Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you swung open the door of the freight train and jumped out, no one would notice until it reached its destination. Not the lieutenant, who is, in his own words, just resting his eyes in the corner of the carriage; not the other passenger who you’re positive is on the train with you in a carriage, because when has your intuition ever failed you before?

SHIVERS [Easy: Success] — Outside, blood-red dry reeds lash against the speed of the train, twirling like crooked dancers. Light feet tread gently among the plants, torsos and stems alike twisting, arms and leaves flowing with the wind. Further down, in the train carriage, a passenger holds a letter bearing the signature of a dead man.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — You think you should be more concerned at the sight of an unnaturally thin black figure donning a white mask with three tiny holes marking the eyes and mouth sitting beside the lieutenant, cupping its expressionless face in its thin hands, but you’re not. It’s unnerving, sure, but stranger things have happened. Still, what is it?

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — This is a tragedian, a classical writer of tragic plays. It’s in the name, try to keep up with the script, Harry — you are playing the lead role, after all.

The tragedian tilts its head at you, and your eyes follow the stitch lines traced like veins across its dusty-black form. 

“You’re not supposed to be awake yet.” It says. “We’re still setting up the props. The audience will be filing in soon, you need to get into position.” There is a sense of urgency to its words, almost compelling you to prepare yourself for… what? 

“Why are you dressed like that?” You ask, wondering if it's even a costume at all. 

It holds a bony finger up to the dot where the mouth should have been. “Shh! I hear the audience outside, they’ll be here soon. It’s almost your cue. It’s our opening night, the director will kill me if we mess this up.”

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — Who the hell does he think he is? A director, giving you orders? In your dreams! Go on, show it who's the boss of his fate around here.

Just as you stand up to give it a piece of your mind, the train jolts up, screeching against the railing, knocking you back against one of the storage crates. 

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Failure] — You know, maybe you can let the little prick off the hook, for now. It’s not worth it, anyway. Besides, that hurt, you should sleep it off, boss. You know what they say, the best revenge is living well.

You close your eyes as your focus dilutes, dwindling at your senses until you’re falling through that semi-comatose state between reality and dream. This is what dying feels like. The jagged, messy scar on your thigh reminds you of that every day. 

When you wake up, the Tragedian is gone (as you already expected), and the lieutenant is wiping away the clumps of dust that had accumulated in his glasses with a handkerchief. In the humid, enclosed walls of the carriage, he has the sleeves of his lurid bomber jacket rolled up to his elbows. 

“We’re almost there, I believe.” When he puts his glasses back on and sees you, he hesitates for a moment. “Everything alright, detective?” God, you must really look like shit right now. You try to picture it: the sweat dripping down your brow, the scraggly hairs growing under your chin, the greasy mop on your scalp. Oh no, please don’t tell me you’re doing that expression again…

The lieutenant clears his throat. “You do remember why we’re here, right?”

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — He’s worried you’ve sunken into an amnesiac stupor again. His faith wavers. Prove to him his worries are baseless.

Using the wall as support, you struggle to your feet, your knees wobbly from cramp and ache. You pass your tongue over your chapped lips, and put on your best ‘on-business’ cop voice to say, “We’ve been sent here to locate Dr. Daniil Dankosvky for claims of fraudulent reports and concerns of medical malpractice regarding his lab, Thanatica. Interrogation with his lab subordinates revealed he may have come to this town in search of a particular patient…” The lieutenant’s nod of approval tells you that you don’t need to go on.

From the inside of his jacket, he procures his blue notebook. “Our first order of business should be to contact the town’s governor, Alexander Saburov, and find out if he knows anything about the suspect.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Failure] — Yes, you had thought when Judit showed you the photo, here’s a man who knows how to conduct business. He sees the rats running wild and places the walls of the maze down, instilling order. This is definitely a fellow lawman you can rely on to assist you. 

“And,” Kim continues, “while we’re at it, I think we should also have a talk with two more men: the patient that Dankovsky had come in search for,” he flicks through the thin pages of the book, and you catch glimpses of the hastily scribbled pencil writing, “Simon Kain. And secondly, the writer of the letter who brought Simon to Dankosvky’s attention…” he begins scanning through the pages again. 

“Isidor Burakh.” You finish, the neuron having fired in your brain before you had even realised, the last vowel coming out a gruff gurgle in your throat. 

He flicks the book shut and sheaths it. “That was it. I would certainly count him as a POI in this case, if he has affiliations with the suspect.”

You can’t help but groan. Petty white-collar crime was never your forte. You are a Dick Mullen, not an auditor. So what if the man embezzled a few government funds? We’ve all been there, done that, haven’t we?

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — Thanatology, noun - the scientific study of death and the practices associated with it, including the study of the needs of the terminally ill and their families. This man is still a doctor, with a degree permitting him to tell people what should be done inside their bodies. If he’s abusing that power, then this goes beyond the bounds of a simple fraud case. Just as he has an oath to medicine, you have one to justice. 

You glance over at the duffel bags in the middle of the carriage, one for each of you, carrying essentials, including extra equipment for the case - clothes, body bags, toiletries, bullets… without the lieutenant’s prized kineema, you two will have to make do with travelling light.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — You call those essentials? Pathetic. Where’s the booze, Harry? Not a pill-bottle in sight, preposterous! I thought I taught you better than that. How are you supposed to function without a little energy booster, eh? You better hope that backwater town’s got a bar hidden somewhere. There’s a little pocket of vice in every monastery, you know.

Very soon, the train squeaks to an abrupt stop, releasing a thick sigh of steam from its haunches. 

DRAMA [Medium: Failure] — You should say something, to mark the end of this prelude and the beginning of the main attraction. Go on, give us a little pre-show pep talk.

You take a stance, legs apart, and the lieutenant stares at you questioningly, waiting. You shoot dual finger guns in his directions, click your tongue, and wink. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

He blinks, and awkwardly nods, like a parent being handed the most hideous finger painting they’ve ever seen. “Uh, yes, let’s.”

DRAMA — You are dead to me, Harry. Don’t show your face in this theatre ever again. Where’s your understudy? Tell him he’s got a promotion.

Deflated, you sling the bag over your shoulder, feeling your spine curve under its weight, yank open the carriage door, and step out onto muted greenish-grey grass. The ground accepts your step, stoically taking the deep imprint of your snakeskin shoes into itself. It is a cloudless night, perhaps the last one you’ll get for a while, but there’s nothing here to reflect the moonlight, nothing to answer back at that celestial white orb and say ‘I am here, I sense you, I understand you.’ The lieutenant follows shortly after you, carefully groping his way around the dark with a gloved hand on the wall of the train guiding him. 

“The town should be up ahead.” He whispers, for some reason. “Let’s find the town hall, hopefully Saburov will have some accommodation for us.” 

“Do you think they have karaoke here?” You ask, a glimmer of hope flaring within you. 

“No, I don’t.” The answer is blunt. 

“What about a disco?” Even in the dark, you can sense the curvature of his facial muscles as he cocks an eyebrow. “Nevermind,”

You head forward, dismayed to find that the humidity follows you out of the carriage and into the open air, practically suffocating you. 

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Come on, be a man. Straighten up your back, feel your ribs making room for your lungs as you suck in a dose of that sweet, succulent fresh Ruski air. Feel that liquid vitality go from your chest, to your blood, and to your body. Roll those shoulders back, and push on.

Reinvigorated, you make your way down the length of the train. At that moment, a commotion near the front catches your attention. 

Without thinking, you whip around to Kim. “You see? I knew there was another passenger on the train, that’s gotta be him.”

To this, he only shrugs his shoulders. “If you’re suggesting that they might be linked to the case, I doubt it.”

That was totally not what you were suggesting. You should make sure he knows. “That was totally not what I was suggesting.” Attaboy, Harry. Again, the lieutenant shrugs. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — Oh, he’s absolutely doubting you again, I can tell. You need to punch something, show him you’ve still got it.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Do not punch anything. You’re overthinking this, Harry. A shrug doesn’t mean anything, get your head straight. You’re both tired, irate, and that putrid smell definitely isn’t helping. What is that, copper?

PERCEPTION [Challenging: Success] — It’s blood. The metallic stench permeates the air, wafting through the air like oxidised iron. Litres of it, anywhere and everywhere.

You drop the bag and hold out your hand in front of the lieutenant. He understands immediately, also plopping down his bag and readying his hand on his gun, no doubt noticing the smell as well. The rustling of plants muffling your sounds, you dart forward, not with the sluggish folly of a gorilla, but with the agile strides of a fox, the reeking stench becoming more potent as you near the front of the train. Silently, you stop, your partner a breath away from you, and peek past the train.

A bear?

A man. A massive, hulking man, his breathing haggard, the width of his limbs inflated by the loose fit of his tunic upon his silhouette, which towers over the inert bodies of three others. In a trembling hand, he holds a knife, viscous blood dripping from its blade. He’s panting, and clutching the side of his chest.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] — He’s been wounded, a horizontal slash not too deep, only piercing the skin above his left kidney. His right elbow, the arm holding the weapon, is spasming; another cut, probably sustained when trying to grab one of the men’s knives. You spot several smaller lacerations dotted on him (the left collarbone, left hip, right shoulder-blade), though it’s too dark to see much in detail.

An ambush? A mugging? Whatever the case, you know that he has killed at least one of the men. With a nod at Kim, you jump out from behind the train, gun aimed at the man. 

You know the script: “This is the police! Drop the weapon, and keep your hands where I can see them!” 

Startled, he drops the knife (although, drop is a generous word, as he practically tosses it in the air in fright). He backs away, stumbling over one of the men — no, corpses, those guys are definitely dead — before turning and sprinting the other way. He’s fast, too fast to catch and disarm, in spite of his injuries. 

“Hey, I said stop!” You hurry forward, finger hovering over the trigger, and shut an eye. 

PERCEPTION — The air is heavy with moisture and blood, the constant buzzing in your ear since you stepped foot onto the field has grown into a crescendo of insect wings, it’s pitch-black, your body still aches from the train ride. I call a 97% chance you will miss the shot.

You shoot. 

HAND/EYE COORDINATION [Godly: Failure] — You miss. Who could’ve seen that coming? Through the smoke pouring from the barrel, the man flinches, but doesn’t stagger, and by this point, he’s too far to catch up to. 

You turn to Kim, who’s tending to the bodies. He tells you what you already guessed, “They’re dead.” He points to the first man, “Stab wounds in the chest”, then to the second, “in the neck”, and to the third, “chest and neck. That’s my rough guess based on what I can see right now.” 

“Do we need to perform a field autopsy?”

He adjusts his glasses. “No need. We should wrap up the bodies and inform Saburov of this crime. Maybe he knows who the murderer could be.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — The terrified expression of the man, the two other bloodied knives scattered around… oh, you poor thing. 

“They ambushed him.” You point out as the lieutenant returns with your duffle bags and three body bags. 

“How do you know for sure?” 

“He was outnumbered, I think they were waiting until he got off the train. He was also unarmed.” 

“But he was holding a knife,”

You nod at the other blades. “There’s three men here, and three knives, including the one the murderer dropped. The wounds on his arm suggest he grappled with one of them for a weapon.”

The lieutenant considers this for a moment, then nods. “That seems like the most plausible circumstance, yes. If he acted in self-defence, then that changes things.” He hands you one of the body bags. “I wonder why, though.”

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Failure] — Movement in the carriage to your right catches your peripheral. What looks like the head of a dog darts from one crate to behind another. No need to investigate that, it’s probably just an old mutt.

