Chapter Text
Revachol’s summer is capricious. Scorching days, when the relentless heat from the sky saps the life out of everything around, are interspersed with violent storms that turn the streets into raging torrents and brief weather breakdowns when, for a day or two, the temperature drops to just a few degrees and the sky is shrouded in a steel-gray layer of clouds.
Usually, however, the heat dominates. Exactly like now.
You open the vehicle’s window, but it doesn’t help much. Actually, it doesn’t help at all, except for letting in the aroma of Revachol’s summer in: the mixed scents of sewage, overflowing garbage bins, and food being prepared at the dozens of stalls surrounding Boogie Street.
PERCEPTION: Anything is better than Lieutenant Marino’s deodorant. Its artificial, sharp scent, which you stubbornly associate with chemical waste, not only drills into your nostrils but also spreads over your tongue, leaving a disgusting, bitter aftertaste.
If you could, you would wince at the very thought. You’d really prefer if the lieutenant refrained from his futile attempts to tame his glands. On days like this, when every inch of your body is sweating, it’s a fight doomed to fail. Besides, you tolerate natural smells, like sweat, much better than the synthetic crap he loves to spray himself with.
You come from Suvanid, the coldest region of Zsiemsk, where in summer the temperature rarely exceeds twenty-five degrees, and the icy gusts of the northern wind never cease. That’s why Revachol’s summer is sheer torture for you. Maybe it would be easier for you if you lived on the coast, where the sea breeze blows. Unfortunately, the breeze doesn’t reach here. Only the strongest gusts of wind can break through the irregular wall of dilapidated tenements and hastily built post-revolutionary blocks.
DURABILITY: You have a young body that copes reasonably well with difficult conditions, but the heat makes you tire faster.
BEAST: You must be vigilant, cautious. The enemy can strike at any moment, exploiting your weakness. In our profession, danger never goes away.
CALCULATION: Without unnecessary paranoia. Today has been calm; the case was resolved quickly and efficiently. You didn’t even have a chance to get tired. Besides, you’re staying hydrated, which helps.
“Yeah... I drink a lot and pee a lot, which isn’t particularly convenient for a cop. Just like holding your pee.”
KNOWLEDGE: Prolonged and frequent holding of urine can lead to bladder inflammation…
“I know, I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s not my fault there aren’t toilets on every corner, right? Besides, it’s not like I can take a pee break anytime while chasing a criminal.”
CALCULATION: You didn’t chase anyone today.
RHETORIC: You did, metaphorically. You followed the evidence. Tracked…
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Most of the time you sat on your ass in the archive, going through missing persons reports until you found the victim’s photograph. It has nothing to do with following evidence or tracking.
HUNTRESS: Unfortunately.
“Criticism. Everyone would just criticize. We should be glad the case turned out to be painless.”
EMPATHY: Painless for you.
True. Rape and murder is a pretty nasty combination, isn’t it? Especially when the victim is a pretty sixteen-year-old from a good, wealthy family. One of those with a Future with a capital “F” ahead of her. Maybe that’s why the sight of the teenager’s bruised body threw Lieutenant Marino off balance. Paradoxically, neither the blood covering the girl’s thighs nor the bruises on her neck impressed him as much as the traces of tears on her smooth cheeks. You don’t understand this. You’re not particularly sensitive, as you never had the chance to learn it. Emotional sensitivity, that is. However, in the police profession, underdeveloped empathy can be an advantage, provided it is replaced by logic supported by perception and knowledge. Calculation. Because logic can replace empathy if you’re sharp enough. Perceptive. This is also true for intelligent psychopaths. Although they don’t understand emotions, they can recognize them perfectly by their symptoms and understand their mechanics. It’s possible that people with autism use a similar tactic to associate facial expressions and gestures with specific emotions, although you’re not sure. In any case, you can deduce others’ feelings. Calculate them. After all, people, like the world itself, are just equations.
Thanks to Calculation, the reaction of the girl's parents, Faith Schwartz, both to the news of "finding a body matching their daughter's description" and to the sight of said body was more than just predictable to you – it was obvious. However, there was one thing you couldn't predict. The fact that you knew the Schwartz family... or rather, Eleonor knew them, and it so happened that years ago, while traveling through the pale, you experienced her memories.
