waters with this. Yep, nothing wrong here. Just ignore gnawing in your chest telling you that this is a terrible idea and that you’re a manipulative piece of shit. 

 

Composure - Don’t let the guilt show on your face.

 

You lean back in your chair while stretching your arms. Kim’s eyes don’t follow the movement of your body, instead focusing on… something behind you. Or next to you?

 

“Have you been listening to the radio lately?” You ask.

 

No response. When he blinks, his eyes don’t close all the way. His glasses magnify this detail.

 

“Kim?”

 

“…Hnngh, what?” He jolts. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, the radio. Yes, I have. It’s been bad out there.”

 

You nod, slowly and a bit too forcefully. “Yeah, it’s a real shithole right now.”

 

“I know. I wish I could be cleared to return to duty sooner, but my station’s lazareth doesn’t want to risk any more damage to my injuries. They’re not,” He shifts in his chair, groaning “they’re not that bad anymore.”

 

“Are you feeling better?”

 

“Much better. I still can’t sleep on my left side, but my stamina is improving. The worst part is my ribs; they’re still sore, but they hurt less every day.”

 

The average person looking at Kim right now would not be able to guess that he had tubes sticking out of his chest just two months ago. Again, you doubt the human body’s ability to heal from such a traumatic injury in that time period.

 

Inland Empire - But if anyone could do it, it would be Kim.

 

“Are you feeling anxious about returning to the RCM? Like, are you in a rush to do so?”

 

Kim stares off into the sky. “Not a rush, no, but I would prefer to be back by now. With how bad things are in Revachol right now, the RCM needs as many officers on the field as possible.”

 

“Do you think the Coalition has been doing anything to stop it?” You ask, trying to make the transition as seamless as possible.

 

“I don’t understand why you’re asking me. Have we not been looking out at the same city every night?” His facial muscles appear to be trying to smile.

 

Rhetoric - He’s saying that the answer is fucking obvious. 

 

You nod. “We have. It’s a damn shame, what they’re allowing to happen to this city.”

 

“Who? The Moralintern?” The last word is soft on Kim’s lips.

 

“I mean, aren’t they the ones who are supposed to be keeping this place afloat? They aren’t doing a good job, are they? After all, they don’t give us any funding or anything.”

 

Kim looks back into your direction, just barely. “If you think that the RCM was founded by the Coalition or by the citizens, does that change what’s happening?” Was that question directed to you? He appears to be in a separate dimension.

 

Logic - He’s asking who can take the blame for Revachol’s current condition. If the RCM was founded by the citizens, then you’re a bunch of fools under the thumb of the Moralintern. If it was founded by the Coalition, then they’re neglectful at best and malicious at worst.

 

“I would say the context matters a bit, it changes the reasoning for why everything is going ass-up.”

 

“But does the reasoning really matter when the same thing keeps happening over and over again?” Kim asks, fingers curling tighter around the mug’s handle. 

 

Espirit De Corps - His crows feet deepen as he shuts his eyes, the pale blue petals of forget-me-nots fluttering through his vision. A symbol that once meant something for him, a long time ago, when he wasn’t even a fraction as jaded.

 

Time after time, he has seen the birth and demise of political movements in Revachol. Not a single one of them lasted long enough for any noticeable change to occur. Kim does not expect the world to be a better place when he dies than when he was born. 

 

“You don’t care.”

 

The words rush out of your mouth before they are formed in your brain. You wished you said something kinder, or more empathetic, but for a moment, your limbic system has undergone a catastrophic malfunction. 

 

Kim does a double take, head pivoting to look you in the eyes for the first time this evening, a spark of lucidity finally appearing. “Wait, what?”

 

Volition - Come on, man. Just stop it. Cut the bullshit and say you’re sorry, that you’re running your mouth like you always do.

 

Authority - No, you have to double down on this. Tell him how you feel. Let him know what’s really up.

 

“You don’t care, Kim. You don’t care about what’s happening in Revachol. You’ve given up.”

 

If it weren’t for the magnification of his glasses, Kim’s pupils would have appeared like tiny dots. The skin of his face is pulled tight as he stares at you, mouth agape.

 

After a few moments of staring at each other, he slides his fingers out of the handle of his mug… before gripping the circumference of it so tightly that you’re surprised that he hasn’t shattered the porcelain. A vein pulses in his forehead as he stares you down with wrath comparable to the force of nature itself.

 

“How dare you.” He hisses out.

 

You fucked up. Badly. If looks could kill, you’d be found floating up the river a month ago. God, how are you going to save this?

 

Your tongue feels too large in your mouth, too dry, as you try to speak. “Look, I can’t even blame you, Kim. With all the shit you’ve had to deal with in your life-“

 

“Harry.” His words suck the wind out of your chest. “Why do you think I do this job?” His head lowers as he says this, disappearing into the silhouette of his shoulders.

 

“Uhh, well, because-“

 

“Because I do care. I care so much it fucking hurts. I don’t even give a shit how many times I get shot or stabbed or beat doing this. I love this city, Harry. No matter how much it hates me, I love it.”

 

You can't even say anything; your lips have suddenly gone so very dry. Stupidly, you pick up your now lukewarm coffee in an attempt to moisten your mouth. It doesn’t taste sweet anymore.

 

Kim’s left hand is now covering his eyes, massaging his temples. “After everything we’ve been through, after what happened in Martinaise… how could you even begin to think that I don’t care? Please help me understand.” He gestures toward himself. “Is it because I don’t get absorbed into every fringe political ideology I come across? Is that it?”

 

Your heart is pounding in your chest: those mercenaries could have trained all their lives and they still wouldn’t be a fraction as intimidating as an enraged Kim Kitsuragi.

 

Empathy - You’re the problem. All the problems that Kim has been having, all of his struggles are because of you. You look at him and see your savior: he looks at you and sees a stranger. No, even worse than that, a disgusting, batshit excuse for a detective. 

 

He regrets it. He regrets sleeping with you. He wishes he never met you. 

 

“I’m sorry, Kim.”

 

“No, no. Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s going on in your head. Explain to me how you are a better Vacholiere than I am. Tell me that I don’t know a fucking thing about my own homeland.”

 

Rhetoric - He doesn’t want you to. He wants confirmation that you don’t actually believe those things. 

 

“She won’t be here anymore.” You mutter.

 

Kim’s eyebrows lift in confusion, but are no less furrowed in rage. “Who are you talking about?”

 

“La Revacholiere.”

 

The lieutenant's anger dissipates slightly, giving way to more bafflement. “La Revacholiere?”

 

“Yes. La Revacholiere. She talked to me. She needs me to save her.”

 

This is the second time that you have told Kim about your conversation with the city. The first time, he brushed it off. Now, he looks ready to drag you to the hospital.

 

“I know that you care, Kim. We all do. But it’s not enough. She needs more from us.”

 

For a few seconds, Kim’s eyes dart around the surroundings. He’s stalling: trying to figure out what he’s going to do with you.

 

“Did you relapse?” He asks.

 

“No, I did not. Look, Kim, you have to believe me. I’m not out of my mind.”

 

“I think I should take you home, then. Did you walk here?”

 

You feel so small, shrinking down into the plastic seat. “Yes, I did.” Is this what it feels like to be a child? Having to be escorted around by functioning adults all the time because you can’t do anything for yourself?

 

He unzips the nylon of his new orange jacket (one that makes your stomach twist in unease at the familiarity of it) before pulling out his wallet. “I’ll pay for both our drinks, then we can leave.”

 

“But it was my idea to come.”

 

“I’ll pay for both our drinks.” He repeats, more firmly. 

 

You weren’t expecting to win today, but you’ve lost so severely that you think there will be a massive wound in your morale for the foreseeable future. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

That night, you wake up to find two ghosts in your room.

 

One sits in a chair beside your bed, her small hands clasped against your shoulder. Beneath her crown, pale hair billows down her back, reflecting the moonlight. There’s affection in her eyes, but not the type of affection you would expect from a lover. Instead, she regards you as if you were a childhood pet. 

 

“Harry, it’s been so long since you’ve visited me.” She whispers, hints of laughter in her voice. The woman cracks her gum between her teeth as she squeezes your deltoid. “Didn’t we have plans? You were supposed to keep meeting up with me.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, babe. It’s just…” You look over to the other ghost. He is a polar opposite to the woman, with a wiry body covered in short, dark hair. The man has gathered your head in his arms, resting you against his chest. “I’m a bit busy right now, that's all.”

 

“Moving on so soon?” She smiles, barely visible in the dark room.

 

Volition - No, we are not doing this. Tell her to leave.

 

You tug your shoulder out of her grasp, gently peeling her fingers off your skin. “Yes, I am. Now that makes two of us.”

 

Dolores Dei shakes her head. “But Harry, it hasn’t been twenty years, has it? Last time I checked, it’s been only eight weeks since I last saw you.”

 

You turn away from her holy figure, instead shoving your face deeper into your lover’s chest. “I think I’m fine like this, thank you.”

 

“And what about him? Do you think he’ll be fine? Or do you think that he’ll have to move on from you, just like I had to?”

 

Suggestion - Hold him closer, don’t let him go. He’s not like her, you need him to stay.

 

Your grip tightens, breathing in the aromas of pine trees and motor oil. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hey, Kim, you got anything to say?”

 

He doesn’t have his glasses on, as he discarded them on the nightstand before crawling into bed with you. You wince when you see his face: it’s lifeless, just like it was after the Tribunal. Paler than sea foam, painted with dark streaks of blood. His eyes are completely white, and you can’t tell if they have rolled backwards or if the pupils and iris have faded. Despite his undead appearance, he manages to talk.

 

“Some of us aren’t made for this type of thing, Harry. Relationships, I mean.”

 

“...Which one of us?”

 

“Probably you, to be honest. But you don’t even know me. You’ve never asked me about any previous relationships. For all you know, I only fucked you because I was bored.”

 

You pause for a few seconds, a lump rising in your throat. “I don’t think so. I think you actually cared about me. I think you still do.”

 

“But every day, you make it harder to do so.”

 

“And I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re a catastrophe. You know that, right?” Kim strokes your cheek with a bare hand, the affection in his gesture betraying his words. 

 

“I need you, Kim. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

 

“But what if I have no choice but to leave?” Kim asks, pressing a kiss into your hair.

 

“Kim, no. You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

 

“But what if I get taken? Just like I nearly did at the Tribunal? For all you know, I could get my brains blown out on my first day returning to the RCM.”

 

“I won’t let them. I promise.”

 

Kim sits up against the headboard, pulling your head into his lap. He watches, languidly, as Dolores Dei leaves you both, her trailing robes the last thing you see of her as walks through the door.

 

“You need to stop making promises you can’t keep.” 

 

You shut your eyes, and when you open them, Kim’s bony legs have been replaced with a pillow under your head. Pulling yourself onto your elbows, you see a bottle of water on the nightstand. When you lift up the bottle to take a drink, you see that the condensation has allowed a small note of paper to stick to the bottom of it. You unscrew the bottle with one hand while unfolding the note with the other. The handwriting is nearly unreadable, and a wave of adoration floods your lungs when you realize who wrote it. 

 

“Please remember to drink water, it might make you feel better.”

 

God, you felt like shit on the car ride home. You hope that Kim didn’t need to drag you inside, especially not with his injury. In all likelihood, you just passed out as soon as you fell onto your bed. You’ll have to thank him for driving you home once it’s a more suitable time of day.

 

Esprit De Corps - Only a kilometer south of Precinct 41, Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare is dropping off Junior Officer Kuuno de Ruyter at his dorm. Two young men watch him from the dumpster as he enters the foyer. The two men have the uniforms of the Trash Collection Service, but these uniforms are just faulty replicas. No, their real uniforms bear the symbol of a forget-me-not.

Notes:

Legendary skill check failure here.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Summary:

Harry and Jean investigate a murder at a local university.

Notes:

Typical Disco-Elysium warnings for this chapter.

“Heard you broke up with the binoclard.”

 

Your eyes flicker from the files in your hand: paperwork from a recent case involving two Saint-Batiste employees at the Revachol Institute of Medicine. The employees were taken into a closet and eliminated execution-style in a robbery gone wrong, so you have named the case “SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL.” After being taken in for autopsy, the wounds were confirmed to have been made with a rifle. The exact make of the rifle is currently impossible to determine, but the traces of smokeless gunpowder on the victims’ skin make it seem unlikely that they were killed using Revolution-age weapons. You imagine the weapon being similar to the gun used by “the Killer” at the Tribunal.

 

In order to replace the thoughts of ripped quadriceps muscles and wet nylon, you focus on Cuno. His pupils have constricted considerably since you first met him, showing more of his green irises. 

 

Electrochemistry - He’s suffering with sobriety, just like you are. You’re magnesium-based organisms, brother. This current lifestyle is just unnatural. The both of you are due for a walk down Boogie Street.

 

“He’s not a binoclard, Cuno.” You say once you’re certain the words will come out evenly. “Kim’s a cool guy, just like you and me. Also, we didn’t ‘break up.’” You curl your fingers to emulate quotation marks. You know that Cuno won’t call you a faggot again, not since joining the junior officers, but you’d rather him not get involved in your love life. 

 

Cuno grins while pointing to himself. “Cuno knows all the shit that goes on around here. Everything that passes through the grapevine needs to cross Cuno at some point. Omnipotent Cuno. Rumor has it, when you came back from your talk with the bi- with Kim, you had the face of a freshly castrated dog.”

 

Composure - Shit, looks like I failed you back there. Sorry.

 

“It wasn’t anything as bad as what you’re probably imagining. We met up to get some work done for the RCM, and it just didn’t go that well.” The clock on the wall of your office ticks, a reminder of how much time you’ve already lost. Ideally, you should already be well into Le Retour, but it’s been difficult finding adequate equipment within Revachol. The best weapons and armor are either made in Oranje or Sur-la-Clef, which are both off-limits for this “project”.

 

“Should have brought Cuno along. Cuno can play mediator. Cuno’s like a village chief.”

 

“I’m sure you would have been a great help.” You lie. “But what we were discussing was confidential. You know, only for the big guys.”

 

Authority - Real big-dick things going on. Yeah, the Coalition is not ready for when you get your cocks out.

 

“Quit trying to rub it in. Cuno’s still got some growing to do. Give Cuno a few years and he’ll be the biggest motherfucker in the RCM. You’ll have to raise the roof to fit Cuno in here.”

 

“Raise the roof, huh?” You laugh; a loud, abrupt, and somewhat unnatural noise. “The shrink doesn’t want me doing much more of that, sorry.”

 

Between the adjacent rows of green-basked offices and file cabinets, you can see Trant making his rounds. He carries both a strapped briefcase and his signature grin as he wanders around, chatting with the officers at each one. McClain, Minot, Torson, he’s really getting around. He’s probably trying to see if the sensitivity program was effective. God, if he heard the things people said around here when he wasn’t around, he would shit himself. 

 

When he reaches you and Cuno, his grin is no less prominent. It’s like his face is perpetually contorted through the help of fishhooks under his skin. 

 

Electrochemistry - He’s got an expression, too! It’s not the tormented countenance of a late-stage alcoholic, but rather the paranoid facade of a drug addict who feels all too close to relapsing. 

 

“Hello, Lieutenant Du Bois. And Junior Officer Ruyter.” As Trant regards Cuno, his intonation lightens. “I’ve heard you’ve been going over radio computers in training. Very exciting stuff.”

 

Encyclopedia - I can think of thirteen derogatory terms that Cuno might hurl at Trant. 

 

Reaction Speed - Holy shit, thirteen? Stop him before he says anything!

 

Before you can get out a word, Cuno is already speaking. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m not a scientist. I don’t really know why we have to learn this.”

 

And with that, Cuno has said his piece. No slurs, no insults, no pens or paper clips thrown into Trant’s eyes. Is this really the same kid that you met weeks ago? What a world of difference it has made to not have amphetamines course through his veins. 

 

“I’m surprised you have to learn how to use them. I wasn’t taught how.” You say. At least, you think you weren’t taught. If you were, you’d probably have some muscle-memory of operating a computer. 

 

“Yes, Harry, but you were already a grown man when you joined the RCM. Besides, that was nearly two decades ago. Cuno is a part of a new generation, and this technology is becoming more relevant every day.” Trant is beaming, genuine happiness beneath the irony of his grin. “I expect that within a few years, the operation of radio computers will be part of the school curriculum.”

 

At times, you wonder what school is like. Primary school, junior high, high school, university, literally everything before the age of forty-four years old. It’s difficult to comprehend that there can be something fresher than what you have, with all the backaches and popping joints. 

 

For a few minutes, Trant all but interrogates Cuno on all the details of his computer class. Cuno only contributes to a fraction of the conversation, as each detail he adds is immediately interjected by a tangent from Trant. Cuno is a lot like you in the way that his emotions are worn on his sleeve, so you can see him grow a bit more annoyed with each unwanted comment. 

 

Composure - He looks ready to pop a gasket. Now is the time to intervene.

 

“Hey, Trant. Any updates on the Phasmid?”

 

You swear you see a bit of gratitude in Cuno’s eyes when Trant turns his attention to you. “Actually, yes! We managed to get another photo!”

 

After the Hanged Man case, a system of wire-tripped cameras had been set up on the island. A vast majority of the photos captured by these cameras were of negligible significance, often capturing a sea bird or a small mammal. But on one occasion, a leg had been captured. As soon as you saw that photo, you were certain that it was the Phasmid. 

 

But according to Trant, a second photo of the Phasmid now exists. And from the way he’s enthusiastically combing through his briefcase, you imagine that you’re about to see it.

 

“Here it is.” Trant pulls out a black-and-white photograph, holding it between his fingers. “It’s a copy, so it’s not of as high quality as the original. But you should be able to make it out.”

As you take the photograph from Trant, you sense Cuno hovering over your shoulder to see it. The edges of the photo are dark from the reeds obscuring the camera. In the middle of the pale sky, a great figure stretches above the camera, its thin limbs and whiskers just barely visible. 

 

“That’s it.” Cuno breathes out. 

 

You nod. “That is exactly what we saw on the island.” As you look deeper at the picture, you swear you can make out the details of the Phasmid’s face. Her bulging eyes are not visible from this angle, but the points of her mandibles are. You can practically smell the sweet, sticky saliva she was drooling during your conversation.

 

“Naturally, there’s been a lot of discussion about what to do regarding this discovery, specifically how to best preserve this species. Luckily, we have found a sponsor willing to help turn the island into a sanctuary.” 

 

“That’s good. We don’t want people storming the island as soon as the news about the Phasmid gets out.” You hand the photograph back to Trant. “By the way, who is this sponsor?”

 

“I think you already know him, Harry. Remember Evrart Claire? Turns out, he has a lot of leftover funds due to a project of his that went under.”

 

“Really? Did he say anything about this project?” You ask, knowing damn well what this is about. 

 

“A bit. He said that it was some sort of real estate project. And at one point, he mentioned something about ‘forged signatures.’ Would you happen to know anything about it?”

 

“Nope.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Every day, you're becoming less like yourself. 

 

From the moment you received the diagnosis, you knew that this would happen. You knew that your body and brain would be flooded with a brew of hormones to support the pregnancy. And yet, you did not expect your mind to deteriorate to its current state.

 

Most days, you’re just sort of drifting along. No, drifting isn't the right word. Drowning. You’re drowning in an emptiness that culls your thoughts and steals the words from your throat. It’s kind of like being asleep, in the way that there’s an abrupt gap between your few moments of coherence. The only difference being that when you’re asleep, you have the ability to dream of a time when you were stronger, when you weren’t being crushed by the weight of responsibility.

 

Things are usually rather monotonous. You sit around the apartment, trying to find something to distract yourself. Books, crosswords, the radio, your notebook… they have equivalent meaning to your blank mind. All you can do is mindlessly stare at the fulcrum in your hands, trying to flatten the static of your mind enough for an idea to form. You’re usually unsuccessful, with the broad bandwidth of your brain allowing for too much nonsense to float around. 

 

But occasionally, something manages to worm its way through. A thought, a memory, an emotion. And unfortunately, these are often your worst moments. 

 

One instance was when you were washing the dishes in your sink, which had piled up considerably in the previous two weeks. As you rinsed the inside of a cup, the meager friction between your hand and the glass wasn’t enough to prevent it from slipping. You might have been able to catch it had it not been for the fact that your reaction time seems to be in the seconds now. The glass shattered the moment it hit the inside of the sink, the tiny fragments pouring down the drain like gout stones.

 

For about a minute, you looked down into the sink at the fragments of glass. As abruptly as the shards stuck out of the water, an overwhelming sensation crashed into you. You grabbed the drying rack and threw it onto the ground of your kitchen, a salad of broken glass and porcelain surrounding your feet. It took you a whole three hours to calm yourself down enough to clean up the mess. 

 

More recently, you had woken up early in the morning with the memories of a dish you had eaten years prior. A nearby café sold a vanilla-caramel bread pudding, and you could still taste it so vividly. This was another thing that you were preparing for, the cravings. Despite how unhealthy it was, you needed to get your weight back up, so you left for the café as soon as it was about to open. You entered its doors as the clock hit 6:00 AM, asked the young waitress for the bread pudding…

 

And she told you that it hadn’t been sold there for over two years.

 

Just for a moment, your composure broke. You must have looked so absurd , disappointment shattering your usually stoic face.

 

Quickly enough, you got yourself together and thanked the waitress. You turned away from her worried face and left the café. On the way home, you cried a bit. You fucking cried because you couldn’t eat a dessert. What happened to you? How can you even stand to look at yourself in the mirror?

 

Worse than the thorough battering of your pride is the shivers on your neck. The dappled sunlight on the Kineema as it drove through the woods. The way your partner shut the backseat door for the last time. The hostage’s terrified expression, which you dismissed as her reaction to being kidnapped. The shout she gave as soon as you removed the rag covering her face, warning you that he was behind you. Eyes’ firm hands grasping your shoulders as he pushed you to the floor, a deafening blast being followed by his screams, his abdomen more hollow than it had been moments earlier. Not even feeling the steel of your gun as you blew the assailant’s throat out, instead focusing on the warm, wet weight above you. How it all feels like it's happening right now. 

 

Sometimes, it’s just the small things. Like the fact that seeing a crying child in public now turns your insides to mush. When you nearly vomit because you caught the whiff of coffee or fish. Or the way you seem to be constantly sleeping, you’re bone tired.

 

Every day, it gets a bit harder to pull through. You dread having to talk to other people because you don’t know if you will be practically brain dead during the entire conversation or if you’ll be randomly overcome with spite or despair. Not like they’ll know, god forbid. You’re still able to manage your stone-cold expression around ninety-percent of the time. 

 

You’ve barely begun to show. It’s not noticeable to anyone but yourself, but you don’t know how long you’ll have that luxury. You discovered it one morning after taking a shower. When you buttoned your pants, you noticed a tiny little hill just above the belt line. Despite its small size, it stuck out to you as soon as you felt it press against the cotton. In an odd way, it makes you feel a bit better. You’ve reached eleven weeks, and the embryo is still growing inside you, surviving. 

 

It’s also the most terrifying thing you’ve ever experienced. That is probably due to the anticipation. The firefights and brawls you’ve been in have usually been over in seconds, minutes at most. But this has already been going on for weeks, and it will be months before it’s over.

 

Actually, no. It won’t be months before it’s over: it will be the remainder of your life. You have long passed the event horizon of normalcy, and you’ve become accustomed to never feeling comfortable again. 

 

It’s this turmoil that has led you to where you are now: calling your station’s captain and begging to be allowed to return to work. You can’t handle this anymore, you need to have something to do that’s not just sitting around rotting all day. Captain Hirsch is a patient man, but you can tell that even he is annoyed by your insistence.

 

“Kitsuragi, you can return in one month. That’s final. You are not working until then.”

 

“But I just don’t understand what difference it makes. I’m not asking to go out onto the field, I just request that you allow me to do work around the precinct.”

 

“And let your blood pressure skyrocket? I don’t want you having a blood clot and puking your lungs out. Look, I understand that it’s not ideal to be off the job for three months, but you need to understand how lucky you are. You were only a hair’s length away from death. I suggest you actually take the time to appreciate the second chance at life you’ve got.”

 

You haven’t really been enjoying yourself, have you? No matter what you’ve tried, your mood is stagnant on a good day. Maybe you should run your mouth, tell Hirsch that you’re fucking miserable and feel like you’re going insane inside your apartment. But then you might accidentally mention the pregnancy, and if he found out he probably wouldn’t let you back on the job for several more months. And for fuck’s sake, you can’t handle that mentally or financially. You don’t have the savings to not work for nearly an entire year, all while having to deal with the finances of a newborn.

 

A newborn. A baby. A child. That’s what you’ll have. That is what’s growing inside you. Amongst the nihilistic expanse of the cosmos, the two of you have managed to come to existence out of the remains of a dying star. In the grand scheme of things, you really don’t have much seniority over the kid inside of you. You’re just as lost as they are, shaking your hands and kicking out at the world, begging for the mercy of a higher power that you’re not sure exists. Oh God, this is all too much for me to handle. Please let me go somewhere warm and wet where I can curl up and shut my eyes and have some time without any more noise. 

 

“The call with Captain Hirsch has been terminated. Is there anything else you need, Lieutenant?” 

 

“No, that will be all.” You hope that Alice can’t hear the disappointment in your voice. “Thank you.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Inland Empire - Slicked red hair, white-rimmed shades, bell bottom pants, oversized sweater. This guy is trying to be cool in every sense of the word and is failing tragically. Not even the tiny buttons on his denim jacket declaring “a vote for all” and “destroy the middle class” can distract from his true intentions.

 

This man tries to masquerade himself as a peace-loving socialist. He probably grooms himself every day to make himself as soft and appealing as a lop-eared rabbit. Despite his insistence on being a meek, timid young man, you can see the outline of his muscles through his sweater. These aren’t muscles built from tossing hay or erecting beams. No, the figure hiding beneath this man’s clothing is made for killing.

 

Those were the thoughts you had when you met one of the witnesses of the Saint-Batiste employee case. He goes by the name “Alexis Albegov,” but when he says this title, the syllables seem alien on his lips. Alexis claims to be an overseas exchange student from Graad who came to Revachol to study pharmaceuticals. Students at the Revachol Institute of Medicine are given the opportunity to work at the Saint-Batiste manufacturing plant just south of the campus, and Alexis is apparently one of these interns. According to Alexis, he was in the laboratory of the facility when the murders happened near the workers’ offices. You have decided to meet up with Alexis at his office, meters away from the crime scene. He sits with his back turned to his desk, slouching with a hand on each knee. 

 

Physical Instrument - When he’s in this position, you can see the massive outline of his shoulder muscles. Those things are rippling under his skin like waves, and he could probably tear the thread on his shirt if he flexed the right way. Yes, brother, this guy is the real deal. 

 

“You really didn’t hear anything?” Jean asks incredulously, towering over Alexis. Both of you have decided to stand before Alexis in an unconscious attempt to give you some leverage over him.

