Conversation · Kim Kitsuragi

Your brothers have left you.

"What's special about Martinaise?"

"Martinaise? Nothing. It's just a puddle at the end of some drainpipe. No one cares about this place, they care about sports. Most of our colleagues don't even know how to get here. North of the Interchange doesn't exist."

A tremble comes over you, another after-effect of ethanol poisoning perhaps? Feels like leaves do when they rustle in the breeze, somewhere far away, below the Turbine. The 41st and the 57th... The lieutenant was right. It's not about who gets what's North, it's about who doesn't.

"For some reason I thought you had a hundred and four solved cases."

"Well, technically," the lieutenant says, somewhat sheepishly. "The official record keeper has been known to double-count murder-suicides."

A common accounting gimmick used to inflate precinct stats.

"Let's be honest: 102 is pathetic. A very small number."

"I wouldn't say that. And my case load is measly, but that's beside the point..."

He is not the least bit offended. He just wants you to know his case load should be much higher.

"I'm good enough for this case. I'm not here to compete. I came because I had to. My fellow officers -- the sergeants, in particular -- would have made this scene into a circus."

"So, you're still a good cop, right?"

"I wonder what this says about me? That I was sent by my station?"

"Hmm..." He raises an eyebrow, thinking it best to let you make the next move.

Clearly, he has already formed his own theory.

Tell him. Tell him why it's you.

It's all part of the Masterplan, you see.

"I was sent to teach you a lesson in style."

"Okay." He takes a step back. "Style me."

It's impossible to tell whether he's serious or joking.

This man has sharp, precise composure, without impatience. Years of being himself have whittled the tension down to readiness. He is at home in what must be a subtly thought out set of apparel. Do you even have anything to teach him?

(Point to yourself.) "This is what a modern cop looks like."

"In the New, twenty years ago. It's what a modern cop looked like then."

He means The New, the third decade of the current century. The decade of disco, decadence, and the victory of democracy-powered free market economy over it's critics.

"Was there anything else you wanted to ask about the competition? If not, we should move."

(Loosen your shoulders.) "You should ease up a bit. You need more looseness."

"No I don't. I used to. Plain clothes did the trick. For both of us, it seems." He nods toward you. "Now..."

"Everything from scalp down is top notch, but you need a patrol cap."

"I don't need a patrol cap."

"Okay, maybe you don't need an orange patrol cap. Let me think of something else."

He's waiting.

"Orange patrol cap. I can't think of anything else."

"I know it seems unintuitive. But trust me."

He thinks for a second. "Okay, maybe I do."

"An orange patrol cap -- you need it."

"There can only be one conclusion: I am the finest, a case-solving machine sent to outperform you in every way imaginable."

"A good joke."

He does not actually think it was a good joke.

"Okay, it was a poor joke. But we could use a good mannered Cop Off, don't you agree?"

"If it helps you work better, okay. See it as competition. But don't expect me to. Now..."

"Of course it's a joke, look at me! How could I compete with you, you probably have a ton of cases solved."

"It's not that many. Officer, I'm sure you have a lot more cases solved. Now..."

Strangely enough, it's not pity. He would never pity a fellow officer. He truly appears to think you've solved your fair share of cases -- perhaps more than him.

"A joke, of course. Rest assured, I have no intention to compete with you."

"It's good we set this thing aside."

"Yes, a joke. In truth I will only moderately humiliate and outperform you."

"Oh? You will?" He raises his collar. His eyes narrow. "Then I will help you to do so. Now..."

Still, against his better judgement, this made him think just a little bit less of you

"I probably have an unbelievable kill count."

"I bet you do."

"I will only use lethal force with the utmost care and precision."

"It's a good thing you found that gun. I can see why they sent you now."

"If you could only find your gun."

"I for one hope I don't have to use my service weapon at all -- like a normal police officer."

"Why, do you agree?"

"The 41st is known to kill people. Often."

He neither approves, nor disapproves. Yet there is something more there, something you can't put your finger on.

"You're right. I am a super-predator. Off leash like this... it's about to get very violent."

"I'm gonna leave why I was sent unspecified."

The silence carries.