"Entroponetic can really mess up your life."
CALCULATION: And make it easier. At least easier to solve the mystery of a gruesome murder. Without Eleonor's memories, the killer might never have been caught – the wealthy can hide their crimes. They have people for that.
Yes, they do, but not all people are reliable. If the Schwartz's "cleaner" had disposed of Faith's body once and for all, the case would never have seen the light of day. The question is, did he throw the body into the river out of laziness, or did he hope his employer wouldn't escape responsibility?
CALCULATION: You'll probably never know.
From the very beginning, you associated the name Schwartz, but there are lots of Schwartzes, right? It's a very common name. Besides, if you remember correctly, Eleonor's family lived on one of the Ozonne islands. You had no reason to think Gregory would move to Revachol... nor that he would marry Grace, the sister of her best friend. However, when you stood face to face with them, you recognized them immediately. And you understood what had happened. It took just one sentence from you for the atmosphere in the interrogation room to explode.
DRAMA: It was a brilliant move, albeit risky. A challenge worthy of someone with your skills.
CALCULATION: The risk was within reason, considering the potential benefits. A simple calculation of gains and losses.
RHETORIC: Besides, the most important role was played by the right choice of words.
DRAMA: Oh no, Żywia's cool, detached demeanor was key...
CALCULATION: External coolness and detachment are Żywia's default state. It wasn't an act. More important was the presence of Faith's fiancé...
KNOWLEDGE: ...Theodore Lobineau.
CALCULATION: ...who effectively diverted attention from us.
DRAMA: He sank himself with that performance. Zero sense.
AUTHORITY: But he did the right thing. Thanks to him, justice triumphed.
EMPATHY: Besides, it was about his beloved. He couldn't let her murderer go unpunished.
The conclusion of the internal dialogue leaves you slightly suprised. Where did that sentimental mention of a beloved, spit out by Empathy, come from? Sure, you know the mechanisms governing the feeling of love, but it itself is an abstraction to you. You would understand if Calculation suggested something like that, after all, love, although irrational, is just another variable in logical reasoning on which you base your predictions of human behavior. But Empathy?
CALCULATION: Empathy also does not escape equations, you observe reality too closely not to know that...
PERCEPTION: Oh, you observe many things, not just reality, although it occupies most of your attention. And trust me, you can't observe the world more closely than you do. Not without falling into the deepest depths of madness.
HOUSE OF GATES: ...
CALCULATION: Yes, Miss Receiver is probably right, but let's get back to the topic. From observation, you know that love, so glorified by humanity, can be as destructive as hatred, anger, or unhealthy forms of fear. Maybe even more so, because it can cause fear, anger, and hatred. In any case, little pretty Faith was loved. By her parents, by her older sister...
KNOWLEDGE: By Hope. Hope Schwartz.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Faith is dead, but Hope endures. Hope dies last.
VOLITION: Determination often outlasts it. Not everyone needs hope to strive towards their goal. Doing what you have to, what you believe is right against all odds. Against hopelessness. That is true strength.
CALCULATION: Are you done? Can I continue?
VOLITION: Absolutely.
CALCULATION: As I said, Faith was loved by her parents, sister, and fiancé... or rather boyfriend, teenagers rarely get engaged, and if they do, it's usually not serious. In any case, she was loved and adored. Placed on a pedestal. That's why her death caused a lot of pain. Terrible pain, beyond emotions, attacking the body, especially the internal organs. The heart. The lungs. Empathy must have picked that up. After all, we both know that of all emotions, you are most attuned to pain. Hence the "beloved." Love often goes hand in hand with pain. Even I know that, although I am somewhat the opposite of Empathy. And since I know it, Empathy knows it even more.
"Nice to know I'm still grounded. Thanks for the explanation."
Yes, love is pain. Faith was probably loved by many people, so many will mourn her. Many will suffer. Some may not recover.
You don't love anyone and have never loved. And you're unlikely to ever love. No one loves or has ever loved you. Probably no one even likes you. Your death will not break anyone's heart. No one will shed a tear for you. You like that. You don't want to be the cause of unnecessary suffering; this world is already drowning in it.