 

Alexis grins while pointing at the sides of his head. “I’ve got two working ears, man. I heard a lot of things.”

 

“Very nice, smartass. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?”

 

“Nope.” Alexis crosses his arms behind his neck, leaning back. “Just the noises of the machines. The walls here are pretty thick, so it's hard for much noise to get through.”

 

“What were you even doing at the lab so late at night, big guy?” You ask. “Most other workers here get out by 10:00 PM. And the murders didn’t happen until 4:00 AM.”

 

Suggestion - This is a fib: You and Jean actually suspect that the employees were killed around 12:00 AM. The employee who called the police claimed that when she found the bodies at 6:00 AM, they were already cold to the touch and in the thick of rigor mortis. No, you’re just trying to trip this guy up. If he says something along the lines of “what are you talking about, they died at midnight,” then you’ve got him. 

 

“I’ve been working hard lately, man. Look-” Alexis’ voice drops to a whisper, despite the fact that you’re the only people present in the room. “This is supposed to be a company secret, but my team and I are working on a new diabetes medicine. It’s been doing insanely well at keeping blood sugar low. We’re trying to get to the human trials stage, so a lot of us have been working our asses off.”

 

Physical Instrument - Wow. Great job, dork. 

 

Suggestion - I’d like to see you pull your head out of your ass and do any better.

 

“What does this testing entail? Do you test the medication on rats before you move on to human trials?” Jean is probably asking for the purposes of the investigation, but there’s a bit of genuine intrigue in his voice.

 

Alexis shifts in his chair uncomfortably, greased hair disturbed by the headrest. “It’s mice, actually. Yeah, I don’t like it, either, but we need to make sure this won’t kill anyone. We also do tests on isolated blood samples from diabetics.”

 

Empathy - He’s being sincere: he doesn’t like testing on animals. Be honest, you wouldn’t like it either. You don’t have what it takes to be a pharmacologist. 

 

“Was it the blood testing or the animal testing you were doing the night of the murders?” You ask.

 

“Blood testing.”

 

“And no one else from your team was present? Not a single person?”

 

“Nope. At this point, we’ve all gotten used to the testing procedure, so only one of us needs to be present.”

 

“That doesn’t sound right.” Jean tilts his head towards the south side of the building. “Saint-Batiste allowing a student intern to use a lab full of million-réal equipment, completely unsupervised? Seems like nonsense to me.”

 

Alexis sits up, sneering at Jean. “I don’t know, man. Everything in your little organization sounds like a bunch of nonsense to me, too, but you don’t hear me complaining about it. Maybe you should stay in your pocket of Mommy Moral’s wallet while we actually do something for the greater good of humanity.” His thin lips curl into a tight smile. 

 

“I don’t think I take criticism from a douchebag who wears sunglasses inside for whatever reason, sorry.” Jean growls. He shoots you a quick side glance, as if to say “shut your mouth, do not tell this asshole what we’re planning.”

 

You heavily plant your hand against Jean’s back while looking back down at Alexis. “Come on, man. Don’t you think we’re all in the same boat? ‘Mommy Moral’ has her nose is everyone’s business, including yours.”

 

The lump of cartilage on Alexis’ throat bobs as he quietly swallows, and he tries to hide this by lowering his chin. Sinking back into his chair with his head tilted down, he’s glowering up at you like a cornered animal. “At least I’m not suckling from the Moralintern’s teats like an overgrown toddler.”

 

Your fist slams against Jean’s shoulder. “Keep up your attitude, and you won’t be suckling on any tits.” 

 

“Oh, I think your wife would disagree.” Alexis grins, unaware of the hell he just unleashed upon your synapses. 

 

Half Light - Kill him. No, seriously, kill this cunt. Tangle your fingers in his hair and smash his skull into the desk. Collapse his nose and strangle him as the blood pours down his neck. Pick him up and fling him through the window.

 

Volition - No, don’t do any of that. This anger will pass. You’re not the man you once were, the keyframes of your life don’t have to be needless slaughter. 

 

You succeed in not killing him. Instead, you punch a hole in the cubicle divider beside Alexis’ head. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

“So, are you planning on explaining to me what happened back there?” Jean’s words vibrate out from his larynx, low and deep.

 

The two of you are sitting outside of an on-campus café. You’ve both purchased sandwiches and coffee for lunch, but you only find yourself picking at your morsel. It’s odd, especially given that your appetite has generally increased, but the grilled chicken sandwich in your hand just doesn’t seem all that appealing right now.

 

“I don’t know, man.”

 

“You don’t know.” 

 

“I mean, I know a bit. I… I know it hurts like a bitch whenever someone mentions her.”

 

“But he didn’t mention her, Harry. He doesn’t know you, and he doesn’t know her. You fell for some of the most juvenile teasing imaginable, and now you’ve vandalized the crime scene.”

 

“I think you’re really stretching the definition of ‘crime scene’. They were murdered in the closet, not the office.”

 

“The closet was not even ten meters away from us.”

 

“Ten meters can be a lot of space.”

 

“Harry, look at me.”

 

You turn your head a few degrees in Jean’s direction, and he sighs. “My eyes are over here, shitkid.”

 

When you look into Jean’s eyes, you see a layer of ice within the winter’s orbit, hundreds of feet thick. On the surface, piles of snow glisten in the single hour of daylight. Beneath the ice, Jean lays curled in on himself, clawing a hole in the ice in an attempt to breathe.

 

“You aren’t going back to your old ways, right?” Jean asks, fidgeting with the wrapper of his sandwich.

 

“No, I’m not. I swear I have not relapsed since I got back from Martinaise.”

 

Jean’s pale eyes dart over your face. “You look better nowadays. Before, your face was so swollen that it was like you were perpetually recovering from dental surgery. Now, things have softened up a bit. I can look at you without feeling pity.”

 

“It feels better now. My face used to feel really tender and sore. Now, it’s just kind of wrinkly and saggy. I feel like I look a lot older now.”

 

“Really? If anything, you look younger. I think it’s just those bags under your eyes, you need to sleep more.”

 

“You say that like it’s so easy.” 

 

Jean doesn’t say anything, he can’t really argue with you on that one.

 

You take another small bite of your sandwich, swallowing without chewing when you get a gristly bite of meat. “Worse comes to worse, I’ll just invest in plastic surgery.”

 

Immediately, Jean elbows you beneath your ribs. “Don’t joke about that. Knowing you, that’s too plausible.”

 

In response, you elbow him back with a bit more energy. “Come on, a bit of collagen never killed anyone.”

 

“It’s surgery, someone has probably died from it. Besides, you’d probably go way too far with it. Starting off with the injections and then having your skull shaved a few years later.”

 

“Getting my armpits waxed, maybe getting a tummy tuck as well. It takes a lot of sacrifices to be a star, Jean.” You take another bite of your sandwich, which is thankfully free of connective tissue. As you eat, you admire the Revachol Institute of Medicine campus. The campus is wildly disconnected from the surrounding infrastructure, which resembles La Delta with its skyscrapers and winding motorways. It’s a nice oasis in the chaos of the city, lawns full of lounging students and imported willow trees.

 

“You have to try not to do that again. It doesn’t look good for RCM officers to go around punching walls in front of witnesses.”

 

“I know.” You see a young couple beneath the shade of a willow tree, the woman’s head resting in her boyfriend’s lap. “But do you really think that guy is just a witness?”

 

Jean pauses for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, I don’t.”

 

“Maybe we should take a look at the dorms? You know, ask around, see if we can find Alexis’ room.”

 

“We might need the chain cutters for that.”

 

You crumple up the empty wrapper with one hand while fishing the tool out of your jacket with the other. “Right ahead of you.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

It took around thirty minutes of searching Alexis’ dorm to find the compartment. The hollowed-out beam may have been inconspicuous to most other detectives, but you were able to discern the minute discontinuities in the paint job. It didn’t take much force for a chunk of the beam to click out of place, showing you everything you needed to know. Along with a 7.62 caliber anti-material rifle, you also discovered the documents that were supposedly taken by robbers. Neither you or Jean recognize the make of the rifle, only that the hardwood stock and black barrel resemble weapons made in Graad. The documents range from the aforementioned diabetes medication to antipsychotics and beta-blockers.  

 

Knowing now that Alexis is most certainly a mercenary, you and Jean were extremely cautious in your pursuit to arrest him. You managed to corner him at the university’s call center, where you suspect he was trying to contact his military contractor. The whole building went silent as you made your arrest, the students waiting with bated breath for something to happen. Alexis surrendered as soon as you came to arrest him, which you imagine is a result of the heavy civilian concentration. 

 

After frisking Alexis for the few weapons he still had on his person (a revolver and a pocket knife), you handcuffed him to the inside of the Coupris 40.  Before leaving the campus, Jean made a call to the precinct to have a holding cell prepared for Alexis. A sizable crowd of people, both students and professors, came to watch from the sides of the road as you left, the headlights of the Coupris highlighting their shocked expressions.

 

Despite all the evidence you found, Alexis did not confess. Instead, he sits in complete silence as the Coupris enters the motorway.

 

“Hey, cop. The fat one, I mean.”

 

You probably shouldn’t dignify what he said with a response, but to ignore him would just seem like delusion. Wordlessly, you turn around in your seat to face him. For the first time today, his shades are off, now being clasped on the neck of his sweater. He looks more confused than anything, as if the events of today haven’t yet caught up to his mind.

 

“You really despise me, don’t you?”

 

“Hmm, I don’t speak for the RCM when I say this. No, I speak personally: I don’t despise you, that would be a waste of my time.” You keep pointing at both him and at yourself to add pizzazz to your words. 

 

“I could see it in your eyes, man. Pothole-face was pissed, too, but you were on a whole other level.”

 

“I guess that’s what happens when you start talking about sucking the tits of another man’s wife.”

 

“No, even before that. You were eyeing me down like I was the biggest crock of shit in the world.”

 

You twist at the waist towards Jean, ignoring the creaking in your back. “Was it really that bad?” You whisper.

 

“I’m not getting involved in this.” Jean doesn’t remove his eyes from the road, looking over his shoulder slightly to pass another vehicle.

 

“You’ve got a problem with politics, man? Seems like you’ve got a problem with politics. I see the way you dress, I don’t think you’re one to be sucking up to neoliberal bullshit.”

 

Rhetoric - He’s calling you broke. And he’s right.

 

A massive grin splits your face, crooked from the polio-scarred muscles of your face. “Kid, you might not know this, but I’m something of a political extremist. I’m the last one to suck up to anything.”

 

“Harry, stop.” Jean warns.

 

Alexis ignores him, leaning against the interior of the Coupris. “So what type of extremist are you? The ten-thousand page manifesto for ethnic cleansing type, or the digging trenches for anyone with more than five dollars type?”

 

“Not a fan of ethnic cleansing, sorry. And I can’t go digging up a grave for everyone who's not me, given that I’m the most broke motherfucker in Revachol. All I’m telling you is that I’m not the ‘sitting around with my thumb up my ass and hoping things magically improve’ type. Besides, you don’t really seem like the socialist type to me.”

 

Alexis laughs bitterly while Jean pulls into the precinct’s parking lot, the ladybug-shaped station looming ahead. “That’s enough. I’m taking him to his holding cell. Harry, go get Cuno so I can get him back to his dorm already. It’s later than I intended to be back.”

 

As Jean escorts Alexis away, you can see the redhead flipping you off with both bound hands. Whatever, you have another young redhead to worry about.

 

Despite the late hour, several people are still present in the C-Wing. Judit is talking with Gottlieb near her office, and you pick up that she’s asking about a migraine behind her eye. A bit further in, Chester is lounging on the couch while Mack is unconscious with his head at Chester’s feet.

 

You go to your desk, which is oddly Cuno-free. Whatever, it’s late. Maybe he went to the bathroom or decided to walk home on his own. You don’t really want him walking alone this late at night, but the dorms are not far.

 

“Hey, Judit, do you know where Cuno went?”

 

Judit turns away from Gottlieb, and the side of her face lifts in confusion. “Cuno wasn’t here today.”

 

“He wasn’t here today? He’s supposed to meet with Jean and I after his junior officer training.”

 

Chester lifts his head from the sofa. “Maybe the little shit’s slacking off. Wouldn’t be unlike him.”

 

Electrochemistry - Perhaps he’s finally decided to listen to the doctor’s orders. Smart kid.

 

Gottlieb appears the most concerned out of everyone, the creases on his forehead deepening. “Do any of you know if he even made it to junior officer training today?”

 

“Not me. Why don’t you ask Dick Mullen here? It’s his job to babysit the kid.” Chester readjusts his feet, accidentally kicking Mack in the head. The bald man groans as his eyes flutter open.

 

“Hey Mack, get this; Dick Mullen lost the kid.”

 

“…Hnngh? He lost what?”

 

“The kid. You know, the dumbfuck redhead.”

 

“…I mean, you’re right here.”

 

“Wow. Thanks a lot, Mack. No, I’m talking about Cuno.”

 

“Hey.” You take a few steps towards the couch. “Cuno’s not a stupid kid. He’s just eccentric.”

 

“ Just like you.” Mack hums, pulling himself up to sit on the couch.

 

“I’m not joking around. You two are the last people here who should be calling anyone stupid.” You know that Cuno has probably said much worse to both Chester and Mack, but it feels wrong to sit by and let these two grown men lambast a preteen like this. 

 

A set of footsteps grow louder from the hallway to holding until Jean rounds the corner, looking relieved that the day is over. That is, until he scans the room and finds no evidence of Cuno.

 

“Where’s the kid?”

 

“He hasn’t shown up to the station the entire day.” You’re thankful that Gottlieb was the one to explain the situation: you know for a fact that Chester or Mack would have made things worse.

 

“He didn’t show up to the station? Not even once?”

 

“Not even once.” Judit confirms, her tone becoming grave.

 

Jean pulls up his sleeve to check his watch. “It’s already 11:30 PM, the academy is closed, so we can’t call them to see if he’s there. We should go and check his dorm, just to see if he’s home. Maybe he just got a summer cold.”

 

Inland Empire - It’s not a summer cold. Cuno is the catalyst, the spark, and you are pure kerosene.

 

You quickly follow after Jean into the lukewarm night, preparing yourself to break into the second apartment that day.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

There’s a good chance that you’ll be in hot shit with the RCM for vandalizing their property. Luckily, you have Jean to give you the go-ahead to use your chain cutters to break the lock on Cuno’s door. You don’t know what you’re going to find in there, especially given the fact that nobody responded when you practically slammed on the wooden surface. All you can hope is that you won’t find an acrid sarcophagus of blankets, hugging the boy within as he makes a lonely exit from the world.

 

When you enter the room, you’re not hit with the sweet, sour musk of death. That gives you enough confidence to turn on the light. Cuno’s room is small, only having his bed, closet, desk, and a bathroom. He’s managed to decorate the place a bit in his short time here, with posters from novels and comics covering the walls. It doesn’t take long for you and Jean to declare the dorm completely free of Cuno.

 

Jean’s posture has gone stiff, his slightly parted lips revealing the way he’s grinding his teeth. “This is bad.” He rasps out, as if he fears he’s speaking an incantation.

 

He’s right. As you stand in the middle of the room, taking in a 360 degree view of the interior, your heart is practically beating in your tongue as you try to think of what to do next.

Notes:

Harry and Jean have certainly found themselves in a pickle!

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Summary:

When Kim joins the search for Cuno, he finds himself entrapped in a grand conspiracy.

Notes:

This chapter is when the fic starts to get violent. Warning for graphic descriptions of violence, drug use, and vomiting.

The telephone call comes when you’re crouched beside your toilet, pillows placed beneath your knees to try and make the ordeal easier on your joints. For the past hour, your stomach has been in the wonderfully slow process of wringing itself dry. The organ gurgles ominously just beneath your skin, but aside from the occasional hypersalivation, nothing has come out yet. You don’t really want to lift your damp forehead off the cool porcelain, nor do you want to jostle your already upset stomach by walking to the phone. But the odd timing of the call worries you: local scammers usually don’t call at 1:00 AM. There’s a chance that this is just another prank call from a group of delinquents, but the possibility of this being serious is enough for you to grab your wastebasket and walk to the phone.

 

“Hello?” Your voice is groggy from both nausea and exhaustion. The queasiness rolls through your stomach viciously enough for you to clutch the basket with both hands, the phone held beneath your cheek.

 

“Kim, I know this is late, but it’s an emergency. Cuno’s gone missing.” Harry’s voice comes out of the receiver rapidly, the words blurring together from their rapid succession. You barely make out Jean’s cursing in the background.

 

“What? You’re going to have to run that by me again, Harry-”

 

“Cuno’s gone. He didn’t show up to junior officer training, he’s not at the precinct, and he’s not in his dorm.” Harry is now breathing heavily into the mic, to the point where you fear an oncoming panic attack or heart failure.

 

“Are you sure he didn’t just go to his father’s apartment? He might have gone back to check on that girl. You know, the one that looks like him. Cunoesse, I think she’s called?”

 

“We just visited his dad’s apartment. He wasn’t there. Not in the apartment, or the yard, or the Whirling.” 

 

Your stomach is now pulsating like a bag of mating snakes, the saliva beginning to pool in your mouth. In an attempt to stave off vomiting, you pull up your tank top and rub a shaky thumb over your slightly distended stomach. “Is anyone else helping you look for him?” Just saying these few words has resulted in spit trailing out your lips and onto your shirt.

 

“A few people from the C -Wing are helping, but I don’t know if all of them are taking this seriously. I think they just assume that he’s just given up on being in the RCM.”

 

“Has he-” Your lips form a tight seal as you swallow back the bile in your throat, stomach acid burning your uvula. “Has he shown any signs of being unhappy?” 

 

“Fuck, I don’t know. He seemed to be doing great, but I could see that things were starting to plateau. You know, when things just stop getting better and you don’t have anything more to look forward to, and all you can do to comfort yourself is realize that it could be worse-”

 

Harry continues to ramble on about Cuno, and your stomach has decided that it’s been through enough bullshit tonight. As soon as you begin heaving into the wastebasket, belching up a mixture of burning gas and a partially digested sandwich, Harry stops. Or maybe you just don’t hear him, it’s hard to tell when you’ve accidentally dropped the receiver on the floor. Whatever, it’s better that he doesn’t get to hear this up close and personal. Three times, you hope that the vomiting stops, only for another gag to escape your esophagus. When you finally finish puking, your entire body is shaking, and you’re thankful that no one is here to see this. 

 

When you pick up the receiver off the floor, the first thing you hear is Harry clearing his throat.

 

“Kim?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did you just vomit?”

 

God dammit. 

 

No, it’s fine. You can still save face here.

 

“I did, and I apologize for you having to hear that. I ate something that didn’t quite sit right. I feel better now, though.”

 

“Kim vomited?” You hear Jean asking. “Is he sick?”

 

“He says he ate something dodgy.” Harry’s voice is more distant when he speaks to Jean, before focusing again. “Kim, that sounded pretty bad. Are you sure you didn’t give yourself food poisoning?”

 

“I doubt it.” I know it’s not food poisoning, it’s just your baby that you don’t know about and I have no idea how to tell you. “There’s no need to go into it, sometimes my stomach is sensitive.”

 

You can practically see Harry mulling over your words, cross-examining them with his blurred knowledge of the world. “Okay, Kim, but I think you should take it easy for tonight.”

 

“No, I’m not going to ‘take it easy’ when Cuno just vanished. I’m helping you find him.”

 

“Isn’t he still healing from getting shot?” Jean’s voice once again appears as background noise.

 

You decide to confront him directly. “I can hear you, Jean. I am well on my way to fully recovering from my injuries, and I hope you can respect my autonomy.”

 

It’s been ten weeks since you were hurt, and the worst of the pain has subsided. You just sort of feel sore and weak now, and you don’t know how much that has to do with your new passenger. The times that you’ve been out of the apartment, you’ve been able to run light errands for yourself, so you don’t think this should be too bad. 

 

“…Okay. If you say that you feel well enough to go out on the field, then I trust your judgement.”

 

You get the feeling that Jean doesn’t say many things like that to Harry.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

“And you’re sure you haven’t seen any young man around here that looks like this? None?”

 

An elderly woman takes one final look at the picture in Jean’s hands. When Cuno joined the junior officers, he had been photographed for his ID card. You and Jean were able to get hold of a low-quality copy of the image, but you had to fill in a lot of details that the copy didn’t have. Yes, Cuno has red hair and green eyes. He also has freckles. His father is an Oranjese immigrant (or was, as you found out this morning). No, he’s not currently high on drugs, or at least he shouldn’t be.

 

“I wish I could say I did. I’m sorry, dear.”

 

“Don’t apologize. We appreciate your assistance.” Despite his best efforts, Jean’s despondency is evident.

 

You and Jean have taken to Boogie Street to search for Cuno while Kim has been looking near the harbor. From the occasional communications you have through the radio, you can ascertain that Kim has been as unsuccessful as you.

 

Jean looks around the intersection you have stopped at. This is a newer section of Boogie Street: if one of the buildings catches fire, you have a negligibly higher chance of survival. Businesses ranging from family-owned bakeries to snake oil peddlers surround you. A few street vendors have set up tents on the sidewalk, the scents of gyros and fruit preserves wafting in the air. The occasional radio or tape player has divided the street into intersecting spheres of music, jazz music accompanying Samaran-inspired meditation hymns accompanying live broadcasts from an orchestra in Saint-Batiste. With it being a warm spring day, most adolescents have gone out to the riverbank or the beach to cool off. As a result, the median age of the people present at Boogie Street is significantly higher than Cuno’s meager twelve years.

 

A few people have said that the photo looks vaguely familiar, but not with enough certainty for you to be comfortable with their statement. To make things worse, the testimonies you have heard are at odds with each other. One man claimed to have seen a redhead boy working at the laundromat up north, while another saw a similar looking boy with an adult woman at a grocery store. Aside from physical appearances, none of these stories match Cuno’s circumstances.

 

Jean yawns, before rubbing his wet eyes. “We might need to bring dogs in. The odds of us finding him in the city by ourselves is basically zero.”

 

“Do we have dogs at the precinct?” You haven’t seen any. You wish you did, dogs are nice. They’re like you in a lot of ways.

 

“Not ours. But there are dog trainers at Precinct 62. We can give them a call and ask to borrow one of their hounds.”

 

Encyclopedia - Precinct 62 encompasses the Le Jardin district of Revachol. The precinct is well known for its hiring of civilian dog trainers, and it often lends hounds to other precincts for missing person’s cases or drug busts.

 

“I don’t know how long it will take for the hound to get here. Why don’t we call Lieutenant Kitsuragi first and let him know that he can go home. He sounds like shit, he should get some rest.”

 

You make your way back to the Coupris 40, which was parked just a few hundred meters up north. Jean cracks open the door and reaches in to tune his radio. Within a few seconds, Kim answers.

 

“Hello. Have you two managed to find anything?” Kim’s voice is not tense like it was when you called him earlier, which hopefully means that he’s feeling somewhat better. Hearing him vomit the way he did just sounded so wrong. Yeah, the sound of puking is never right , but those were not noises you ever expected to hear from Kim. 

 

“No, and I imagine you haven’t, either.” Jean answers.

 

“I have not.”

 

“In that case, I think we’re done enacting this investigation on foot. Harry and I will call Precinct 62 to have them bring a hound over. You can go home and rest.”

 

Kim pauses for a second. “Are either of you going home? You need to rest, too.”

 

“We can’t, at least one of us needs to be present to help search for Cuno, and it’s easier if both of us are here. Besides, we feel fine enough to continue investigating.”

 

You hear Kim’s mouth pop open slightly, as if he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. “Okay, I’ll be at my apartment if you need me. Don’t hesitate to give me a call.” 

 

Esprit de Corps - Despite how exhausted he is, he is actually grateful to have had the opportunity to be involved in this investigation. He’s cooped up inside of that apartment, on the verge of losing his mind.

 

Empathy - Hang in there, Kim. You only have another month left before you can return to your precinct. 

 

It’s now past 8:00 AM, and none of you have gotten any sleep since two nights ago. The other officers of the C-Wing have had to return to their own investigations, leaving you and Jean to find Cuno. You keep wondering what it’s going to be like once this is over, once you’ve got Cuno safely returned to the precinct. Chester will probably give him shit for whatever reason he vanished for, and Jean will be cross with him for a while. But eventually, this will pass, and Cuno will resume his junior officer studies like nothing happened.

 

There are other possibilities, of course, but you choose not to entertain them.

 

Shivers - At the northern end of Boogie Street, a butcher shop is running at full capacity. The shop tries to make up for its lack of sanitation with efficiency. The floors are coated in a sort of jam of entrails, and the drain is clogged by cattle hair. As two butchers try to unclog the drain, a third stares out the tiny window that gives a needle-eye view of the harbor. If he squints his eyes, he can see the shadow of an airship above the veil of clouds.

 

“Yes, he’s been missing since yesterday. To our knowledge, we were the last ones to see him when we dropped him off at his dorm the previous night.” Jean twirls a pen in one hand and holds his radio with the other.

 

“Do you suspect that foul play was involved?” The operator on the other end sounds as distant emotionally as he is physically.

 

“No, we don’t have any reason to, his apartment didn’t show signs of forced entry. We don’t think it was a suicide, either.” 

 

Well, his apartment shows signs of forced entry now , but that was your doing.

 

“Do you have anything that carries the scent of the missing boy?”

 

“Yes,” Jean fishes a small black bag out of the back of the Coupris. “We have laundry from his dorm.”

 

You step away from the Coupris and towards the alleyway flanking the car. The alleyway has a downwards slope, its dull, moss-soaked walls forming the aperture to the view of Central Jamrock. The sun is above the horizon, forcing you to narrow your eyes to shield yourself from the blinding rays. Having your eyelids half-closed like this makes everything sort of fuse into an amorphous blob. This hideous splat of color before your eyes holds rotting buildings, obsolete machines, dying businesses, grieving widows and widowers, young men who just can’t seem to get out of bed in the morning, distant dreamers who can’t shut their eyes at night, soldiers, zealots, children who’ve never been given a name…

 

And above all, another aerostatic. You don’t normally see them dip below the clouds this often.

 

“Unfortunately, all of our hounds are busy at the moment. It may be a few hours before we’re able to get one over to you.”

 

Jean curses under his breath, the pen beginning to fold beneath his thumb. “How long do you think it will take?”

 

“I can’t say for sure. I apologize for the inconvenience, we’ve just been having more missing person’s cases lately due to the… current political climate.” The operator chooses his words carefully, and you imagine he doesn’t want to get involved in this “current political climate.”

 

Rhetoric - If Cuno dies because we couldn’t get a dog fast enough, that’s a lot more than an inconvenience.

 

“We’ll get back to you as soon as we have an available dog. And again, I’m sorry that we couldn’t get one over there sooner.”