You zip up the bodies in the bags, but not before the lieutenant takes a photo of the corpses, muttering to himself that he should have photographed the murderer while he had the chance too. 

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — Past the train, one member of the audience turns to another, curving its awkwardly head to one side to avoid poking the other with its comically large ivory beak. 

“Was there a change to the script? I don’t recall seeing this actor before.”

The other stares at its counterpart with cold, unblinking amber eyes. “Didn’t you see? The director made a few revisions to the script. Wanted to add a couple of roles.” 

“But won’t that ruin everything? Do all the actors have the revised script?” 

“There’s no better way to test an actor’s skills than improv. The adept ones will bounce the new lines seamlessly off of each other,” 

The other’s robe rustles as its head bows in understanding. “And the inept ones will stammer on stage.” 

“Precisely. Hush now, I want to see what happens next.” 

“Hey, Kim,” 

“Detective?” 

“You ever get the feeling like we’re being watched sometimes?”

The lieutenant stops and scans his eyes over the surrounding warehouses. “You mean, right now?”

SUGGESTION [Legendary: Failure] — How does one put the indescribable into words? You are unsure on how to explain to him what you mean. Do you yourself even know? Go ahead, try to tell him. 

“It’s like… um…” come on, Harry. Spit it out already. “OkaysoyouknowhowIcanlikehearmyownthoughtsandstuff? WellnowIcanseetheseweirdplaywrightswearingwhitemasksandstuff,” you take a deep breath before continuing, “andnowIfeellikewe’rebeingwatchedbytheseweirdbirdmaskguyswhohaveascriptoneverythingwe’reabouttosayanddo.” You look expectantly at the lieutenant. 

“I… see…” His eyebrows furrow. “Maybe you can talk to Saburov about this once we find him.” 

“But you get what I mean, right?” 

“Partially.”

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — The lieutenant does not have a clue in hell what the fuck you mean. For God’s sake, Harry, metaphors! Analogies! Symbolism! This is how humans understand things. 

“It’s like… like we’re puppets in a show. We can’t see our strings, nor the audience watching us.” 

He nods. “I think I understand what you mean.” This time, he actually means it. “Hierarchies tend to feel like that, sometimes.”

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — You will never know what it feels like to be on the top of the food chain. But then again, maybe it’s better to know that, than to go on thinking that you are. In any case, you know who you hold power over, and how to exercise it. That is all you need.

While Revachol bears the scars of its sordid past, this town seems to have no unblemished skin to begin with. The place resembles as though it has had all the hydration sucked out of it, including the tightly-knit buildings, despite the cloudy river dissecting paths through it, taking with it the shrivelled husks of dusky leaves. The reeds and trees droop with dryness; flies loiter around every corner; discoloured concrete is embedded into soil, distant factory pipes cough out heaps of black industrial smoke — still, this town has life; lights can be seen through grimy home windows, the bronze has worn off the handle of water pumps from use, people stroll around on the streets, some even whistling to themselves. 

The town is not difficult to navigate. Some buildings stick out more than others, including a large one bearing the mask of a Tragedian atop its crown. Light floods through the eye and mouth holes as the morning sun rears its head over the horizon.

You point it out to the lieutenant. “Look, Kim! We should go inside this building, I got a good feeling about this place.” 

He eyes the building. “I think this is a theatre, Detective. We should focus on finding the town hall first.” 

“Come on, we have time for a quick visit. What harm will it do?”

The lieutenant shrugs. “If you say so.”

Dust trickles from the door when you swing it open. Inside is pitch-black, except for the fresnels pointing down at the stage, where a row of men are lined up, all slightly differing in appearance, and all dressed in the same green and brown tunic as the murderer wore. 

A loud voice blares from an armchair in the middle of the theatre. “Next audition!”

One of the men steps forward and clears his throat. “Father, who killed you?!” 

“Cut!” The man barks. His hair is unkempt, his clothes are erratic and mismatched, and he’s tapping his cane on the wooden ground impatiently. “You call that acting? Your father is dead and you sound like somebody stole your last bottle of twyrine. Next!”

Disheartened, the man trudges backstage while another actor takes his place. He doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before the other man yells, “Cut! Didn’t you see the requirements list? I specifically asked for blond! You’re not even six feet tall, are you? Next!”

You move forward until the man’s eyes meet yours. “What’s going on here?”

He, who you assume to be the director, rubs his temples in frustration. “What’s going on is that I’ve got a bunch of hacks who’ve answered my casting call.” At his comment, the row of men grow more sullen. 

“What role are they auditioning for?” 

Instantly, his expression switches to a show-smile, one fit for the masses. “Why, for the role of your costar, of course! At least, for this production. Some last-minute revisions to the script required me to get a new actor, so now I’m left with this sorry lot. I suppose they’ll have to suffice as extras.” A sharp click, and the lights go out. “I’m afraid you’re a bit early, the show won’t be on until midnight. I’ll see you then, won’t I?”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — Oh. My. God. We have to come back here at midnight. This is a fellow showman. This is fine art, Harry.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — No. Whatever this is — the Tragedians, the audience, this director, it will only bog you down. You’re not an actor, Harry, nor a puppet. This theatre business will get to your head, if you let it. 

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He’s right. Existentialism breeds apathy. You’ll lose yourself if you continue on like this. Take care of yourself, stay grounded. Look at Kim, he doesn’t want to be here. Don’t force him to stay in this place. Please.

You don’t spend another moment in the theatre. 

You’re quick to find the town hall. It’s hard to ignore, in its rustic grandeur. Nearing it, groups of men speed by you, armed (blades and guns), leather-capped, and shouting orders at one another. 

“Place seems lively doesn’t it?” You mention.

The lieutenant’s eyes narrow at the groups. “I question what could have worked up such a quiet town.”

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — They’re chasing someone. You know how it feels, the adrenaline of chasing a subject, a thousand different directions yelled at you, accusatory fingers pointed down alleyways and ditches. The thrill of the hunt.

A modern white interior awaits you inside the town hall, with sleekly polished wood floors, framed paintings, more clocks than you can count; all the things becoming of a good town hall.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — It’s not hard to find the governor. Even if you hadn’t seen his photo, you could tell by the look: a vigilant gaze beneath a stern brow, clean-shaven, combed hair, pursed lips. 

He turns to you as you approach, his expression never faltering. Act cool.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Challenging: Failure] — “What’s up?” You say, holding out a hand. 

SAVOIR FAIRE — Are you shitting me? ‘What’s up’? This is a governor, not your drinking mate! You’re embarrassing me in front of the governor, Harry!

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — Calm down. Recover. There, all better? Now try again. 

“My name is Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier DuBois, and this is my partner, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. We’re here from the 41st RCM precinct to investigate claims made against a Dr. Daniil Dankosvky.” Saburov’s eyes softens in approval. Good save, Mr. Dubois. 

He shakes your hand, his grip as strong as his gaze. “Ah, yes, your station sent me a notice about that a few days ago. My name is Alexander Saburov, the pleasure’s all mine. As you can see, we’ve got our hands a little full at the moment, but I’ll try to be of assistance where I can.”

The lieutenant already has his notebook in hand. “Before we proceed with the investigation, we must inform you that three men were killed at the train station about an hour ago. We believe it was in an act of self-defence by another passenger.”

The corner of his lip arcs downwards. “I see.” He calls a guard to him, whispers something, and sends the man off. 

“Who are you guys chasing, anyway?”

Saburov flicks his hand in dismissal. “Just a little criminal, is all. Nothing that concerns either of you.” 

“Must not be such a little criminal if he requires all those men.”

The governor considers this for a moment. “Say, you mentioned another passenger on the train. Would you care to elaborate?” 

The lieutenant clears his throat. “With all respect, Mr. Saburov, our priority is Dankovsky. Is there anything you can tell us?”

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — The subtle twitch of his bottom eyelid does not escape you. This is not a man used to being told no. 

“I’m afraid,” Saburov answers, “that I don’t know of Dankovsky’s whereabouts at the moment. I don’t keep track of everyone who comes to this town, small as it is.” 

And this, children, is why it is smart to always have multiple leads: “We also have the names of two other men, one Dankovsky came in search for, and the one who told the suspect about him. Simon Kain, and Isidor Burakh.”

A wild grin crosses the governor’s face. “Is that so?” He murmurs. “Well, then perhaps you can be of some use to me yet. Kain and Burakh have been murdered, the prime suspect is a man who arrived at around the same time, Artemy Burakh — muscular build, around 6'2, dirty-blond, late twenties, visibly injured, from what I’ve been told. Sound familiar?” 

You and the lieutenant share a glance, telling Saburov all he needs to know. “That’s what I thought. If you want to question Isidor about his motives for summoning Dankovsky, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with his son instead. I’m positive he knows something. I’ll send the patrolmen to the train station to fetch those bodies, and in the meantime, can I count on the 41st’s finest to apprehend this criminal?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — This is not a lawman. This is a child with a gun and a permit. Then again, what choice do you have?

You agree. In return, the governor gives you a map of the town, and circles on it a point where the elder Burakh was murdered — his own home. 

“Perhaps,” Saburov adds as you turn to leave, “by the time you return, I’ll manage to find some information on this Dankovsky of yours.”

Church bells gong in the distance as you reach the bottom of the marble stairs leading to the hall; they ring out around the town, echoing inside your skull, nestling their way into the soft pallets between your bones. Then it’s over, leaving a numb silence in its place. 

That is, until a shrill voice pipes up from your left. “Hey, you two!” A girl, around fourteen or fifteen, bounds up to you. Your clothes are ragged and fit loosely over her frail figure, with a beanie covering her skull, leaving only a few strands of wispy brown hair exposed. It’s cold, though her bare legs show no sign of goosebumps. “You’re cops, right?”

Though the lieutenant doesn’t move, you can almost sense his internal grimace. The last thing he wants now is to deal with a child. 

You nod. “Yeah, we’re policemen, cops, pigs, whatever you call us. What about it?”

She smiles, dimples appearing on either side of her cheeks. “Good. I know how to find the man you’re looking for. You got a map, right? Show it to me.” She points to the upper-left corner of the paper. “He’s in this house, with a woman called Lara Ravel. They’re old friends.” Her expression suddenly becomes frantic. “You have to find him, okay? Arrest him, take him to your station, just do whatever you need to do. Or else he’s gonna interfere with things.” 

“How can you be sure? And, interfere with what?”

She winces at the questions. “Just trust me, okay? He’s there. Ask the other kids if you don’t believe me, they’ve seen him walk in that direction. You can trust me, I’m a miracle worker.”

Before you can ask anything else, she scampers away like a frightened rat. 

The lieutenant sighs. “Children… at least we have some clue as to where Burakh is now. Something is better than nothing. Whenever you’re ready, Detective.”

Chapter Text

Something is in the air; massive translucent dust particles, dead yellowed leaves, ruffled crow feathers, smoke blackened with oxygen, and strange sensations. 

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Through an open window, the aroma of a freshly baked pie fills your nostrils. Ahead is the grainy sawdust scent of nuts held in the sweaty palms of children. The familiar smell of silky-soft milk follows you as you pass by vendors. And, there’s another smell, floating around with the rest…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Fuck yes, this is it! Booze! Let me guess, that good Ruski vodka? No, it’s something stronger, something earthy. Forget about the killer, this is your new mission objective. Take me, o sweet release of alcohol!

Unconsciously, your legs take you to a heavy red door, behind which the smell is stronger. 