You look at your notes. You should be at the station, writing the case report, but the lieutenant needs to "decompress" from the stress of today's case. In short, he plans to get drunk. But to do that, he first needs to stock up on the right drinks, which he is currently doing by rummaging through the shelves of a nearby market. The store has a wide selection of cheap alcohol – the really cheap kind, containing more sulfates than alcohol – but it is quite a distance from the station. That's why he took the Coupris. Again, since he took the car, it's your unwritten duty to make sure he doesn't get behind the wheel under the influence and, above all, to ensure the car gets back to the station before he starts drowning his sorrows.
So far, the lieutenant has never drunk on duty, at least not in front of you. He knows you won't tolerate it. He knows that if he drinks even a sip of wine in front of you, not only will you leave him for his own, but you'll also mention the alcohol in your report.
Your stance on drinking on the job hasn't made you popular, especially since many RCM officers cope with stress by drinking. You've never understood the sense in that. After all, after intoxication, no matter how pleasant, comes a hangover, and reality becomes even worse than it was before. Or maybe that's the point? To remind yourself that it can always be worse and it's not as bad as it could be? Well, maybe. But while the hangover is temporary, the effects of long-term drinking can last for years, even permanently damage the body. Rotting liver, neurodegeneration, hypertension, and heart problems won't cure stress, they'll only deepen it.
You highlight the parts of your notes you plan to use in the report. It's okay that you won't write it today – it will be short. A page, maybe two. You'll handle it tomorrow in half an hour.
PERCEPTION: You hear approaching footsteps and the accompanying clinking of heavy glass bottles.
Lieutenant Marino approaches the car with almost a marching stride, carrying a whole crate of cheap wine. Clearly, he plans to decompress not just from today's case but from the stress that's been building up in his body for a month.
Without a word, he opens the car door and packs the wine on the back seat, securing it with seat belts. Much more carefully than he ever did with handcuffed suspects. Well, apparently the lieutenant is a man with "priorities."
You sniff, even though the interior of the car is once again filled with the fumes of the lieutenant's stinking deodorant. You look for the smell of wine or other alcohol. You make sure he gets behind the wheel sober.
PERCEPTION: I assure you, the lieutenant hasn't consumed even a drop of alcohol. Unfortunately, he noticed what you're doing and is far from pleased about it.
"Thanks for the trust, sergeant," he growls, taking the driver's seat.
BEAST: Trust is the first step to doom.
You don't comment on either Beast's words, largely true, or the lieutenant's sarcastic remark, who glares ahead with an angry expression. He looks like something's bothering him. Something more than the drama he witnessed today. He's unusually tense. Restless.
EMPATHY: It might be about you.
The longer you look at him, the more he tenses up, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. As if the lack of eye contact could save him... The only question is, from what. From you? You don't pose a threat.
BEAST: Oh dear, you do pose a threat, and a significant one. You know that.
HUNTRESS: Hunting this man wouldn't be much of a challenge for you, even though he knows your methods.
Well, technically speaking, you do pose a threat – you can shoot, handle a knife very well, and you fight reasonably well for someone your size. But you don't attack people without a good reason. The lieutenant has no reason to fear you. Not if he doesn't plan anything nasty.
"How did you know?" he asks after a moment.
You blink in surprise, although Marino doesn't see it – your eyes are completely hidden behind tinted glasses. Their round lenses and side construction make them look almost identical to welding goggles. However, there is a small but significant difference: the side panels are made not of plastic or metal, but of glass, the same as the lenses. All so you can see things out of the corner of your eye.
"What did I know?" you respond with a question. Of course, you suspect what he might mean, but you'd rather make sure.
"How did you know what to say? How did you know that 'sh*tking' would work?"
Marino looks at you with concern. It's not fear of something you could physically do to him, but...
CALCULATION: It's obvious. You've probably noticed that the lieutenant is, um... exceptionally attached to reality. To everything tangible? To what is normal?
"Of course, it would be hard not to notice. He is irritated by esotericism, religions, even newspaper horoscopes. He also avoids information about the Pale. Generally, he's afraid of things he can't explain or understand."
