Part 58: 17:59-19:56: Denouement

Chapter 58: 17:59-19:56: Denouement



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Harry… you’re bleeding all over the place. You’re half dead.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Whatever this is, it is completely unimportant compared to what you’ve just *seen*.




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Bothered by it?! Harry, you look like you need a fucking organ transplant!”





ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Oh goddammit, *this* guy.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’m your goddamn *partner* Jean Vicquemare, and this is *your* special task force,” he says, gesturing toward his companions. “Or what’s left of it. Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam, Patrol Officer Judit Minot.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “We’ve come to scrape what’s left of you off the pavement.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, Precinct 57. We’ve just come from the island…” He points to the seafort. “Where our investigation led us.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] The scene is making even him feel as though he has to justify your actions.
KIM KITSURAGI: “We might need your help with something later,” he adds, suddenly regaining his confidence.
AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] As if he recalled that he’s, in fact, a decorated police lieutenant, and not a naughty boy.



JUDIT MINOT: “It’s good to meet you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” she says warmly, flashing Kim the tiniest of smiles.



JUDIT MINOT: “Harry, we want to help you. Trant, I believe this is where you come in?”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Uhm…” He takes a step back. “I don’t *quite* know what I’m doing here. I was asked to participate as an expert—I think I need to manage your expectations a little. I’m at best an enthusiast in cognitive science. My background is in something else entirely. I engage in *neurology*…”—he makes air quotes—“…on a merely theoretical level. In fact, I should probably get going…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “No… Trant, it’s too late. You’re part of this shit now!” He turns to you. “What have you got to say for yourself, shitkid?”






JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Guilty as charged.” He exchanges a look with the special consultant. “I heard you’d lost your mind *and* your memory. I wanted to see if it was true. And it was. Good work, Harry. You’re insane now. There’s one less person for me—and everyone else—to rely on.”




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Did you?” He adjusts his tie. “Or did you literally not recognize my face? We’ve been partners for how long, Harry? Don’t answer that—you don’t *remember*.”
EMPATHY: [Challenging: Success] Judging by the familiarity you feel toward him—two years minimum? Or maybe a short, but close stint on the task force…



ARIST: [Formidable: Success] I cannot fucking *believe* you just opened your mouth and said that out loud.



JUDIT MINOT: “Okay.” Another sigh. “Because you’re my commanding officer. I… I really want to respect you. I want us to have a normal relationship.”





TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “No. I was just interested in the Feld building and the Martinaise Beachhead. And Mikael wanted to see Martinaise. It was a coincidence.”



TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “What indeed?” He looks at the dilapidated shacks, then at you. “I was asked to share my take on some of the more *obscure* theories developed in Königstein in the Thirties. Like—partial psychotraumatic amnesia, group personality theory…”




KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. I’m still Kim Kitsuragi—still a lieutenant from Precinct 57.”




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Refresh your memory? It’s a god damn Major Crimes Unit. There’s you, me, Jude, Trant fucking Heidelstam, and Guillaume Bevy…” He stares at you.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I’m technically just a civilian advisor.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh, that’s an interesting story, actually!” He’s not smiling. “Guillame Bevy is a police reporter who joined our team. He was really good. Then he left, because he lost faith in your ability to lead the unit. Other people have left too. Good, smart people. People we won’t get back. Only me and this *really patient* patrol officer are still here. And Trant—because I’m *forcing* him to stay.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “See—there!” He wags his finger at you. “He’s getting it! I was *impersonating* him. Look at me, I’m G-Bevy. It was going to be funny. But then you really did have brain damage—so not so much anymore.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Do? It’s a Major Crimes Unit! We clear the desk of cases so Precinct 41 doesn’t look like the worst station in town. We’re *shit tier* now, Harry. Because of you.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] They’re your posse. Or what remains of it. Hand-picked. Hand-lost.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Goddammit, Harry…” He shifts his weight, crosses his arms, and looks you in the eye.