“Detective,” chimes in Kim, map in hand, “this isn’t Ravel’s house.” He steps back to observe the building. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — What the fuck does he know? Maybe the prude ought to loosen up a little bit. You should tell him off for even suggesting that this isn’t the right place to be.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — No, that would be an abuse of your authority over him. Make no mistake, you are in charge of this case, but don’t let the power get to your head. Hamartia, as the flamboyant one calls it. Have a quick drink, then get back to it. 

“Just for a minute, Kim.” You say. “Maybe someone here knows something about Dankovsky.”

A dingy, underground dungeon awaits you inside. The stench of alcohol becomes intoxicating as you descend the steel stairs into a dimly-lit pub. Against the back wall is a bar to the right, and on the left a stage with a single flickering light, shining down upon a young woman, her thin black dress torn in several areas to reveal odd hand-painted markings across her body. Elsewhere are seating areas, though the pub isn’t too full at the moment. Abstract paintings peering from behind red curtains overlook the view. 

One man in particular catches your attention: dressed in white striped pants and a jacket, leaving his chest exposed apart from a clump of necklaces dangling from his neck, he holds a predatory look in his eyes. He’s leaning against the bar, surveying the crowd. 

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — Quick, Harry! You need to impress this stranger! No time to explain why!

You stroll up to the bartender. “A bottle of your strongest stuff, please.”

The bartender produces a long, green bottle, its contents dark and unclear. “30 roubles.” 

“30?! What the hell?” 

“Blood twyre is hard to get, and it’s the strongest we have.”

Noticing the stranger staring at you from the corner of your eye, you begrudgingly fork up the cash and take the bottle, recalling the poor exchange rate from reál to roubles. It’s heavy in your hands, and as you pop off the cap, the potent scent of copper and grass is almost enough to make you gag. No turning back now. As you have done many times before, you take a long swing of the bottle.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Bottom’s up!

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — Liquid fire runs down your throat, and you think you taste soil, earthly minerals swirling around in your mouth, assaulting your tongue.

ENDURANCE [Challenging: Failure] — You’ve been sober for too long. You cough, punching your chest, twyrine dribbling through your beard and down your chin

To your surprise, the stranger chuckles. “Take it slow, old man.”

Not exactly the first impression you were intending to make, though it seems to have worked out nonetheless. “So,” you say, turning to the man, “you hear of any newcomers in town lately?”

He shoots a weary gaze at you. “Are you Saburov’s men? I already told you people I don’t know anything about any patricide. The younger Burakh hasn’t come by.” 

“I’m not talking about him, pal.” On cue, Kim pulls out a photograph from the same pocket where he keeps his notebook, and hands it to the stranger. 

He studies it for a moment. “Oh, him, the capital dandy.” He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen him. Think my brother has, though. Hey, Peter!” You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the furthest corner of the bar, covered in shadows, the gleam of a bottle reflecting in his limp hand. 

A groan comes from the corner. “What now, Andrey?” Sluggishly, Peter drags himself to his feet. As he steps into the harsh light, wincing, you notice the striking physical resemblance he has to his brother, with their gaunt cheeks beneath pronounced bones protruding from pasty skin. He’s clearly drunk, and a sorry one at that. His long hair is thick and oily, the simple white shirt under an oversized leather coat bears numerous dark twyrine stains on them, old and recent. The brothers are both opposites yet doppelgängers.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — In a way, these two embody two different sides of what is clearly an addiction. Andrey, a wild agent of oblivion, a disco-goer, and Peter, a sad shell of a man, a shut-in. Remind you of anyone, Harry?

Peter sits on a barstool beside his brother, averting his gaze. “Yes?” He says to no one in particular, his voice meek.

“You’ve seen the capital dandy, yeah?” Andrey asks. “Where is he?” 

Peter reaches for another bottle on the bar, which is promptly snatched away by Andrey. “The Bachelor, Peter.”

He sighs, somehow retreating further into his seat. “I saw him going into Rubin’s, I think.” He drags a thin hand over his face. “Can’t remember…”

Andrey pushes the bottle into his brother’s hands, then turns back to you. “There you have it. Stanislav Rubin’s place. Got a map? I’ll show you,”

You can’t help but stare at Peter, who has already downed half of the bottle. “Is he okay? He looks like he’s had enough to drink already.”

Peter hunches over the bar, tracing his nail over the wood grains. “There’s never enough to drink…” 

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Impossible: Failed] — There is something with this man that is causing him to spiral. The possibilities are endless, no point in guessing now.

“He’s fine,” Andrey interrupts. “The Stamatins hold our twyrine well. Don’t we, brother?” A gurgle emanates from the curled up sack of skin and bones that is Peter Stamatin. “See? Fine. Off with you, now. My patrons don’t take too kindly to Saburov’s boys.” 

To your left, Kim corrects him, “We are here on official police business on behalf of the RCM.”

A snicker forms on Andrey’s lips. “Ooh, the big guys, huh? Lucky us, eh, Peter?” He gives the unresponsive man a slap on the shoulder. “Maybe somebody can finally put old Saburov in his place. Hey, you two, hold on a second,” he darts behind the counter, reaches into one of the shelves, and produces a tiny yellowed glass vial, inside which is a dark sulphur-coloured liquid. “Give him this, tell him it’s for his wife. Tell him we’ve got a whole shipment of morphine that’s come in, just for her.” A hyena-like cackle erupts from him as you leave. 

“As I see it now,” Kim says outside, “we have two courses of action. We can circumvent finding Burakh and just go straight to Rubin’s to locate our main suspect. However, if there really is a murderer running around on the loose, then that could complicate things for us. It’s your call, detective.” 

“Dankovsky can wait, let’s find the big guy first—” 

SHIVERS — Elsewhere, something sinister is coughed out. A man’s dry skin bleeds as he scratches at it, clawing away at the scabs forming over his pores. His bloodshot eyes screw shut as another seizure overtakes him and he keels over. His body is heavy with the weight of a thousand agonies wailing in his nerves, blood and bones. There’s something else, too…

“Detective?” Before you know it, Kim is at your side, his hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

COMPOSURE — Beads of sweat trickle down your cheek, your heart is racing, bashing itself senseless against your ribcage, adrenaline is speeding through you. 

“Harry?” 

You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, shuddering. “I’m okay, I just… I got this really bad feeling, and…”

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — Remember what we said about analogies, Harry. 

“It’s like we’re in the calm before the storm, you know? Except it isn’t just a storm, it’s the whole sky crashing down on us while the ground splits open and swallows us whole.”

The lieutenant considers this carefully. “Perhaps we should find Dankovsky first. The sooner we apprehend him, the sooner we can close the case and return home,” 

REACTION SPEED [Formidable: Failure] — You feel a primitive survival reaction, inclining you to do something, to go somewhere, but you can’t discern what or where. 

“No, no,” you brush back a stray wisp of hair from your face. “If there’s a murderer on the loose, he takes priority. I’ll be fine. Let’s go to Ravel.”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but accepts this nonetheless. “If you say so.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — A Tragedian standing on the side of the path tilts its head downwards at you, apologetically. No one else appears to take notice of it, despite the jarring disruption its presence causes to the otherwise normal scene. 

“Sorry about that,” it mutters, “that was supposed to come later in the script. It’s a real pain when actors say their lines too early, isn’t it? I guess it makes for a nice little bit of foreshadowing, though. Mistakes become obsolete so long as the audience doesn’t notice.”

You remember that thing you thought, about the town being easy to navigate? Yeah, well, forget about that. Roads veer inwards into each other, buildings blend into their adjacent neighbours, straight paths lead into circles, the same people appear around every corner. By the time you crossed over the same river for the third time and heard the church bells ring out yet again, you got the feeling that you were seriously lost. 

INTERFACING [Easy: Success] — Let’s work through this together. See the map, feel its edges crinkle between your fingers; the Town is in your hands. It looks like we’re in the lower left corner, the Bridge Square. Our quickest route now would be to head up to the Atrium, cross over the bridge and continue northward to the Flank. 

Something stops you. You somehow hear it before you see it, its presence significant enough to make up for its silence. Even from afar, it's clear enough to see. A cone-shaped titan reaches upwards through the sky in sharp layers of growths and shrinks, its appendages drooping from its form. It sits crooked, like a paper lantern that was crumpled and then hastily straightened back. It’s glowing, soft yellow light emanating from within.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — No, not glowing. Rather, its walls are thin enough to allow sunlight to phase through it. If you look close enough, faded pencilled patterns can be seen snaking over its pale, misshapen body. You don’t know why, but you can tell this has something to do with the drunken Stamatin.

LOGIC [Impossible: Failure] — How is this possible? There are no support beams to hold it in place, it looks to be connected to the earth only by a slim thorn jammed into the ground. How heavy is that thing, anyway? I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with this one. 

Beside you, Kim has to thoroughly wipe his glasses, breathing out, “My god…” 

“Holy shit…” you crane your neck, attempting to hold it all in your sight. “We have to check that out.” 

“Yeah.” There’s not an ounce of apprehension in his voice. He’s just as entranced as you are. 

To your dismay, the bridge leading over the Gorhkon river to the little patch of land where the Tower connects to the ground is blocked by a heap of broken furniture and guarded by a band of young children, ragged and dirty, some of whom are wearing massive patchy masks of beige dog heads, regarding you with uncertainty through a single eye hole cut out from the throat. 

One leaps at you as you approach, blocking your path. “No grown ups allowed!” She squeals. 

“Come on, I just wanna see inside that Tower. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” 

“The Polyhedron is strictly off limits to anyone over the age of 17.” She says, as though reciting it from a script. 

“Oh, yeah? On whose orders?” 

“Khan said—”

“Shush!” Another dog-headed boy hisses. 

Kim steps away from the scene. “We should come back later, Detective. There’s no point in squabbling with children.” 

You hold out a hand to stop him. “Don’t worry, Kim. I’m hip, I’m down with the kids, I know how to deal with this. I was a gym teacher once, remember?”

RHETORIC [Heroic: Failure] — You turn back to the group. “Have you guys ever read The Man from Hjelmdall?” 

They look at each other, puzzled. “No,” answers the girl. 

“Yeah? Well, um, what about Dick Mullen? Y’know, I’m something of a Dick Mullen myself. That’s why you should totally let me in that Tower… No? You’ve totally heard of Kraz Mazov, right? I’m, like, his biggest fan. I’m totally hardcore, okay? Y-you wanna hear about how we discovered the Insulindian Phasmid…?” Nothing. “Uhh, do you guys wanna hold my gun?” 

RHETORIC — Somebody put me out of my misery already.

“I think that’s enough, Detective.” Kim whispers, guiding you away from the bridge. “I doubt pop culture has reached as far as this town.” 

You shrug him off. “Whatever, it’s cool, no biggie. I don’t even care about that stupid tower anyways,” you retort, straining your eyes open to dry the tears away before they can fall. “I’m still cool though, right?”

He gives a reassuring smile. “Very cool, Detective.” 

“And hardcore?” 

“And hardcore.”

“And—?” 

“Don’t push your luck.”

On the way through the Atrium, your attention is drawn to the people congregating on streets and block corners, huddling together and emptying their pockets, holding out matchsticks, bottles, screws, coffee beans, random items one could find buried in a garbage can.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — This is the ye old barter system. Take what you need and give what you have. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine, comrade.