CALCULATION: Exactly. He's afraid of abnormality. Unusualness. And you're neither normal nor usual, right? Normal women don't have immobile faces...
"My lack of facial expressions is not something supernatural, esoteric, or paranormal. It's biology. And my face is not the problem, it's the lieutenant's ignorance."
CALCULATION: ...nor can they perform life-saving operations at the age of fifteen. Certainly not in field conditions. Not without prior medical training. That's more than enough for a down-to-earth person like him to be somewhat... cautious. Unsure. Now you started saying strange things. Unpleasant things. Things whose context he doesn't know but feels you shouldn't know. As a result, his uncertainty turned into fear.
DRAMA: He sees you as witch, my dear.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: You are to him like an ancient seer speaking in tongues, seeing everything that was, is, and will be. The Lady of Truth, who appears in critical situations to uncover what is hidden and bring justice.
HOUSE OF GATES: You are neither a witch, nor a seer, nor the Lady of Truth. You are the Keykeeper.
Performing the mental equivalent of shaking your head, you focus your attention on the lieutenant, who looks at you expectantly.
"Damn. The last thing I need is for the lieutenant to start seeing me as some f*cking witch. First those idiotic rumors about necrophilia, then about cannibalism, and now this."
"I already told you, entroponetic."
"What the f*ck does entropathy mean? That you sniffed the pale or what?"
You sigh.
"Ignorant. Complete ignorant, demanding information, although it won't make him feel any more certain."
"Sort of. Have you ever traveled through the pale, Lieutenant?"
"No. But I know about its radiation. I mean, everyone knows. That it saturates people with the past and can drive them insane."
HOUSE OF GATES: Not the past, but memories. Memory imprints. Echoes of the dead.
You nod.
"General information, but sufficient for our purposes, although it would be easier if the lieutenant had personally experienced the effects of the pale. Anyway, I wasn't born in Revachol, I arrived here when I was eight. I crossed the pale, and in doing so, I experienced the memories of several people, including Schwartz's sister, Eleonor."
"So Schwartz senior abused her, right?"
"That's right."
Marino's face twists with an emotion you can't identify, then he looks at you with some sympathy.
"That's sh*tty. I mean, you had to experience that... But wait, those memories should be chaotic, right? Not taken from one person, but many, varied, mixed together and so on."
"I am one of the few people exhibiting so-called specific reaction... Without going too deep into the topic, I have a bit more resistance to the pale than most people. Also, I don't confuse others' memories with my own, nor do I perceive them as strongly as if they were mine, and I can organize what I saw."
The lieutenant frowns and thinks intensely about something. Finally, he sighs heavily, shaking his head.
"Yeah... I'm not surprised you can't be normal even in terms of reaction to the pale," he mutters finally. "A freak of nature from start to finish, huh?"
The lieutenant's words don't offend you. You've been called worse. Besides, he's right: you are a freak of nature.
"Indeed," you confirm, simultaneously wondering how the lieutenant would react if he knew everything. How anyone would react. "And now, I'd be very happy if we returned to the station. I lost a day off because of the case, and before that, I was on my feet for almost thirty-six hours, and I'd really like to get a good night's sleep. And eat something normal. That roadside stand crap isn't healthy."
"Sure, right away..."
The lieutenant doesn't get to finish because as soon as he reaches for the ignition button, the radio comes to life:
Radio: Urgent request for support! Jamrock, Geoffrey Street, officers under fire, one person injured.
Your and the lieutenant's eyes meet. Geoffrey Street is one of the small inner streets near Boogie Street, just across the Fau border into Jamrock. Very close to you.
"f*ck."
Marino reaches for the radio. If he hadn't, you would have. Good cops don't ignore such calls. Not when they can help. Besides, tomorrow one of you might need help.
"Lieutenant Sylvester Marino and Sergeant..."
"Żywia Trzcińczyk."
"...from the thirty-third. We'll be there in five minutes. What's the situation? Over."
RADIO: No additional information, but haste is highly recommended. Over and out.