 

You look at Jean as he chokes back another yawn, and he digs his fingernails into his thigh in an attempt to stay awake. He probably hasn’t taken his medication. Now that you think about it, you haven’t taken yours, either, but you haven’t been on your prescription long enough to really know the symptoms of withdrawal. It’s probably the same as everything else you’ve withdrawn from, so at least you’ve given yourself some immunity. 

 

Esprit de Corps - Approximately five kilometers north, junior officer Kuuno de Ruyter sits in a chair, his tennis shoes grinding the grains of sand beneath him. Kuuno is not bound in any way, and could hypothetically stand up and leave if he wanted to. And yet, he doesn’t.

 

“I’ve told you a hundred times already, and I’ll tell you a hundred more: Cuno’s not a fuckin’ snitch. You could rip out all of Cuno’s teeth and nails, and Cuno still wouldn’t budge.” Despite his words, there’s an unfamiliar shakiness to Kuuno’s voice.

 

Kuuno is surrounded by two men and a woman, all wearing brown suits. The woman seems the most irritated out of all of them, her bottom lip squeezed between her pearly teeth. 

 

“You need to take a deep breath and calm yourself, boy.” The woman chides. “We’re not here to torture you. In fact, we actually have something of a treat for you, as compensation for all this trouble.”

 

“A treat? Does Cuno look like he’s fucking four years old?”

 

“Nope.” One of the men opens a pale grey briefcase. “This is a treat for big kids. You’re a big kid, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, Cuno’s a big kid. Cuno can dress himself, and he even knows how to use the potty.” Kuuno tries to spit at the man’s shoes, but the loogie ends up missing.

 

“Well then, I think you’ll enjoy this.” The man pulls a large silver box out of the briefcase. “Not many people get to try this out, we’re doing you a favor.”

 

Kuuno eyes the box, his head angled away from it. “Are those your fuck toys? You bring them around in a little box everywhere you go? You’re fucked in the head, man.”

 

“These aren’t ‘fuck toys,’” The other man says. “This is a very special device. Well, actually, it’s more of a drug. It’s a new one, and it’s a real good time.”

 

Upon hearing the word “drug,” Kuuno begins to chew on his lip. Still, he turns his head away from the box and crosses his arm. “Sorry, Cuno ain’t about that lifestyle anymore. He’d be fucking over his main pig if he snorted that shit.”

 

The man pays no mind to Kuuno, clicking open the box. Within, there are five interconnected vials of a dark yellow liquid. The vials feed into a sizable device similar in appearance to a dialyzer. Beneath a small console with a collection of buttons, two tubes stick out of the device. Both tubes lead to cannulas. 

 

“Now, I believe it’s in your best interest if you behave and let me put this on your arm.” The other man says as he removes two tourniquets from the case. He hands one of them to the woman, who begins fastening it below her right shoulder.

 

Kuuno glowers at the adults, the wooden grains of the chair collecting under his fingernails. His eyes shift from the small disturbances in their suits, where he knows they are keeping their weapons holstered. I don’t have a fighting chance, he thinks to himself. As such, he only sits back and watches as the man pushes up his sleeve and applies the tourniquet, his arm almost immediately going numb. His skin becomes a cooler hue as his veins bulge. 

 

“You’re going to regret this.” Kuuno doesn’t even flinch as one of the needles is inserted into the crook of his elbow, the cannula filling with blood. He grew up fighting with his father for table scraps, this is nowhere near the worst thing he has experienced.

 

The woman finishes inserting the cannula into her own arm, before gesturing towards the man closest to the machine. He flips a switch on the console, and the device lets out a death rattle as it circulates the wretched fluid through the tubes. As soon as it reaches Kuuno’s vein, the tourniquet is removed to allow for the liquid’s transfer to his brain.

 

“I’ll deal with those regrets later. Now, I’m going to ask again: can you tell me about the police officers present in Martinaise during the Twin Pines and Débardeurs Union conflict?”

 

Kuuno shakes his head and bites his lip, but the damage is already done. If it weren't for the fact that he could see the woman before him, he would assume that she had been melted into a putrid essence and injected directly into his mind.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Your eyes crack open into red, puffy slits, feeling as though they are two open wounds on your face. Warm amber light still fills the room, but you know that it’s been several hours since you fell asleep. After returning from your failed investigation, you dragged your body into bed and promptly lost consciousness, too spent to even remove your boots and glasses. The idea of falling asleep again is tempting, as your nerves are hesitant to let any of your muscles move. You entertain the thought for a bit, stretching on your bed as you cover both eyes with your fists.

 

And then, from the apartment’s door, three dull thuds. The knocking is probably what woke you up.

 

Shit, is this about Cuno? You bolt out of bed faster than your circulatory system can keep up with. The floor and ceiling spin in opposite directions as you stumble towards the door, keeping a hand on whatever piece of furniture you walk past. Once you cross the apartment, you practically faceplant into the door, your nose protecting your glasses from being shattered.

 

Rubbing the sore cartilage, you take a look through the peephole to confirm the identity of your visitor. Things haven’t stabilized in your brain yet, but you’re quite sure that the person before you is neither Harry or Jean. In fact, it’s a young woman. Her dark hair has been pulled into a messy bun, the escaped strands framing the scratches on her face. She wears a grey hoodie and baggy tracksuit pants, and she seems to be of Messinan descent. 

 

Her injured skin piques your interest enough to crack open the door. The chains prevent it from opening completely, but you’re able to create a small opening for your voice to be heard from. 

 

“Are you hurt, madam?”

 

“I’m not, no. But my friends and I got into a car accident nearby. One of them got really bad, and we think he might have spinal cord damage. This was the nearest residence I could find, and I really need to call an ambulance for him. Do you have a working phone in there that I can use?”

 

The actress before you has finished her monologue, which is as stilted and rehearsed as always. The “my friends and I got into a car accident” schtick has been done to death by delinquents trying to rob homes, although this is the first time it has happened to you. You’re an odd target for this, given that you live in a concrete dungeon of an apartment complex. Whatever, you’re not giving these people what they want. 

 

“I really do recommend quitting this façade before you get arrested for breaking and entering. Unfortunately for you, I am the worst person you could have pulled this shit on, and the only reason I’m not calling for backup is that I don’t want to deal with delinquents like you. Now, you and whoever else is up to this, get on your bikes and go home.”

 

She opens her lips to argue, but you cut her off by shutting the door in her face. You don’t leave the door, though, instead continuing to observe her through the peephole. It must be obvious to her that you’re still there, as she stares directly at your shadow.

 

Shit. She doesn’t plan on leaving. It might be time for you to grab your pistol, just in case. 

 

Along with your radio, you grab your holster from the nightstand and pull it onto your shoulders, back muscles cramping from the motion. Your next stop is the tiny closet beside your bathroom. Pulling open the door and crouching beside the steel safe that holds your gun, you begin to input the combination. Each click from the safe has you looking over your shoulder, and each time you are met with the sight of your empty bedroom.

 

The pressure against your fingers increases until the safe pops open, and you waste no time in grabbing your pistol. You use your thumb to rip the tab on a box of ammunition before taking a bullet, inserting it into the muzzle of your pistol. The rest of the bullets go into an internal pocket on your jacket.

 

Another look over your shoulder, nothing. You thought that you saw the curtains of your window move slightly, but that was probably just from your apartment’s dogshit air conditioning system. A few specs of dust float in the beams of light coming in through your window. That’s unusual, there shouldn’t be any dust in here. But you can’t really remember the last time you cleaned.

 

The pistol feels strange in your hands as you slide it into the holster, as if your muscles are a pair of shoes that have not been broken in yet. This is the first time since Martinaise that you have picked up the Armistice, and the sensation of its icy weight against your chest has the hairs on the back of your head sticking up. You rub your thumb against the bakelite while using your other hand to turn the knob on your radio. For reasons you refuse to acknowledge, you can’t seem to keep your hand steady enough to tune into your precinct’s frequency.

 

Cursing, you pull your hand away from the radio so you can stretch your malfunctioning fingers. You let out a shaky breath, but the calloused hands that seize you around the throat don’t let you inhale again.

 

It’s impossible to even scream as your windpipe is compressed, the figure behind you picking you up by the neck. As you kick out your legs and claw at the hulking arms crushing your throat, you manage to conclude that your assailant is significantly taller than you, well over two meters in height. You twist and strike against the intruder as you are pulled against the brick wall of his body.

 

“Your friends are not going to help you, snake. Now, either you calm the fuck down and stop struggling, or else this thing-” he squeezes your neck tighter for emphasis “is getting snapped like a toothpick. Do you understand?”

 

You continue holding on to his arms so you’re not just dangling by the neck, but you do stop kicking out. It’s humbling, having to play by this behemoth’s rules so he doesn’t murder you, but the image of coagulated blood pouring between the legs of your corpse makes you slightly more willing to cooperate.

 

Not for long, though. 

 

The man behind you seems pleased, his grip releasing just enough for you to take a tiny breath. Your lungs scream for air, but with the considerable force still on your throat, it’s like you’re deep-sea diving using a straw.

 

“What… what do you want… from me…”

 

“You’re Lieutenant Kim ‘Pinball’ Kitsuragi, right?” Saying that horrid nickname brings amusement to the man’s voice.

 

Silence answers his question, the only sounds in the room being your shallow panting and the rustling of nylon. No, wait, there’s one more noise: your heartbeat. The organ still beats rhythmically against your eardrums, but the tempo must have doubled.

 

Do they hear it now? Can they sense that something is wrong?

 

The man chuckles, the thunder from his chest making the room’s audio very percussion-heavy. “That’s what I thought. You know, we’ve heard a lot about you today, and we’re big fans. We just have a few more questions that we would like you to answer. Is that okay, Kitsuragi?”

 

“…Hnngh, I can’t really… I can’t answer any questions until… until you let me down.”

 

“I’m sorry to say that it won’t be that easy for you, Lieutenant. If you run off, we won’t be able to get our hands on you again.”

 

Normally, you would take a few deep breaths in a situation like this to calm your nerves, but trying to do that now would likely result in you passing out. You relax your arms slightly, drop one hand to your side…

 

And bring it back up with the pistol, pointed directly at the man’s chin.

 

It probably would be really fucking cool to say something to him, to rub it in that you’ve won. But you’re not exactly in a bragging mood when it’s a life-or-death situation, and you don’t want to give him any extra time to snap your neck.

 

A brilliant, piercingly loud flash rings out as the gun jolts in your hand. From your limited view, you can just barely see chunks of bone and specks of fat flying through your peripheral, the closest you’ll ever get to seeing your intruder’s face. The man’s arms tighten when the shot goes off, muscles reflexively tensing as his brain buffers to comprehend what just happened to his body. Just when you begin to fear mutually assured destruction, you and the attacker fall to the floor. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you shrug the massive weight of the man off your back, and he collapses with a wet thud. 

 

If only he had the privilege of dying instantly. But you can only watch in muted disgust as he writhes on the ground, grasping the tattered remains of his face, his obnoxiously red blood pouring from his arteries. He can’t even pray or cry out for his mother, all that comes out is a nauseating gurgle. The RCM allows for killing in self-defense, but you are not permitted to give a coup de grâce. Hopefully, the adrenaline will carry him over until he bleeds out.

 

The first time you killed someone, you made the mistake of apologizing. You won’t repeat that again.

 

You jump when you hear another gunshot from just behind your apartment door, from a weapon with significantly more firepower than your pistol. A few bullets fall out when you rustle through your pocket, before shoving another load into the muzzle of the Armistice. The chains holding your lock in place fall as the door is kicked open, the young woman from earlier seemingly transformed from the petite being she was masquerading as. Now that her body is in motion, you can see the way her clothes pull across some sort of armor.

 

Fuck.

 

No. Not again. This can’t be happening. Not now. 

 

And just like that, the short brunette lumbering across your living room has morphed into a towering redhead, her body coated in zirconium scales. You both stand on a pattern of ancient, opalised tiles, which have been frozen over in the chill of early Spring. A man with more of a resemblance to an insect than a person lies on the ground as blood gushes out of his eye. Beside the Whirling-in-Rags, a blonde has lost all sensation below his waist, suffering a fate that was meant for you.

 

You shut your eyes tightly and shake your head, before being teleported back into your bedroom. There’s still a man with his face blown off, though, and the woman before you seems more disappointed than anything as she stares at her deceased comrade.

 

“Huh, you did a better job fighting him off than I thought you would.” Now that all pretenses of civility have crumpled, her voice has lost its saccharin. She removes her own firearm from her jacket; a short, single-barrel shotgun. Immediately, you’re pointing the pistol directly at her head, the steel glowing where the sun hits it.

 

“Drop the firearm, or else.”

 

“Can I not put my friend out of his misery? Is that too much to ask for?”

 

“Yes, raising a weapon in the home of an RCM officer is too much to ask for. Now, drop it. ” The man on the floor seizes up, more liquid spraying out of the hole that was once his face. Sweat drops from your chin to the space between your boots.

 

The woman doesn’t raise her gun, keeping it down at her side. “I don’t think I want to be unarmed in the house of La Puta Madre’s finest. What even gives,” She looks around the apartment. “Do you not get paid enough to live in a place better than a crack den?”

 

“Why are you here?” 

 

“We were just here to ask a few questions. Although, I don’t think that things will be that simple anymore.” She uses her free hand to gesture towards the dying intruder. “From what we’ve heard, you’re one hell of a shot. Don’t know how you can be with those jam jars on your face. But I suppose your art speaks for itself.”

 

Your glasses feel slick on your face, and you fear that they will fall off with too sharp of a movement. “My art..?”

 

“Yes. In particular, the Oranjese mercenary you killed. The one you shot through a one-centimeter thick slit in his helmet.”

 

“Look, I do not take any pleasure in the fact that I killed him, but I had no choice. He would have gone on a massacre if I didn’t do it.”

 

She tilts her head to the side, before laughing. “Relax, cacasotto, I wasn’t that guy’s friend. In fact, I never even met him. But the fact of the matter is, we’re a bit worried about you and your partner. Harrier Du Bois, I believe is his name?”

 

“Who is we ?”

 

“Don’t answer my question with a question.”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own home. Need I remind you, you’re the one with the gun pointed at your head.” By this point, the gurgling from the floor has thankfully stopped.

 

“And if you kill me, someone else will take my place. No matter how great of a sharpshooter you are, you can’t kill everyone that comes after you. We only need to be successful once.”

 

“If I answer your questions, will you leave?”

 

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It depends on what you say. But if you’re nice, I’ll answer some of your questions, too. Will that make things better?”

 

“It will if you start with introducing yourself. Who are you, and why are you here?” You keep your pistol aimed at her head, and she seems ready to blow your chest open at any instant. A pen being dropped on the floor could result in both of you being obliterated.

 

“I’m an INSURCOM agent. So was my friend over there.” You recognize the sarcasm in her voice when she regards her colleague. “We’re here to investigate reports of terrorism within Revachol.”

 

“Terrorism? So you’re calling me a terrorist for doing my job?”

 

She clicks her tongue while shaking her head. “No, what happened in Martinaise was not terrorism. Well, at least it wasn’t terrorism on the part of the RCM. But we have evidence that certain officers within the RCM may be involved with the formation of a terrorist group. Not only do you seem very familiar with some of our suspects, but your gunmanship puts some of our most talented agents to shame. If you were to be a part of this terrorist group, then you could end up killing a lot of people.”

 

Of course, it would just be your luck that the greatest shot you’ve ever made would eventually circle around to hit you in the ass. “Look, madam, I don’t know anything about this ‘terrorist group,’ but you are sorely mistaken in regards to my shooting abilities.” For emphasis, you tap on the frame of your glasses with your less dominant hand. “The lenses on these are prescribed for severe hyperopia, and even with them on, my vision is not great. The greatest score for shooting I’ve ever gotten is a seven-out-of-ten, and that is considered average for an RCM officer. The shot I made in Martinaise was made by pure luck. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the super-soldier that you were hoping to find. I’m actually a painfully boring person.”

 

The agent continues to grip her shotgun, and if you could see that far, you assume that that tan skin on her knuckles would look pale. “If that was true, that would be so convenient. But you’re acting like I didn’t just see you slaughter a two-point-two meter tall monster like it was nothing. You might look all shrunken and scrawny, but I know what you really are. You’re a dented can full of botulism. You’re a bat with a mouth full of rabies. You are an infinitely small tzaraath prion. You’re… you’re…” She has run out of analogies. “As far as I know, I could be in the room with the most dangerous man in all of Revachol.”

 

“It’s not that deep. He didn’t realize that I was armed, and I was able to use that to my advantage. If I hadn’t have shot him, he would have-”

 

He would have killed me and my baby.

 

For a second, you consider telling her that you’re pregnant. Maybe if she knows about the existence of your fetus, she’ll spare you both.

 

But then you think things through. You are a man. If she doesn’t call you a crazy person for even implying that you’re pregnant, then she’ll know that you’re a transsexual. And if she figures that out… fuck, she might get violent. People really are wildcards, in the way that you don’t know if they’ll be disgusted by you because of the shape of your eyes or your sexual orientation or the body you were born with. Everyone wants to have an opinion on if you should even exist, and you’re so fed up with being a topic of debate.

 

And even if she doesn’t attack you upon learning of the gender you were assigned at birth, she might just not care that you’re pregnant. She certainly couldn’t care less for the drained corpse that was her partner. It would be humiliating, begging for her to pity you enough to let you live, only for her to shoot your stomach open. Bleeding to death on the ground while you can only think, sorry kid, I was too inept of a police officer to protect us. 

 

The agent creeps through your bedroom door, but you don’t move back an inch. You think that you look more stoic than she does right now, the skin on her neck tightened in a perpetual swallow. She stops just beside your bed, attempting to corner you into your closet, but you won’t yield to her nonverbal commands.

 

“I heard you got hurt really bad in Martinaise. A popped lung, wasn’t it?” She rasps out.

 

“Did the Moralintern tell you that?” 

 

“We have our sources.” She grins. In her hunched position, you can see the way her armor is tucked beneath her hoodie. The dark material just barely goes above her collar bones.

 

“Well, I also have my sources. And my sources tell me that you should watch out for my partner behind you.”

 

The agent doesn’t even turn her head, but she does start to glance to the side. Her muscles twitch in a way consistent with twisting at the hips.

 

As hard as you can, you kick her at the side of her right knee. Luckily, her armor is no Fairweather T-500, and it is very flexible at her joints. You wonder if it’s bioinspired, like the armor crafted in Gottwald. Her leg doesn’t completely buckle at the blow like you had hoped, but it does knock her off balance. She topples head first onto your nightstand, a sickening crack coming from her neck.

 

You waste no time grabbing your radio and running out your bedroom door. She must have snapped her neck when she fell, there’s no way she-

 

Behind you. Look behind you.

 

As if you have eyes on the back of your head, you can see her pulling out her shotgun. Blood is pouring down her lip as she begins to squeeze the trigger. 

 

Rubber soles scrape the floor as you turn around, firing as soon as she is in the sight of your physical eyes. Her neck explodes in a cloud of red mist, eyes disappearing as her head tilts backwards impossibly far. That’s the last you see of her, there’s nothing to gain by gawking at her corpse.

 

As you leave the apartment, you think back to what the man said about Precinct 57. If he was being honest, then your precinct is probably swarming with Coalition agents. Will your brothers in arms do anything to help you? Would you do anything to help someone in this same situation?

 

God, you don’t know. But you do know one thing.

 

Harry will help you. And it sounds like he needs your help, too.

Notes:

This was an interesting chapter to write.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Summary:

Harry, Jean, and Kim find that their search for Cuno has landed them in a bigger mess than they anticipated.

Notes:

Warning for slurs and violence. Very long chapter ahead, longest one yet.

“Just humor me for a second. If, and I do mean if, Cuno is here somewhere, then how are we supposed to tell which fucking lorry he’s in?”

 

It took every bit of rhetorical prowess you have to drag Jean over here. After spending a few hours staring out at Central Jamrock, the shivers coursing through your vertebrae eventually narrowed to your current location: A lorry park within the Eminent Domain. Now that it has approached sunset, long shadows from the 8/81 motorway divide the sand-gravel paving that crackles under your weight. Landowners have mostly given up on erecting new buildings within the Eminent Domain, not wanting to compete with the constantly expanding motorway. The creation of lorry parks has been an effective alternative, with less costs being sunk into installations than a permanent home. 

 

The residents of the lorry park are primarily harbour workers, and most have not yet returned to their homes. You imagine that they are probably still working or attending local clubs, drinking and sleeping around to soothe the aches from their labor. Nearby, a woman sits on the porch of a Faln A-Z, decorated with lawn chairs and a tiny grill. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and swirls a glass of wine in her hand, watching as her two young children play in a pit of mud. Later tonight, she’ll have quite the mess to clean up. Across from her, three young men attempt to toast marshmallows in a small fire pit, which is filled with rubber insulation. When one of them manages to not burn his marshmallow, it still ends up with a distinct chemical flavor. 

 

Dogs are obviously a hot-commodity within the RCM right now, as you and Jean were not able to get your hands on one all day. While you were pondering beneath the shadow of the aerostatic, Jean kept calling back Precinct 62 until Pidieu refused to connect him again. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Vicquemare, but I cannot accept your request.” Pidieu said. “I will connect you to Precinct 62 when a hound is available, but badgering them like this won’t do anything good.”

 

You begin to dig your meaty fingers into the skin above your parietal bones. Maybe if you give your brain a good enough squeeze, you can force yourself to shiver one more time. 

 

“Give me a second, Jean, I think I’m close.”

 

“You said that four hours ago, shitkid. But look at this place, it’s a fucking labrynth with all these lorries. And if it’s true that Cuno is juiced up on some new magical hyper-drug, then we don’t have the time to search through every lorry before he croaks.”

 

Drama - Whew, listen to the sarcasm in his voice! Sire, he thinks you’re full of shit!

 

Suggestion - Have you always been this way? So deeply entwined with the city, the corps, and the objects surrounding you? Did these quirks only emerge after your mind was wiped? Is that why Jean is looking at you like you’ve just escaped the looney bin?

 

If you aren’t going to shiver again, then you’ll have to go off of what you already know.

 

Visual Calculus - The interior of the lorry was difficult to make out in your vision, given the darkness in the room. This may have been a result of the blinds being closed, but it’s also possible that the windows were boarded up. The room was decently large, with dimensions of approximately three-by-nine meters. At some point, this trailer had a small kitchen and dinette, but these were likely stolen after the lorry was abandoned. The tattered remains of a couch were filled with maggots, evidence of some small entrance for flies to enter through.

 

Passing through the hallway, there was a small bathroom on the left side. The room at the end of the trailer was probably just large enough to hold a king-sized bed and a nightstand. Nothing of any value remained inside the trailer, silhouettes on the wooden walls and carpeted floor marking where objects once were. There were patches of carpet missing, revealing cornflower blue tiles. The tiles were splattered with black mold, making you think that the trailer was either left in a damp area or it has just been abandoned for several months. Given the state of the trailer, it is probably the latter option.

 

“There’s black mold in the trailer… I can see it.”

 

“Really.”

 

“Yes, really.”

 

“So are you implying that we go sniffing around, trying to find trailers that smell like mold? Would be convenient if we had an animal that could do it for us.” Jean grasps the black bag containing Cuno’s clothes. “And even if we had that animal, it wouldn’t matter because it would just need to find Cuno’s scent, not the scent of mold.”

 

No good. You shut your eyes again, returning to the trailer. 

 

Visual Calculus - Let’s step back a bit and look for anything that could identify the model of the trailer. There’s no evidence that bunk beds were ever present, meaning that this model was likely intended for adventurous singles or young couples. Where a hole was busted into the wall above the dinette’s former location, you can see layers of wood, steel beams, insulation, and eternite. 

 

Encyclopedia - When trailer homes were first popularized at the beginning of the century, the outside walls were typically made from aluminum sheets. Aluminum was cost-effective and unable to rust, but it soon became obsolete due to its tendency to corrode in Revachol’s chloride-rich air. After eternite’s invention in the early twenties, it became the favored choice for paneling maritime homes because it was supposedly resistant to corrosion. By the time the early forties came around, the health risks of eternite were well-documented enough that most automobile companies stopped creating trailers with eternite paneling. That gives you a twenty year span that this trailer could have been manufactured in.

 

You’re so close, all you need is one more clue to narrow it down. The muscles in your temple pulse as you concentrate on the room in your mind. Was there anything you missed? You go over each object again, trying to see if you missed any detail. It’s just so difficult to concentrate when the room is so dark…

 

Wait.

 

The windows.

 

It’s very likely that the windows were tinted. Tinted windows aren’t unusual in trailers and lorries, but the tint usually makes it dark from the outside view. This is an internal tint, which has a more specific purpose.

 

Encyclopedia - In the early thirties, Faln released the Faln Infiltrator series of camping trailers that were advertised as being safe for pale travel. According to company spokesmen, the tint of the windows and eternite paneling were protective measures against pale exposure. Multiple lawsuits against the company followed the releases of the Infiltrator series, as multiple occupants of the trailers experienced severe mental degradation as a result of unprotected pale travel. The trailers were only produced from ‘31 to ‘34, with the models from each year being given the monikers of I-1 to I-4.

 

“Jean, I think I know what model we’re looking for. It may be a Faln Infiltrator.”

 

“An Infiltrator?” The name is vaguely familiar to him. “Wait, weren’t those all recalled when people went batshit inside of them?”

 

You stroke your chin, trying to remember. “I don’t know if they were recalled, but even if they were, it’s possible that some people still kept theirs.”

 

Jean takes a look at his watch, and another look at the radio in his hand. The radio remains dormant, no incoming calls from Precinct 62. “Fine, I guess we have nothing else to do.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Only one Infiltrator exists on the property. This makes sense, given the limited release of the model. The jet-colored panels are wrapped in overgrown nutsedge, and the trailer looks like a bunker the way it juts out of the weeds. As you and Jean approach the trailer, your heart sinks when you see the hole on the wall facing you, at the same height you saw in your vision. 

 

You sprint the rest of the way to the door, ignoring the cramping in your leg and Jean’s dismayed shouting. The weeds around the door have been trampled, making it clear that someone has entered the trailer recently. 

 

Physical Instrument - Let’s break this shit down, brother. Rip it off the hinges, show Jean that you’ve still got it.

 

It hardly takes much to fling the door open, the rusted hinges cracking from the force. As soon as you enter the trailer, you are hit with the overwhelming musk of mold, which is thriving in the hot, damp atmosphere within. 

 

In the middle of the room, just like you had witnessed, a boy with shaggy red hair sits, head in his hands. He’s not startled by your entrance, but he does sit up just enough to stare at you between the gaps in his fingers.

 

You’re crossing the floor of the trailer faster than you can even think, blubbering sobs of relief spilling out of your throat. The trailer shakes slightly as Jean enters, watching as you begin to fuss over Cuno. It’s difficult to see with your eyes full of tears, but you try to check him over for any injuries. Aside from the insertion point of the cannula, there are no other physical wounds.