Ravel’s house sits on the furthest spot in the district, right on the edge of the Gorhkon. If somebody wanted to, they might be able to jump from one of the back windows and plunge straight into the river. The lieutenant is making sure his handcuffs are in his pocket when you knock on the door. You hear a scuffle from inside, and the pitter-patter of rapid light footsteps. A minute later, the hinges creak open as a woman reveals half of her face through the door. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face angular, and her eyes shift in suspicion from you both. 

“Yes?” A quick, sharp demand for an explanation. 

“Are we speaking to Lara Ravel?”

Once again, she regards you both with caution before answering, “Yes, it is.” Then, immediately after, “He’s not here. Look elsewhere.” She moves back to close the door.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Success] — Oh no, she’s not getting away that easy. First, show her you’ve got jurisdiction.

You wedge your foot between the door and the jamb before it can close. “Ma’am, as members of the RCM, we have cause to believe you are abetting a murder suspect. This is the only time we will ask for your cooperation.” Her eyes widen.

AUTHORITY — Now, set the terms. 

“We ask you to allow us to perform a search of the premises to confirm that you are not harbouring a fugitive of the law. 

“But…” she stammers, “but… you need a warrant, don’t you? You can’t just walk in like that!”

AUTHORITY — Finally, deliver the killing blow.

You look to the lieutenant, who makes a show of pulling out his handcuffs. “Ms. Ravel,” your voice is cold, professional, indifferent, “due to the sudden nature of this crime, we are permitted to take any measures to locate the suspect, which includes a search of your property. Step aside, now.” 

The glint of the sun catches the lieutenant’s glasses as he nods, adding, “If you have any concerns, you can take them up with Governor Saburov.”

AUTHORITY — A fatality. Good work, boys.

She’s frozen in place, teetering between fight and flight. Her hand moves to grasp the hem of her shawl, her icy exterior thawed to reveal desperation. “He didn’t do it, I’m telling you. It’s a lie.” Then, suddenly, “Think about it! Kain and Burakh were killed— when, 3AM? Artemy arrived here no earlier than 7AM. The timing doesn’t add up, he couldn’t have killed anyone.”

LOGIC — She’s got a point there.

AUTHORITY — Oh, so now you’re on her side?

ESPRIT DE CORPS — It’s not about sides, it’s about justice. In any case, you still have an arrest to make. You are the executioner, not the judge. 

You move further through the door, “Step aside, Ms. Ravel.” 

She doesn’t make an attempt to shut you out anymore. “Please, just—” 

“It’s okay, Lara.” Heavy footsteps slam down on the stairs behind her. It’s the same man you saw next to the train; his clothes are an earthy colour, plants sticking out of his pockets, the tips of his fingers are coated in dried blood and dirt, dark bags streak the skin below his eyes, his stubbly jaw is strong and clenched. Bandages are expertly wrapped around his injuries, he’s slightly taller than you, and certainly stockier. In shorter, cruder words, Artemy Burakh looks like a shitshow.

He comes to a stop at the base of the stairs. “I was planning on paying Saburov a visit anyway. I’ll accompany you two there,” his stark blue eyes study you, then Kim, “but not in those,” he gestures at the handcuffs. The lieutenant looks questiongly at you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — He might be able to overpower you. He certainly could overpower Kim. But definitely not the two of you combined, not with your weapons and his injuries. He’s got no chance, boss.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — But is that the best way to go about this? He’s already agreed to go, and he probably isn’t dumb enough to try anything stupid with you. It’s your call, Harry. 

“Put the handcuffs away, Kim. We won’t need them.” 

The lieutenant obeys. As usual, he has his notebook at the ready when he asks, “Name, age, and occupation.” 

“Artemy Burakh, 28, surgeon.” The information is noted down with lightning speed.

“Are you aware that you are being detained for the murder of Simon Kain and Isidor Burakh?” 

“No way, really?” His eyebrows raise in feigned shock. “I definitely couldn’t gauge that from all the men chasing after me with guns this morning.”

“Cub,” Lara whispers as he passes by, “I’ll talk to Stakh, I’ll clear this up with him.” 

“Don’t bother. If he’s dumb enough to believe I’d commit patricide, then rational talk won’t do much for him. I’m better off punching some sense into him myself.” 

“Still, I’m going to try.”

The tension built up in his shoulder appears to recede at this. “Thank you, Lara.”

Stepping out into the afternoon sun, his hair seems to lighten under the light from a muddy, rusty hue to a golden one, his eyes take on a gentler pastel tone, even his visage looks to have youngened, revealing the handsomeness hidden beneath his scowl. He’s calm, relaxed even. 

“Why is the RCM here?” He asks as you walk on. You lead, tailed by him, and then Kim. 

DRAMA — Act nonchalant, don’t let him think he can buddy-buddy his way out of this. He’s obviously trying to build an emotional bridge, you can’t let him do that.

SUGGESTION — I think he was just curious.

DRAMA — No! Don’t fall for it, Harry. Indifference is intimidating. 

DRAMA [Formidable: Failure] — “Business. Like, super secret official police business, classified with a capital ‘C’. So beg all you want, these lips are sealed!” 

“Alright.” Barely a shrug, just a twitch of his shoulders.

DRAMA — Shit, how is he more nonchalant than you? 

“If you will, Mr. Burakh,” the lieutenant chimes in, “save the questions until we arrive at the town hall.” 

“Fine by me,” he gruffs. “I’ve got nothing to hide, anyway.” Not even a minute later, “it was self-defence, by the way. On the train. You two saw it, I know you did. You know I didn’t murder my f—”

You all stop. Up ahead, drenched in smoke, a woman writhes in agony atop a stake, engulfed by the flames raging beneath. Her shrieks pierce the blackened air as the fire grows, tearing at her dress, latching onto her hair, peeling away her flesh, leaving charred bone matter in its wake. Half-melted strips of muscle from her breast fall down in chunks and fuse to her thigh, a sizzling, congealed mess of what used to be a body. It goes on for too long before she falls silent; not because she dies, but because her vocal chords are burned to ashes. No, there’s another eternity after that moment until she finally goes limp, and the crowd, who had looked on with as much fury as the fire had ravaged, that had gathered around the flames began to disperse. 

SHIVERS — In the distant grassland, a burgeoning twyre fledgeling is coiled up in the soil, patiently waiting for the ground to split open so it can emerge and grow. Little does it know that moment will never come.

“Again with this Shabnak business…” Burakh grits out. “Fucking animals…”

You can pull your eyes away from it, not until the skeletal remains crumble to ash, at last released from their bindings. The plasticky stench of burnt hair lingers.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — It’s okay to be disgusted, Harry. There was nothing you could have done. But contemplating the depravity of mob mentality, and of humanity as a whole, will get you nowhere. It happened, and now it’s over. Carry on, Detective. 

You bury your nose in the crook of your elbow to protect your lungs from the soot sprinkling through the air. “What’s a Shabnak?”

He shakes his head. “Old superstition. The town’s never seen a murder like this, people are scared and blaming it on beings from folklore. They think it takes the form of women and girls, this is the second Herb Bride that I’ve seen… damn it…” 

“You mean those women with those markings on their faces” 

“Yes, Kin women who are married to the Earth. Where they dance, and twyre grows.” The melodic call of church bells prompts him to step back onto the road. “Come on, time’s ticking.” 

“You really don’t need all of that, y’know.” You say to Saburov as four armed guards drag a handcuffed Burakh to one of the cells. “He’s cooperating.” 

“He’s also still our primary suspect. We will continue the investigation into this crime ourselves. Now, about that deal we had,” he fishes out a mahogany pipe from his breast pocket, “my men have informed me that Dr. Dankovsky is currently residing in the Stillwater building, where the homeowner, a Ms. Eva Yan, has generously granted him refuge.” You realise he’s waiting for you to leave. 

You glance at Kim. Without words, he knows what you’re thinking, and gives you a nod. “Burakh’s innocent.”

Saburov’s stern eyes fix on you. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Kain and the older Burakh were killed sometime around 3AM, right?” 

“Possibly, but—” 

“We arrived here with Burakh on the same train at 7AM. A 4 hour window is too big a margin of error to make an arrest like this. Also, what motive would  Artemy even have to murder his father? And even if he did have a motive, why would he be arriving on the train and not leaving?”

The governor’s eyes widen not in realisation, but with fury. Something has changed in his demeanour; this is not a deadly predator, it’s cornered prey. “Mr. Dubois, with all due respect, your job is over, your input isn’t needed. I suggest you focus your attention on your own suspect instead.” A flick of his hand indicates that the conversation is over. 

It’s at that moment you recall the vial of morphine in your pocket handed to you by Andrey. “By the way, Governor,” you call out by the door, “we were told to relay you a message, courtesy of the Stamatins.”

EMPATHY — Harry, I know what you are about to do. Don’t.

AUTHORITY — Do it. Don’t let him think he can talk to you like that.  

EMPATHY — Whatever vendetta Andrey has against Saburov, it isn’t worth making a cheap blow at his wife. Leave her out of this. Remember where you once were, don’t forget the scars on your hands from when you crawled out of rock bottom. 

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — “Actually, nevermind. Forget about it.”

SHIVERS — A tourniquet is tied loosely around a woman’s arm. She clenches and unclenches her fist out of habit, though she’s already mesmerised the placement of the veins in her pale arm. In one clean motion, the needle enters the skin, penetrating the rubbery blue tube at an angle. What follows his blissful numbness. Broken shards of a vial are scattered on the mattress where she and her husband had tried so many times to conceive a child. 

Chapter Text

A massive dome sits atop the Stillwater observatory, resembling an ancient soldier’s helmet. The round building appears to be folding into its own walls like a bent spiral, unable to complete a full loop around itself. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Imagine all you could see through the telescope; black stars tearing themselves apart into gaping midnight maws, distant nebulas bursting into vibrant hues of magentas, maroons and indigos, the fullness of faraway planets as they twirl down their trajectories.

VISUAL CALCULUS — Actually, that’s not possible. Judging by the state of the building, it’s unlikely it even has a working telescope. And even if it does, the furthest you’d be able to see is the moon.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — In the morning, you can see the September 4th partial lunar eclipse. The fourth and final eclipse of the year. Then again, you don’t need a telescope for that. 

“Remember,” Kim says at the base of the observatory’s stairs, “the claims of fraudulence and malpractice are still being investigated. The actual charges that give us grounds for arrest are fleeing from the police, and threatening them at gunpoint.” 

“So, he’s armed,” 

“As are we. If push comes to shove, we have the upper hand, and that’s if he becomes dangerous, which I highly doubt he will. Whenever you’re ready, Detective.”

You give a hard knock on the door. “Come in, it’s open!” Chimes a singing voice from inside. A winding corridor greets you inside, with an open archway to your right. Through it you find yourself surrounded by bookshelves, encircling a sofa, atop which sat a woman lying on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. Her clothes (if you can even call them that, as they’re only two pieces of cloth wrapped loosely around her chest and hips) are a light pastel, wooly purple arm warmers reach up to her elbows, and countless multi-coloured beads strung together jingle from her fingers, neck, ears, and ankles. She only has one sock, with the other having been cut up and used as a tie to pull back her blonde hair, leaving a straight line of bangs covering her forehead. She looks up at you from the book she was reading, her face round, and gives you a warm smile. 

“Good morning!” She chirps. “Or, is it afternoon?” 

“Evening, I’d say.” You correct, leaning against the door frame. 

“Oh, right. I always forget about evenings.” Not for a moment has her smile dropped. 

“Are you Eva Yan?”