JUDIT MINOT: “It wasn’t like that…”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh, you think it was *cool*—you saying that? *Aesthetic* somehow? You were crying when we got here. Breaking things. You said we were going ‘into the abyss.’”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “The *bells* aren’t ringing because you have brain damage. Trant,” he turns to the blond, “this is where you come in—how bad is it?”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Well… He doesn’t have visible tremors. He talks without slurring. He can drive a boat. He’s standing, reasoning. All good signs. But—complete retrograde amnesia, episodic *and* semantic…”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Meaning: you forgot both who you are and the definitions of ‘money,’ ‘isola,’, ‘pale,’ and so on.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “As displayed in the station call, our interactions with him, and—I don’t want to be a ‘snitch,’” he makes air quotes, “but also mine with him before, when Harry did not seem to know who I was… It’s all very interesting.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Interesting?”



SAVOIR FAIRE: [Medium: Success] Nonsense! You’ve got 153 réál in your pocket, however the hell you spell it… You’re not poor! You’re living the high life!

TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Not when you phrase it like that. But I don’t think critical theory—I know everyone thinks this is far-fetched, pink academia, but still—I don’t think it should be off the table here.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What?! He lost his memory because of *capitalism*?”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Psychotraumatic amnesia?” He turns to the special consultant. “I can go for that—shitkid is a broken man, always has been. Who isn’t? I know I am. But you know what?” He turns back to you. “I keep my shit together. Also I *know* a person can’t wipe their own mind—however traumatic it gets. That doesn’t happen. You’re lying. Or insane. Or both.”



JUDIT MINOT: “Yes, a couple of times. After some of the more… serious benders.” She pauses, remembering. “One was after the Two Drunks case, the other when we looked into that mural.”
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] The two cases… in your ledger. The Unsolvable Case and the Next World Mural. Those were recent.
HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] Those cases were hard on you…
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Interesting. So at first he dipped his toes into it. Prepared. That’s where he would have gotten the idea—yes. Practice. And then he used alcohol to ‘get there’, so to speak…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What do you mean?”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Well—here is my theory. What if this is an absolutely normal reaction to the world we’re living in? What if this is *not* a significant anomaly at all, something to be explained, approached as a defect. Look at the sensory input here…” He gestures toward the scenery. “Look at the ruins, the neon, listen to the radio, the multitudes. The people. Live here for forty years… As a police detective, he’s like a magnetic reader on the world-tape—to borrow a known metaphor. Harry’s been pushed *flat against it*. Total input. Hard-wired to the free market…” He nods confidently. “He just needed for it to end.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Okay, Trant, thank you. That’s… absolutely meaningless. I’m glad we brought you. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know *that*.”







SUGGESTION: [Formidable: Failure] Be honest. You can’t have mutual trust without honesty.
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] That’s the worst advice I’ve ever fucking hea—oh, great. He *listened* to you.

JEAN VICQUEMARE: “So *refreshing*. He just admits it. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for destroying 45,000 reál of police property that’s coming out of *everyone’s* payslip.”








JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man is unimpressed by the piece of plastic in your hand. “And your gun?” he asks.






JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t buy it. Why do you smell like a *corpse* then? Huh?”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man doesn’t reply, but his expression speaks for him.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t believe you.” He squints. “You’re drunk. You let a suspect *escape*—a certain Klaasje. Because you were too *drunk* to assess her flight risk.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh well—if she was *specially trained*…” He rubs his face in frustration. “I’m not even gonna get into the *other* suspect who *also* escaped. Yeah. Ruby-something?” Or the fact that you’re Evrart Claire’s *little peone* now. Doing I don’t know what for him. That’s small-time stuff. That’s nothing. That’s a humorous anecdote…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “He did everything he could,” the lieutenant interrupts him. “*We* did everything we could. The company hired unvetted mercenaries. Lieutenant Du Bois got between them and the locals.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Here comes the cavalry.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you for the input, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. I didn’t mean to sugest you didn’t handle the situation…”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] He thinks of apologizing but decides against it.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eye and coughs. “You’ve spent the week with him—on this case. What is your take?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “On the case?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “On Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Well…” He pulls up his collar. “The drinking, the gun-losing, also losing the badge—that’s all true. Although he has *not* been drinking on the job this week.”
JUDIT MINOT: “See?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*One* week.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Then there’s the… self-flagellation issue. He likes to apologize—profusely. Making it sound like he’s guilty of at least first degree murder. It’s not a good communication strategy for an officer. It’s… It’s worrying. Especially considering his political views. Detective Du Bois is—as you may know—a Mazovian socio-economist. He wants to liquidate the ruling class. Which—again—for a police officer… is a little odd.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “The RCM consists of policemen of the state that *is*. So—a little discrepancy there.” He turns back to Vicquemare. “And then there’s the motor carriage in the sea—something I was *not* present for…” He breathes in sharply. But—despite all this—he is a great detective. One of the best I’ve seen, in fact. He can talk human beings into telling him *everything*. And he doesn’t stop. In all the time I’ve spent with him, he has not once stopped pursuing leads, however far-fetched and tangential. He is tireless. Madly driven. Well, except for that one time when he stopped to sing karaoke. Which—by the way—was a valiant effort. He really sang his heart out.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yeah… it was what it was…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Other than that one time, he has tirelessly worked on the case. And he solved it. We have a confession, a murder weapon, *and* the perpetrator—locked on the island right now, awaiting transportation. He apprehended a revolutionary brigade who stayed hidden for fifty years, ever since the revolution; who’s probably committed other murders over those years…” He pauses. “Oh—and he also discovered a new species.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “A… new species?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A colossal stick insect. It was on the island, camouflaged as the reeds. It… unfolded from the reeds. I think we may be dealing with the Insulindian phasmid.” He takes out the photo of the phasmid and shows it to the officers across the yard. The wind blows, flapping the glossy rectangle in his hand.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] You hear gasps beneath the howling of the wind.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: He ignores you, still staring at the phasmid. “Fucking hell, is that… Is this somehow *connected* to the case?”



KIM KITSURAGI: “The old man was not *aware* of the phasmid’s presence. Exhibiting a strange, atypical dementia, he fell into a stupor after its appearance. He became near-catatonic.”
JUDIT MINOT: “So it *is* connected…?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “…”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I must say, this,” he points to the photo,” is absolutely extraordinary. It’s… I don’t even have *words* for it.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yes. It really does make it hard to fire the drunk…” His tired eyes follow the photo as the lieutenant puts it away.
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] This is a very, very sad man who has just seen something that’s made him forget his sadness.




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “That’s great! *Entroponaut* is a great new career for you—*after* police officer. I don’t care. Go live in the pale.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Four kids were living in a tent on the ice. They were going to drown when it melted. It’s not optimal, but the building *was* abandoned. So he put them in there. It’s okay.”



TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Female? What makes you think so?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You had to see it… It had the subdued colours of a female. And the nesting behaviour too, I think.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Incredible… Were there eggs in the nest?”






TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Mhm…” He ignores your answer. “Then it wouldn’t matter if it’s male or female. The bower would just be rudimentary behaviour from before the parthenogenetic mutation.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] That makes sense, yes.
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Very interesting.” He looks around, quickly assessing the coast. “Such organisms are extremely vulnerable to disease. A single strain of bacteria could wipe out the whole species. We’re probably looking at conservation efforts here…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, but also reed-coloured—beige and brown, a little green—on the outside. After unfolding from a single stalk, it still retained parts that looks like reed tufts on its limbs.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Incredible…” he repeats, turning to Vicquemare. “The PR value of this is exceptional. ‘Cop Discovers New Species.’ Maybe even: ‘Discovers the Insulindian Phasmid.’ No… That’s too much.”
JUDIT MINOT: “This would really help with some of the… *problems* we’ve been having.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Absolutely—this is great. This does not say ‘vigilante murderers’ to me at all. This says: science, news, human interest.” He smiles. “You know, it’s a really good thing you have that photo.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Without it…” He shakes his head.
SUGGESTION: [Easy: Success] You’re doing good here. Perhaps only for a moment but still…




TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “The custom started in Graad, where they have patronyms: Krasovich, Larsovich, etc. The revolutionaries saw this as a chauvinist atavism so they used matronyms, derived from the mother’s name, instead. This man’s mother was Lilian. He’s Lilian’s son—Lilianovich. The custom was overturned after the Revolution failed, but not before it made it to Revachol.”
JUDIT MINOT: “So… it *is* what a soldier of the ICM would be called.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you, Trant. Thank you for that piece of cultural theory.” He turns to you. “You said you have a motive.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Of course. Excuse me. I just thought it was noteworthy.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Jealousy… I thought this Lilianovich was an old man. To have been hiding for fifty years… seventy-something?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A strange psychosexual fixation. Aggravated—possibly—by proximity to the phasmid and its chemicals. He himself gave a political reason—said he had killed an enemy combatant. Also—we have ballistics from the gun, matching the bullet found in the dead mercenary’s head. *And* two officers on the scene that Mr. Dros *confessed* to.”
JUDIT MINOT: “It’s a clean win.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*Perfect folding mechanism*…” He rolls his eyes. “Get over yourself, Harry—I can still smell the booze on the wind.”
PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Easy: Success] God dammit, doesn’t it ever *leave*?! It *is* there! Like, in your bones or something…



KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant lowers his voice—just a little. “This is a conversation for when we are no longer out in the open, in Martinaise, where Evrart and Edgar Claire have ears everywhere.”
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] And eyes too—your return from the island must not have gone unnoticed.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Understood. Of course.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] But a case against Evrart would be big…
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: The consultant, too, has lowered his voice. “I would prefer *not* to partake in anything Union-related. For political neutrality.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “How? It seems to be ongoing. I see red banners on the gates.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “He didn’t quite *solve* it—he cross-pollinated information between the company rep and Evrart. Until the rep came to see that the Union desires war. At which point Mrs. Messier decided to…” He shrugs.




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Maybe? Certainly. You’re Evrart Claire’s peone now. Just as I said. He’s a *mob boss*, did you know? Is that why you want us to investigate the assassination of the previous Union head thing? To get off Evrart’s hook?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. It’s *nothing* like that. He was reckless with information—but ethical. We don’t owe anyone anything. This allowed us to stabilize things in Martinaise.”
JUDIT MINOT: “God… Calm down, Jean.”




JUDIT MINOT: “The body was transported to Precinct 41. Our morgue. I had Tillbrook and Mollins take care of funeral arrangements and family-stuff.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’re not the only cop in the world, Harry. This all comes back to us.”
JUDIT MINOT: “Still,” she says quietly. “Good work with the missing person, detective.”




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*Why*? That’s not what you were supposed to do here.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “There was a *fridge* we needed. And a possible witness. He was just chasing a lead and ended up advising a local shopkeeper—it was okay.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Who’s *Cuno*?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You don’t want to know.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t *want* to. But you discovered a new species. And solved the murder…” He shrugs. “So I *have* to. Jude?”
JUDIT MINOT: A quick nod. “Anything that ends with the *trial* is okay with me.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] You haven’t been drinking, she thinks. So maybe this time…
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Agreed. The public relations potential of this is too valuable to let go.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man looks westward, impatiently.







KIM KITSURAGI: “The fact that you don’t seem to *know* what homo-sexuality is… And your moves on the church floor—which, honestly, were just *jump aerobics*…”
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] The raw, robust stamina output…



KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course! Contact Mike!”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh—you don’t say?” He arches an eyebrow. “Does he also *vault an impassible gulf of finance and privilege*?”




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yes, you *taught gym* in Couron. I believe that’s the term? Taught gym at a high school. You were a high school gym teacher.”
PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Easy: Success] The smell of sweat and glue, the worn floorboards…
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Couron is just east of Jamrock. It was a short walk, every morning—to the baseball field or the sports building…
KIM KITSURAGI: “High school. Harry! Your goings-on with Cuno, Andre, Acele—the whole thing on the ice. That’s why you’re so *juvie*.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “The regular—you found some chick. She inspired you to fight the *big fight*. Be more than you are. All that.”







JEAN VICQUEMARE: “God, I don’t know…” He thinks. “Six years ago? She was way before my time.”