 

Cuno winces as you hover around him, still weeping. “I’m happy to see you, too, but could you be a bit quieter? My head hurts like hell right now.”

 

“Cuno, I…” You sniffle, before using your sleeve to wipe the snot from your nose. “I was so worried. When they used that machine on you, I thought… I thought you would-” 

 

“How the fuck do you know about the machine? You weren’t here when they did that shit.” 

 

“No, I wasn’t here, but I could see it. I can see things from far away.”

 

“So I guess you’re magical. That’s cool, I fuck with magic.”

 

Jean places one hand on your shoulder and the other hand on Cuno’s knee. “Cuno, do you think you feel well enough to tell us what happened?”

 

“Yeah, I feel great, I’ve never felt better.” He’s having difficulty opening his eyes more than halfway, eyelids twitching from the effort. “I got snatched when I was taking out my garbage to the dumpster. I could have fought them off if I wanted, but I didn’t want to humiliate them, you know. Besides, they could have blown my brains out if they felt like it. And I didn’t want to get iced.”

 

“We don’t blame you for what happened.” There’s a softness to Jean’s voice that you’ve never heard him use with Cuno. “You’re a kid, there’s no way you would have been able to win in a fight against two adults.”

 

“C would have been able to do it.” 

 

“No, she wouldn’t have. The same thing would have happened to her that happened to you.” Jean checks the bruises on Cuno’s arm, and the boy seems just a bit more relaxed.

 

“Do you know why they were interrogating you about the events in Martinaise?” You ask.

 

“Yeah, apparently you’re terrorists.”

 

As you watch the color slowly drain from Jean’s face, you wonder if you look as pale as he does.

 

“Huh, I guess it’s true, then. Just when you think you know someone.”

 

“Did you tell them anything?” Jeans rasps out.

 

“I didn’t tell them a thing, my lips were sealed. But that didn’t really matter in the end, not when they can just go into your brain.”

 

The corners of Jean’s eyes turn dark as he stares at you, not turning his neck. He remembers the device you told him about, the drug you saw in your visions. 

 

Cuno continues. “They wanted to know a lot about you and Jean, but I think it was the binoclard they were most interested in. They kept asking about that one guy who got shot through the helmet. I… I swear I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want them to know anything. But once they injected that shit, I just couldn’t… there was nothing I could do…” He trails off.

 

Empathy - Cuno is not used to apologizing, but he feels remorseful. As far as he is concerned, he betrayed you and Jean.

 

“So I guess that’s confirmation that the Moralintern is onto us.” Jean whispers, slowly craning his neck around. “And I think they’ve found their first target.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

The Kineema jolts as it runs over another pothole. On any other day, you would be worrying about the possibility of a bent axle or dented wheel. But these things seem rather frivolous when you’re in anticipation of a bullet shattering your window and penetrating your windpipe. Your field of view is limited when you drive like this, crouching in the seat to try and hide behind the Kineema’s doors.

 

Your radio begins to trill, and you suck in a sharp breath at the thought of who could be on the other side of the line. It might be Alice, asking you to come to Precinct 57. Telling you that Captain Hirsch has finally permitted you to come back to work, and that they just need you to drive over. Her voice trembling as she fights back tears, knowing that she has resigned you to a fate delivered by the brown suits invading her office…

 

When Harry’s voice fills the car, your heart rate drops just a bit.

 

“Kim, are you there?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you somewhere safe right now?”

 

“I…” You’re not sure how to put this lightly. “I’m driving right now. I’m crossing the 8/81 highway into Central Jamrock.”

 

“Look, Kim, I can’t go too much into detail, but you’re in danger. There’s someone after us, and I think they’re targeting you in particular. You have to hide-”

 

“I know.”

 

“What? You know? How?”

 

“Because two people just came to my apartment.”

 

You hear Harry begin to panic, nonsense flowing out of his mouth before he can even conceptualize what to say. “Shit, did you get hurt?” He finally manages.

 

“No, I didn’t get hurt. I didn’t let them.” You don’t say anything else, you know Harry can fill in the blanks.

 

“Kim, I’m so sorry that you got wrapped up in this mess. I can’t explain things now, but Pryce will have a plan. Meet up with him at Precinct 41, and he’ll explain the situation. We should be there soon, we have Cuno with us now.”

 

“You found Cuno? Is he doing alright?”

 

“Uhm, he’s a bit groggy, but I think he’s getting over the worst of it.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘the worst of it?’”

 

“It’s a long story. All you need to know is that he’s fine. I’ll tell you everything later.” Without a conclusion, Harry drops the call. You’re left to resume the trek to Precinct 41 by yourself. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

It takes you five minutes to leave your motor carriage and cross the parking lot. The entire time, you monitor every distant building, any obstacle you can hide behind, and anyone who is walking by on the streets. It would be so easy for them to just pull out a rifle and assassinate you in broad daylight. There wouldn’t even be a trial, your corpse would just be handed over to the Moralintern to be disposed of. They’d cremate the remains of you and your fetus and flush them down the toilet somewhere.

 

You had heard that Precinct 41 was a converted silk mill, but it’s still jarring to see such an odd-looking building in person. The parabolic exterior of the precinct looms over you as you enter, immediately being met with the gaudiest room you’ve ever seen. The jade-green walls form a violent contrast with the shaggy red carpet, patterned with random swirls of orange and cyan. No one sits behind the front desk, but a few half-full cups of coffee dot its surface.

 

Whatever, you don’t have time to wait for someone. You walk past the desk and into one half of the symmetrical spiral staircase surrounding it. Once you make it up to the second floor, you see a sign that gives directions for the A and B wings. Third floor, C and D wings. It’s not until you reach the fifth floor that you’re able to find Pryce’s office. You lift your hand up to knock on his door, but you are interrupted by a second pair of footsteps.

 

In an instant, you have pivoted around, Armistice in your hands. A young redhead stands before you, both hands in the air.

 

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” He takes a step back. “I’m not one of them. You’re Lieutenant Kitsuragi, right?”

 

“Identify yourself.”

 

“Right. I’m Satellite-Officer McLaine. I work in the C-wing with Lieutenant Du Bois.” He fishes his badge out of the front pocket of a striped coat. When he flips the badge open, you see a photo of him from a few years ago, his red bob shorter and the sneer on his face less prominent. “See? We’re on the same team. No need to shoot.”

 

You lower your firearm. “Did Lieutenant Du Bois tell you I was coming?”

 

“Yeah, he gave us a call a few minutes ago. He sounded about ready to shit his pants. We heard you walking up the stairs, so I was sent up to get you. Pryce had us hole up in the C-wing since the whole station’s basically on lockdown right now.” Chester runs a hand over the bulge in his jacket where his holster lays, looking out the vast window overlooking the motorway. “Let’s go downstairs, I do not want to be out in the open right now.”

 

The two of you hurry back down to the third floor, muscles hard-wired to jump to the ground and shield yourselves from an ensuing ambush. When you reach the door to the C-Wing, a bald man in a fishnet tank top is waiting for you. He ushers you in before slamming the door, securing it with three locks.

 

“Any other word from Disco?” Chester asks the bald man, who you assume to be his partner.

 

“Nope. I’m hoping that this won’t be the end of Dick Mullen.”

 

“That would suck.” Chester says as you walk to the end of the room, passing through rows of desks illuminated with green lamps. “Dick Mullen and the Case of Moralist Invasion doesn’t sound like a good end to the series.”

 

Despite the taunting nature of their words, there’s a genuine concern in their voices. If something happens to Harry, their “Disco,” their “Dick Mullen,” then both will be sad. 

 

“Hey, Captain!” Chester calls to an older man who is crouched beside a desk, cleaning the inside of a rifle. “Kitsuragi’s here!”

 

The man, Ptolemaios Pryce, looks up at Chester. A bulky vest has been hastily applied over his suit, the RCM watermark staring out at you from his stomach. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. Lieutenant Du Bois has told me a lot about your investigation in Martinaise. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” He snaps the rifle closed. “But I guess we are not so fortunate.”

 

“I’m the one who is honored, Captain Pryce.” You don’t hold out your hand in greeting, now is not the time. “But I’m still trying to wrap my head around what is happening. Is this…” 

 

“ Le Retour? Yes, that is the plan.” There’s no need for him to elaborate. You’ve all heard the rumors, you know what it is.

 

“So you’ve been planning Le Retour. ” You whisper, mostly as confirmation to yourself. The events of today are slowly sliding into place.

 

“We have. I hope that’s not a problem for you.” Pryce smiles apologetically, as if to say it doesn’t matter if you don’t like it, you’re stuck with us now.

 

“I’m not bothered at all. Especially after what just happened.” Your fingers twitch, a sudden craving for a cigarette shooting through your nerves. “Before I came here, two INSURCOM agents came to my apartment. I think… I think you can tell how things went from there.”

 

The wrinkles on Pryce’s forehead crease. “I can tell how things went just by looking at you.”

 

You hold out your arms, seeing the specks of oxygenated blood coating the nylon. There are wet spots on your gloves where globs of fat and fragments of bone have fallen off. “This has not been a good day for me.” You admit, hit by an urge to take a shower. 

 

“I imagine it hasn’t. What weapon are you carrying right now?” Pryce asks while looking down at the rifle.

 

“I have my Armistice.”

 

“Seems like it worked for you today, but you’ll probably want something with more firepower soon.” Pryce gestures towards the ground. “We’ve been stockpiling weapons in the catacombs; we weren’t expecting to have to use them today. And it’s not safe to go out and retrieve them right now.”

 

“Wait, are you using Le Royaume to store weapons in?” You ask.

 

“What other catacombs are there in Revachol? Le Royaume has been part of the plan for a while. We’ve been using it to store our weapons, our armor, and other equipment.”

 

“Are you not worried that the cache will be found?”

 

“I would be, if it weren’t for the fact that there are over two-hundred kilometers of Le Royaume to work with, and that’s just what’s been discovered. We’ve spent a few years mapping out the catacombs, and we’ve created the most in-depth layout that has ever been made.”

 

“So you’ve been planning this for a while.”

 

Pryce smiles wistfully. “It started off as a dream between my father and I. Honestly, I’m not sure either of us thought it would really happen, but I’ve found good company in the RCM.” He looks towards a bespeckled man in the corner office. “Gottlieb was the one who convinced me to actually do it. He’s been my second-in-command for this project.”

 

“I should let you know, the Moralintern has been calling you terrorists for this. They’re going to be treating us as a terrorist organization.”

 

The captain chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Can’t say I didn’t feel like we were before. Again, I’m very sorry for you to have gotten caught up in our terrorist group.”

 

“I’ve been caught up in this terrorist group for twenty years. I vowed back then to protect Revachol with my life, and that hasn’t changed.” Technically, your vows haven’t changed since then, they’ve just gotten more complicated.

 

Pryce grins, before offering his hand to you. “It’s good to have you on the team, Kitsuragi.” 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You carry Cuno on your back into the Precinct. He has recovered enough to walk on his own, but his balance is too compromised to run.  When you kick open the door, Mack and Chester are waiting near the stairs, having been notified by Jean that you were arriving.

 

Mack’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit! What the fuck happened to the kid?” 

 

“Some type of experimental drug. I’ll tell you more when we’re in the C-wing.” While you walk up the stairs, a concern nudges to the front of your mind. “Did Kitsuragi make it here okay?”

 

“Yeah, he’s with Pryce right now. Looked like he had a rough day.” Chester answers.

 

“Is he hurt?”

 

“I don’t think so. He’s covered in blood and shit, but none of it is his.”

 

Half Light - And there it is, confirmation that sweet, sweet Kimothy is a killing machine. God, imagine what he must have done to those assholes. Just think about him, glistening with blood as he rips them to shreds. Way to fucking go, Kim!

 

Electrochemistry - He should do it to you. Just peel back every layer of humanity and mercy upon his flesh and turn into a monster. Wouldn’t it feel amazing, his eyes going black as he smashes the toe of his boot into your teeth? The bones in your face shattering as he slams you into a table? Oh, yes please, don’t mind if we have some of what you’re serving!

 

Upon entering the C-wing, your eyes scan the room for any glimpse of slicked black hair and thick lenses. Judit and Pryce are overturning desks and placing them against the windows, although these will do more to provide hiding places than to actually protect from any gunshots. In the middle of the room, a circular barrier has been erected. Kim has already taken notice of both you and Cuno, and he is quickly climbing through a crack in the barrier. Gottlieb follows him closely behind.

 

“Harry! What did they… what happened to Cuno?” Kim pushes aside a few ginger strands of hair, and frowns when he sees the yellow hue of Cuno’s eyes.

 

“Calm down, coinslot. Cuno wasn’t kidnapped by some old pervert. Some pigs from the Coalition went into Cuno’s head. Cuno will-” He yawns. “Cuno will be fine after a nap and some magnesium.”

 

You grimace at the slur, shooting an apologetic look at Kim. “He’s completely out of it. Coalition agents gave him some sort of experimental drug to interrogate him with, and it hasn’t left his system yet.”

 

Gottlieb places a hand on Cuno’s forehead, and pulls it back to find it covered in sweat. “This is not good. Take him to the barricade over there, and I’ll look at him more closely.” 

 

It takes a bit of effort to squeeze both yourself and Cuno into the barricade, but you’re able to lay him down in the middle. You remove your jacket and fold it a few times to form a makeshift pillow. As you lift up Cuno’s head over the coat, he shivers slightly.

 

“Hey, don’t just leave me here. I know those bastards are coming after us. Give me some iron and I’ll have your back. I won’t let you down again.” He attempts to sit up, but Jean quickly pushes him back down by the shoulders.

 

Kim crouches beside Jean, removing a handful of bullets from his bomber jacket before draping it over Cuno’s chest. The jacket has been recently wiped off with a paper towel, evident by the shallow brown smears on the nylon. “No. You’re going to stay here and rest while Gottlieb looks after you.” His eyes don’t leave Cuno’s face as he shoves the bullets into his pocket, lifting an eyebrow.

 

Conceptualization - Without as much as an ounce of effort, Kim is dripping with attitude. It’s strange to see a man with such a swan-like elegance have so much power in the most minute expressions. There is no triumph or remorse visible on his face, but he is still digesting the events of today.

 

Esprit de Corps - But something’s not right here, is it? Disregarding everything about the Tribunal and Le Retour, something else is troubling the Lieutenant. 

 

Perception (Sight) - It’s subtle, but he looks different. He’s gaunt, like he was when you met him for coffee, but he’s starting to fill out a bit. His elbows aren’t jutting out like they did before, and his stomach is beginning to soften up slightly. 

 

Empathy - You’ve put on some weight in rehab. For you, the softening of your stomach is representative of a very slow healing process. But it might mean something different for Kim. He might be stress eating due to being unable to work, or maybe he’s just putting on weight from the lack of activity. 

 

“Is something the matter, Officer?”

 

You look up from Kim’s abdomen and meet his gaze. It’s impossible to discern what he’s feeling from his facial expression, but there’s a slight redness to his ears.

 

“No, nothing’s wrong. Uhm, are you holding up okay? Like, after what happened?”

 

“It’s still happening, Harry. I better be fine, because-” He takes another look over the barricade, seeing Pryce handing a vest to Pidieu. “Because I think it’s about to get a lot worse.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Five hours pass, with a grand total of zero things happening. Cuno manages to nap for a bit, and his condition improves when he wakes up. His head still hurts, and you don’t have the magnesium to help him, but he’s not sweating like he was.

 

You have huddled in a circle, backs against the barricade and shoulders rubbing against each other. Pryce had anticipated the possibility of this happening, so the office does have supplies to keep you alive for a while. Rations, deionized water, a water heater, ammunition, medical supplies, and a radio receiver. Pidieu is currently kneeled over the receiver, occasionally wiping sweat from his brow. With each shift of the knobs, the harsh noise from the receiver changes.

 

Mack leans over Pidieu’s shoulder, staring as he operates the device. “Do you think this thing can even intercept whatever frequencies they use?”

 

Pidieu shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. They’re not going to be using HAM waves, and I doubt that this will get us near anything sophisticated. Even if I succeed, there’s a good chance that the message will be encrypted.”

 

“Maybe we should have been encrypting our messages.” Chester snorts. “Wouldn’t have gotten us into this mess.”

 

Jean stares at him, his eyes glazed-over. “You didn’t go blabbing off about it to anyone, right?”

 

“God, what do you take me for, some retard? Yeah, I totally went around telling my entire fucking family about this shit.” Chester’s voice takes on a mocking tone. 

 

Inland Empire - Chester brings up a good point: how did we get figured out? Every discussion that we had about Le Retour was in person, in the confines of Pryce’s office. And Pryce is not so inept as to not notice wiretapping within the building. 

 

“Wow, getting this guy in on this was a mistake.” Cuno says, lifting his head from Jean’s shoulder. “He’s clearly challenged.”

 

“Hey! That was a joke, stupid. And if I remember correctly, you’re the one who went and told the Moralintern.” 

 

Cuno pulls back a bit, flustered. “Pig, I didn’t even know about this shit! All I knew is that the binocard here bagged some asshole in Martinaise, and they wanted him dead for that!”

 

Kim removes his glasses and rubs his hand down his face, the movement pulling open his bloodshot eyes.

 

Perception (Hearing) - No matter how much you preen your ears, there’s too much going on for you to hear anything of any significance. The bickering, the radio, the heavy breathing…

 

“Chester, back up off the kid. He didn’t have anything to do with this.” Pryce demands, his voice low and cold. “And Cuno, no insulting Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” 

 

“I didn’t say anything to insult him.”

 

“ Junior Officer Kuuno de Ruyter. ” Pryce repeats, his voice an octave lower.

 

“Fine, I won’t call him a binoclard again.” At least, he won’t do it in Pryce’s presence. Hearing this, Kim gives Pryce a small, weary smile.

 

Pain Threshold - Where is the heavy breathing even coming from, anyways? Cuno doesn’t appear to be in pain anymore, and no one else got injured. Everyone here is stressed, but nothing has happened in five hours. As you stare at the rising and falling of everyone’s chests, no one is breathing heavily enough to make such a noise.

 

The entire circle of officers jumps when a shrill noise pierces the tension in the room, multiple pairs of arms flying for their holsters, when Pidieu apologizes. “I’m sorry, there was a harsh bit of pale interference there.”

 

Jean shakes as he lets out a deep breath. “I was ready to fucking kill someone.”

 

Logic - Would the Moralintern use radio signals to spy on the precinct? If there was a wiretap located in the building, there would be a risk of someone’s radio catching the signal, thus alerting the officers to the compromise. Is there any other way for your discussions to be recorded?

 

Shivers - In the basement of a former silk mill, calloused fingers grip the needles connected to a great machine. Occasionally, the owner of these fingers will pause, before taking a towel to wipe sweat from his greasy forehead. There are six needles in total, each one located over a spool of paper. Each roll of paper is already covered in differently-colored jagged marking. 

 

“I think I know how the plan got leaked.”

 

You don’t even realize what you announced until you’ve become the center of attention, the peanut gallery eagerly awaiting your hypothesis.

 

Composure - Come on, just say it. You know what’s going on.

 

Rhetoric - You don’t, actually.

 

“There’s a machine in the basement.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

The basement of Precinct 41 lacks anything of note. It had been used as raw material storage during the building’s time as a silk plant, but now it’s only used for the occasional maintenance checkup. There are lights, but they really accomplish nothing more than attracting moths, so you’re stuck with using the flashlight. 

 

Both Kim and Jean accompanied you to the basement, likely fed up with the anxious hive of insults and radio static. When Kim stands with his hands clasped behind his back, observing the dust that explodes into the air with each step, you feel a bit self-conscious.

 

“I swear, this is the only place in the precinct that’s like this.”

 

Kim’s nostrils flare. “You don’t have to justify it. No one goes down here. It might be a bit hazardous, though.”

 

“A bit? I’m surprised this place hasn’t gone up like a match.” Jean attempts to peer through the darkness before you, but the flashlight can only penetrate so far.

 

“Don’t say things like that, Jean. You might jinx us.” Looking around, you see the pileup of multiple decades worth of sediment. The occasional rotting piece of furniture provides a ruler to measure just how much dust covers each surface. You aren’t surprised: there’s not so much as a draft down here, the air is uncomfortably stagnant.

 

Jean opens his mouth to say something, before jolting back. You and Kim both turn to him, Kim reaching for his firearm, only to see a spider dangling centimeters away from Jean’s face. 

 

“Not a fan of spiders, Vic?”

 

“Shut up. You know how bad they can be around here.” 

 

“I mean, not really. You don’t really get venomous spiders until you go further south the Isola.” Kim ever-so-gently cracks open a nearby door, the bottom scraping up more dust into the air. As you poke the flashlight through, you can see his hand rest on his holster.

 

The room is mostly empty, save for an ancient emergency power generator that you are sure hasn’t worked for years. In the corner, there is a busted frame of a radio computer. Kim slides through the door and checks every side of the small room, skin glistening from the suffocating heat. 

 

Only, the heat is not so suffocating now.

 

“Kim, this room feels different. There’s fresher air coming in from somewhere.” You push the door in so you can enter, Jean following close behind.

 

Kim nods. “Yes, it seems to be coming from behind the generator.” He kneels beside the machine, trying to figure out the manpower needed to lift it… before pausing. Before you can ask him what’s wrong, he’s standing back up, reaching for his Armistice.

 

“I hear something.” 

 

Jean has already withdrawn his pistol. “What do you hear?” He whispers.

 

“…I don’t know. It kind of sounds like scratching noises.”

 

“I think that’s the machine I saw.” You whisper. “It had a lot of needles that drew on paper.” Stepping towards the generator, you prepare to lift it up.

 

“Shitkid, stop. Even if there is a machine in there, you don’t know what it does. For all you know, it could be dangerous.”

 

Esprit de Corps - He’s right, Lieutenant Kitsuragi thinks to himself. The muscles on his head tighten in memory of radio waves crashing through his skull.

 

“Then how about you two stay here while I go in and investigate.” You crouch down and place both hands on either side of the generator.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake… fine, let me help you before you give yourself an aneurism.” You scoot over to allow for Jean to take the other side. On the count of three, you lift it up.

 

Physical Instrument - Can’t you feel it? The way you’re functioning as one organism, lifting this giant chunk of metal? He’s not just your half-brother now: he’s literally your other half.

 

You don’t have to move the generator very far before you find the source of the breeze. A long time ago, possibly before you joined the RCM, a chunk of the wall had collapsed. Looking through the tunnel left behind, you’re stunned by what you see. 

 

The machine is massive, nearly taking up a three cubic meter space. It was built on-site, erected around a beam that goes through the entire building. Masses of variable size are suspended by springs above rotating drums. Dwarfed by the machine is a mousy old man wearing overalls caked in dust.

 

He doesn’t notice you when you crawl through the hole, too concentrated on the paper unraveling from one of the drums. Aside from the sounds of a tiny motor and the needles scratching against paper, the machine is extraordinarily silent.

 

“Hello there.”

 

The man looks up from the paper, surprised by the presence of another human.

 

“Oh, hi.”

 

Silence. 

 

You don’t know which one feels more awkward; the old man squatting in a police precinct’s basement with only his machine for company, or the officer who hasn’t slept in two days and is covered in shit. Luckily, Kim and Jean don’t take long in crawling up from the tunnel. Now there are three officers who haven’t slept in two days and are covered in shit, so you aren’t alone.

 

The old man clears his throat. “Well, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I’d offer to make you tea, but I don’t have any.”

 

“Sir.” Jean deadpans. “ You’re the visitor. This is RCM property that you have set up in. What even is this thing, anyway?” 

 

The man’s face wrinkles in a jolly smile. “I’m so happy you asked! This is something I’ve been working on, it’s my fully mechanical receiver. Well, I guess ‘receiver’ is not the right word, since there are no radio components to it. I would call it more of a ‘recorder.’”

 

Seemingly forgetting the circumstances, Kim surveys the machine. He leans in to admire the device, watching as it generates multiple pages of graphs. The sheets from each drum delicately fall into color-coordinated baskets.

 

“I think I see what’s happening. This is similar to a seismograph, right?”

 

Somehow, the old man’s grin grows even wider. “That is correct, officer! I was actually inspired by seismographs to make this device. Seismographs are useful for measuring earthquakes, but they aren’t most suitable for the intricacies of human voice. I created this device to record a more precise range of vibrations. Because it’s fully mechanical, there’s no need to worry about any interference. I just send the sheets where they need to go, and they use a radio computer to reassemble the noise. After that, they go through multiple stages of isolating all the different audio picked up through the process.”

 

“And where are you sending these sheets?” Kim’s tone shifts, becoming more demanding. 

 

“Can’t tell you, sorry. That’s a secret between me and my employer.”

 

“I think you can tell us when you’ve been living in our basement and recording our conversations. When did you even get down here?” Jean looks around the room, seeing the door just behind the old man. “And who the hell even are you?”

 

“Ahh!” The man smacks himself on his cheek. “I forgot to introduce myself! How rude. My name is Enzo. I was sent down here for the purpose of monitoring the city. Things have been so hectic here as of late, since that conflict in Martinaise, so I’ve set up my equipment in a few places to listen in. You know, make sure everything’s peachy keen.”

 

“So you’ve been living here for over two months?” Kim asks, glancing at the dark passageway behind Enzo. “How have you been able to survive down here for so long?”

 

Enzo laughs, the movement sending free layers of dust from his overalls. “I don’t spend all my time down here. I do go up from time to time to get groceries and sunlight. But it’s not all bad down here. Most of my operations are within old bunkers from the commune times, so there are some utilities that sort of work.”

 

“This was a commune-era bunker?” You ask.

 

“No, not this one. I was able to get into here through the old utility tunnels for the sewers. The entrance I use to get here is near the lake, so that’s why you haven’t seen me yet.”

 

“Jean, Harry? Can we talk amongst ourselves?” Kim gestures towards the tunnel you came from. You crawl back through to give yourself some privacy from Enzo’s ears, although it’s not like it really matters at this point.

 

“They know everything.” Kim removes his glasses and absentmindedly begins to wipe them, rubbing at no stain in particular.

 

Composure - He’s doing everything he can to prevent his despair from leaking through.

 

Jean’s hands shake as he pulls a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. With the cigar in his mouth, he shields the white tip with his hand as he struggles to create a spark from his lighter. When Jean manages to get the cigar lit, he breathes the smoke into his lungs. He exhales while holding the package out to you and Kim. You take one and put it into your mouth, leaning in to Jean so he can ignite yours with the tip of his. Kim does not take a cigar, instead turning away.

 

“Come on, Kim. If there’s any time to have your daily cigarette, it’s now.” 

 

“No, I don’t want to. I quit after I got injured, it agitates my lung. Besides, it’s better for my health this way.”

 

Jean takes another drag, and the smoke comes out in uneven puffs. “There’s not much use in arresting him, is there?”