She nods. “Good evening. You’re Yulia’s assistants, right? Here,” her arm disappears under the sofa, then returns with two books, “tell her I finished reading the books she lent me.” The first one is titled ‘Carmila’, and the second, ‘Olivia’. 

EMPATHY — There is something about her unassuming grin that makes you hesitant to tell her what you’re really here for, as though you’re shattering the trust of an old friend.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — You know that’s not true. Stop burdening yourself with make-belief scenarios, don’t let passing thoughts snowball into avalanches. “We’re members of the RCM, we’re looking for Dr. Daniil Dankovsky. Is it true that he’s staying here as your guest?”

The smile wanes as her eyes flicker back and forth from you to the lieutenant. 

EMPATHY — She’s afraid. “You’re not in trouble, Eva. We just want to know if he’s here.”

She bites at the skin of her bottom lip. “What’s it to you, huh? If he is here — he’s not, but, what if he was? What then?”

SUGGESTION [Challenging: Failure] — Give it to her straight, show her she’s dealing with a criminal here. “He’s under arrest for threatening members of the law with a firearm, and fleeing investigators.” 

“No! He wouldn’t do that!” She retorts. “You’ve got it all wrong, officers.” Bad move.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — There is a right way to do this. She clearly doesn’t want to give him up, but you can still convince her to help you. “His lab is under scrutiny for claims of medical malpractice, Eva. Even if he didn’t mean to, there’s a chance he could’ve caused a lot of harm to many people, mostly the terminally ill. All we want is his statement.”

Solemnly, she sits up on the sofa, cupping her elbows, averting her gaze. “But Isidor trusted him, he invited Daniil here… and Isidor is— was never wrong.” 

“I’m not saying he was. If Dr. Dankovsky is innocent, then he has nothing to be afraid of. However, we need to know if his lab is safe to continue operation. Is he in right now?” 

Uncertain, she fidgets with her thumbs. “He’s a good person, I know it.” Finally, her large azure eyes meet yours. “He’s out right now, I don’t know where he is. You can wait upstairs for him, in his room.”

Kim takes a quick note of the interaction, then says, “The RCM appreciates your cooperation, Ms. Yan.”

She brings her knees up, resting her chin on them. “Yeah, okay.” She mumbles.

You cross to the other end of the room, under another archway, and up a wide staircase which follows the curvature of the observatory.

The upstairs reeks of formaldehyde and other foul-smelling chemicals, the taste of sulphur and burnt parchment wafts through the air. A large bookshelf covers the entire left wall of the room, and several of its books are scattered across the ground, along with several pages of notes containing differing percentages and dosages. The desk is surprisingly clean, apart from the black stain on the corner where ink drips from the nib of a fountain pen; the human skull atop a pile of books is also quite odd. Beside it is a microscope, and a collection of petri dishes, beakers, measuring tubes, and distillers. 

You head to the desk and pick up one of the papers; the ink at the top of the paper is drier than the text near the bottom. It reads, in elongated cursive: 

Arrival — staying at yan.

kain dead, going to find burakh.

burakh dead too, both murdered.

burakh son arrived. need to reason with rubin.

girl claiming to perform miracles? need to talk to saburov.

what the hell is happening?? 

You rummage through the papers underneath it, and pull out a series of calculations:

CaC2 Mr = 64g mol-1 —> C2H2 = 0.15625mol-1 —> (C2H2 x 8.31 x 293)/100,000 = 3.8x10-3m3

INTERFACING [Heroic: Failure] — You can’t decipher them. Putting aside the pretentious handwriting, there are chemical molecules you don’t understand, words you can’t define, symbols you don’t recognise. Most of all, you are unable to find the connection between each calculation, how they relate to one another to form the bigger picture. The best you can muster is a vague recollection of your highschool chemistry class, which you had failed. 

“He came prepared to conduct scientific research,” Kim intuits, studying the equipment. 

At the bottom of the pile, a letter catches your eye, its handwriting unlike the rest. It’s signed by Isidor Burakh. “I think I can guess why,” you say, reading through it before handing it to the lieutenant. 

He quirks a skeptic eyebrow at its contents. “An immortal man is quite a claim, especially since he’s dead now.” 

“I guess he wasn’t so immortal after all. Say, Kim, if you could be immortal, would you?” 

“What does that entail?” He questions, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placing the letter inside. “Does it mean I’d never die, or that I’d never die of natural causes?” 

“Does it make a difference?” 

“Certainly. For the former, absolutely not. For the latter, on the other hand, then maybe. What about you?”

DRAMA — A curtain that never falls

INLAND EMPIRE — A new save file.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — A never-ending disco, baby.

COMPOSURE — A descent into madness. 

“I don’t know, I guess I never really thought about it.” 

Thirty minutes pass until you hear the front door swing open. “That must be him,” Kim whispers. Faint murmurs can be heard from downstairs — Eva’s voice. You hurry down the stairs, missing multiple steps in your rush, the lieutenant following closely behind. At the door, Eva is facing away from you, speaking to a man; his raven-black hair is shaggy, he’s almost completely clothed in silvery snakeskin, leaving only his neck and head exposed, a doctor’s bag is in his hand, his thick eyebrows are furrowed as he listens intently to her. Instantly, his dark brown eyes shoot up to stare at you for a split-second, before he’s sprinting away. 

“Hey!” You yell, running after him as Eva obediently steps aside from the door, a triumphant grin plastered on her face. He runs around blocks, trying to lose you, and at one point, he drops his bag, which the lieutenant is quick to retrieve. 

PAIN THRESHOLD — Your heart is spasming, your breath is being sucked out of you as quickly as it comes in, your legs cramp from the sudden burst of movement, a sharp pain pangs in your side. 

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Use your arms as momentum, keep your eyes on him, lift your legs higher. You’re gaining on him. Your pain is the heat from the fuel: blow out the steam, and keep going. Whatever you do, don’t stop. 

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — You can do more than that. Cut around the block between him and the Polyhedron, corner him. You’re faster than him, Harry. Don’t let him get away.

A hand signal to the lieutenant indicates to him to keep following Dankovsky as you veer off of the road and scramble around a cathedral, your only path lit by dim, flickering streetlights, until you emerge on the other side right in front of him. He yelps, skids to a stop, and turns to greet the lieutenant. Sweat trickling down his temple, he fumbles for his revolver while you and Kim already have your guns trained on him. 

“Put the gun down, Dankovsky!” You bark. 

He looks between the both of you, unsure of who to aim at. Eventually his sights land on you. “N-no!” He cries amidst gasps for breath. “I’m so close, I just… I just need more time!”

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — His gloved hands are violently shaking, the chances of him landing a hit on you are little to none. 

“Let me go, or I’ll… I’ll shoot! I know all the vital spots!”

PERCEPTION [Formidable: Success] — Moonlight shines through the holes of the revolver’s chambers. The gun has no bullets. You pocket your gun and stalk towards him. 

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ll shoot!” He backs away until he’s on the steps of the cathedral. “…shit…” He tosses the gun at you in a last-ditch effort.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Failure] — It hits you on the forehead before you can catch it. When you look back, you see the end of the snakeskin coat disappearing into the cathedral. 

AUTHORITY — He’s cornered himself, the fool. Time to put an end to this child’s play.

The cathedral would have made for a fine specimen of Gothic architecture, had it not been for the dull brass colour of its bricks. Three scarlet windows stand before you like mounted obelisks, spilling bloody glares upon you. Above where the altar should’ve been, a mighty pendulum swings from side to side, iron scraping against itself each time it reaches the apex of its height. You spot the Dankovsky hurrying up a spiral staircase to the upper-floors, which are supported by four massive pillars. 

“You take the right stairs, I’ll get the left!” You call out to the lieutenant before you follow after the doctor. The stairs are tightly enclosed within bricks, almost emanating the cold from their coarse skin. Judging by the closeness of the footsteps above you, it’s clear that the doctor is running out of breath quicker than you are. By the time you reach the third floor, you see Kim emerging from the other staircase, while the doctor staggers to the far end of the cathedral, clutching the side of his torso in exhaustion. You can see now that the pendulum is attached to a mechanism containing a large hourglass below the ceiling, sand rushing rapidly through the slim glass threshold.

The doctor lets out a hoarse wheeze when he sees you both. “Fuck… the Powers That Be sent you, didn’t they?” He creeps closer to the edge, looking down at the pendulum. “Damn this wretched town…” 

“Dr. Dankovsky,” you hold your hands in front of you, showing you’re unarmed, “it’s over, your lab is already under investigation. Give yourself up, and we’ll put in a good word for the judge.”

A hand reaches up to touch his forehead, then moves back to brush through his hair. “I told them I needed more time, damn it! You don’t understand, my lab was falsely denounced by my academic rivals, those who posed as my subordinates. If you would just give me a blasted moment, I can prove that we’ve made progress!” 

“Frankly, doctor,” Kim says from the other side of the floor as he pulls out his handcuffs, “that is of no concern to us. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — He looks at the pendulum below again. His breath quickens, his eyes widen, his body rocks in hesitation. This is bad. 

You halt where you’re standing. “Daniil, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not worth it.”

He spits out a bitter cackle. “How could you possibly know how I feel?” A fog seems to overtake his eyes as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled back of cigarettes. “No one can,” he pauses as he pulls out a silver-plated lighter. “Kain’s dead, anyway. There’s no point in trying to save my Thanatica anymore.” A thick cloud of smoke escapes from his lips. “Alis volat propriis.”

Then the world came to a stop. You feel the pressure verberate through your body before you hear the deafening cymbal of the cathedral bells, scraping its way between your flesh and bones, sloshing around in your skull, inching down your spine, spilling down your hips, to your knees, ankles, and then the ground. You lean against the wall for support. The second gong isn’t half as bad, giving you the opportunity to look around; Kim’s also pressed himself against the wall for balance, while Dankovsky fell back.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — Now’s your chance, you won’t get another like it! Go!

You charge at the doctor before he can get to his feet, practically dragging the man by his necktie away from the ledge, to where the lieutenant is waiting. 

“Daniil Dankovsky,” you announce as Kim latches the cuffs onto his wrists “the RCM is placing you under arrest for evading arrest and threatening law enforcement with a firearm. I guess we can also add resisting arrest to the list.”

The lieutenant hauls the doctor to his feet. “Face the wall.” He orders. 

“Hey— what are you doing?!” He hisses as Kim digs through his pockets. 

“Cigarettes, a lighter,” he squints at the inscription etched onto it, “memento vivere.” 

“Get your filthy hands off of that!” 

He pulls out an assortment of bottles and tins. “Chewing tobacco, camphor, strychnine…”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Who would’ve thought he’d have such a pretty collection of candies? He sure looks like he can afford to share.

You take the items and cram them into your own pockets. “I’ll be confiscating these.”

He wriggles against the cuffs. “I’m a doctor, I need those!” 

“Why would a doctor need enough amphetamines to kill a bull?” 

“They’re to prescribe to patients, you daft fool!” 

“Well, considering your patient, Simon Kain, is dead, these belong to the RCM now.” 

“Damn you both,” He grumbles.

From the pocket of his velvet vest, the lieutenant pulls out a tiny book. Flicking through it reveals a series of precise pencil drawings of various butterflies and beetles, expertly shaded and even labelled with the correct anatomy. 

“Impressive,” you say. “Maybe you should’ve become an etymologist instead.” 

“What, are you going to ‘confiscate’ that too? Hang the diagrams on your wall as a trophy?” 

“Nah, keep it.” You reply, placing the book back into his pocket. 