Without wasting time, Marino takes off with a screech of tires, while you bend down to retrieve your reliable backpack from under the seat. You made it yourself. Spacious, comfortable, and durable, it contains a field medic’s first aid kit – in case you don’t have access to the medical bag in the trunk – extra ammunition, and a crossbow, which you also crafted yourself. You shoot well with firearms, but you’re more of a sniper than a gunslinger. And you can't stand the loud bang of gunfire. Besides, you can reload a crossbow much faster than a pistol, which can be critical in situations like this.
“Muzzleloaders suck.”
You take the crossbow out of the backpack and transfer the bolts to the pockets of your police vest, where you can quickly and easily access them. Finally, you sling the backpack over your shoulders and look out the window.
One glance is enough to tell you that you’re already in Jamrock. You know the western part of the city better than anyone, on all levels. After ending up in an orphanage, you spent your days wandering the underground, exploring forgotten crypts, abandoned mines, sewers, and post-revolutionary bunkers. Sometimes you ran into other kids, mainly juvenile treasure hunters and gangsters looking for safe hideouts. Encounters with both could be very unpleasant. The rooftop zone was different. There, encountering a living soul was a rarity… unless there was a construction crew around, but burly men in helmets and reflective gear rarely posed a threat. Practically never. At least not to you. In any case, you’ve never met anyone who decided to explore Revachol by jumping from roof to roof or climbing along cornices. Strange, given the places the city’s back offers easy access to.
Apparently, most people don’t like heights, deterred by the risk of splattering on the pavement. Few people tend to look up, which, as you’ve discovered, is a great advantage. An advantage you plan to use right now.
“Lieutenant, please slow down after the next turn; I’m getting out,” you say, opening the car door slightly and preparing to jump.
Marino understands. He nods without a word, and as you round the nearest corner, he slows down enough to give you the chance to jump out of the car relatively safely, which you immediately do.
HUNTRESS: Our time has come!
The jump is much easier than the landing, which, despite the circ*mstances, you must control to – firstly – avoid serious injury and – secondly – not damage the crossbow. You succeed, though you end up with a few bruises and scratches. They don’t hurt much, at least not yet. Probably once the adrenaline wears off, you’ll feel them more.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Oh, you will, trust me. Better buy some painkillers before going home, assuming we survive. Some bruise gel or something.
VOLITION: You’ll worry about that later. For now, it’s more important that somewhere out there, in a dark alley, your colleagues are under fire. They could die if you don’t hurry.
Without much thought, you sprint towards a low building with a dumpster by its side wall. You leap onto it and then skillfully pull yourself onto the roof. From the roof, you jump to the fire escape of a neighboring tenement, climb two floors up, jump to another building, cross the roof, and make another leap.
It doesn’t take long, and you’re at your destination, or rather above it. High on the roof, unnoticed by both the cops and the thugs shooting at them.
Lieutenant Marino is already on the scene. The battered Coupris 20 has stopped next to the Coupris 40, forming an effective shield with the other vehicle. However, he ran over one of the attackers, whose mangled body is pinned under the car's wheel.
You quickly survey the battle scene. Besides Marino, there are three officers: a short-haired woman in a patrol uniform, a red-haired youngster, and a burly man. The woman is sitting propped against a motor vehicle wheel, barely moving, though she occasionally fires at the bandits, unfortunately, not very accurately. She’s probably the one who got injured. The youngster is shooting at the advancing criminals, or at least trying to – he clearly lacks experience with firearms, especially reloading them. Meanwhile, the big guy is beating up two thugs who decided to attack him hand-to-hand. No surprise there. Shootouts with muzzleloaders usually end in bloody brawls. The urge to use the moment when the opponent is reloading to – for instance – bash his head in with a crowbar is usually stronger than caution. Another thug attacks the lieutenant, who suddenly appeared beside him, not giving him a chance to draw his weapon. Luckily, Marino never parts with his brass knuckles.
Meanwhile, the big guy knocks out his opponent with a solid blow to the side of the head.
Two down. You see five more on the scene, but if it’s another ambush, there could be more lurking nearby.
With a fluid motion, you draw the crossbow and, without blinking, shoot the bastard who just jumped onto the hood of the Coupris 40, aiming at the boy’s head behind it. The bolt sinks into the man’s temple like butter. You imagine the accompanying crunch.
HUNTRESS: Oh yes, doll, nothing compares to the hunt. You were made for this.