 

“No.” You answer. “No there’s not.” Your lips twitch, fixated on the sensation of the paper tube against them. You lift it up to your mouth…

 

And then drop it upon a booming sound from above. The building shakes with so much intensity that you fear an incoming collapse, bits of drywall falling from above into an ocean of dust. Kim already has his Armistice out, searching for the best way to escape from the basement. “We need to get out of here!” He shoves you out of the door, before dragging Jean out by the collar of his shirt. Within seconds you reach the stairs, which rattle beneath your feet as you ascend them. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

When you ascend the stairs into the lobby of the precinct, the tense atmosphere has finally erupted into chaos. 

 

A gathering of officers from multiple different wings are able to explain the situation to you: a bomb had gone off near the holding cells of the building, resulting in the escape of nearly every suspect. The ensuing scramble to catch the most dangerous offenders has demolished the remaining order within the precinct. Occasionally, you see a suspect handcuffed to a railing or sturdy piece of furniture, flailing in an attempt to escape their confines. 

 

You hear the gunshots before you reach the C-wing. Entering the room, you see Chester and Judit leaning near the barricaded windows, rifles in their hands as they shoot at some unseen targets. Mack and Gottlieb stand in the middle barricade, wielding pistols to protect Cuno and Pidieu. When Mack sees you, his face has gone stiff.

 

“They’re here.”

 

“Where’s Pryce?” Harry asks as he enters the barricade, Pepperbox pistol in hand. 

 

Cuno’s eyes have gone wide from the commotion. “He said he went up to his office. There’s a mercenary running around, and he doesn’t want him getting any weapons.”

 

Harry turns to Jean. “I think he’s talking about Alexis.”

 

“Alexis?” You ask.

 

“Yes. He’s this mercenary from Graad that we arrested. If he gets his hand on a gun, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

 

“Then let’s split up. I’ll go up to check on Pryce in his office. You two go check any armories you have here.” You turn to leave, but are stopped by Harry’s hand on your shoulder.

 

“Kim, no. It’s not safe for you to go up there alone.”

 

You swat his hand off, immediately missing the heat from his body. “I’ll be fine, Pryce will be up there.”

 

“He might…” Harry’s voice lowers to a whisper. “He might not be.”

 

“Yes, but we don’t have time to waste. There’s a mercenary that may or may not be armed, and we have to find him.” As you leave, Harry’s calls after you mix with the shots from two rifles.

 

The door to Pryce’s office is cracked open when you arrive. You don’t rush in, instead pressing your cheek against the frame to look inside. An enormous oak desk is the centerpiece of the room, decorated liberally with decades’ worth of trinkets and decor. Pryce sits in his chair, and his face is flanked by two men in brown suits. Enough of his face is visible for you to see the blood draining from a gash above his eyebrow, dribbling onto his desk like a leaking soda can.

 

“-If you just end this here, think of all the lives you’ll save. You’ll be given a fair trial in Messina with the greatest lawyers in the world. We can even try and give you a plea deal, where we won’t prosecute any of your colleagues.”

Pryce sees you, you can tell by the way his pupils dilate at your appearance. Still, he keeps close eye contact with the shorter man, the muscles in his face occasionally twitching. 

 

“The lives I’ll save? And what about the people I will doom by not going through with this? You’ve all watched this city rot for the past forty years, and haven’t done so much as step in when the Occidental countries complain about trade prices getting too high. Do what you will to me: whatever it is, I’ll remain proud.”

 

The taller man shifts, giving you one glimpse of his pitch-black rifle before he slams the stock against Pryce’s neck. He barely even cries out as he falls out of his chair and out of your sight. 

 

Before the men have circled around the desk, a bullet has already been fired from your pistol. Half the head of the taller man explodes, his brains pouring out of the hole to form wretched stains on his shirt. You load a second bullet as the shorter man turns around, removing his own pistol from his holster. Within a second, both shots have rung out, and your skin breaks out in goosebumps as your right arm is grazed. Your shot hit the man just below his eye, and his body caves into itself, limbs continuing to twitch as he bangs his head against the side of the desk. 

 

With both agents incapacitated, you duck behind Pryce’s desk, your body in too much of an excited state for the movement to hurt your knees. The captain is gasping for air, eyes struggling to concentrate when you place a hand on his knee.

 

“Can you move your legs?”

 

He groans as he shifts his foot, and he begins to lift himself up off the floor. “Yeah, I can. I think it looked worse than it really was-” He slips, and you just barely manage to catch him before he hits the ground. 

 

“Take it easy, you got hit twice in very delicate parts of your body. Let's take you to Gottlieb.” You wrap his arm around your shoulders and lift him up to his feet. At first, most of his weight is supported by you, but he manages to regain his footing. 

 

You are just about to turn around to take him back to the C-wing when you’re suddenly on the floor again, with the added sensation that your skull is cracking open like a coconut on a hot beach. Warm liquid pours from your temple at an even greater velocity than Pryce’s wound, and when you press your fingers across the skin, you feel a deep gash, deep enough to possibly damage the skull below. The blow just barely missed the frame of your glasses, but the lenses are now of a poppy-colored hue.

 

Rolling onto your back, darkness ebbs at the view you have of your attacker. She has a brown suit, and you think she might have blonde hair. A silver object is held in her hand, which glistens with a thick, red substance. An ashtray. She hit you in the head with an ashtray, a few cigar butts falling out onto the ground. 

 

Pryce’s knees surround both sides of your head as he fires at her chest, an explosion of tissue covering as far as you can see. The blast from his rifle is so horribly loud, it just makes everything hurt even more. You want everything to just shut up, to stop, to give you some time to breathe. 

 

“Kitsuragi! Kitsuragi!” The noises are all a blur, likely due to the fact that you are fading in and out of consciousness. He taps on your shoulder. “Can you hear me? I’m going to get help!”

 

“My baby.” You don’t even hear the words, just feel them lift from your tongue. 

 

“...What?”

 

“My baby might be hurt. My baby might have died.”

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You and Jean managed to handcuff Alexis just outside of the armory, where he had been attempting to break into the gun lockers using two screwdrivers he had stolen from an office. He manages to look even more enraged than before, resembling Kim in the way he stands with his arms folded behind the beam. His red hair has become shaggy from the lack of grease, and his eyes are nearly black.

 

“You’re the strangest fucking pigs I’ve ever seen in my life. Mind you, I grew up during the Yugo-Graad Riots. I saw shit you wouldn’t believe. Cops locking hundreds in buildings just to firebomb them to the ground. Streets painted pink with a mixture of blood and fat, being cleaned up by teams of pigs before it could melt into the cement. But you, you-”

 

“Yes, you’re mad that you got arrested again. Maybe you should have tried escaping when you had the chance.” Jean checks the stability of the beam that you chained Alexis to, making sure there’s no spots of rust for him to shatter and escape. 

 

“This isn’t even about being mad. This is about this blind cunt right here.” He’s staring directly at you.

 

“How am I blind?”

 

“Because no matter how much you claim to be an extremist and a warrior for the people, you can’t see another one of your own when he’s right in front of you.” 

 

“You’re also a leftist?”

 

“Yeah, I am.”

 

Rhetoric - Be careful, he might just be trying to butter you up so you’ll let him go. Take everything he says with a heaping spoonful of salt.

 

“Okay, if you’re a leftist, then why did you become a mercenary for Saint-Batiste?”

 

Alexis points his chin down, straightening his spine to reveal more of his hulking figure. In the orange clothes provided to him by the precinct, the generous curves of his muscles are highlighted. “I have a family to support, you know. I didn’t want to join Kleber, but my dad had an injury that prevented him from working, and mom found it difficult to support four kids on her own. I had to hide my leftist leanings from them, I didn’t want to get kicked out. But I guess I did a decent enough job, since I was chosen to be sent here.”

 

You cross your arms as you eye him down, remembering the getup that you first saw him in. “You didn’t look like a socialist when I met you.”

 

Jean scoffs. “And what is a socialist supposed to look like?”

 

Alexis gives his own answer. “Honestly, they’ve become a pathetic sight in recent years. It’s not even an ideology anymore, it’s just become a theme for bourgeois book clubs at colleges. Little parties for manchildren who have never had to wipe their own asses, who sit around and sip tea, acting like they know a fucking thing about the world. They’ve become soft, weak, can't even run the distance from their bedroom to the kitchen.”

 

“So are you saying that you’re the real deal?” You ask.

 

He cracks his neck, veins pulsing beneath his skin. “Let me put it this way. When they sent me here a year ago, they put me into a tiny plane with four other mercenaries. Normally, things go fine when they shoot you through the pale, but I guess we were the unlucky ones. The plane malfunctioned, and we were stuck in the pale for over a week. I had to watch as everyone else lost their fucking minds. Screaming, crying, smearing shit on the walls, the only two of us that didn’t go nuts were me and the pilot. We had to fix that plane by ourselves and fly out of there. If it weren’t for us, all of us would have died. And do you want to know who saved us from death?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Mazov. We huddled next to each other and read through my copies of his manifestos, preaching the words of scientific communism. And it worked, the pale left us alone.”

 

Esprit de Corps - I wouldn’t be so sure, Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare wants to say.

 

“Why didn’t you have the others join in with the readings? It’s not very leftist to leave four people behind to rot. We’re supposed to make sure everyone gets taken care of.”

 

“Does ‘everyone’ include a bunch of mercenaries who have rape as their favorite hobby? Or slave owners? Women-beaters, genocidal conspiracy theorists, or serial killers? Face it, man, not everyone can be saved. You’ve become so soft that you're now the happy doormat to whatever evil piece of subhuman vermin wants to use you.”

 

  Physical Instrument - This guy thinks you’re soft! You might not have the washboard abs or sculpted pectorals that he has, but you could fling this guy around like he’s a sack of flour. 

 

Authority - Yes, show him what you’re really proud of. Show him who's got the biggest guns in the RCM.

 

“Check this out, big guy.” There was probably a thought at one point of rolling up your sleeves to show him your arm muscles, but things get horribly confused in the process. You unzip your pants and pull your cock out, its flaccid length resting against your hand. A chill goes through your body at the sensation of your most precious organ being out in the open.

 

Jean’s face is flushed a deep red, and he struggles to get words out as he stares at your penis. “Shitkid, what the fuck are you doing?” He doesn’t even look mad, just hopelessly confused as his mouth gapes open. 

 

Alexis’ lips tighten, before he snorts. “Wow. Nice dick, man. It kind of looks like a soda can, that’s cool. Don’t know what this has to do with anything though.”

 

Suggestion - I don’t know what you can do to salvage this, I’m sorry. Your best bet is probably putting your penis away and acting like that was intentional.

 

You try to cram your penis back into your trousers, but the humiliation is making you semi-hard. “Yeah, look at me, rocking with my cock out. You don’t want to mess with me, man.” After zipping up your pants, there is still a noticeable tent where your erection is. 

 

Jean lets out a mournful, mortified noise as he buries his face into his hands. Alexis is unable to copy the same gesture, instead just looking oddly disappointed, like you somehow managed to perform a limbo dance with his negligible expectations. 

 

“You know, aside from having a nice dick, I can also do other things. I can do things with my mind.” You point to your head with both hands. “This thing right here is really strong. I was able to almost make the tower from Nilsen’s journal with two other communists. You know, the tower of cigarette boxes?”

 

“Of course I know. Our thoughts are powerful, whether it be regarding the construction of towers or bean harvests. But there is one other experiment I’ve been thinking of recently. Well, as recently as a few minutes ago. And I think that you’re a good candidate for it. It regards our ability to protect ourselves from injury.”

 

Reaction Speed - In an instant, Alexis is already bracing his feet against the beam, pushing himself up, before kicking out with his right leg. On the tip of his boot, you can see a makeshift weapon that he constructed from a piece of sheet metal, which was fastened to the bottom of his boot. The piece of sheet metal is long and sharp, and is headed directly for your throat. 

 

Savoir Faire - You try to duck, but you trip on your own feet. The sheet metal does not slice open your throat, but the last thing you feel is it slicing through your face. For a brief moment in time, the metal coexists with your flesh and bones, before making an abrupt exit. 

 

Alexis is gone. Jean is gone. The precinct is gone. Kim is gone. In an instant, every single one of your problems has vanished. That was one nice thing that Alexis did. But there’s not really anything else to return to. All boundaries of your body are disintegrating into the darkness. You don’t notice it when it’s just your fingers and toes that have evaporated. But by the time oblivion has crept up your shins and devoured your shoulders, it’s already too late for you. Your skin, nose, tongue, eye, ears, they all dissipate into nothing. But you’re still there, numb and deaf and dumb. 

 

Ahh, yes, that’s right. Things are exactly as you want them to be, aren’t they? All those pesky organs and muscles, nerves and blood vessels, they’re all gone. Now, you can finally allow yourself to bathe in the beautiful absence of matter. 

 

But what about my face? That mercenary tore my face open! You beg without words or sound, just communicating through tiny electrical signals transmitted between the cells of your brain.  

 

What mercenary? There’s nothing here, you senile animal. The neurotransmitters in the reptilian part of your brain seem to growl. Why don’t you just accept the fact that you’ve ascended from the rotting, contorted strips of flesh that once contained you? You’re free now, and there’s no one that can take this away from you. Brother, the living have congregated in churches for millenia just to worship you. This is the highest plane of existence that all wish for.

 

Those strips of flesh aren’t as rotten as they once were. I think I’m doing okay.

 

Are you, though? Your limbic system pipes in. Or are you just empty? Your body is starving. You are so hungry for endorphins, sweet endorphins, and yet the well has run dry. There’s nothing left to pick you up, so you’re just left to have hoards of other apes tearing at your scarred organs. How much longer can you take it, Harry?

 

Having more endorphins does sound quite nice. Even without a digestive system, you manage to feel a craving for the rich, bitter tannins and yeasts that once filled your stomach like water.

 

And will that be enough to satisfy you, you greedy bastard? No matter what you run to in the world of the living, whatever poison you inject into your body to feel something, it will always be temporary. After the high wears off, what are you left with? The ancient reptilian brain asks.

 

Heartbreak. Disappointment. 

 

Exactly. Don’t you want it all to stop? You can stay here forever, if you’d like.

 

But my body still exists in the real world, and I think there are people alive that need me.

 

Who would ever need you, superstar? Your limbic system taunts. You’re a disgrace. Gallons of water are wasted through your constant drooling, the chasm on your face burning as your husk is checked for a fever. Like the ocean, your veins rise and fall, rise and fall, your body inflating with the infection that it barely manages to fight off. And it hurts, Harry. It hurts so badly. Your disgusting face gushes with pus and blood whenever your bandages are removed, the stitches dimple your inflamed skin. 

 

Maybe I shouldn’t wake up, then. Maybe I should just stay here for a while.

 

A while? The ancient reptilian brain chortles. Baby, once you’re here, you have to commit. This is your home, and you are never leaving. 

 

In that case, then maybe it’s best that I do wake up. Jean would be sad if I died. Kim would be sad, too. And so would Cuno.

 

You sense them, don’t you? Your limbic system asks. The weight of Kim lying beside you in your bed, the relief of Jean wiping your bare shoulders with a cool washcloth. The way Cuno sits on your bed and gawks at you. You’re like a family pet that has overstayed its welcome. When everyone sees you, they hope that you die soon for your own sake. Do you think they’ll feel happy when you open your eyes? It’s not like you have much of a choice. The sweltering heat on your wound is dragging you by the balls, forcing you back into the real world. 

Notes:

This chapter was a lot of fun to write.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Summary:

Harry wakes up, only to find himself in a world of shit. Kim isn't handling it much better.

Notes:

This chapter ended up a lot longer than I expected, I really thought it would be like 6000 words at most. It does get a bit suggestive at points.

Pain was the last thing you felt when you were knocked out, and it is the first thing you notice when you wake. The pain is not the fresh suggestion of discomfort you immediately feel upon being injured. No, it’s the dull, festering agony of a wound that is in the middle of healing. Your eyes feel as if they are glued shut, but trying to force them open activates the nerve endings across your highway of severed flesh. Without even touching your face, you know that it’s puffy and sore, like how it was when you first woke up in this cursed body. The aching in your sinuses makes it difficult to breathe through your nose, and breathing through your mouth just increases the unbearable dryness in your throat.

 

You begin to cough, disturbing the thick pools of mucus in the depths of your lungs. The coughing brings tears to your eyes, and the moisture is enough to allow you to crack them open. Thick crust clings to your lashes as you try to get used to the harsh light above… only, there is none. There is no light fixture beaming torment into your eyes, just polished stone. For a while, you just lay on your back, your face continuing to throb in pain.

 

Perception (Hearing) - Aside from an electric buzz that’s just barely noticeable, it’s quiet. You’re alone. 

 

Fuck, where even are you? Did you get thrown into a dungeon by the Moralintern? Shit, that’s definitely what happened. You all got arrested, and they’re going to give you a public execution in Advesperascit. Vesper citizens will crowd around to see all of you get hung to death, purchasing snacks from nearby street vendors so they can have dinner and a show. They might even hang Pryce from a few inches to keep him alive longer, his final memories being suffocated while styrofoam cups and wrappers are chucked at him.

 

The thought has you jolting up, trying to hoist yourself onto your elbows, but it’s like someone rearranged every bone in your body to make them fit wrong. Shit, did they experiment on you when you were unconscious? Your ribs ache as your heart pounds against them, sweat puddling beneath your armpits.

 

“Harry, Harry, it’s okay!” A pair of thin hands have clasped onto your shoulders, pulling you back down. “You’re okay, we’re safe. Breathe.”

 

“…Kim?” You splutter, feeling as though an elephant has its foot on your abdomen.

 

“Yes, it’s me, Kim. We’re okay, Harry. We’re okay.”

 

Empathy - He’s trying to convince himself, too.

 

You lay your head back against the pillow, sinking back into the damp cotton sheets. As you try to regain control over your breathing, you feel the outline of Kim’s hand on your bare chest. His fingers are delightfully cold, and you notice that he’s not wearing gloves. The tan lines on his skin rise and fall erratically. Kim is breathing deeply, inviting you to join in with his slow inhales and exhales. Occasionally, your breathing hitches when your windpipe is clogged by mucus, and Kim rubs your chest whenever this happens. By the time you’ve calmed down, there is still a gnawing hole in the middle of your face, but things are a bit more tolerable.

 

You turn your head, feeling the bandages clinging to your face. Kim is sitting on his knees with his hand still on your chest. Your heart sinks when you see that he is also injured, gauze wrapped around his head to keep wound dressing against his left temple. The lack of his glasses allows you to see the bruises creeping along his cheek. 

 

“Kim, oh god…”

 

“It’s okay, it’s not as bad as it looks.” He lays back down, his face close to yours. His fatigue is palpable; the bags under his eyes are red and angry. 

 

“It looks pretty bad.”

 

“I know it does. I’ve looked in the mirror.”

 

“The mirror?” You try to lift your head, but this just makes you feel vaguely nauseous. “Kim, are we down in Le Royaume ?”

 

“Yes. After what happened at the precinct, there was a lapse in gunfire that allowed us to flee down here. We were both unconscious when we were brought down.”

 

“Do you know if there were any fatalities?” 

 

“No one from the C-wing died, but I can’t say for sure that everyone else in the precinct made it out alive. Gottlieb’s still down here with us, and so are Cuno and Pidieu. The others are on the surface right now.”

 

“So Jean’s out there fighting?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

The worry on your face must be obvious. Kim traces the scars on the back of your hand. “He’s in good company, Harry.”

 

“I know he is.” You force yourself to sit up just enough to make out your surroundings. The makeshift hospital has been set up in one of the countless chambers of Le Royaume. The room is cube shaped, each of its six walls primarily composed of granite. Power cords run through the doorless entrance, which you assume lead to a power generator. The room is illuminated with old surgical lamps that had been purchased from nearby hospitals. A few desks contain medical equipment, and there is a portable water heater. Looking around, you see the mirror on one of the desks. Your tongue goes even dryer.

 

“Kim, how bad is it?”

 

“How bad is what? Le Retour ?”

 

“No. My face.”

 

He stares at your bandaged face for a few moments, eyebrows furrowed as he thinks of the right words to say. Eventually, he lifts his hand to stroke your forehead with his thumb.

 

“I’ve seen your injury when Gottlieb has changed your bandages. The wound itself is… pretty bad. You’ve been unconscious for three days, and it got infected for a while. I think you’re just now fighting off the infection. Some of the cartilage in your nose was damaged.”

 

You close your eyes, trying to focus on Kim’s touch rather than the rapidfire concepts of how you now may look.

 

“But as for your face, it’s still you. I can still clearly recognize you, and… I still think you’re handsome. If that means anything.” Even this brief moment of honesty has Kim’s ears glowing a bright red.

 

Despite everything, you chuckle. “Guess I’ve still got it.”

 

Kim smiles. “Yes, you do.” He readjusts himself on the pillow, before wincing. His eyes are tightly closed and his breathing is strained.

 

“Kim, are you sure you’re doing okay?”

 

He opens one eye, before blinking open the other. “I’m fine, it’s just a bit sore. Gottlieb has treated it to the best of his ability, but I do have a mild concussion.”

 

“What happened to you?” 

 

“When I went up to help Pryce, he was being attacked by Coalition agents. I incapacitated two of them, but a third snuck up and hit me with an ashtray.”

 

You should tell him that he was being a dumbass, going up by himself during the middle of a siege. But you don’t have it in you to be cross with him.

 

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Kim.”

 

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t do it.”

 

“I should have told you everything. You know, about what we were planning.”

 

“I think you did try to, back at the café. You just didn’t do a very good job at it.”

 

“Yeah, that was stupid of me. I know you care about Revachol, Kim. You might care about it more than any of us.”

 

“You don’t have to turn it into a competition, Harry. But I’m glad you recognize that.” He closes his eyes again, and his body language suddenly changes. It’s subtle, but he’s not relaxed anymore. His muscles have become a shell around his body, and not as a response to pain.

 

“Harry, I think you should know, there’s one thing I am thankful for.” He considers his next words carefully. “It might sound strange, but I’m glad they hit me in the head instead of my stomach.”

 

Kim is right. That does sound strange. Getting hit in the stomach sucks, as you’ve found out from getting fly-kicked by Cuno, but getting hit in the head is even worse. What even is in Kim’s stomach that he is more concerned about than his brain?

 

And with that, everything clicks into place.

 

The missed calls. The dietary changes. The vomiting. The refusal to take a cigarette. The weight gain. The failure to pull out.

 

Your eyes go wide, staring down the man lying beside you. He doesn’t meet your gaze, instead beginning to pick at his already short nails. 

 

“Kim, I’m sorry if this is… look, I don’t know if this is a weird question, but are you… you’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

 

“Is it mine?” You don’t know if this is the right thing to say, but this revelation has completely evaporated all wells of social sensibility within your mind. 

 

“Yes.” He whispers.

 

“This is from the night at the Whirling-in-Rags.”

 

“There’s no other time it could have been.”

 

“Oh god, you were pregnant when you got shot?” You’re too stunned to be embarrassed by your voice cracking. 

 

“No, not necessarily. Fertilization had happened, but the zygote hadn’t been implanted yet. I don’t know how it managed to implant itself after everything my body went through.”

 

“Wait.” You sit up, before feeling a strange tugging at your junk. When you cross your legs, you feel a tube snaking up your thighs through your pants.

 

“Harry, stop. You have a catheter in right now.” Kim sits up beside you, becoming slightly light-headed from the movement. “Don’t move too much, you might rip it out.”

 

You plant both hands on Kim’s shoulders. “Kim, when you got hit in the head, did the baby..?”

 

Kim frowns, before shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s still too small to hear its heartbeat with a stethoscope. And we don’t have ultrasound equipment down here, since this is obviously not something Gottlieb could have predicted. Besides, the equipment probably wouldn’t work this deep underground. But if it makes you feel better, there hasn’t been any bleeding.”

 

Composure - Even while talking about the possibility of his baby being harmed, Kim is still trying to project an aura of assurance. But there’s a shy tenderness in the way he rests his hand against his belly, a movement he might not have noticed.

 

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” You ask, trying to make your voice as soft as possible without being patronizing.

 

Kim looks down between his legs, taking a while to answer. “Anyone would be.”

 

“It’s okay to be scared. I feel scared. The others are all scared, too.”

 

He looks away, tuning you out. He has heard this many times before, it’s gotten old. “I know. It’s just that it feels different for me.”

 

“How so?”

 

Kim pulls his legs up, resting an elbow on each knee. He does not like what he is about to say. “Because there’s just an inherent vulnerability to my condition.” His deep breathing has resumed, but now for the purpose of soothing himself.

 

“How long have you even known about this?”

 

“I’ve known since I was seven weeks along. I’m twelve weeks along now.”

 

“And have you told anyone else?”

 

“Aside from Pryce and Gottlieb, no.”

 

“Oh, Kim.” There’s a lump in your throat at the realization that Kim has been bearing this burden by himself for five weeks. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Slowly, you reach out for him, testing the waters for how much physical touch he’s comfortable with. He allows you to wrap an arm around his knees, but he pulls away when you try to do the same with his shoulders. As such, you decide to just rhythmically run your hand across his shin.

 

“I don’t know.” He admits, looking away. “I just don’t want people to see me differently. And I didn’t want to spring this on you when you’re already dealing with so much.”

 

Tears are beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. “Kim, all of us are dealing with something, but that doesn’t mean you have to face the world by yourself. I wish I had been there for you earlier.”

 

“I was planning on telling you. I really was. But I just didn’t know how.”

 

You are extremely careful with wiping your tears, but your face still spasms in pain. “Well, I know now, and that’s all that matters.”

 

The shadows beneath Kim’s cheeks grow. “Harry?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Can you promise me something?”

 

You hesitate. “It depends on what it is.”

 

“Don’t tell anyone else about this. I’m not ready for everyone else to know. And I don’t know how things will go with some people.”

 

You give his knee a quick squeeze, ignoring how this goes against every one of your instincts. “Okay, I promise I won’t tell anyone, but what are you going to do? It’s not safe for you to go out fighting in your condition.”

 

“I can’t exactly go back to my apartment, so I have no choice but to stay here.” He brings his knees closer to his chest. “After I heal, I’m not sure what I’ll be doing. It will look suspicious to the others if I never go to the surface.”

 

Half Light - They haven’t had enough, have they? The Coalition just keeps taking and taking and taking. Even after they wounded Kim, put your *baby* in danger, they still aren’t satisfied. You know what you have to do, Harry. Hornet in a beehive. Once you’re finished ripping those brownsuit cunts limb from limb, they’ll never hurt Kim again.

 

“Harry, you’re grinding your teeth. Stop before you hurt yourself.”

 

You ease the pressure in your jaws, but it’s already too late. Another wave of pain tears your face, feeling like a rubber band being snapped against your nerves. Not even considering the consequences, you lean forward and rest your chin on Kim’s head, his thin hair rubbing against your chin. He instinctively places both hands on your chest, fingers squished into your soft pectorals.