“That’s everything he has on him.” Kim states. “I left his bag downstairs, we should check that too.” 

Dankovsky scoffs. “You will do no such thing!” 

“Quiet, you. Or we’ll confiscate your shoes, too.”

With the town hall lacking a proper interrogation room, you have to make do with a storage room emptied out and left with a table and three chairs. A guard stands in front of the door where Dankovsky is locked inside, while the lieutenant is flipping back through his notes and you’re taking stock of the rest of the doctor’s items; in addition to the stuff he had on his person, he also has a scalpel, 16 roubles, an apple, a medical textbook, and more research papers. 

“How about this: you be good cop, I’ll be bad cop. How many years of prison can you threaten him with?” 

“We should probably leave threats out of the interview initially, the suspect is under enough pressure as it is. And anyway, a proper interrogation with the relevant evidence is to be conducted back at the Capital, so our main goal for this is to find out any preliminary information that can aid the investigation.” 

“Alright, I catch your drift, I know how to handle this. Just follow my lead.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS — You remember the various interrogation tactics you’ve implemented over the years, some more ethical than others. Remember, Detective, your suspect is on the verge of a mental breakdown, apparently a drug addict, and probably a member of the homo-sexual underground, too. Perhaps a more conversational interview would be beneficial. 

The guard unlocks the door for you, and you enter the tiny store room. Shadows dance around the hard lines on Dankovsky’s face from the swinging bulb hanging from the ceiling. The lieutenant unlocks the cuffs on him as you take out the confiscated pack of cigarettes, taking one for yourself, and offering another to him, who gives you a wary stare before accepting it. You light them both with his lighter. 

“This is Latin, isn’t it?” You tap the inscription. “I’m wondering what it means.”

He takes a deep inhale of the cigarette. “It means, ‘remember you will live’. It’s a play on the saying, memento mori. I had it carved on as a way to deter me from smoking.” He gives a dry, joyless laugh. “A lot of good it did me…” 

“I’m surprised you’d even feel the need to smoke in the first place. An esteemed bachelor of medicine in the Capital with his own lab, pushing the boundaries of science, all before the age of thirty. You seemed to have it all.” 

“Don’t let appearances fool you, officer. My work isn't as cushy as you make it sound. Oftentimes our research would stagnate, other times it felt like we were taking one step forward, two steps back. Still, we were making progress. I was right on the verge of a major breakthrough, until it all fell apart…” 

“What kind of work were you doing?”

He taps out the ashes on the edge of the table. “A prolonging of the life. A form of immortality, so to speak.”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — Now you’ve got him on the right track. Keep at your role as the clueless plebeian who has no idea about science, and he will jump at every opportunity to showcase his knowledge. 

“Immortality?” You gape, glancing at the lieutenant, who, in turn, acts taken aback by the notion. 

Through the thin veil of smoke between you, you see a hint of pride come about his features. “That’s right. Forms of immortality can be observed throughout the natural world. Take the insect calyptra thalictri of the moth family Erevidae, for instance…” you don’t understand half of his spiel; buzzwords are thrown at every moment (“Hexactinellid…sessile…negligible senescence…”)

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Impossible: Failure] — Wait, is he talking about glass sponges or tortoises now? And what was that about slowing metabolisms?

SUGGESTION — You got him talking, but he’s getting off topic. Reel him back in.

SUGGESTION [Legendary: Failure] — “But what does your lab actually do? What experiments are you conducting on patients?”

He smirks. “Why, it’s simple. Sedit qui timuit ne non succederet, my aim was to study metabolic reactions within certain bodies, including healthy and terminally ill subjects. That’s what I set out to do using Kain. You see, there’s a very specific chemical involved in the rate at which metabolic reactions occur…” He’s going on another rant again.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — You were being too lenient on him. This is not a scientific investigation, it’s a criminal interrogation. 

“Doctor, I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. Lieutenant, if you will,” He rips a sheet from his notebook and hands it to you, which you read off of. “Evading arrest, 5 years; two counts of armed threats against law enforcement, 10 years; if you’re found guilty of fraudulence and medical malpractice, depending on the severity, that’s several months in prison and up to a million roubles in fines; assault of the 2nd degree with a firearm, 5 years,” 

“H-hang on, now!” He sputtered. “I didn’t actually shoot anyone!” 

“You hit me in the head with your gun,” you point to the sore red spot on your forehead, “so we’re counting that too. Let’s see, that’s…” 

“Over 20 years in prison with a million in fines.” The lieutenant states. “Even the kindest judge would have to give you prison time and a few hundred thousand to pay back. Not to mention you would also certainly lose your medical licence. In other words,” 

“You’re fucked, Dankovsky.”

His face has paled to a ghastly complexion. “No, no — you can’t, you…” 

“Come on, doctor, prison ain’t that bad. All you gotta do is beat up the biggest guy on the yard on your first day. You can do that, right?” 

“Y-you’re…” 

“I hear they’re using convicts as conscripts nowadays.” Kim adds. 

“Is that so? What do you say, doctor, are you ready for the front?” 

He shoots out of his seat with such speed that it’s thrown back. “You’re bluffing!” He yells. “I know what this is! You’re trying to frighten me so that I’ll confess to whatever it is that you want me to!”

You shrug. “Maybe we are. Are you really willing to find out?”

He shrinks back. “Look here, I’m not an unreasonable man. Tell me what you want to know, and I’ll answer to the best of my abilities.”

RHETORIC — He’s telling the truth. Ask, and you shall receive. 

The lieutenant begins the real interview, “We have several accounts from your colleagues in Thanatica that you’ve been conducting medical experiments on patients who either didn’t or couldn’t consent using untested drugs. What can you tell us about that?” 

“Did Telmann say that?” He scowls. “That bastard was always jealous of my position. I’ll have you know that all of our clinical trials are and have always been up to a professional standard. We have written consent forms from all our patients and their families, and every drug we used has been approved for human consumption.” 

“And the claims of fraudulence? Several audits show that your receipts don’t add up.” 

“It’s the fault of that joke-of-an-accountant, Voronin. I bet you that greedy beast has pocketed half of our funds for himself. Just last month, he bought a house in the country way above his pay grade, and now he’s trying to throw me in front of the gun! Me! — And I’m the one who hired him! If anyone should be under investigation, it should be him — and Kartsevich, too, the vermin. He’d take any opportunity to denounce his colleagues if it means he can slip away without a blemish on his reputation.” 

“You seem to have a lot of rats in your lab.” You point out. 

“Yes, it unfortunately seems that way… But I have those who can vouch for me, too. Ask Serafima and Platon, they’ll tell you I’m innocent. They’ve been my partners since I first founded Thanatica, they’ll explain it all to you as well.” 

“Will they tell us everything that you’ve just said?” 

“Down to the last detail.” 

From the corner of your eye, you see the lieutenant take a note of the names, then give you a quick nod. “We’ve got all we need, for now. We’ll end the interview here.” You say, rising to your feet. 

“So, am I free to go?”

You snort. “Hah, good one. Come on, we’ll take you to one of the cells. Be ready to get up bright and early for the morning train back to the Capital.” 

“Then can I at least get my belongings back?” 

“Fine, but I’m keeping the drugs.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — A Tragedian is on the ground when you return from the cells, grasping its head in both hands, quivering. It hunches over into a foetal when you approach it, shielding as much of its body as it can. 

“What are you supposed to be?” You question. 

“My love is dying!” It weeps through an imitation of Dankovsky's voice, as though an actor is impersonating him (and to an uncanny level of accuracy).

“I didn’t know you were married.” 

“My sweet Thanatica!” 

“Oh.” A bachelor through and through.

It drags its nailless fingers across its bone-white mask. “My sweet’s been poisoned from the inside out right before my very eyes, and I was too blind to notice it!” 

“Hey, come on, cheer up. It’s just a lab.” Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but wince at how ingenuine you sound. Consolation was never your forté, was it? 

“What am I without my work? I will die twice, all the worse!” 

“How can you die twice?” 

It holds up one finger. “First, the body: fresh, bloat, active, advanced, then skeletal.” It holds up another. “The second death, the soul— ah, I can picture it now! The last time I am thought of, the last time my name is spoken, the last time someone will recall the warm touch of my cheek… there I’ll be a drop in the sea of those who were forgotten in the turbulent tides of history,” it whimpers in horror. “Hippocrates, Avicenna, Jenner — they are immortal men, they etched their names on the stone from which we were all sculpted. What am I compared to them?”

“So that’s what death means to you, huh? Being forgotten.” 

“I don’t want to die!” It peeks out at you from under its hands. “You’ll remember me, won’t you? Will you tell your children of me? Will you pass my memory down generations? Please don’t let me die, I’m so scared…” 

There is nothing you can do for it. “I’m sorry, Daniil.”

Chapter Text

You can’t say you’re overly thrilled about the living arrangements Saburov provided with you. For one, you’re situated in the furthest lower-right borough, the Crude Sprawl, in its most isolated corner. “Just keep walking until you see the Abattoir, it’s impossible to miss,” the governor had said as you collected your bags from the town hall. He wasn’t lying. What looks to be a behemoth of a bulb sits like a mountain to the left of the district, its brick-red stone fused like grafted skin to the black steel of the factory. It’s an uneven structure, dented with craters in some areas, resembling the vertebrae of a spine protruding from an animal’s back. The Abattoir is about the only interesting thing in the ramshackled quarter. 

A dreary, humid air is present, tasting of boiled cabbages, curdled milk and smoked beef, the reek flooding from broken windows, from gaps under doors too small to properly fit in their frames; you have to tread carefully over rocky, poorly paved paths; large flies buzz in hoards, adamant on landing on your face no matter how much you swat them away. Of course, people stare at you, undoubtedly out of place, as you walk, unashamed when you meet their gaze. You even see a few Herb Brides, as Burakh had called them, huddled together in groups, whispering to one another in a language you don’t understand. You pick up hints of Mongolian, though you can’t decipher their meanings. These people, the Kin, must be an indigenous group in the steppe. 

Finally, you come to a stop in front of the buildings. Inside is no better than the exterior: discoloured wallpaper peels down in clumps, the wood is mouldy in corners, bits of the floorboard have been broken, the legs of chairs are so unbalanced that they function better as rocking chairs rather than proper seating, cupboards and closets have had their handles and parts of their hinges taken off. You can’t imagine how many times this house must have been looted. 

“Could Saburov really not have put us somewhere nicer? This place looks haunted.” You cringe at a cobweb situated between the railings of the staircase, where a spider the size of your palm is spinning out a line of silk. 

“It’ll have to make do for tonight,” Kim replies, dragging his finger over a table, which returns covered in dust, “as abhorrent as it is.”

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — There is a direct path from the Crude Sprawl to the factory. “I think this is where the labourers live.”

The lieutenant considers this. “If that’s the case, they must be getting paid in copecks.” He drops his bag on the table. “I’m going out for a smoke.” You leave your bag beside his and follow him outside, where he’s sitting on the steps leading up to the house, lighting a cigarette. “The train will arrive at eight o’clock, we should leave at seven to pick up Dankovsky and head to the station.” He offers you one. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — That’s it, light it up. That bitter nicotine taste on your tongue? — that’s called heaven, baby. Fucking Elysium. Hey, aren’t you forgetting something? Go on, you’ve earned it.

It’s now that you remember the half-empty bottle of twyrine you still have. You take a swing of the bottle and fire blazes down your throat, quenched only by the acids in your stomach, its earthy flavour simultaneously resembling the taste of black coffee and green tea. You let out a long, hearty breath.