JEAN VICQUEMARE: “She was extremely fuckable, Harry. A gorgeous bourgeois woman. Waifish. Like a *welkin* basically.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Heartbreak Welkin.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’ve only seen a picture—but it’s obvious you formed a real spiritual connection with how *pretty* she was. One you never recuperated from.”
JUDIT MINOT: “Look…” She turns to face the sea. “The sun is going down. It’s time to go home.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I think she taught in the Académie des Arts, east of the river. Way east. Hard to say which came first—the middle class chick or the drink? Egg and the chicken kinda thing… My point is, you need to see a *psychiatrist* about this shit. Not a psychologist—several degrees harder. Is there something harder than a psychiatrist?” He pauses to think. “A forensic psychiatrist. Go talk to that.”




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’re too unstable to work for a mob boss. You’re suicidal, Harry. No mob boss would take you.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I assure you—I wouldn’t consult for a corrupt unit.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] He would immediately backpedal out of it.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Us?” We’re the *Bloody Murder Station*, haven’t you heard? We’re the bad guys. No one likes us.
KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s not true. Jamrock is too big for one precinct. You’re just understaffed. And everyone respects the 41st—you have Captain Pryce.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you, lieutenant. You’re being kind. It *is* an understaffed station and the district *is* too big—which is why we need to…” He tilts his head northward…




JEAN VICQUEMARE: “God…” He sighs. “There are four wings, Harry: A, B, C, and D. We’re in C. It’s made of losers and clock-punchers. You and I *re-conceptualized* it as a task force. It was a mistake.”
TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “There’s also a lot of outside help involved. Not only me.” He smiles. “Other losers too.”



JUDIT MINOT: “Ptolemy Pryce? He’s the son of the old Pryce—one of the founders of the RCM.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “He’s one of the most highly regarded men in the force. You’re lucky.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] Somewhere under the curved roof of a former silk factory, shaped like a ladybird with two chimneys, Police Captain Ptolemy Pryce sits behind a heavy wooden desk. Resident medic Nix Gottlieb pours him coffee. It’s silent in the captain’s office…



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “So he remembers *that*… Yes, there may have been a raid on *some* churches. It wasn’t good press.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Our *enemies* were hiding in *a* church—to the best of our information. That’s it. I’m not talking about this anymore. Your security clearance is *shit-tier* right now. You have to wait for it to go up.”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] He means it. The RCM and its enemies will not be discussed on this coast.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Okay—it’s not the Bloody Murder Station. It’s an old converted silk mill with green desk lamps and a coffee corner. A lot of good people work there. Hard. Every day.”
JUDIT MINOT: “Jamrock is the largest ghetto in Revachol. Faubourg, technically… but it’s divided into *eleven* districts. Jamrock only has us.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The press will blow over,” he says in a reassuring tone. “Jamrock is lucky to have you. And it’s often considered to be the greatest of the districts—you’re lucky to have it.”



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Who is Lena?”



JUDIT MINOT: “Tabernacle? It’s on the way over. Near where you live, on Perdition…” She looks at Vicquemare.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fine. If we’re gonna drop you off anyway.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “She and her husband were conducting the search for the phasmid. It’s their discovery—in part. They should know as soon as possible. It would do you good to deliver some positive news for a change.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] She is going to be over the moon.




KIM KITSURAGI: He pulls up his collar and looks around, the cold spring light reflected in the lenses of his glasses. “Detective, we just stopped a small-scale war. Something is happening to Revachol.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “Work *with* Pryce?” A crooked smile quivers on his lips. “I’m flattered, but I don’t know if I…”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Would fit in? Am crazy enough? Can take the stress? He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] This truly came as a surprise to him. Not a bad one. But he’s at a loss.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Flattered? You’re Lieutenant Kitsuragi. *We* would be flattered if you even considered…”




Let’s put one last point into Ol’ Reliable, Inland Empire.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I do like the sound of that…” He returns her smile.



JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fuck it, let’s go.” The man points down the street. “Trant brought his motor carriage. It’s a 20 minute drive to Jamrock.”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see—from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street disappearing into the rain on the horizon… You close your eyes and hear the dogs bark. A lone woman sits by a factory window, dreaming of meteorite strikes. On Rue Saint-Gérôme a square bullet slides into a square-shaped chamber. In Old South a man without eyelids smiles. Spring has come. It’s time.






ARIST: [Impossible: Success] Disco.