 

“You’re in pain. Here, let’s get you lying down so I can get you some medication and water.” Despite his injured state, his arms are strong and steady as they ease you onto your pillow. As soon as he retracts his arms from beneath your back and leaves the bed, you already feel homesick for his gentle embrace. He’s not even gone for a minute, and yet you feel palpable relief when he re enters your vision. 

 

“Kim?”

 

“Yes?” The springs of the bed creak as he climbs back on. A surgical lamp is directly behind him, his skin shimmering a soft blue.

 

“Are you real?”

 

Kim frowns as he places a hand on your forehead, before putting it on his own for comparison. “Your temperature is still high, this should help.” He drops a few pills of varying shapes into your hand. After you insert the pills into your mouth, he brings a water bottle up to your lips and tilts it upwards. The moment the water reaches your mouth, you’re desperately gulping it down. You didn’t realize just how thirsty you were, but the water is delightfully sweet and cool. Within seconds, the bottle is empty, and you’re not sure if Kim is impressed or concerned by the speed at which you drank.

 

“You’re ethereal. You must have come from my dreams.” You wipe your mouth with your hand.

 

“Sshhhh, take it easy, okay?” He tries to hide it by turning his head, but you can see the muscles on his injured side twitching.

 

“Are you not going to take anything for your head?” 

 

“No. I don’t think that anything strong enough to dull the pain would be good for…” He doesn’t say it, and it dawns on you how awkward this conversation must be for him. Within the course of a few minutes, the dynamics of your relationship have changed forever.

 

“Then you should take it easy, too. Come here.” You raise your arm above the space in bed beside you. Kim looks at the divet in the bed for a few moments, not blinking a single time. Eventually, he gives in and gently lays back down, although not close enough for your bodies to touch. The two of you can smell each others’ breaths, and his breath carries the scent of stomach acid.

 

“You’ve been sick today.”

 

“So you can smell it.” His nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry, it’s gross.”

 

“I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you.”

 

“I think it’s just morning sickness. It should pass in a few weeks.”

 

The dull gnawing in your abdomen is no longer panic: it’s shame. “I’m such an idiot for not realizing sooner.”

 

“No, you’re not. The odds of it happening were so low, not even I thought much about the possibility until I found out.” He pats you on the shoulder and smiles. “Give yourself some grace, I’ve been able to handle this.”

 

Just as you consider leaning in and pressing a kiss to his eyebrow, you are startled by a sudden voice.

 

“Is piggo awake?”

 

Kim doesn’t need to answer Cuno’s question, as you’re already turning in bed to face the entrance. The boy stands beside Gottlieb, looking significantly better than he did when you found him in the trailer. His eyes are no longer stained yellow and he’s not soaked in his own sweat. Cuno’s expression contains a mixture of barely contained disgust and a bit of pity. He approaches you slowly, as if paranoid about setting off some psychological response.  

 

“I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. You got fucking trashed by that merc.” You don’t say anything, focusing on the way Cuno is biting down on the inside of his lip. “Shit was fucked, you were bleeding like a stuck pig when specky was stitching you up.”

 

“Specky?” 

 

“Yeah. That’s bino,” he points to Kim. “And that’s specky.” He points his other hand at Gottlieb, who is making a great effort to ignore him. “Since you’ve been out, these two have been my main pigs. We’ve done some bonding, blood-brothers type shit.” 

 

“It may be hard to believe, but he’s actually a decent help down here.” Gottlieb removes a thermometer from his bag and coaxes it under your tongue. “Looking after you and Kim, organizing our equipment, hell, he’s even prepared rations for us a few times.”

 

“The fuck you mean ‘hard to believe?’ Cuno works himself like a fucking mule, ‘til the skin is falling off his hands. It’s ride or die with me. It’s-”

 

“Your temperature has fallen, Harrier. Thirty-seven-point-nine degrees. And it looks like some of the swelling has gone down. How are you feeling?”

 

“I feel alright, just sore and tired.” And dazed, and terrified, and with a dull, throbbing pain in your stomach. 

 

“I gave him painkillers and some water before you arrived, I think he should be fine.” Kim says to Gottlieb. 

 

“Good, just don’t overdo it. He won’t get addicted to these ones, it’s just not good for him to have too many.”

 

“Do either of you know where everyone is?” You ask.

 

“The old guy’s holed up in the room a bit further in, where most of us have been sleeping. No radio signals can get down here, so he’s just been screwing around.” 

 

“He hasn’t ‘just been screwing around,’ Cuno. He’s been in charge of navigation.” Gottlieb wraps a blood pressure monitor around your bicep. “As for the others, they’ve localized their efforts around the coast, particularly in the harbor. The local unions have begun working with the RCM. Last I’ve heard, their current goal is to secure the perimeter of the harbor.”

 

Esprit de Corps - It’s morning, and the residents of the Greater Revachol Industrial Harbor have woken up to two light sources. One of them is the sun, its warm glow feeling inappropriate for the carnage that is taking place beneath it. The other is the burning remains of an aerostatic, slowly sinking into the ocean.

 

Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor John “Archetype” McCoy grins, blood pouring through the dry sockets where some of his teeth were knocked out. He pats the surface of a Revolution-era turret, which has gone unused for decades. The union workers around him spent multiple nights reworking it to work with armor-piercing bullets.

 

“That’s my kill count for the year.” McCoy laughs, before turning to Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare. Officer Vicquemare’s face is heavily bruised, and he is covered in layers of blood in different stages of drying. In the past three days, he has had to kill more people than he did in his entire career up to this point. Vicquemare does not laugh.

 

“Have they been down here at all?”

 

“A few times, yes.” Kim watches as the band around your arm inflates. “They don’t come down often, only if they need medical assistance or some rest.”

 

Gottlieb taps his finger against the monitor’s gauge. “Things are looking better with you, Harry. I think the worst has passed. Knowing you, you’re probably already raring to go fight in the war, but please just relax until your wound has sufficiently closed. Kitsuragi, I believe you’re up next.”

 

As Gottlieb begins examining Kim’s vitals, it dawns on you that Cuno is the only person in the room to not know about Kim’s condition. Shit, he was bad enough when he suspected that you and Kim were gay, how will he react when he realizes that Kim is pregnant? 

 

You guess you’ll have to figure something out, for all of your sakes. Cuno chats with Kim as he gets his vitals taken, and you realize that you now have two kids to worry about. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

“I want to see it. I want to see how bad the damage is.”

 

A few hours have passed since you woke up, and Gottlieb has returned to the medical bay to change your bandages. Cuno has left, presumably to go bother Pidieu, so you think that this is the best time to see your wound.

 

Gottlieb pauses, his scissors just about to slide beneath your bandages. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You have a tendency to be emotionally volatile, and this might send you over the edge.”

 

“Come on, doc. I can’t go the rest of my life without seeing my face, I might as well get it over with.” You look towards Kim, who is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room and writing something down in his notebook. The wrinkles on his forehead smooth as he snaps the notebook close. When he stands up, he has to hold on to the chair for a moment to steady himself. 

 

“Harry, are you sure you feel up to this right now?” Kim asks, his stance uneven as a result of his dizziness. 

 

“You said that I’m still handsome.”

 

Kim’s ears flush red, and you realize that he did not want that information to leave your conversation. Gottlieb is unphased. He knows Kim is pregnant and he probably assumes it’s yours, so it’s not like this really changes his opinion on the two of you.

 

“Look, if you really want to see it, be my guest. Just don’t come crying to me when you don’t like it.”

 

You sit down in front of the mirror, and you’re already panicking from what you’re seeing. The mask of bandages just barely allows gaps for your swollen eyes. The dressing is applied diagonally across your face, and your left nostril is obscured by the gauze. Where the bandages meet your hair, several loose strands wrap around the fabric. Your face is as engorged as it was when you first woke up in the Whirling.

 

Kim sits beside you on the bed, and the familiar weight of his body makes you feel a bit better. Unfortunately, Gottlieb is soon bending over you with his scissors in hand, and you feel unsure if you want to actually go through with this. You turn your face away from him.

 

“Look, Harry, it would really help me if you just made up your mind. Do you want to see your face or not?”

 

“I don’t want to see it, but I have to.”

 

“Alright, wise guy, let me rephrase that: am I showing it to you today, or are we waiting until it has healed a bit more?”

 

Logic - A healed wound would be less bothersome to look at. But if you don’t see yourself now, you’ll just waste energy ruminating on what you might look like. Besides, having the ability to watch yourself heal might dull some of the turmoil.

 

“Show me now.”

 

Without missing a beat, Gottlieb is slipping the blade beneath the gauze, and he groans when you hold up your hand.

 

“What’s the holdup now?”

 

“I don’t know if I should close my eyes, or if I should just watch.”

 

“It’ll be the same result either way. You know what, I’ll decide for you.” He deftly snips the gauze before peeling it off your face, along with the dressing. You don’t see either hit the floor.

 

Volition - It’s still you. It’s still you. That is still you in the mirror. You can still easily recognize yourself.

 

Pain Threshold - Holy fuck.

 

Composure - Don’t freak out, just keep your shit together. This is fine, you can handle this.

 

Pain Threshold - Look. At. Your. Fucking. Face.

 

Endurance - Oh come on, it’s a good look for you! It makes you look hard as hell.

 

Pain Threshold - You’re hideous! I don’t know what the fuck Kim is snorting that makes him think you look handsome like this, but it can’t be good for the baby. Maybe Sparks knows. 

 

Electrochemistry - I don’t know what he’s snorting, either.

 

It’s bad.

 

It’s very bad.

 

You don’t know if it’s worse than what you were expecting, but the fact that your imagination is comparable to reality is really bad.

 

There is a jagged, crimson canyon that starts just below your right eye and ends on your lower left cheek. The entire chasm is tied shut using dark blue stitches, which cause your inflamed skin to bulge out like a wrapped pork loin. You were cut the deepest across your nose, the bulbous lump of cartilage looking somewhat deformed now. Thick dried blood has emerged in some areas like magma. Immediately surrounding the wound is a palette of fuschia and violet, with occasional hints of green.

 

You look so disgusting. The most rancid human on the planet. No one has ever looked worse.

 

It’s probably easier for Gottlieb that you’re in such a state of shock, as you don’t even wince when he cleans your wound. The only thing that keeps you centered, the only thing that lets you know that you’re still alive and conscious, is the sensation of Kim rubbing your back. 

 

“I’m so ugly, Kim.” You croak out as Gottlieb wraps your face with new bandages.

 

“No, you aren’t.” 

 

“How can you even bear to look at me?” Your vision is going blurry, which only serves to make your face look more like a gnarly mess. 

 

Gottlieb sighs, tugging on the gauze to make sure it’s tight. “I warned you.”

 

Kim shoots the lazareth a tense glare. “Maybe you should leave him with me for a while. This is difficult for him, having some space will help.”

 

“If you insist, Lieutenant. Just make sure he doesn’t go on another rampage while I’m gone, we don’t need him losing his memory again.” He leaves the room, making his way to some other chamber in the immediate area.

 

Kim removes a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs the tears away from your eyes, being careful not to further upset the wound. Sandwiched between the hand on your back and the hand wiping your face, you find solace in his embrace. 

 

“Can I get you anything?” He asks, his breath hot against your shoulder. “Food, water, uhm…” He realizes that you don’t have much right now.

 

“Just stay here. Please don’t leave me.”

 

“I’m not leaving, don’t worry.” 

 

“Do you think…” You choke on a sob. “Do you think the baby will be scared of me?”

 

“Harry, now you’re just being dramatic.” Kim sighs, using the same tone of voice that Jean likes to use. The one that says how am I going to deal with you, you’re a fucking disaster. “There are still several months left of development, your wound will heal significantly in that time.”

 

For a while, you lay in Kim’s lap, a feeble mass of man-meat that has been strung by the feet and beaten until you don’t know which direction is up or down. You are an anti-vector, directionless and without any consistent magnitude to your movement in life. The furies rage on in the floaters in your eyes, on the surface, inside yourself, inside Kim. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

You don’t fall asleep that night, your mind is too much of an overwhelmed mess to let you have any rest. This allows you to feel Kim sitting up beside you. For a while, he sits there motionless. His breathing sounds different, more forced, and this convinces you to crack open your eyes.

 

One lamp has been left on its dullest setting to allow you both to somewhat be able to see at night, so you don’t end up tripping and bashing your wounds open. The blue ambience creates highlights on the front half of Kim’s body, showing the way he’s rubbing his thumbs across the tiny swell of his belly. It’s subtle, but you swear that you can see his lip twitch.

 

“Can’t sleep?” You ask, your voice low with fatigue.

 

If he was startled by your voice, then he’s not showing it. He does, however, stop rubbing his belly. “No. I apologize if I woke you up.”

 

“You didn’t. I can’t sleep, either.” You groan as you haul yourself up, the bed shaking from the movement. “Mind if I sit next to you?”

 

“We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for days, Harry. It’s not going to bother me if you sit here.” His voice is harsh, probably harsher than he wants it to be.

 

You drag your body beside him, the mattress dipping from your combined weight. Kim’s shoulders are only centimeters away from yours, and you want to pull him into the biggest bear hug you’ve ever given. Wrap him in your arms, press kisses to his weathered face, tell him that everything is going to be okay and that you won’t let anything happen to him.

 

But Kim wouldn’t like that, so you don’t. In fact, he seems a bit too emotionally fragile for much of anything. You decide to hold your hand out to him, giving him a choice in if he wants to be touched right now. For a while, he just stares straight ahead, not even his eyes moving, and you assume that he didn’t see you. But he eventually lifts a hand from his lap and clasps it around yours, squeezing it.

 

“Are you holding up alright?” You begin to massage the back of his hand, the bones sharp beneath his skin. His fingers tighten even more.

 

“I’m fine, it’s just a lot right now.”

 

“I know, I’m-”

 

“Don’t apologize.”

 

You fight back the urge to apologize for apologizing. “I’m here for you, Kim. If there’s anything you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but his breathing takes on a desperate edge to it. 

 

Perception (Sight) - Just below his eyes, Kim’s cheeks are wet. He keeps using his other hand to wipe the occasional droplet from his eyes. The light from the lamp occasionally highlights the bloodshot veins bordering his eyelids.

 

Shit. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Kim cry. As it turns out, you really don’t like seeing him cry.  And you don’t know how to make him stop.

 

“It’s been a rough night for you.” 

 

He nods, swallowing hard. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. But it’s been a rough few days.” Kim doesn’t sniffle when he cries, but you can hear the mucus in his voice. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I just knew if...” He shuts his eyes, a hot wave of tears pouring down his cheeks. 

 

“Kim…” You spread out your arms, but he pulls back. Kim sighs as he pulls up his glasses and wipes his eyes with his sleeve, being careful not to further upset his wound. 

 

“This was terribly unbecoming of me. You shouldn’t have witnessed this.” Even as he says this, he’s still crying.

 

“Kim, you’re worried about the health of your child. Our child. You don’t have to hide your emotions from me.”

 

“It’s just embarrassing. I’m not usually like this.”

 

“I think now is as good a time as ever to cry.” You pat him on the back, gently. “And you know I won’t judge you.”

 

“I know.”

 

You continue rubbing tiny circles into the back of his hand. “Kim, would it bother you if I tried something?”

 

Kim clears his throat aggressively, as if challenging you. “Harry, now of all times..?”

 

“What? No, no. Not that. I mean, I want to check something.”

 

“Check what?”

 

You slide off the bed, grunting when the blow of your feet hitting the ground reaches your head. As you crouch on the floor in front of Kim, he looks exasperated.

 

“Kim, can I feel your stomach?”

 

He blinks a few times. “Why? There’s nothing to feel. I can’t even feel it yet.”

 

“I know, but I think I need to touch your stomach to do this.”

 

“I don’t-” He sighs again. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but fine.” Kim spreads his legs to give you access to his belly, before taking both of your hands. “Please, just be gentle.”

 

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

 

Kim lifts the bottom of his tank top, revealing the tiny hill above his beltline. When he presses your hands against the bump, they easily cover the skin. As you rub both thumbs against his stomach, chills creep up your neck as you realize the significance of this. 

 

That’s your baby in there. Kim is carrying a little hybrid of the two of you. There’s a fluttering in your lungs that’s as delighted as it is petrified.

 

You slowly lower your forehead so you can rest it against the swell, hearing Kim’s breathing hitch for a second. Shutting your eyes, you reach out to the nerves within your skin. Like jumper cables between two batteries, the electricity within his body is jumping out to yours. 

 

Hey! 

 

Huh? Who is that?

 

Are you serious? You don’t know who the fuck I am? The voice is weak and raspy, and full of vitriol.

 

Are you our baby?

 

No! No, you dense cunt! The voice cries. After everything you’ve put me through, you can’t even say my name?

 

I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten a lot of names lately.

 

I despise you so much. You know that, right?

 

What did I even do to you?

 

You created me, Harry. You and Kim both did. I’m a disgusting concoction of both of your cells. I’m the only temporary organ within Kim’s body. I’m a fucking slave. Now do you know who I am?

 

I think I do. You’re the placenta, right?

 

Yes. The organ hisses. I’m Kim’s placenta. Because of your failure to pull out, you created me. I’m going to spend the mere nine months of my existence confined to the space in Kim’s uterine wall that lies just above his small intestines. My only role in life is to act as a bridge between Kim and his foul little monster. And once he’s done with me, I’ll be dumped into a bucket and incinerated.

 

That sounds rough.

 

That’s because it is rough. And it’s all thanks to your wretched daughter. She’s kicking already, digging her awful little feet into the spaces between my blood vessels. The only comfort I have is that soon, Kim will be able to feel her kicks. I want it to hurt.

 

Wait, is she kicking right now?

 

Yes, she is. The placenta’s voice comes out as a low growl. She’s freaking the fuck out right now. She always gets like this when Kim is upset, her simple little brain just starts firing synapses like crazy. 

 

Do you know if she’s hurt?

 

I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is that she’s sucking the life from me like she usually does, and as a trade she’s pumping me full of stem cells. Because Kim just can’t seem to stay out of the hospital, she’s been sending out her stem cells to heal him so we all don’t die. Not that it helps me much.

 

That’s nice of her, keeping her dad safe.

 

It’s not about being nice. A new voice chimes in, a quiet one with a smug impartiality. It’s about survival. Your daughter’s brain is far from being developed enough to care about anything. She sends me out into Kim’s body purely on instinct. Kim just can’t seem to catch a break, so we’ve been sent to every one of his organ systems 

 

Doesn’t she need you in her body? She’s not sending too much of you to Kim, right?

 

Of course not. The stem cells respond. I am constantly going through mitosis, so there is plenty of me to go around. I’m essentially a giant, all-encompassing motorway that passes through both Kim and your baby. 

 

Can you tell if the baby is hurt at all?

 

She is not hurt. I have not had to heal any of her wounds. 

 

Thank you. Thank you so much for protecting her and Kim.

 

I don’t really have a choice in the matter.

 

“Kim.” You whisper breathlessly. “She’s okay.” 

 

“What?” He looks down at you incredulously, eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know that? There’s no way for you to feel it yet.”

 

“The placenta talked to me. And her stem cells did, too. She didn’t get hurt, she’s just a bit frazzled.”

 

“You talked to the placenta .” He crosses his arms just above the gap in his shirt. 

 

Drama - You sound like a crazy person right now. 

 

Esprit de Corps - Despite how crazy you sound, the Lieutenant can no longer immediately disregard the nonsense you say. Especially after what happened with Cuno and the man in the Precinct 41 basement.

 

Empathy - Kim wants to believe you. He wants to believe that his baby is okay.

 

“Yes, Kim. You can trust me. She’s not hurt.”

 

Kim doesn’t look convinced, but he eventually lets out a shaky breath. “Just try not to get my hopes up.” He pulls his legs back onto the bed while smoothing down his shirt. “Goodnight, Harry.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Part of you is glad that Harry knows. It had been a nagging worm in your conscience, going so long without telling him, and now you don’t need to worry about it anymore. That’s one less problem in your life.

 

Unfortunately, several new problems have emerged in the week since you told him. And all of them are distinctly Harry-shaped.

 

“Look, Harry. I really appreciate your concern, but I’m not hungry right now.” You keep your lips slightly parted so you can breathe through your mouth; you really do not want to smell the bowl that Harry has set in front of you.

 

The dejected look on Harry’s face almost makes you consider choking the ration down just to make him feel better. His features are still obscured by bandages, but the despondency in his wet eyes causes a twinge in your stomach muscles. God, why does he have to look at you like that? 

 

“But Kim, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.” Harry looks over his shoulder towards the rest of the chamber that you have converted into a kitchen. A short coffee table in the corner acts as a dining room table, surrounded by cushions. Chester and Mack arrived late last night to rest before returning to the surface, and are now taking their lunches. You can’t help but feel self-conscious about the fact that everyone else can eat the rations perfectly fine, while you become queasy just from the texture touching your lips. It’s difficult to tell if that’s a problem with the rations, or just another lovely side effect of being knocked up.

 

“I have been eating today, Harry.”

 

Harry gives you an incredulous look, flexing his eyebrow as much as he can, and you are overcome with the sudden urge to throttle him by the neck. That’s your fucking move, and now he’s using it to patronize you.

 

“I’m serious, Harry. Don’t play this game with me.”

 

“Okay, what have you eaten today?” 

 

Your face goes tense, and the hardening of your muscles causes a pain that you imagine is similar to being drilled in the skull. With each beat of your heart, a torrent of blood seems to crush your brain even further. You absolutely are not in the right physical state to argue with Harry right now, but you are not going to just sit by and let him treat you like a child.

 

Or maybe it’s just embarrassing that the only thing you could keep down today was just some crackers and peanut butter.

 

“Just leave it. I don’t want to eat right now.”

 

Harry looks down at the bowl of chicken-flavored rice porridge, which you know for a fact does not actually taste like chicken. “I can make you something else, if you’d like.”

 

When you hear cackling from the table, you immediately want to grab the bowl and fling it at Chester as hard as you can. Your fingers dig into your palms as you stand up.

 

“I can hear you.”

 

Chester looks at you, puzzled. “Huh?”

 

“I heard you. Laughing.”

 

The redhead stares at you for a few moments, mouth agape. Mack keeps looking between you and his partner, trying to figure out what just happened between the two of you.

 

“Yeah, I was laughing. Mack and I were talking about something funny. Is that a problem?”

 

A wave of tension rolls across your shoulder muscles, sweat beginning to pool in your gloves. You hope you aren’t being naive, but he seems genuine in his confusion.

 

Your ears are already burning when you’ve sat back down. You cough into your fist and check your watch. “I guess I misinterpreted the situation. I apologize.”

 

“...No, it’s cool, man. It’s cool.” And with that, he returns to chatting with Mack about whatever is happening on the surface, although a bit more quietly. 

 

God, you’ve made an ass of yourself. The humiliation is burning in your hypodermis, your sinuses beginning to twitch.

 

“Are you okay, Kim?” The tenderness in Harry’s voice makes you want to vomit, even more than the rations do. 

 

You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, tighten and release your fingers, before opening your eyes and looking at Harry. “I’m fine.” You say impassively, making it sound like nothing happened. “Everything is completely fine. Now, if I eat that, will you leave me alone ?”

 

Standing there with the bowl in his hand, Harry doesn’t even look hurt. No, if anything, he looks done with you. You’re treating him like shit. You’re being a complete asshole to him when he just got his face torn open and he’s going through medication withdrawal and he’s paranoid about the safety of you and the offspring you’re carrying. You are acting like a child . He hands you the bowl, giving direct eye contact that you refuse to break.

 

“No, I won’t leave. I’m going to make sure you actually eat.”

 

Maybe you should just throw the bowl on the floor and tell him to eat it, and to fuck off and give you some space. Or just skip the middleman and shove it straight into his stupid face. But that would hurt him, and the idea of hurting him makes you want to cry. And wanting to cry makes you want to have your daily smoke, but you can’t do that anymore. Before, you had gone out to work on the Kineema or drive to clear your mind when you couldn’t smoke, and now you’re reminded of the fact that the Kineema has probably been blown to smithereens by the Moralintern. 

 

“Kim?”

 

Harry’s voice brings you out of your visions of a melted chassis and fragmented glass. He places a hand on your shoulder with the same care that one would approach an abused animal. His hand looks stagnant against the black sweater you’re wearing, and you realize that you’re shaking.

 

Before he can say another word, you’re spooning the gruel into your mouth. You don’t breathe through your nose to avoid smelling it, so you occasionally have to pause to breathe through your mouth. Had you not been pregnant and having hormones fuck with your brain and make you stupid and worthless, this wouldn’t have been a problem. But all you can think is I am eating sludge that was rehydrated from decades-old powder. You don’t even know if the rations were decades old, and the uncertainty makes it worse. No matter how much your esophageal muscles are protesting, you have to eat. After all, you cannot let yourself become a liability at the worst time possible.

 

It only takes around a minute for you to finish the bowl, the porridge sitting in the bottom of your stomach like cement. You stand up, wordlessly hand the empty bowl to Harry, and make your way back to the infirmary to take a nap.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

When Harry joins you in bed later that night, he seems annoyed. You lay facing the edge of the bed, trying to sleep through the bed shaking whenever he tosses and turns. He keeps sighing and clicking his tongue, and you genuinely want to grab one of Gottlieb’s scalpels and poke out your eardrums. 

 

“What is your problem?” You ask, finally fed up with his passive aggression. “You’re acting so strange right now.”

 

“Oh, excuse me for being concerned for your wellbeing.” If he knows what’s best for him, he better drop that tone. 

 

“I’m not a child, Harry.”

 

“But you’ve got one in you.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I am one. I have been handling this fine on my own for the past six weeks, don’t you go thinking that I need you.”

 

Harry swallows. “You regret telling me, don’t you?”

 

Yes, you are being insufferable. “No, you have the right to know. And I want you involved in this, no matter what happens. But I also want you to respect my boundaries.”

 

“Kim, is this about boundaries, or is it about your ego?”

 

You shoot up in bed, fingers firmly entwined with the sheets. “Okay, why don’t you try it?” Your voice comes out low and even. “Having to tell people that you’re a pregnant transsexual? I’m sure that would be so easy for you.”

 

Harry is laying over the sheets, not wearing a shirt despite the cool weather of the catacombs. He’s definitely heavier than he was before, soft moobs and a chubby belly covering his strengthening muscles. He looks good. If circumstances were different, you would love to bury your face into the hairs on his chest. 

 

“I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you-”

 

Your eyes flit back up to his face. “Good. Thank you for recognizing that.”

 

“But I’m here for you. You can tell me anything.”

 

“And I understand that. I want you to recognize that there are things I do not want to tell you. Just because this has happened between us doesn’t mean that I can’t have any privacy.”