“Wanna sip, Kim?”

He shakes his head. “Drinks keep me awake at night.”

More for you. Though you don’t manage to empty the entire bottle, you feel a light buzz coming on, like a ringing in the back of your head. The Crude Sprawl is quiet now, the silence interrupted only by the chirping of crickets, or the hum of a Herb Bride. All things considered, the town is peaceful. You close your eyes, feeling the world hum beneath your feet. 

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] — YOU FEEL ME, DON’T YOU? 

“Huh?” You jolt up.

The lieutenant turns to you. “What?” 

“Did you say something?” 

“No,” he blows out a puff of smoke. “Did you hear something?”

You look around at the deserted street. “I thought I did.” 

“I think you’ve had enough of that.” He gestures to the bottle. 

A warped reflection of yourself stares back at you from the glass. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” You leave the bottle on the bottom floor before heading upstairs. 

“Goodnight, Detective.” Kim says as he disappears into his room, while you take the bedroom closest to the stairs. You don’t know why you expected it to be any better than the rest of the house, because it’s not. The space on bedside table is completely taken up by a congealed stack of candles melted into each other to form a deformed mound of wax with a few wicks sticking out of it like a porcupine, there’s nothing in the drawers apart from bent needles, a pair of dull scissors, and empty bullet casings. Lying on the cot, which is about two feet too small for your frame, gives you the impression that you would be more comfortable sleeping on the floor, where you wouldn’t feel a mattress spring digging into your back. 

Still, it’s been a long day, and that last drink you had is still making your head spin, blurring the vision in your peripherals. It doesn’t take you long to drift into sleep. 

You don’t know where you are. You trudge through a thick sea of twyre, smelling blood and rot and sulphur. It feels like you’ve been here for years, walking through the field, so dry that a single match can set the whole plane aflame. Your only source of direction is that pair of burning orange eyes in the distance, unblinking, aglow in the dark horizon. 

Everything is blurred, but you can make out some of its features still; it looks like a theatre costume, depicting a towering robed form adorned with a massive bird skull and decorated with bones strung around its hunched body. You fall to your knees before it. 

SHIVERS — WHAT AM I TO YOU? 

It’s your own raspy voice talking to you. “I don’t know…”

SHIVERS — LOOK CLOSER. WHO AM I?

Then it all comes to you. 

The sweet aroma of fresh apricots. And there it is, from its throat down to its cloaked ribcage, a radiant pair of glowing lungs, dim at first, then bright enough that you’re forced to look away. 

“Oh, god…”

SHIVERS — IT’S ME, HARRY.

It’s Her voice. 

“Please, no, not this…” You screw your eyes shut.

SHIVERS — DON’T PUSH ME AWAY. 

Through the thin membrane of your eyelids, the intensity of the brightness sears your eyes. The overwhelming scent of apricots suffocates you.

“Fuck— fuck!” 

She coos lovingly at your trembling form. Bile rises at the back of your throat as your stomach churns.

“Please, just stop… get me away from here… I can’t do this, not again…”

SHIVERS — I LOVE YOU.

You wake to soil being shovelled onto your face, crusted with ice. You start with a yelp, only to find more dirt around you, encasing you like a coffin. 

PAIN THRESHOLD — Everything hurts. Your head is pounding like a war drum, blisters are forming on your heels, your shoulders are stiff and frozen, and your mouth tastes like stomach acid. You must’ve vomited somewhere. At least you’re still clothed.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — What happened back there? Try to remember. 

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — No. Now is not the time nor the place for that. First, get your bearings straight; focus on what is immediately known to you in sensation. Where are you, Harry?

The sun is glaring at you overhead as you struggle to your knees, wiping the soil from your face and shoulders. Every breath is a conscious effort, a pull-and-tug against your own body to force air in and out of your lungs, every blink a deliberate decision.

A gurgled voice rings out from above, “Uuchlaarai, we thought you were dead.” It’s spoken as though the speaker is slipping over vowels and conjoining the syllables together.

You’re too disoriented to make out who’s speaking to you, only the man’s massive round silhouette is visible. “Ugh, my head… where am I?” 

“Toonto nuutag toukhai ukhedel. This is the graveyard.” 

“A graveyard? Then, am I…?”

VOLITION — Yes, you are inside a grave right now, and yes, you were about to be buried alive in said grave. As dark as those implications are, you can’t worry about them right now. Get out and find the lieutenant. 

“Shit,” you groan, clambering to your feet. “Hey, could you help me outta here?” A meaty arm wrapped in so much cloth that the shape of the fist has become indistinguishable appears from over the grave, which you grab onto as the man effortlessly pulls you out. 

“Thanks, I—” You have no idea what you’re looking at. The man, if he can even be called such, is only visible from his large, bulging eyes to his head, which is rounded and smooth like a dome, and an off-white grey colour. The rest of its muscular body, all seven feet of it, is covered in layers upon layers of tunics. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Impossible: Failure] — What. The. Fuck. No, seriously, what the fuck is that?

The sight catches you so off-guard, you almost tumble back into the pit. It stares down at you with an unreadable expression. 

SUGGESTION — Try asking it what it is. Don’t be rudy, Harry, it’s just a simple, honest question. 

SUGGESTION [Formidable: Failure] — “Why do you look like a thumb?” It takes a special talent to be this inane, you know that, right?

Luckily, the thing didn’t seem to take offence to the question. Then again, if it did, you wouldn’t be able to guess it from its expression. “I am Khatangher, Odongh — cattle herder, man and worm.” 

“Cool, cool. I dig that.”

The graveyard stretches over multiple acres, tombstones dotted over hills and dips in the adjacent fields. In the near distance, more of the Odongh are gathered, along with several other people, forming a circle around a grave, shovels in hand. 

“Is there a funeral going on?” You turn back to him, only to see he’s already walking away in the direction of the crowd, lugging his large arms with him. With no other choice, you follow, hoping to find some guidance on how to get back to the Crude Sprawl. 

INTERFACING — Judging by the angle of your shadow cast over the grassless patches of dirt, it’s just past dawn. If you hurry, you can make it back at seven. Though, you’ll also have to explain your sleepwalking adventure to the lieutenant.

You stumble over to the crowd, forcing yourself not to think about how you ended up in this predicament in the first place. Nearing the group, you spot a figure kneeling on the ground; it’s a young girl, perhaps fourteen or so, her eyes puffy and her nose red from crying, fingers blue and bloodless from the cold, her wavy hair a pearl-white. Close up, her albino visage, with its translucent cheeks and eyelids, show off the veins beneath the skin. 

“Please,” her soft voice pleads to the men, “try again.”

One of the men drops his shovel and rubs his calloused hands. “It’s not working, Boddho won’t accept him.”

The girl sniffles. “Please. Maybe the grave isn’t deep enough, maybe you didn’t pack enough dirt on him.” 

Crouching beside her, you notice, is one of the children from yesterday, the girl who had told you where Burakh was hiding — the self proclaimed ‘miracle worker’. “Come on, Grace,” she says, unravelling the thick scarf from her neck and draping it over Grace’s shoulders. “It’s cold, let’s go inside.” 

“No!” She protests. “We can’t leave him like this. He can’t rest if we leave him here.” You look to where the group’s attention is drawn, only to find what looks to be a regular grave, already full. 

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Yet, something is wrong. Look there, the ground appears to be shifting, rising and sinking, as though it’s rumbling. Something is crawling out— no, something is being forced out.

The soil breaks, and a shape covered in linen protrudes from the ground. In a way, it looks as if the dirt is peeling itself away from the form, unearthing what is clearly a dead body, pushing it out completely, expelling it like a liver does to toxins. 

“Oh, why is this happening?” Grace whimpers. “Why won’t the Earth accept him, Clara?”

Before she answers, Clara suddenly cranes her head to the other side; you follow her gaze to see the hulking, slightly hunched figure of Burakh, striding towards the funeral. Her eyes narrow in a glare. “He’s here.” She helps Grace to her feet. “Let’s wait by the mausoleum.” As the two girls walk to the small marble structure, their arms interlinked, Clara’s eyes flicker to your’s, bearing into you like emerald daggers, or like a painting whose gaze follows you as you pass it. It lasts only a moment, but the effect lingers for much longer. 

You turn back to the funeral goers, who seemed to have all given up on trying to bury the man. After brushing the excess dirt off your shoulder, you approach the group. “Hey, do any of you guys know how I can get back to town?”

In unison, they all turn to face you, emotionless, eyeing you up and down. It unnerves you, to be scrutinised in this way. Then, from behind one of the Odongh, a woman creeps out, hunched over and clutching a satchel around her shoulder; she looks to be wearing various potato sacks sewn together to create an amalgamation of a dress, her dark brown hair is unkempt and cropped short, and the pupil of her right blue eye is dilated to such an extent that it gives the impression of heterochromia. 

“Tsoe she daa?” Her voice is scratched and hoarse. “Yuunde be kharanab zobolon dotor she, baarhani?”

RHETORIC [Legendary: Failure] — You make an attempt to communicate with her. “Me,” you make an exaggerated motion towards yourself, “lost,” you look around the graveyard. “You… know…” you point to her, then to your head, “where I am?” Another series of vague hand motions follows.

A guttural sigh escapes the woman. “The graveyard is South of Olonngo — the Abattoir. Go North, and you will enter the town through the Crude Sprawl.” She speaks more like she’s reciting a chant than conversing, placing emphasis on syllables that don’t need them, accentuating vowels and elongating consonants. 

“Thanks, miss…?” She doesn’t give you her name. Well, at least you have some directions now. “See you, weird lady.”

Northward takes you past the mausoleum, where Burakh turns away from Grace to face you, suspicion etched across his face, as is his usual expression when regarding you. “Inspector.” He gives a curt nod in greeting. 

“I’m guessing the investigation found you innocent.”

“Yes, an old acquaintance finally talked some sense into Saburov.” He examines the dirt smeared on your clothes. “Have you come to arrest my father, too?” 

“Isidor Burakh? But, isn’t he—? oh.” Congratulations, you’ve just crashed the funeral of the father of the man you brought into custody not twelve hours ago. 

EMPATHY — “I’m sorry about your father, Artemy, I mean it. I wish we could do more to help with the investigation.”

His shoulders droop. “It’s alright. I’ll find the killer myself, I just had to come here to see him one last time… By the way,” he calls out after you as you leave, “were you and your partner the ones that arrested that Bachelor?” 

“Yup, we’re taking him back to the Capital.”

The corner of his lip quirks in amusement. “You won’t find him there anymore, he was bailed out.” 

“What? By who?” 

“One of the Kains, I think. Probably the Judge, Georgiy. Haven’t got a clue why he’s taken a liking to that insufferable fop, though.” He shrugs, before approaching the hunched woman you’d spoken to. 

AUTHORITY — Bailing out someone else’s detainee is a hell of a power move if you’ve ever seen one. Find the lieutenant, you both need to have a stern talk with this so-called ‘Judge’ Kain. 

Kim is pacing around the house when you get back, dust flying up from the ground with every footstep. He practically pounces on you when you walk through the door. “Where have you been, Harry? I looked all over the district for you, I thought something had happened!” He takes a step back, wrinkling his nose. “You smell like twyre. I told you to leave the drink, what were you doing, getting drunk? The train arrives in thirty minutes, we have to get Dankovsky—” 

“He’s not in the cell.”

The lieutenant stops, finally taking a moment to observe the state of you. “You look…” 

“Like shit?” 

