As you hold your ledger's clip under the headlamp, a shimmering iridescent pattern…

"Because I felt a twitch in my index finger."

"Ah, right. Sometimes the brain's able to preserve certain responses even when conscious memory has been... let's say... misplaced..."

"For an RCM officer -- especially Precinct 41, which is in the Jamrock Quarter -- it's rather... tame. I mean that in a good way."

"What's it feel like to kill a man, Mr. McCoy?" a young woman asks the man across the desk from her...

"Honestly, babe," says John McCoy, crossing his ankles over said desk, "I don't feel anything anymore. It's just like brushing my teeth -- I do it once or twice a week and don't really think about it." There's no trace of guilt in his voice.

"There are certain officers who treat their kills like some kind of ghoulish game. If they do happen to solve a case it's usually by accident." It's obvious the lieutenant doesn't think very highly of these officers...

"But it seems as though you are, or at least were, one of the good ones. So we have that to be thankful for."

He's sincerely glad you're not a scary predator. Not to say relieved you're competent.

"Thanks for this." (Conclude.)

The lieutenant nods.

"I know you've killed some people in the line of duty..."

"Yes," he says, declining to elaborate.

It's not a problem for him to state it, however.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Kim?"

"How do you handle the strain?"

"Everyone has their own method of coping, some more effective, or self-destructive, than others..." He gives you a meaningful look.

"Personally, I find it helps to keep up a few hobbies."

"Maybe I should find a hobby?"

"Why not historical reenactment? You've already got that turn of the century revolutionary hat..."

It's meant in earnest. Please don't mistake it for a jab.

"Why not historical reenactment? You've already got that antique carabineer gear..."

"Why not take up a sport? You've already got that FALN gear..."

"Why not gardening? You've already got the yellow gloves..."

"Anything's better than annihilating yourself with drugs and alcohol..."

"Like what?"

"Oh, this and that. Let's not get into it now."

"Hobbies are lame."

"Suit yourself..."

"Very noble of you. Are we done here?"

"Maybe I should pour one out for the boys? The fallen?"

The lieutenant sighs.

"If you want to pour out the booze you've been carrying around on duty, I'm certainly not going to stop you..."

"Actually, I'm just gonna hold onto this."

"As you will..."

(Pour one out on the ground -- ceremonially.)

A dark pool of cheap wine appears at your feet. It shimmers in the lights of the Kineema.

Honourably done. You have given up some of your own blood -- for theirs.

"I will make it okay with the power of rock and roll."

"I'm sorry for killing you."

"I'm not really sure what you're supposed to say at these things."

"Neither am I. Are we done here?"

"Here's to you, honoured dead."

"The Gloaming comes for all, but it came first for you."

A dark pool of moonshine-spiked borscht appears at your feet. The chunks of beet shimmer in the lights of the Kineema.

A dark pool of pale-aged vodka appears at your feet. It shimmers in the lights of the Kineema.

A dark pool of cheap pilsner appears at your feet. It shimmers in the lights of the Kineema.

It seems as though you don't have anything to pour out. Too bad for the boys.

"Because I feel like a killer."

That's right. A killer of humans.

"Just a lucky guess."

Doesn't that tingle in your index finger give it away?

"Right. Those are your confirmed kills. You've got precisely three perforations there."

Confirmed kills? That sounds pretty evil. A drink would soften that feeling.

"So I'm a killer..."

"I was expecting a higher number, honestly."

"Is now a good time to pour one out for the fallen?"

"Definitely not."

"That's not... too many."

"So you're saying I used to be a supercop?"

"Call it what you want. You were a valuable member of your precinct. Now, let's look at the last row..."