Conversation · Interfacing

As you hold your ledger's clip under the headlamp, a shimmering iridescent pattern appears. One you've definitely seen before...

It's not unlike the pattern from the racist lorryman's boots. A stylized map of Revachol.

"There she is: Revachol West." There's a note of pride in the lieutenant's voice.

Around the borders of the watermark are dozens, no, hundreds of micro-perforations.

Look at the shimmering street grid.

The rectangular watermark is overlaid with the logo of the RCM, and yet the major arteries of Revachol are all recognizable. They shimmer in the Kineema's headlights.

Wait... look around you.

You catch a faint glimmer from a broken beer bottle. In the distance -- sounds. Two men engaged in a drunken argument, followed by the closing of some distant window.

In the middle of a broken plaza, illuminated in a cone of light, two men, one slim, the other sturdy. They are on the city stage, but only one of them knows his lines...

"Ah, Martinaise at night," he smells the air and says.

"Where are we on this?" (Point to the halogen map.)

"Let me see." He takes the ledger for a moment and inspects it.

"Right here," he says, his finger near the top of the map, on a segment of coast jutting out into the great ocean.

"I'm sure I've seen worse."

"Oh yes. Coal City, Le Royaume, the Burnt Out Quarter..."

All of them worse than here.

"Seems nice."

"No -- it does not," the lieutenant says without optimism.

"Seems like a shithole."

"It has its problems..."

A rat brazenly darts past you and disappears amongst the stopped lorries. In the distance -- a child somewhere shrieks, a woman reprimands her in a voice no quieter than the child's cry...

In the middle of a broken plaza, in a cone of light barely visible in the daytime, two men, one slim, the other sturdy. They are on the city stage, but only one of them knows his lines...

"Ah, Martinaise," he smells the air and says.

Look at the perforations.

There are many of them. And they are divided into three separate rows.

Tally up the different rows.

The first row has 18 dots.

What about the next one?

The next is the longest. It runs all the way around the border and then some.

Count them individually.

You count 216 perforations. Considering that nice, large number, a wave of pride washes over you, though you can't say why, precisely.

What about the last row?

The last row has three perforations.

As you look at them you feel your index finger reflexively contract three times.

Must be a muscle spasm.

A memory, an echo in the recesses of your amygdala.

Seems like something I've done before.

And something you'll do again, before this is all over.

Three, that's it?

That's it.

There are so many it's hard to count. More than 150, at least. Maybe even 200.

Not bad.

Not bad for what? You don't even know what it means yet.

(Let's look at something else.)

Right. The meaning of the perforations remains opaque to you.

"Hey, Kim, what do all these holes mean?" (Point to the dots on the watermark.)

"Those are perforations. They represent your record as an officer of the RCM. They're your statistics, as it were. I should have guessed you'd keep a record, officers often do. Let's take a look..."

Alpha male officers who are proud of their numbers often do -- it's meant.

Son, here is where we score your life performance. You better hope it's good.

"The first row represents your years of service. Eighteen years? Okay -- not bad at all. What did you do before you volunteered?"

"Do you really think I have any idea?"

"Fair point... Let's move on, shall we?"

"This next row -- the one that wraps all the way around -- is your number of closed cases. Closed is good. It means finished. You've got, let's see..."

"Wow, more than 200!"

"Two-hundred sixteen, to be exact."

The lieutenant nods with evident respect. "It's quite a lot, even for someone who's been on the force for nearly two decades. Usually clearing more than 10 cases a year puts you in the 90th percentile of all RCM officers..."

"I don't think I can ever re-become this person... What's the last number?"

You know the answer already. The tingle in your index finger gave it away.

"Those are my confirmed kills. Three of them."

"That's right," the lieutenant says, gauging your reaction. "How did you know?"