Conversation · Coupris Kineema

Press the button labelled HEADLIGHTS.

The lights unfold with a little click, casting electrical light onto the ground before the vehicle.

"There you go. I'll turn them off from the remote once you're done -- we just need to stand in front of the machine now."

Uhm... When Lieutenant Kitsuragi is here? It's his MC.

You need his key to turn on the engine if you want the foldable lights to pop up.

Pull out the pull-out toolbox.

A metallic drawer slides out from under the seat and clicks into place. The tools inside are neatly organized.

Take the red-tipped prybar.

The prybar feels nice and cold in your hand. Heavier than you'd think.

Cold and heavy -- like truth. You feel like you're reunited with truth once more.

Useful for opening all sorts of doors and lids...

Take the rubber-handled chaincutters.

The handles are long and sleek. Snap-snap go the cutters in your hand.

You can do good work with these: cut chains, locks, and ropes -- especially belts...

Take the hand-cranked flashlight.

It's robust, weatherproof and well made. Police issue -- blue.

Let's you see things in the dark you would otherwise miss...

Push in the pull-out toolbox.

The pull-out toolbox slides back into its nest. Pre-heater gauge casts a warm glow on the steering levers and the radio on its hook.

"Take what you need, officer. It's going to be a long case. I'm not protective of my tools. Like some men are..."

He's clearly a little protective of his tools, but what can you do? Work is work.

Run your fingers over one of the steering levers.

The white suede feels luxurious under the touch and the metal clutch handle so very familiar in your palm...

Your fingers waste no time closing around the handle. Clutch disengaged. Release the handle -- clutch drops -- right foot yearns for the familiar touch of the accelerator pedal. You have synced with the machine's mechanical circulation.

Release the clutch handle.

The handle is pulled back. Somewhere deep inside the drivetrain the disk is mated to the flywheel again.

How are you, my friend?

The smell of freshly treated leather, the lack of dirt and dust on the dashboard, and a neat little brush in the cup-holder all seem to be whispering:

I'm good, cherished and cared for, in the hands of a tending owner.

Do I know how to operate this machine?

You feel an uninterrupted connection to the mechanics.

Wait, does it mean I know how to pilot it?

After a while you realize silence is your only answer. Do what you will with it.

Release the clutch and squeeze it again.

Of course it's only in your head -- of course it is -- but it almost feels as if the clutch handle is gently squeezing back.

Where have you been?

At the bottom of the sea...

What?

So strange. The machine is not on the bottom of the sea at all. It's right in front of you, well kept. Why did it say that?

Because it's lonely. Just like you. Seaweed and strange fish around it, limpets clinging to the carcass... The sounds of the streets above...

This is clearly feverish nonsense -- let's rationalize it away. Grab the radio, or tools, or do something normal.

A dark feeling. This is going wrong. Let go of the clutch.

Before you stands a motor carriage. The bodywork is covered in blue and white livery bearing the number 57.

"I have something in the back we could sell so you can pay for your room. Open the suspect transport enclosure."

Those are some fancy words. Most people would just call it the cage.

"You mean the cage, right?"

"Yes." He frowns. "I've never liked that crude name. It doesn't do much to improve the RCM's reputation."

Open the door.

Vapour emanates from the large engine on the back of the vehicle. It hasn't had time to cool off yet.

This must be the infernal machine that tore you from oblivion -- the Coupris Kineema motor carriage.

[Leave.]

Open the door.

In the cabin you are welcomed by a set of steering levers, a radio-microphone on a hook, a pull-out toolbox under the seat, and the soft glow of the fuel pre-heater gauge.

A scent of leather-work and heavy fuel oils washes over you.

This must be the infernal machine that tore you from oblivion.