“Haggard. What happened last night?”

You rub your forehead, squeezing to ease the pain throbbing in your skull. “Bad dreams. Turns out a lawmaker, a judge, bailed Dankovsky out of jail. His name is Georgiy Kain.” 

He adjusts his glasses; a habit, you’ve noticed, he does when faced with certain bleak situations. “I see. But what happened?” 

“I just told you, Kain bailed out Dankovsky.” 

“No, I mean what happened to you, Harry. Last night.” 

“Like I said, bad dreams, and that twyrine. I’m telling you, they put some strong shit in that drink, Kim.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “Do nightmares and booze usually cause sleepwalking for you?”

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — Don’t let him drag this out. “Look, it’s fine. I had a bit too much to drink, is all. I’m here now, aren’t I? Our priority is getting Dankovsky back into custody, let’s focus on that first before anything else.”

He bows his head in acceptance. “Whatever you say, Detective.”

VOLITION — I know I said to not focus on what happened last night, and that still goes, for now. Just know that sooner or later, there will come a time where you will have to sit and consider why it happened, why you saw what you saw. Be ready for it, Harry. You can’t keep your emotions bottled up forever.

Asking around the town gives you the location of the Bridge Square, the same district which houses the Polyhedron. It’s right where you left it, curved over and crooked, passive as light phases through it, suspended in the air. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Impossible: Failure] — You try to picture the inside of it, but your mind blankens. You can only see it from the outside, like a viscous creature lying dormant outside the Kains’ home, waiting to pounce on one of the unsuspecting members. You shudder as you enter. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is something inside this house that is unnatural; perhaps it is the pairing of the wood and wallpaper, or maybe the decoration carvings, or it could be the stifling air which makes it feel like you’ve stepped inside a burning pharmacy. Either way, something is compelling you to pick apart every square inch of this place to figure out what exactly it is about it that makes the hairs on the nape of your neck rise. 

The man reading a book in his study doesn’t at all look surprised to find two strangers suddenly in his home. In fact, he looks at you as though you’re a visitor he’s been waiting for. “Detectives, welcome,” he stands, closes the book, and shakes you and the lieutenant’s hands. “Victor Kain.” His voice is scratchy, and he speaks as though he is giving a lecture in a classroom.

“How did you know who we were?” 

“The ruling families were informed of your arrival.” You exchange a look with the lieutenant, prompting him to continue, “The Saburovs, Kains, and the Olgimskys all hold some form of power in our little town, you see.” 

“Are you the Judge?” 

“No, that’s my older brother, Georgiy Kain. My name is Victor, and you are Harrier Dubois and Kim Kitsuragi.”

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — He does not seem prideful in his knowledge, nor is he particularly charismatic. This is a man most esoteric, in every sense of the meaning. “We believe your brother may have released a prisoner in our custody, Daniil Dankovsky. Did you know this?” 

“Why, yes. I requested it.” 

“Even knowing he was being held by the RCM? Why?”

Victor crossed to a grandfather clock on the other side of the desk, examining his reflection in the glass casing trapping the dial. “Are you aware of the murder of my brother, Simon Kain? Yes… I suppose you would be,” he says without waiting for a reply. “Dankovsky offered to inquire about any potential leads. The circumstances surrounding Simon’s death were… strange. We released him in hopes that he could continue his investigation.”

Kim looks up from his notebook. “We understand your brother’s murder must be difficult for you and your family, Mr. Kain, but we cannot allow Dankovsky to leave our custody. We’re taking him in.”

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — Look at that, he’s about to protest. Don’t let him. “If you make any attempts to hinder our work, you’ll be impeding an official investigation. Neither you nor the Judge can stop us, Victor. Where the hell is Dankovsky?”

His eyes narrow in begrudging acceptance. “Fine. I don’t know his whereabouts at the moment, I’ll have to inquire about it with my brother. But, if he happens to have found anything, can I trust you to inform us?” 

“Yeah, we’ll do that.” 

“Excellent. Will that be all, Detectives?”

The lieutenant looks to you, waiting for your call. “Yeah, one more thing,” you say. “What’s up with that giant tower? Why won’t the kids let us on it?”

A distant look overtakes his face. “The Polyhedron… It’s like children’s own domain, they won’t let adults near it. We commissioned it, yet they won’t let us on — believe me, I’ve tried. It’s a feat of non-Euclidean geometry, they don’t even know what that word means, yet they still act like they know it better than I. Though, in a way… they do.” He focuses on you again, as if snapping back into reality. “Don’t bother trying to convince them otherwise.” 

HALF LIGHT — Give up? Give up? In your dreams, old man. “No way, I’m gonna get on that tower, one way or another.” 

“Is that so?” He thinks about this for a moment. “In that case, could you do me a favour?” He disappears out of the study for a minute, then returns with a brown parcel in hand. “If you see those Doghead children at the Polyhedron, ask them to deliver this to a child named Cas—” with a struggle, he swallows back the word, “to a boy calling himself Khan. Tell him it’s from me. It’s a favorite of his. I’ll have Dankovsky’s whereabouts by the time you return.” You make a move to open the bag. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t look inside.” Says Victor somberly. “It’s nothing, really, trivial. But, still…” 

“What does he look like?”

“He’s…” a mournful look creeps up his aging features. “I can’t remember… god, when was the last time I saw him…?” You decide to leave him to his grief.

You’re not halfway to the Polyhedron when your curiosity gets the best of you. The sight of the lieutenant raising an eyebrow upon seeing your hand on the opening of the parcel feels like Lady Justice herself has torn the blindfold free from her eyes to glare at you. 

“Come on, Kim, aren’t you curious? Not even a little bit?”

He shrugs. “Open it, if you want.”

INTERFACING [Easy: Success] — You feel the parcel first. There are multiple objects, flat misshapen circles, and there is a slight dampness on the bottom of the brown paper bag.

PERCEPTION — You smell cinnamon and cocoa. The sweet scent stimulates your salivary glands. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Holy shit, pretentious, much? Just say it makes him salivate. 

“I think there are cookies in here.” Although the lieutenant remains impassive, you get the feeling that a curiosity within him, small as it may be, has just been sated. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I bet those cookies taste pretty good… and they’re still warm.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — No! The Polyhedron takes precedence! Harry, you need to get inside. Put your hunger aside! Look, there are the Dogheads. No matter what, you have to convince them. 

“Alright, kids,” you say to the children, unsure if you’re meant to look at the cotton dog eyes, or the little human eyes peering through the holes, “you’re gonna let me on that tower right now.” 

“Nuh uh!” Yells one of the girls. “Get lost, grandpa!” 

“Reasoning won’t work, Detective.” Kim concludes. “Let’s just give them the package and leave.” 

“No, I’ve got a plan this time.” You reach into your pocket and procure the collection of amphetamines you previously confiscated from Dankovsky. “You kids want some drugs?”

The lieutenant’s lips part in surprise. The children examine the contents of the bottles. “Are these like morphine?” Asks a boy. 

“No, they’re better. Trust me, these will have you blasted halfway to the moon, but only if you let me on the Polyhedron.”

RHETORIC — Spoken like a true sleazy car salesman. I’m so proud of you, Harry.

They exchange uncertain looks amongst each other. “Won’t Khan get mad at us?” Whispers the boy. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” The girl replies as she takes one of the bottles from you. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Get your paws off of those, you little cretin! Those are my amphetamines!

They part, allowing you to cross to the other side of the Gorhkon to where the staircase begins. 

“That wasn’t a good idea.” Kim asserts as you begin the ascension. 

You turn back to see the children yanking off the bottle caps and dumping the various substances on the ground. “Eh, probably not. But we get to see the tower now.” He accepts this answer. 

The stairs are as impossible as the rest of the tower, suspended on nothing, connected to nothing, its own self-sustaining lifeform of the singular thin sheet of concrete. It’s also a lot taller than you thought. 

ENDURANCE [Formidable: Failure] — You have to take multiple breaks at each platform, taking a few minutes to catch your breath, before suddenly losing it upon seeing how far up you are. One wrong step would mean certain death. 

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — Calm down, you’ve got this. You’ll be alright, Harry.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — You can see the next step beneath your shoe, you know where to place your foot. You know you won’t topple over. Keep going, slow and steady now. 

From the platform connecting the staircase to the Polyhedron, you spot more Dogheads staring at you, murmuring to each other, no doubt about you. Across the translucent walls of the tower, you can see certain drawings, depicting the Polyhedron itself, freehanded yet precisely accurate in every proportion. Several measurements are also given to each component of the tower. The wind lashes at your hair, stinging your eyes, pushing the thinned oxygen in and out of your lungs. It’s cold enough that goosebumps have formed on your skin, and the blood has cowardly fled your fingertips.

When you finally reach the top, sweating and exhausted, your heart fluttering from the view of the entire town from leagues in the sky, your eyes scan over multiple maskless children crouched by poorly erected tents and shelters. 

VISUAL CALCULUS [Easy: Success] — It’s not hard to find him. The resemblance is uncanny, from the downward-pointed eyebrows, leading down the straight nose and to the pronounced chin. The only stark difference you can find is this boy’s eyes aren’t distant — they’re here, glaring at you. 

“This was a lot of effort for some random child,” Kim mutters as the boy stomps towards you. 

“It’s not a random child,” you say so only Kim can hear, “it’s Victor’s son.” 

“How did you get here? Tell me.” Khan commands. It’s difficult to take him too seriously when he looks like he’s dressed as a boy scout.

You hold up one finger to indicate to him to wait until you finally catch your breath. Even the lieutenant looks winded. “You’re Khan, right?” 

“Yes. What of it? You know those above the age of seventeen around allowed on the Rose—” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just take the damn package.” You toss the parcel to him. “It’s from Victor Kain.”

His eyes widen as he stuffs his hand inside the bag and takes out one of the cookies. He scowls and throws the parcel aside, where the other children tear into the bag. “Tell him he can’t bribe me out of the tower.” 

“I don’t think he was trying to bribe you, kid.” 

“Oh?” Exasperated, he crosses his arms. “Then tell me, what is this for, if not to ease me into his good graces?”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — You recall that look on the elder Kain’s face, one only a father could possess. “I think he just wanted to do something nice for you.” Khan’s face drops, as if you’ve just shot a bullet into him. “How long have you been in this tower, anyway? When was the last time you saw your father?”

The boy stares at you with narrowed eyes, unsure on how exactly to regard you. “Leave. Adults aren’t welcome here.” 

“Can’t I at least have a quick look inside? It took forever to climb up here, I don’t know how you kids do it,” 

He shakes his head. “No. The Polyhedron will collapse under your weight alone, let alone the both of you.” 

“Wait, are you calling me fat?” 

“Leave.” That scorn in his eye is serious, and the other children around him — countless of them — appear poised and ready to attack. “And don’t think I won’t pay you back, like hell I’ll allow myself to be indebted.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — A Tragedian sits at the edge of one of the platforms, swinging its legs off the ledge. It’s pressing a cookie against its mask, which crumbles, clearly too large to fit through the tiny hole of where its mouth is meant to be. As usual, the lieutenant pays no notice to it.

Coyly, it turns its head to look at you from the corner of its eye. “I miss him too. And Maria, and uncle Georgiy.” 

“What about Simon?”

“No… not uncle Simon.” 

“And your mother?” 

It faces the edge again, acres of the town held beneath its gaze. “…I don’t know. I loved mama when she was alive. But now, when I see her… I just wish we had dug her a deeper grave.”