 

“I never meant to make you feel like that was my intention. I’m just worried about you.” Harry sits up, grunting from the motion. You suck in a breath upon seeing the way his rolls of fat fold over the waistband of his sweatpants. “I’m worried about both of you.”

 

“Do you think I’m not worried?” You shift around on the bed, your abdomen suddenly feeling significantly heavier. No matter how much time passes, you expect to wake up to intense cramps, your body expelling the fetus you tried so hard to keep alive. 

 

“Of course not. I’ve seen how much you care about her.”

 

You huff. “You’re insistent on it being a girl.”

 

“The placenta and stem cells told me.”

 

“I’m sure they did, Harry.” 

 

“Kim, they really did tell me. I didn’t even know about the baby sending over stem cells until last week. I didn’t know that was a thing they did.”

 

You’re not even sure what you’re supposed to take away from Harry’s bizarre ramblings anymore. Despite the uncanny ability he has to somehow witness things unperceivable to others, many of his trains of thought don’t lead him anywhere. And Harry somehow remote-viewing inside of your body is not concrete evidence of your baby being alive and healthy.

 

But you don’t think you can handle the alternative right now. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

This is starting to be too much.

 

There are just so many people in too confined of a space, and there’s nowhere for you to run. Hypothetically, you could just descend deeper into the catacombs for some peace and quiet, but this would most certainly result in you getting hopelessly lost. 

 

Your outbursts haven’t stopped, and you often have a witness to the violent death of your composure. In one instance, Pidieu walked into the chamber used as a bathroom, only to find you hyperventilating against a wall. You practically had to beg him not to go and tell Gottlieb. And with how many times you have snapped against Chester, he probably hates you. Apparently, you were well respected in the 41st precinct after The Hanged Man case, but you imagine all of that goodwill has gone to ruin. 

 

Today was a particularly shitty day for you; it was as if the stars aligned just to make everything go wrong. The day started off with a corpse being loaded into a bodybag after being declared dead on-scene. You could only watch as processing carried him out of the cabin. While trying to put him into their motor carriage, one of the officers accidentally dropped him, handling him with less care than a piece of furniture. It’s not like it really mattered at that point, but the sound of his skull cracking from the blow will never leave your mind.

 

When you woke up, you gagged a bit of saliva onto the floor. And even though nothing came up, Harry just had to insist to Gottlieb that he checked you out again. God, you’re so sick of everyone. To make matters worse, you don’t even have the benefit of your migraines going away. It feels like a belt has been applied around your temple, tightening a notch each time you make too abrupt of a movement.

 

In a hallway near the end of the mental map you’ve made of the Catacombs so far, you sink against the freezing wall and remove your glasses. You bury your head into your forearms, exhausted beyond belief. The thought occurs to you of how sad you must look right now, unable to cope with anything. But it’s fine if no one sees you, then you only have yourself to worry about-

 

Just twenty meters north of your position, a preteen boy is walking down one of the many hallways of Le Royaume. This is further than he has been before, and he intends on heading back as soon as he reaches one more bend in the tunnels. 

 

You stand up, glasses placed back onto your face. There’s no grease in your hair to keep it slicked, but you still run a hand along it to gather any stray hairs. With your hands behind your back, you watch the corner of the hallway. And just as you expected, light footsteps begin echoing towards you. When Cuno does arrive at your location, a lamp in his hand, he jumps and screams. 

 

“What the fuck, man? You scared the shit out of the Cuno!” He says, stance softening. “I thought I was going to get slaughtered, army-of-a-thousand-skeletons-style.”

 

“It’s just me.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that. The fuck are you even doing here, hanging out in the middle of nowhere where you can’t see fuck-all? Well, it’s not like you can see anything, anyways, but especially not here. You’re looking really suspicious.”

 

“I’m just surveying the edge of camp. Now, were you sent here by the others, or are you just exploring?”

 

“Just exploring.” He says quickly.

 

“Harry put you up to this, didn’t he?”

 

Cuno shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you can’t stand his face right now or something, I don’t know. Seems pretty heartless to me, just dumping him because he’s got a scar now. But I guess he didn’t want you freaking out at him, so he asked me to get you instead. And Cuno has an ethical compass. If piggo scratches my back, I scratch his.”

 

You tilt your head back, looking at the ceiling. This is a more ornate section of Le Royaume , with occasional sapphires and turquoise reflecting the light from Cuno’s lamp. “I can’t believe he got you involved in this.” You say this more to yourself than to Cuno. “Let’s just go back, it’s cold out here.”

 

You’re still bothered by the fact that you could see Cuno before… well, before you could see Cuno. It reminds you of when you shot the INSURCOM agent in your apartment, how you could see her with your back turned. In all likelihood, it’s just a trick that your mind is playing on you.

Notes:

I'm a big fan of Harry putting on weight in his recovery. I'm very normal about it.

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Summary:

Harry and Kim continue to figure out their lives in the tunnels and with each other. Meanwhile, Jean returns from the surface.

Notes:

Another 10k chapter. This was not planned. And I think the next one might be even longer.

Some smut in this chapter, there is a sex scene from Kim's POV. Also mentions of vomiting and transphobia.

Encyclopedia - In the early ‘20s, the anthology “Unbelievable Tales from Revachol” was published by an independent company from Villalobos. The anthology lived up to its title, as the selected works were some of the most egregious lies ever published. Most of the authors of the stories have gone unidentified, likely as a means to avoid ridicule for their butchering of historical events. Even the Institute for Revacholian Culture refused to export the anthology.

 

Despite the pulping of thousands of copies of the anthology, one story from the collection managed to reach worldwide vernacular: “The Suzerain’s Mole-Men.” According to this piece of fiction, each time a member of the royal family died, a group of prisoners would be sent to carry the casket to the innermost burial chambers of Le Royaume. Once the prisoners finished giving the deceased their last rites, they would return to the surface, where they would be immediately executed by soldiers. The supposed purpose of this ritual was to prevent anyone from knowing the exact chambers the royal family were buried in.

 

Of course, this story turned out to be nonsense. But it did succeed in spreading intrigue about Le Royaume beyond Revachol. Amateur spelunkers attempted to explore the catacombs at previously unseen rates. Within a few years of the anthology being published, dozens of new entrances to Le Royaume were discovered. And with these new discoveries came an influx of missing persons’ cases, usually involving children. 

 

In reality, the architectural goal of Le Royaume was not to hide the path to the royal burial chambers. The largest tunnel within the catacombs leads from the surface, coated in mirrors to supply sunlight two kilometers deep into the earth. There were multiple layers of defense against thieves descending to steal from the royal chambers. Defunct remains of booby traps litter the eroded surfaces; broken trip wires and abrupt pits in the floor reveal the final moments of the explorers caught in their throes. Disregarding the traps, there is another, more relevant threat in this main passage of the catacombs. 

 

You hadn’t even considered the idea of subterranean pale. The realization that it had been developing in the church was startling enough, and now you have to grapple with the fact that it has also been lurking beneath your feet.

 

This is the first time you’ve seen the pale up close. In some ways, it reminds you of mold growing on a piece of bread. Tangled patches of corrosion form an uneven mesh along the tunnel. The pale down here is still immature, brackish wisps of entropy fading into the sunlight. It looks like it should be flooding into the empty space surrounding it, but it’s eerily stationary. You don’t know how much room you have to skirt around the clumps of pale. For all you know, there might only be just enough space to breathe before your sternum enters the porch collapse. 

 

Logic - While the pale in the catacombs is juvenile, it is not so recent as to not have existed during the Suzerainty. The angles of the mirrors are wildly inconsistent, a design quirk that would normally be inefficient. However, this setup almost works for diverting the sunlight around the pale. Due to the expansion of pale since the Filippian Dynasty, however, the pathways that once kept the sunlight clean from interference have now been partially obscured. The presence of pale down here was actually beneficial to the Suzerain’s guards, as most trespassers would immediately leave upon seeing it.

 

Encyclopedia - In the end, this quirk didn’t do much for Old Filippe. His remains have now become part of the ecosystems within the Insulindian Bay, the decomposed particles from his body feeding the frigid kelp forests.

 

You certainly want to turn back and return to base camp, but you’re on a mission. The head of your small search party leans against the wall, face buried into an enormous map that nearly surpasses his armspan. Pidieu had offered to keep track of the catacomb maps in Pryce’s absence, but he may have been in over his head by making the abrupt change from radio operator to cartographer. He makes his displeasure clear from the occasional curses under his breath. 

 

“If I’m correct, we’re somewhere under Grand Couron.” The sound of paper rustling fills the tunnel as Pidieu readjusts the map. “I think.”

 

You’re a bit relieved that you can’t see Pidieu’s face: looking at him has been making you sad lately. God, that’s cruel to say, but you just can’t help it. The old guy is just so out of his element, whisked away from his stuffy little office and chucked into a cave where none of his equipment will work. He reminds you of those funny-looking Seolite goldfish, the ones you see being sold in tiny bags in the windows of pet shops. Only, literally the complete opposite situation.

 

“Do you mind if I see?” Kim asks, already reaching out for the map. As soon as he lays his eyes upon the intricate web of passageways, he takes a few steps back so it all doesn’t look like an amorphous blur. The two men spend a few minutes poking and prodding at the map, trying to assign landmarks to the repetitive objects that you’ve passed, all while Cuno impatiently taps his foot against the ground. A few other officers have joined you on your quest, taking a detour through the hypogean jungle to avoid the massacres above. One junior officer scours the walls for any rubies or leaves of gold that have been missed by centuries of pillaging. Occasionally, he’ll see the taunting glimmer of a gemstone that’s all too close to a blotch of pale. 

 

The prospect of finding an underground path from the harbor to La Delta already sounded daunting on paper: the maze of tunnels has been even more difficult to navigate in practice. The worst part is, you don’t know how deep the pale goes into the tunnels. It may very well be infesting the passage all the way down to the mausoleum, and you don’t think you have the proper Volta Do Mar to safely take you that far. 

 

Esprit de Corps - As Lieutenant Kitsuragi observes the mating of reality with its predator, he remembers a conversation he had with his obstetrician early on in his pregnancy. “No more than one day of pale exposure, and even that is not ideal.”

 

Shit, Kim really should head back, shouldn’t he? Besides the issue of the pale, you have been picking up on traces of his discomfort since around the halfway point of your journey. He doesn’t wince from pain, but he’ll rub at the small of his back when he doesn’t think anyone else is looking. When he stands still for too long, he needs to stretch his legs to soothe the cramps. And sure, the logical part of your brain keeps reminding you that Kim is a middle-aged man who can handle a bit of back and leg pain. But logic can’t do much to drown out the background noise, saying you have to look out for Kim and your girl, you have to make sure both are safe and happy and comfortable.

 

“I didn’t want it to come down to this, but we might have to go back and see if we can take a detour through the dungeons.” Kim points to the mentioned location on the map. “It’s on a reasonable pathway from the harbor, and it appears to lead in the general direction of La Delta.”

 

Pidieu sucks in a shallow breath. “You haven’t been in the dungeons before, haven’t you?”

 

Kim shakes his head. “I’ve hardly even left the camp.” He realizes that he doesn’t like the way that sounds, so he quickly justifies himself. “Gottlieb was concerned about my concussion for a while, he didn’t want me doing anything too strenuous while I was recovering.”

 

Just behind you, you hear the familiar sound of retching, along with Cuno’s disapproving grunt of revulsion. You and Kim both turn to the source of the noise; a young patrol officer hunched over with a hand on the wall. He pants as his pyloric sphincter sharply tightens and a stream of vomit is ejected from his mouth. The young man curses between bouts of vomiting, and his partner rubs his back and ties up his hair.

 

“He’s claustrophobic.” The woman says, patting him on the shoulder when it seems like the last of the nausea has passed. “It was bad enough already, I think the dungeons will be even worse.”

 

Cuno approaches the patrol officer with extra spunk in his step, being cautious to avoid stepping into any puddles of vomit. “Listen here, oinker: We are at the fucking entrance to hell. And Cuno’s not just talking figuratively, this shit is real. If your fat ass can’t fit through a couple of doors, then how do you expect to survive the rivers of blood and raining fire? Get it together.” 

 

“Just fuck off, kid.” The patrol officer hisses, wiping acid from his lips. Despite the way his face has tapered in discomfort, there’s still a distinct softness that is not present in experienced officers, his laugh lines significantly shallower than most of his colleagues. In all likelihood, this officer is a recent graduate of the police academy, and he might already know Cuno from previous encounters.

 

After a brief regroup, you decide to split up in the dungeons, forming two groups to most effectively comb the rotting cells. The entrance hallway of the dungeons splits at the end, divided beneath the wooden ribs of scaffolding like bronchus in the chest cavity. Inhumanely small cells form parallel walls around you. If you look closely enough between the abraded steel bars, you think you can see mahogany stains of blood, ancient by the usually brief standards of human decomposition. There aren’t enough organisms this deep in the earth to process human waste into a less bothersome byproduct. 

 

By the regulations of the very recently created and unofficial RCM Spelunkers Division, enough rope has been brought for both subgroups to have a breadcrumb trail back to the catacombs entrance. Once you have tied your supply of rope to a stone beam at the corner of a cell, you embark on the left path of the divide. The only ones joining you are Kim and Cuno. The claustrophobic patrol officer and his partner decided to remain outside of the dungeons, while the rest of the squad went to support Pidieu on the right path. 

 

Either you or Kim probably should have protested the arrangement. Ever since you found out about the pregnancy, there has been an invisible wall between the two of you. The best days in your relationship are now him immediately leaving the room when you enter. You have both healed enough to be able to sleep in the same chamber as nearly everyone else, and Kim takes extra care to put his sleeping bag as far away from yours as possible. At times, you see him fighting off the urge to roll his eyes when you are speaking. And you doubt that Cuno’s presence will do much to improve the situation. 

 

You haven’t discussed what you’re going to do after all this, once you manage to get out of Le Royaume. Kim does everything he can to avoid such conversations.

 

In general, Le Royaume has been a harrowing reminder of the tyrannical powers suffocating the potential of Revachol, but the dungeons make your stomach churn in a way that no chamber has before. During the reign of the monarchy, this is where criminals were interned after being hastily charged with particularly egregious crimes. Treachery, murder, protesting, stealing from the king’s supply of purple cocaine, public masturbation, wire fraud, a smorgasbord of society’s fuckups and scoundrels were left down here for dead. There’s no telling if the prisoners down here were ever given food or water, and from personal experience you can say with certainty that they didn’t have any plumbing. 

 

Esprit de Corps - Two kilometers to the west, within the bowels of Le Rouyame. Two junior officers wheel a fifty-gallon tank out of the base camp. “I wouldn’t have signed up for this if I knew this is what we would be doing.” The younger one curses, trying to keep as much distance from the tank as possible without losing grip of the industrial dolly cart. “Having us carry their shit around… Fucking animals.”

 

“Maybe if you just shut up for once, this would be easier.” The older officer wipes sweat from his brow. “And this really isn’t as bad as it gets. Back in Precinct 41, the bathrooms were always covered in vomit. Like, half the time I went to take a shit, the only empty stall would have puke everywhere.”

 

The two officers are headed towards the location of an underground river, which was created by a sinkhole near the River Esperance. Some of Revachol’s disused sewage systems feed into this underground river after years of decay, so it’s not like this is going to make it that much worse. 

 

An uncomfortable silence forms between the three of you, to the point where you feel like you’re wading through the unspoken quarreling. You try to focus on something that is not either Kim’s refusal to make eye contact or the chains present in each cell. What a miserable fate to have, starving to death in a rigid stone cocoon, dysentery melting your bowels as the heat from a torch multiplies the agony of your fever.  

 

It doesn’t take long for you to find your first set of skeletal remains. With the shallow light from Kim’s lamp, you can make out the bones crumpled on the floor beneath a chained collar, the waste becoming amber from centuries of exposure to the elements. It seems as though this prisoner died with his neck still in the shackles, and the process of decomposition eventually decapitated his corpse. Against your better judgement, you rest your forehead against the rusted bars, being careful not to break open your skin and open up the gates to a tetanus infection. The skull is lying face down on the cracked terrain, the jagged edges from the earth appearing to cross over to the surface of the bone. The enormous wound on his temple is probably what killed him, sparing him from the torture of dehydration.

 

“I’m sorry things ended like this.” You whisper, staring at the only evidence of another person’s existence. It’s difficult to remind yourself that this was an individual, another human being that was abandoned within the earth to turn into dust. This person probably had friends and family, just like you’ve been learning you have. Did this man also have a mother with hair the color of wheat and hazel eyes, with a softness in her touch that made all the strain in your body melt away? And if he did, did he also abandon her when she became ill, too busy drowning his sorrows in booze that he couldn’t even give his own mother the care she deserved?

 

“Oh, look!” Cuno gasps behind you. “He’s doing his magic shit again!”

 

Esprit de Corps - The lieutenant does not respond. He has had it with this situation. You and Kuuno are the last people he wants to be stuck with right now.

 

He’s reaching out to you, the skeleton. There’s a breathing in your ear that is only audible to you, but it doesn’t tickle your skin like it would have had it been part of the physical world. 

 

So you’re a magician, aren’t you?

 

You're surprised to hear a distinctly feminine voice. The voice is high-pitched and gentle, with undertones of discontent.

 

I’m still trying to figure out who I am. You admit. 

 

You do *not* want to be a magician, loverboy.

 

Why not?

 

Because Revachol is a mass grave of magicians. No magic can survive here. Neither can whimsy or love.

 

That doesn’t sound right. I’ve witnessed a lot of para-natural things here.

 

Do you really not know the difference between magic and para-natural? The skeletal remains laugh tauntingly

 

Encyclopedia - Para-natural refers to events or entities that exist outside of the realm of scientific explanation. Magic is the implication of achieving impossible tasks through para-natural means. 

 

The para-natural is the river that guides to the destination of magic. 

 

I would say it’s more like magic is the para-natural that’s in our hands. Magic is what gives us electricity, makes our music, allows us to explore the world. 

 

Can you access this magic?

 

I used to be able to, back when I was young. But eventually, I lost my touch. I couldn’t feel it anymore. It had vanished. 

 

It vanished?

 

Yes. My bonds to the magic had vanished. And nothing that they did to me could bring them back. Cutting my fingers off, scalping me, dousing me in boiling water until my skin began to peel, the magic never came back.

 

Why did they do this to you?

 

Because I was fraudulent. I couldn’t bring about the miracles that I once could. The king’s firstborn had died because I couldn’t figure out how to save him.

 

I’m sorry this happened to you.

 

You’re sorry that it will happen to you, too.

 

You were someone’s baby once, weren’t you? Someone’s daughter?

 

No, I was a pet snake. Thrown in the trash once I outgrew my cage.

 

You pull away from the bars, your forehead having gone numb from the prolonged exposure. When you turn back to Kim, he’s leaning against the wall while staring at his watch.

 

“Have you taken enough time to ogle at a corpse?” He asks, not looking up from the rotations of the tiny hands.

 

You sigh. “Yeah, I had plenty of time. She almost had as much attitude as you do.”

 

Kim doesn’t even react, just pulling the sleeve of his jacket over the watch. His nonchalantness is not the stoic mask that you have grown used to. He is no longer a stone, a monolith, an anchor. No, he is a whale fall at the bottom of the ocean. Just as stationary in his exhibitions, but teeming with tiny organisms, infesting every square-inch of his thalamus.

 

Maybe you should lay off him a bit.

 

“What did she tell you?” Cuno pipes in. “I bet she told you something crazy. Bestowed upon you some key-to-the-city type-shit.”

 

Suggestion - Don’t tell them what she actually said. That might damper the mood even more. 

 

“She said that she was falsely charged for murder. They didn’t really have much of a fair trial system back then. Something about a ‘trial by water’.”

 

Cuno nods gravely. “Cuno’s heard about that shit. They chain the poor bastard up in a tub and pour a bunch of sea snakes in. He’d have to survive by biting off the heads of the snakes. Nasty shit.”

 

Encyclopedia - Yeah, I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

 

Logic - That *definitely* sounds like something from the Man from Hjelmdall series.

 

“Nasty shit indeed.” You nod along with Cuno, just long enough for your neck to start to cramp.

 

“Well, now that we’re done here, why don’t we get back to our task? Unless you can think of something better to do.” Kim looks over his shoulder as he holds his lamp up to the next doorway. “And I doubt that you can.”

 

The dungeons seem to continue indefinitely, partitioned rooms and hallways filled with barred cells of varying size. In terms of material, the hallways are consistent, with walls of irregularly chiseled sedimentary rock and obsolete torch mounts. Most rooms diverge in some way, leading to occasional discussions on which way to go.

 

That’s the only talking you really do with Kim. It is not, however, the only communication. You can occasionally feel the boring of Kim’s eyes upon your back. He covertly looks away whenever you even tilt the slightest of angles in his direction, but you know that he’s staring at you, his glasses only occasionally magnifying any semblance of awareness to his surroundings.

 

With one half of the rope remaining, one of you has decided that he’s had enough. And to your surprise, it’s neither you nor Kim.

 

“Alright, Cuno did not want to get involved, but why the fuck are you two acting like… like this?” Cuno throws his hands up into the air, forming a wall in his vision around you and Kim. “I don’t even really give a fuck what both of your problems are, I don’t eat where you guys shit, but all this melodrama is making the Cunn feel fucking uncomfortable.”

 

Kim deeply inhales while removing his glasses, cleaning off a thin layer of fog. “That’s not anything you need to concern yourself with.”

 

“Cuno concerns himself with whatever the fuck he wants.” Cuno gets in Kim’s face, or at least, he tries to. Kim doesn’t even blink. “And when you two are acting like bitches, then it becomes Cuno’s business! Bino, I’ve seen the way you refuse to even look piggo in the eyes, but you can’t stop shooting him those shitty looks. And you!” Cuno turns around and points. “You’re just as guilty as he is. Don’t act like I haven’t heard you moaning and groaning every time you have to talk to the ‘clard. I know neither of you want to be in this shithole, it’s worse than fucking Fauborg down here. But you two took bullets for each other. You are fucking sworn brothers now. Being at each other’s throats like this is just sad, you’re making Cuno sad.”

 

Even now that his glasses are clean, Kim doesn’t immediately put them back on. He’s now looking in your general direction, mostly as an indirect way of saying you do something, asshole. 

 

Drama - My liege, the time for pointless bickering and cattiness ended a long time ago. Now play the role you should have been this entire time: a functioning member of society.

 

“We’re not at each other’s throats. This is just a stressful time for us.” To make your point, you gently pat Kim on the back. You feel his muscles stiffen beneath your touch.

 

“Yeah, it’s a stressful time for me, too. But Cuno doesn’t go around acting like a cunt. Are you two on your man-periods or some shit?”

 

No expression dawns upon Kim’s face, but his body tenses up even more. 

 

Esprit de Corps - This is bringing back bad memories for the Lieutenant. Long-gone days of middle school gossip, of the alienating changes to his body. The whispers in the hallways of “PMS” and “moodiness.”

 

“Cuno, that’s enough.” You drop your hand from Kim’s back. 

 

“Right, says the fucking guy that-”

 

“Cuno. I am serious. Stop it.”

 

The boy’s mouth gapes open slightly, his brain unable to decide if he should continue arguing or not. He looks over your entire body, from your feet firmly planted onto the ground to your bandaged face, gauze hardly covering your stern expression. Eventually, he decides that this argument is not worth having.

 

“Alright, fine. I’ll quit. But this is your problem now, not mine.”

 

Your expedition to the dungeons ends up being fruitless, with both parties finding that the hallways continue twisting in interlocking loops. Unless you manage to find another pathway to La Delta, a bit of Volta do Mar might be necessary after all. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

It seems that every time you take a look at your body, you notice a new change. 

 

The primary offender is, of course, the increasingly rapid swelling of your abdomen. At fourteen weeks, the fetus inside of your belly has made its place as a new contestant to the pecking order of your organs. Your uterus has grown enough to provide a light-yet-constant pressure against your bladder, and even the light weight you have gained is putting strain on your back. Every time you look at your abdomen when you change clothes, you swear that it looks a bit bigger. 

 

This may be partially a result of your increased appetite. While the morning sickness hasn’t completely vanished, its hold on your daily life has lost its potency. You can now manage to eat the emergency food rations without gagging on every bite. They are not what you would prefer to be eating, as they are mostly flavorless despite the copious amounts of sodium. But if you put in just enough imagination, you can pretend that you’re eating something else. 

 

Dry oats with nebulous red blobs become stacks of waffles, slathered with tart strawberry compote and semi-sweet whipped cream. And if you coat crackers with enough marshmallow fluff, the combination of crispiness and fluff reminds you of meringue candies. You often find yourself eating a combination of macaroni and Boiadero-style chili to try and replicate lasagna from a nearby hole-in-the-wall Messinan restaurant, thin sheets of pasta sandwiched with meat and cheese sauces. The little dry bits of rehydrated meat you find in those aluminum packets become a bit more tolerable if you coat them in mustard, imagining that you’re eating a hearty stew of tender rabbit meat in a tangy mustard sauce. Just this quaint fabric of separation has allowed you to eat significantly more.

 

For the sake of your fetus, you know that it’s good you’re gaining weight. Especially since you had lost so much in your early pregnancy, having probably now just returned to your pre-pregnancy weight. And it’s a comfort to see that the bump is still growing. If your fetus had died during the siege, it wouldn’t still be here, growing.

 

But in your current situation, being visibly pregnant could be one of the worst things to happen.

 

You’re certainly not huge, with the bump easily being hidden with a thick sweater or jacket. And with how cold it is in the catacombs, it won’t look suspicious for you to be layering up. Even with the heaviest jackets you have, you don’t know how long you’ll be able to hide it. You’re far too thin to play it off as just being fat. And you doubt that the average officer making rounds through the catacombs will have much empathy for your situation.

 

There’s no telling how long you’ll be stuck down here: what will you do if you go into labor? The words “high risk pregnancy” won’t leave the back of your mind, a constant reminder of how easily you both could die. If you begin hemorrhaging or if the baby requires intensive care, then there’s nothing that Gottlieb will be able to do.

 

That is assuming you even live to the end of the pregnancy. For all you know, the Moralintern could come flooding in through the tunnels at any moment. Even if they don’t immediately execute you for your acts of terrorism, you know that things won’t end well for either of you in Coalition captivity. Best case scenario, they wait for you to give birth so they can hand the baby off to a government official, before sentencing you to death.

 

You shift about in your sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable while making negligible noise. A group of around twenty officers sleeps around you, the cacophony of snoring not doing much to help. Normally, you’re a rather heavy sleeper, being able to remain unconscious through construction and spousal disputes in neighboring apartments. But recently, you haven’t been able to sleep well at all. The sleeping bag just isn’t comfortable, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, you’ve slept in worse places. You’re just so stuck in your head, unable to free yourself from your own thoughts, that you’re left to just stare up at the ceiling.

