Chapter Text
1.
Lieutenant Kitsuragi plays it cool until he sees the loaner Fumé racer. You are certain that the way his eyes light up behind his glasses as they winch the vehicle down off of its deluxe trailer is a signal to you alone. You catch the sheer delight at the sight of the powerful machine, and it feels like a secret you wouldn’t have asked for.
“Needless to say but it is a loaner,” Jean says. He is wearing his ridiculous delivery-man’s disguise of fullbody pit fatigues, the sort of thing a police officer might think a transport lorry-driver would wear. He is repeating a warning he has given no less than four times. “Parcifal is willing to extend a lot to us to help us discover who killed his fellow racer, but we should be aware— very aware—” here, he casts a look directly at you— “that the value of this motor carriage exceeds the entire precinct’s biennial budget.”
You are aware more and more of the value of réal. It is becoming a part of your world experience again. You should express to Jean that—
“Now is not the time to educate the working man about the unreality of money,” Kim leans up to speak very close to your ear. It is like the voice of your conscience. He drops down onto his heels at your side and speaks louder as Jean Vicquemare grudgingly undoes the winch straps from the suspension of the carriage. “We’ll return it in good condition. I am only trying to keep us in the running for now, so that we can retain access to the other drivers. Hopefully we will get the information we need without having to actually race.”
The Lieutenant doesn’t exactly sound like that’s what he hopes for, but he knows what to say to keep things on course and prevent Jean’s second-third-and fourth thoughts about the situation. You know he wants to race—that same element of childlike dreaming exists in Kim that does in everyone confronted with the dreams of their youth. Like you he is—in an understated way—a superstar cop.
“You say that but I know how things turn out,” Jean is resigning himself to the outcome. Potentially, he will never see another paycheck in his life. “Just remember, all you have to do is finish in the top half of the pack to qualify.”
Kim presents himself at parade rest, one hand on the opposite wrist behind his back. It’s the posture of someone in absolute control of themselves. He is a man who smokes exactly one cigarette a day. He is also a man who exceeds the speed limit by at least 10k/h at any given opportunity. “Understood.”
Jean accepts him at his word, a sign of his immense respect for the Lieutenant, and jams his hat down lower over his eyes. “Call me if you get anything solid. We can run down leads at the station while you two…”
He seems not to have any words for whatever it is he thinks you and Kim do. You know exactly the right ones. “We’ve got this, Vicquemare. We’re rockstars. ”
“No,” Jean says firmly. “ You are a police officer pretending to be pit crew and he is a police officer pretending to be a tournée racer. Don’t fuck it up by pretending you’re something else, too.”
Sire, he doesn't understand our method acting approach! It would be much cooler if we were undercover rockstars…
Jean doesn’t look receptive to argument. You’ll settle the matter of how many layers of pretend you’re immersing yourself in later. For now, you let Jean get out of here again— he is pretending to be a delivery driver, whose only task was to make sure the pampered Fumé racing motor carriage made it to the assigned private garage at the Carousel .
As part of your cover you have been granted the loan of the coveted MC and the corporate endorsement of Fairweather protectives—the carriage is covered in brilliantly colored decals, covering over and disguising its original paint job. They proclaim, blatantly, the company’s branding and slogans. There is also a specialized racing helmet constructed of the same kind of armor plating as the mercenaries wore. The representative had prsented the white, ceramide skull-shaped dome with enthusiasm. The company wants to present compelling evidence that the helmet makes a difference during a crash. It implies—without outright stating—that the helmet has yet to actually endure a real tournée crash. You are not eager for Kim to be any kind of test subject, but the helmet also serves as a disguise. The polarized visor covers most of his face, but it does not have space for his glasses behind it. Fairweather hadn’t intended either the advantages or drawbacks. They just wanted to advertise a new product to a wealthy potential market.
When you are alone with the motor carriage, Kim immediately turns to pay attention to it. His eyes sweep over the hunched, low-slung vehicle. The lines are sweeping and rounded in comparison to the coupris models you are used to. The front wheels are set daringly forward of the chassis so that the nose of the carriage looks almost ready to plow into the ground. Inside the steering compartment the seat looks more rigid than the coupris you’re used to at work. There are security straps round the chair, which seems to sit almost under the rear-mounted engine. There is no back seat. This isn’t the sort of MC you use to transport prisoners, or even your friends.
“What do you think?” you ask.
One of Kim’s hands seems to be restraining the other behind his back. He is stopping himself from touching it. He holds a reverence for the vehicle.
“I think it’s smaller than I thought,” Kim walks a full circle around the machine, then reaches out at last to swing open the single door. “But the engine is just as big as they say.”
The interior is lined with a reinforced skeleton—a roll cage made out of some tough, extruded metal to keep the driver’s compartment from crumpling like a beer can in the event of a rollover. Of course, it’s impossible to have a regular crash on a track with nearly a hundred vehicles on it—the danger isn’t from losing control of the ultra lightweight motor carriage—it’s from all the others smashing into it at nearly 300 kph. From what you have been able to tell listening to old races with Kim, the crowd comes as much for the spectacular and frequently deadly crashes as for the skilled racing.
“Well, uh,” You start to say, faced with a reality that is materializing out of the conceptual space in your mind and solidifying. The interior of the motor carriage seems very small—Kim will fit comfortably, but you feel your knees would be rubbing your chin if it was you that had to sit inside. Kim could get hurt in here. “Looks like everything is in reach?”
It is an impressively stupid thing to say. Kim senses that the statement is the result of your thoughts abruptly capsizing. He withdraws his top half from the interior of the carriage and looks you in the eyes. The weight of his gaze is not impatient. “Officer, can you try to remember that you are supposed to be responsible for the repair and maintenance of this finely tuned machine? Try to sound like you’re at least somewhat familiar with it.”
It’s a very polite, if direct, request for you to get your head in the game. Maybe Vicquemare was right—one layer of subterfuge is enough. You discard any thought of being a rockstar. Mechanic—you can handle that. You follow Kim’s lead as he gets to know the carriage interior. The racing gauges and engine warning lights arrayed in clear view of the driver. Reaching out, Kim turns on the fuel pre-heater. The gauge begins to admit a soft glow and the hum of the circulator pump purrs to life, sounding finely tuned and efficient. The indicator lights glow on Kim’s face, revealing his eager smile. Something inside you asserts
this is going to be a romance of man and machine. The Lieutenant is already in love.