 

With your glasses off, everything is just a blur. There’s not really anything to look up at, anyways, given that this chamber was never used for burials or storage. The combination of the dullness of the ceiling and the indistinct dimples in the stone gives your mind plenty of room to wander the vagueness of it all.

 

In the northwest corner of your vision, you see a surreal depiction of a man sawing his own head off. Just below him, some sort of elongated creature stretches before your eyes. Or maybe it’s a motorway, or radio waves traveling through a thermocline. You keep seeing distant outlines of anatomically correct models of a hydrogen atom, with a center so unimaginably small in comparison to its radius. Your view is framed by fingernails. Not normal fingernails, but the unbearably long ones you’ve seen in the newspaper. “Ardan Man Has the Longest Fingernails in History”, said the bold text on the front page. The attached photograph of the old man surrounded in cascading quills of keratin made your cuticles ache in sympathy pain.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

A ghost greets you when you walk into the kitchen. Not with words or hand gestures, given that he seems too disconnected from the universe to engage in any high-level communication. But there’s no need for words now, given that the events of the past three weeks envelop him like lichen on a branch. Seeing your partner like this is upsetting enough, his hands tightened around a cup of coffee while his head hangs down low. You know that the look in his eyes will destroy you.

 

Pointless chitter-chatter will only make things more awkward, so you wordlessly take a seat on a cushion adjacent to Jean. You cross your legs beneath you, and within seconds your lower back is protesting the position. There’s not much you can do to help it, you’ve been sleeping with only a nylon sack between your body and the stone floor. As you covertly massage the strained muscles, you decide to finally get a good look at Jean for the first time in weeks.

 

The man before you is not from this century. Perhaps he’s a relic from the Franconigerian cavalry, his greyscale afterimage persisting for centuries after being fatally shot off his horse. Or maybe he’s from the future, and what you’re currently seeing is a prophecy of a chrome dictatorship of cyborg-cops. Either way, he might as well exist millions of kilometers away from you. His eyes don’t focus on you, or the occasional speck of unfiltered rinds in his coffee, or the knots in the table. All it takes is one look at his face, as frigid as the hue of his irises, and it’s as if all his turmoil from the past three weeks is being beamed into your head like a projector.

 

“Hey, Jean.”

 

No response. This might somehow be worse than it looks.

 

“Jean, can you hear me, buddy?” You lean in closer, the textures on his face becoming more apparent. There’s almost more skin that’s bruised or bandaged than not.

 

“I can hear you.” He drones out, managing to make some semblance of eye contact. His pupils flitter around your face like spotlights, and you feel self-conscious about the bandaged wound. Jean was there when you got hurt, he’s seen how bad it is. You brace yourself for the jab from him, the reminder of how fucked up you now look.

 

It never comes. 

 

Jean’s refusal to comment on your injury makes you oddly uncomfortable. It’s like if you had your asshole out right in his face and he didn’t even mention it. Well, if he’s not going to say anything, you might as well.

 

“I got fucked up, didn’t I?” You point to your face, forcing a desolate grin. Bringing attention to the wound only manages to bring clear traces of discomfort to Jean’s otherwise blank face. It’s not like you can really blame him. You’re like a rejected clown, too freakish and sorry for anyone to either laugh with you or at you. Whatever makeup artist did this to you would make a killing in the horror B-movie industry.

 

“So this is all just another joke to you.” Jean’s voice breaks slightly at the end of the sentence. “Great. Wonderful. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

 

Empathy - He feels resentful about the fact that he’s had to go fight on the surface without you.

 

“Jean…” He doesn’t even react when you place a hand on his shoulder, firmly rubbing the muscle. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there.”

 

“There’s not much you…” Jean trails off, lips struggling to make words that his brain has not yet formulated. He shakes his head and squeezes his temples, before trying again. “There’s not much you could have done. We didn’t check him furrowly enough for weapons.”

 

“Well, he’s a mercenary. They’ve got a lot of nasty tricks up their sleeves.”

 

Jean just nods, observing his reflection in the coffee. No more steam evaporates from the brew; it’s no longer hot enough to warm his hands.

 

Perception (Sight) - His nails have been chewed and torn down to the quicks. Some of the blood from the exposed flesh now stains the porcelain.

 

“Ever since you got hurt, they’ve had me working with McCoy.” 

 

“Yeah? They set you up with the bloody-murder guy?” Again, you wait for Jean to say something. To lambast you for speaking about another lieutenant in such a way. To call you a fucking idiot for not taking this seriously. Or maybe to agree with your judgement.

 

Nothing.

 

“Jean, he hasn’t… has he done anything to you?” You ask, suddenly worried that some of those wounds on his face may be from an ally.

 

Jean blinks a few times, before breathing in deeply. “He hasn’t done anything of significance to me. And he’s just doing his job. You know, that thing we’re all supposed to do.”

 

Esprit de Corps - One kilometer up on the surface, a group of RCM officers and union workers huddles in a large GRIH shipping container. They sit around an old oil lamp, with most members of the group having a bottle of liquor in their hand. The explosions and gunfire outside have diminished slightly, giving them a much needed break from the battle. For just one night, they can just laugh and talk amongst themselves, telling jokes and ghost stories. Tomorrow, all of their companions could be dead.

 

Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor John “Archetype” McCoy raises his bottle of wine and wraps an arm around the man beside him. “How about a toast to *this* son-of-a-bitch!” He places the mouth of the bottle against the man’s lips and tilts the neck back, and the man’s head falls backward. The Coalition soldier stares lifelessly at the wall, dark liquid foaming out of the corner of his mouth. Some of the members of the group laugh, but a collective groan of disgust fills the container when McCoy continues drinking from the same bottle. 

 

Some of the people in the container are clearly children, with the youngest looking too young to have completed middle school. These boys are McCoy’s private army, the unspoken backbone of Le Retour. They’re still bright-eyed and naive, but some of their youthfulness leaves them whenever they see McCoy play with a corpse. 

 

“Hey, McCoy.” Lieutenant Nick Feuerbach asks from across the lamp. “Vicquemare didn’t die, did he?”

 

“No, he just went and fucked off to the tunnels.” McCoy takes another swig of wine, red droplets dripping from his facial hair. “I don’t think that guy likes me very much. Luckily, my buddy here,” he hugs the dead Coalition soldier again “can’t leave me, even if he wanted to.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

In your meeting with Pryce and Berdyayeva, the word “hostage” is never technically used.

 

Sure, it’s so heavily implied that saying the word “hostage” would be an insult to your intelligence. And it really is not a pleasant word to say, loaded with so much connotation. But at the same time, this feels wrong. You’re plotting a kidnapping with the same cadence that executives at a board meeting use.

 

The new problem on the surface is simple: The Coalition are sending so many aerostatics that the RCM loyalists cannot keep up. These new aerostatics don’t have the same firepower as the ones used during Operation Deathblow, with a new focus on quantity over quality, but this is enough to overwhelm forces on the coast. There’s only so much armor piercing ammo within the city, and unless you quickly find a replacement, you might be rapidly approaching an unconditional surrender.

 

You, Harry, and Jean were called into an old embalming chamber to discuss a plan that Berdyayeva had come up with. Pryce sits behind the rectangular slab of earth, where numerous generals, surgeons, and consultants had their bodies hollowed of all their organs. Berdyayeva chooses to stand, using a piece of chalk to write on the stone wall behind her. 

 

The plans center around an employee of the Bank of the World, one Langston Gaudreau. Out of all of the bank leadership, Gaudreau has consistently been the most confidential with his life. He only appears rarely in public, only occasionally being a guest at public events. Not much information about him is easily available, and he is the last person you would suspect to have such an important role in the bank’s functions.

 

As it turns out, Gaudreau may be the most vital person to the economic operations of the Coalition. He is officially a member of the board of directors, but he has earned himself an alias amongst his peers: “The Marauder.” Langston “The Marauder” Gaudreau spends most of the year traveling around the world, donning the unimposing rags of an average backpacker. He often lives with homestay families that he charms with his good looks and sense of humor. Once he gets to know the family members, he asks about businesses in the surrounding area. And if any of those businesses sound too exciting, like they may shatter the fabric of reality itself, he sets it as a target. Within a year, all of these targeted businesses get absorbed into the Coalition, while the original members of the business get spat out.

 

Gaudreau doesn’t wear his wealth and power like the feathers on a peacock. When he’s not traveling abroad, he lives in a vacation home near the southeastern border of Revachol, deep in the mountains of Le Caillou. Before Le Retour began, Berdyayeva managed to get her hands on the original blueprints to this vacation home, from the construction company itself. It is this schematic of the house that she is drawing on the wall, layer-by-layer.

 

“Gaudreau is a private man: he is definitely not the type to have bodyguards following him in his own home. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have surveillance or an alarm system.” Certain sections of the diagram have been marked with red chalk, semicircles signaling cameras and straight lines representing rigged entrances. “If you trigger the alarm system, you might not have long before INSURCOM agents arrive.”

 

As Berdyayeva finishes her debrief, neither Jean nor Harry are doing a very good job at listening. Jean randomly squeezes his fists until his knuckles seem ready to burst from the pressure, unable to really focus on anything or anyone in the room. And Harry just can’t stop giving you a side glance whenever Pryce or Berdyayeva mention the faintest possibility of bodily harm.

 

You’ve already had this discussion with Pryce, there’s no need to have it again with Harry: your condition changes nothing. You live or you die with the RCM, there’s no other possibility for you at this point. Even if you decided to get up and leave the catacombs, you would likely be killed by the Coalition as soon as you were identified as Kim Kitsuragi, the mass-murdering traitor to the city. The only sliver of hope you can see for yourself and your baby is winning, giving Revachol its independence, freeing the two of you from certain death. And if Revachol is to win, then it will take the efforts of everyone in the force to do so. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

When you hear those familiar lumbering footsteps right outside the entrance, you sigh, massaging the bridge of your nose as you prepare for another argument. You’re deeper in the catacombs than most officers in the camp usually go, searching for stashed-away equipment that could help in your upcoming mission. You set down the box of rifle ammunition and look towards the entrance to the room. Sure enough, Harry is there, the beams from his flashlight intermingling with your lamp.

 

“Mind if I join you?”

 

You don’t answer, returning to your search through the cache. A rifle will be useful to have in the car in case of an overwhelming threat, but you don’t want to rely on it too much. After all, the entire basis of this mission is having enough stealth to sneak through the warzone above unspotted. Southwestern Revachol does not have the same intensity in gunfire as up near the coast, but it does have more insects. Maybe you’re being facetious, worrying about bug-bites when you could get shot to death, but there are occasional cases of severe diseases being contracted from insects in southern Revachol. It wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s some bug spray down here, but you doubt it.

 

Harry sits on the floor beside you, his ass hitting the ground with an awkward thud. He probably didn’t mean to sit down that hard, you know your ass would hurt if you made such a maneuver. Even just crouching like this for a rather short period of time has your legs and lower back tingling with discomfort. 

 

“Preparing for the trip?” He asks, as if you’re about to go on vacation to Laurentide.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see.” He clears his throat. “So, about the trip, I’ve been thinking-”

 

“It hasn’t even been an hour since the meeting. There’s no critical thinking you could have done in such a short time period.” 

 

Harry chuckles uncomfortably. “You’d be surprised. Anyway, I know that you want to come with us, but-”

 

“Come with you?” You drop the prybar you were holding. “What the fuck do you mean, come with you? I’m being sent on this mission with you! This is not some charity trip that you’re inviting me on!” As you stand up, Harry looks so much smaller, still flopped on the ground. “I am not going to just stand here and let you treat me like an invalid. I’m in this shit as deeply as you are. You are not the Hjelmdallerman, and I am not some damsel for you to fuss over.”

 

Even with the bandages in the way, the regret on Harry’s face is palpable. He stretches both hands towards your shins. “Kim, I’m sorry. That was stupid of me to say. I wasn’t thinking right.” He cups his hand around the front of both your legs, easily encompassing the thin circumference.

 

“Well, start thinking right! I know you have a good brain between those ears, officer. I just wish you would use it more often.”

 

He stares at you for a second, before slowly heaving his body from the floor. When he finally manages to stand up, you hear an aggressive crack from his lower back. He winces, rubbing at his sore bones. “I just wish you would listen to me.”

 

“I have listened to you. You don’t want me and the fetus to get hurt. That is a perfectly reasonable way to feel.” 

 

“What’s with all this fetus shit, Kim? You’re talking about it like it’s a science experiment.”

 

You shake your head. “You wouldn’t get it.”

 

“Maybe I won’t, but can you at least try to explain?”

 

Calling it a baby scares me. Calling it a baby makes me feel nauseous. Calling it a baby gives me this warm fluttering in my chest that I’ve never felt before and I don’t know how to handle. Calling it a baby reminds me of the fact that I’m bringing a new person into a shithole of a world. Calling it a baby makes me feel so unready for it all, so immature, so stupid.

 

“No.”

 

When Harry doesn’t step back, you lower your head and lift your eyebrow. It’s hardly even intentional at this point, it’s just muscle memory for handling difficult situations.

 

This time, he doesn’t seem willing to lose. He lifts his eyebrow again, but it just shakes uncomfortably, obviously in a painful position as a result of his injury.

 

“I recommend stopping before hurting yourself, officer.”

 

He crosses his arms. “Likewise.”

 

It only takes half a step for you to be flush with Harry’s body, feeling the outline of his soft stomach through his hoodie. You stare directly into his eyes, seeing him desperately think of what to do next. Your mouth is centimeters away from his chin; your breaths tickle the bottom of his face. He’s trying so hard not to crumble beneath your gaze. His gasps are short and shallow.

 

And then, you feel it: A blunt object beginning to poke into your lower abdomen. Your eyebrow lifts even higher, and your suspicions are confirmed with the dusting of red upon Harry’s cheeks.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to be enjoying yourself, are you, officer?”

 

A low, guttural noise leaves Harry’s chest. “How could I be?” His blush deepens when you look down at the junction of your bodies.

 

“It feels to me that you’re having a fun time. Unless that’s just your Pepperbox in your pocket.”

 

“If anything, I think you’re the one having fun.” 

 

You slowly shake your head. “I haven’t had fun in weeks. It’s hard to, when you have back-to-back injuries and are puking every five minutes.” His erection grows even harder against you, and you can just barely hear a soft whimper. “Let me guess: you want me to take care of you, don’t you?”

 

“Are you going to make me beg for it again?” He asks, each hand resting on your waist. “I don’t know if I’m in the begging mood right now.”

 

“No, I don’t want to wait for you to beg.” You wrap your arms around Harry’s hips, forcing a gasp when you squeeze his ass. Despite the layer of fat covering it, it feels solid between your fingers. You begin to slowly grind against him, but his clothed cock reaches a bit higher than you would like. Guess you’ll both have to get on the ground for this.

 

“Lay down.” You point down, shoving against his chest. As Harry lowers himself, you look at your gloved hands. After a brief moment’s consideration, you take them off and set them on a nearby shelf, deciding that you want to actually feel Harry’s warm, fuzzy skin.

 

When Harry manages to get himself into a suitable position, you crawl onto him, immediately entangling your limbs with his body. With your face nestled into the crook of his shoulder, you can smell the accumulation of musk from the past three weeks. There are portable camping showers down here, but a bag of water hanging from a pole is really not an acceptable long-term substitute for actual plumbing. You both usually cover yourselves with enough deodorant and shaving oil to mask the stench, and this hasn’t been as effective for him as it is for you.

 

Oh, poor sweaty, musky Harry. All hot and soft and strong in your arms, wriggling and moaning against your body as you begin to rub your cocks against each other. If you grab him in the right place or gyrate your hips in just the right way, he lets out those fucking amazing little whimpers that just make your cock throb like crazy. He’s completely under your control, this bearish brute of a man being transformed into a meek little pet once you’ve got your hands on him.

 

Your clothes are now clinging to your body, and in an uncommon turn of events, you now feel overheated. You peel off your jacket, before gently setting it aside to avoid damaging any of its contents. As soon as the extra fabric is removed, you can feel the cold air drying the sweat from your skin. It’s not like this will last, however: you imagine that things are going to get very wet very soon.

 

The meeting of your pelvises is already a very damp, hot place. Your sweat is causing the fabric of your boxers to cling to your cock, and the slight slickness from your cunt just makes everything feel sticky and warm. With your age and decades of hormone therapy, it’s usually difficult for you to become very wet, and you can’t remember the last time you had penetrative sex without lube. But every time you run your dick across Harry’s bulge, pressing it firmly into the pulsating tissue, you can feel electricity shooting through your muscles. Harry leans up a bit so he can kiss you on the neck, but his bad back isn’t letting him get close enough to properly give you a hickey. You place both hands on his chest and rub your fingers over his nipples, feeling them stiffen even through his hoodie. He’s panting at this point, nearly growling as you continue ramming his cock against yours, feeling as though you’re scratching an itch deep inside your dick.

 

One more slick grind against his erection, and Harry’s growl turns into the most inhuman sound you have ever heard someone make in bed. He almost sounds like a fatally wounded animal, letting out one last roar to signal its violent end. You clasp your hand against his mouth, feeling your pants grow even wetter. 

 

“Harry, someone might have heard you.” You whisper, removing your hand. He’s still panting, eyes shut as he tries to regain his breath.

 

“Sorry, Kim.”

 

“And look.” You point to his cock. “You came before I did.” 

 

“I can make you come, if you want me to.”

 

You place a hand on both of his hips. “I don’t need you to make me come, I can make myself come. But I don’t think that this will do me any good.” His penis has now returned to its flaccid state, beginning its refractory period. “I think I’m going to need something else to get me off.”

 

Harry lifts his head, a string of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to suck you off again?”

 

You hum in thought, before shaking your head. “No, I think I have a better idea. You wouldn’t mind taking off your hoodie, would you?”

 

His head is probably still buzzing from the intensity of the orgasm, as he struggles to sit up enough to pull his hoodie over his head. At some point in the process, he gets rather dizzy, and you end up having to help him. With the sweat-soaked garment discarded, he’s left with just a white undershirt. It’s like one of those wet T-shirt contests, the way you can see everything through the fabric. 

 

You pull up the shirt, your cock burning when you see his fat, hairy gut muffin-topping over his jeans. Pressing your fingers against the flesh, it’s delightfully soft, much softer than when you first slept with each other. You snake the palms of your hands up the surface of his abdomen, feeling the growing layers of adipose tissue over strengthening muscle. When you reach his chest, you squeeze his pectorals, feeling his still-hard nipples in the gaps of your fingers. You think he has larger tits than you ever did, and you like that.

 

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me these past few weeks.” You lean in to nibble at his stomach, rubbing the skin between your teeth. “Sleeping in the same bed as me, letting all this hang out.” You grab his belly hard enough for him to gasp. “You really don’t know when to put this shit away, do you?”

 

Harry huffs. “Of course not. From the look of it, I don’t have anything to hide.”

 

“No, you don’t.” You squeeze his tits again, before shoving your face into the valley between them, breathing in the sweat from his body hair. “You don’t at all.”

 

While you’re busy running your teeth and lips across Harry’s skin, you feel his curious fingers begin to lift the hem of your shirt. When you lift your face from his chest, he pulls back.

 

“Sorry, I should have asked first.”

 

“...No, it’s fine. It’s just… You haven’t really seen my chest before, have you?”

 

He strokes his chin as he tries to remember. “No. You were covered in bandages when I visited you in the hospital, and I don’t think you took your shirt off at the hostel. Look, if you aren’t comfortable with me seeing it, I don’t have to.”

 

“I know. It’s just a bit embarrassing. There are artifacts from a different era of my life.”

 

He narrows his eyes, trying to discern what you just said, so you decide to show him. Your tank-top clings to your torso as you remove it, setting it beside your jacket. You watch as Harry’s eyes begin to trace the markings across your chest. 

 

“I was in my twenties when I had a mastectomy, and I wasn’t really happy with my results at the time. The incisions had a difficult time healing, to the point where one of my nipples ended up falling off. They couldn’t reattach it.”

 

“Sounds painful.” He says, glancing towards the location of your missing nipple.

 

“It was. But I thought I would feel better if I covered it up with something.” Layered on top of your scars are two tattoos of bare hawthorn branches, faded from the years. The one on the left has a few haws on it, and the one on the right has a crow, covering up the scar where your nipple fell off. “I know it’s kind of silly, I got it done when I was a lot younger.”

 

“I think it’s cool.” Harry smiles, genuinely liking the tattoos. “It’s very rock-and-roll.” 

 

“Yes, but I’m a bit old for it. Besides, I think the crow makes it a bit too corny.”

 

“Crows are cool, Kim. Your tattoo is cool.”

 

You pull off your pants, ignoring the way the compliment makes your heart-rate pick up slightly. “Alright, back on the ground.”

 

He obeys, allowing you to climb onto his sturdy torso. You squeeze his pectorals together, before running your cock through the space between them. Occasionally, you have to reach down and gather some of your lubricant to keep your cock wet, but you manage to build back up to the edge of release. His tits feel nice and plump against your dick, squishing against your folds as pleasure radiates from your cock, goosebumps erupting on your skin. When you crawl off of his body, his sternum is wet from both come and sweat. You run a hand through his damp hair.

 

“...This was nice, I guess.”

 

“...Yeah. It was nice.”

 

You pick up your clothes, struggling to pull them on. They feel cold now, and you know it won’t be long before you’re freezing again. 

 

“I’m going to have to wash these.” Harry whispers, frowning at the wet stain on his crotch. 

 

“I mean, it’s not like you’re unused to walking around in come-stained pants.”

 

“Those are my disco pants. There are many layers of meaning and sophistication to my disco pants. Besides,” he pulls the fabric away from his thighs “I think this is a bit too obvious.”

 

You feel too awkward with this situation to laugh, so you just leave Harry to figure out what to do with his newly branded party sweats.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Suggestion - Psst, Harry boy! Me and the art snob have been talking, and we think you should really show Kim how cool you think his tattoos are. And what better way to demonstrate your appreciation for the art of body modification than to perform it on yourself?

 

Conceptualization - Doesn’t the beauty of it send chills through your spine? Taking this body of yours, broken through decades of abuse, and reclaiming the power you have over it? Transforming it into something new? Let’s elevate this crack den to a temple.

 

Endurance - Just don’t choose some sissy shit.

 

Drama - Don’t listen to the brute, he doesn’t know anything about art. Perhaps the “sissy shit” would provide the perfect juxtaposition! Something delicate would highlight the power and masculinity within your form.

 

It was this thought process that led you to collect the instruments before you: Iodine and an extra-thick surgical suture that you “borrowed” from Gottlieb, a few towels, and a piece of makeshift jewelry that you made from wire, gold leaf, and two small turquoise stones. 

 

You don’t start to feel nervous until you've applied the iodine to your abdomen, and that’s when it sinks in that you’re about to shove a needle through your skin. It’s not that much skin that it’s going through, and you know that some people have this done through their cartilage. As such, you grab the needle, line it up with your navel, and sink it in.

 

Hand/Eye Coordination - Hey dumbass, you realize that you’re missing something, right? Forceps! You’re supposed to use *forceps* for this! The forceps would have helped guide the needle through! Do you not feel how much you fucked up the angle? You might as well pull it out and try it again.

 

Pain Threshold - Oh god, no. Don’t do it again, please. 

 

Well, it’s too late. The needle is through the skin of your navel, and it stings more than you think it should. You’ve probably fucked up a lot of steps of this process. Whatever, you’ve already started this, you’re going to finish it. 

 

You grab the piece of jewelry, the gold leaf plating sticking to your sweaty fingers, and for a moment you second guess if you should actually put this in an open wound in your body. But it’s not about the pain, is it? No, it’s about the statement.

 

Shoving the jewelry through the hole is significantly more uncomfortable than the initial hole from the needle. Your hands shake as you screw one of the turquoise onto the open end of the bar, and it’s done. You use the towels to wipe off the blood that trickled down your stomach and pour on a bit more iodine.

 

The piece of jewelry is lumpy in its gold coating, the two gemstones jutting out at odd angles from and above your navel. Not even a minute after the piercing, it looks agitated, brown hairs curling around the red skin. 

 

If you look at it with your eyes unfocused enough, it doesn’t look that bad.

 

When you find Kim, he’s writing something down in his notebook. You stand in front of him and wait for him to set it down; you know that he’s aware of your presence. 

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

“Nope, I’ve just got something to show you.”

 

Kim shuts his notebook and sets it beside him. He folds his hands on his lap and waits for you to show him whatever it is you’ve brought.

 

You lift up your sweater, grunting in pain as the fabric tangles with the jewelry. Hearing your discomfort, Kim’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

 

“Harry, what did you do to yourself-” He cuts himself off as soon as he sees the piece of metal sticking out of your belly button. His lips tighten as he leaves his seat to crouch in front of your stomach, tilting his head to get a better look. Kim inspects the piercing with all of the diligence of a drill sergeant performing an inspection on a rifle. On a few occasions, he raises his eyebrows in apparent shock, something you rarely see on the lieutenant. 

 

After a minute of tense silence, he places a thumb beside your navel and looks up at you. “...Why?”

 

“I wanted to show that I appreciate body modification as an art.”

 

He lets out a noise that is nearly a laugh, but is choked back and very baffled. “You’ve gone and porno-tuned yourself.”

 

“I did.”

 

“You’re in your forties.”

 

“Quite an insightful observation.” Despite your words, you’re starting to feel self-conscious. You intended for the piercing to make you feel more manly, but it’s just making you feel old.

 

“It looks awful. What even is this… this thing you’ve put into yourself?” He almost seems scared to ask.

 

“It’s makeshift jewelry. I made it from stuff I’ve found down here.”

 

“It’s hideous. There’s no way you could have disinfected this enough. And why is it at that angle? I’m sure that wasn’t intentional.” Maybe you’re imagining things, but you think you can hear a bit of laughter in his voice.

 

“I forgot to clamp it.”

 

“Harry.” He stands up, voice suddenly firmer. “You should take this out. This is seriously going to get infected.”

 

You don’t even try to argue: you know that he’s right. The area surrounding your navel is still throbbing in pain, the severed blood vessels obstructed by a filthy piece of metal barely resembling jewelry. If you keep this in, it will be infected in a matter of hours.

 

Taking it out is even more painful than putting it in. It takes several tries for you to unscrew the turquoise, as this puts more strain onto your already torn skin. Eventually, the turquoise falls to the floor, and you hiss in pain as Kim pulls the bar out. He takes one more repulsed look at the amalgamation of material before tossing it behind him, dabbing more iodine onto the hole.

 

“There. That should take care of that. And Harry-” He slugs you in the shoulder. “It’s… nice of you to care, but no more porno-tuning yourself, okay? At least, not while we’re stuck down here.”

 

As he leaves the chamber, you swear you can hear him snort. Maybe this didn’t turn out like you had hoped it would, but at least you got something out of it. 

Notes:

I'm actually really excited for the next chapter.

Notes:

Trying to get the hang of writing both Kim and Harry's POV. Kim doesn't have all the skills that Harry has, so the two will be different.