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The sun is setting as you leave Martinaise. Beams of light filter through rain-fat clouds, interrupted by the finance buildings and aerostatics-- two heads of the same ugly beast. Judit and Trant cart Dros to the station, leaving Kim to follow Jean's terse directions towards Central Jamrock.
You watch the Kineema get smaller in the distance, speeding Northeast towards whatever sort of place Kim calls home. You try to imagine it, but you're too tired.
Jean watches you for a while, expectantly-- waiting for you to recognize the area, which looks only marginally nicer than Martinaise. After a time, he huffs and starts towards a shabby tenement building looming over the street.
It occurs to you that you don't have keys at the same time that Jean produces one and opens the door. He sees you watching, rolls his eyes, and tosses it to you.
"Don't bother getting a new one cut, I don't want it." He does, you think. In a rare moment of good sense, you keep it to yourself.
There is little to be said about the minuscule apartment that must be yours. It reeks of spilled liquor and stale tobacco. A ratty couch sinks so low it melts into the floor. An embarrassing number of wine-purple stains and round char marks cover its face. You own no dining table. Glancing through the only interior door, you also appear not to own a bed frame, or sheets.
Your eyes are drawn to a bare spot of counter by the stove. It takes a long moment to realize why: circle stains of spilled and sloppily-capped liquor bottles, but no bottles themselves. The trash has been taken out recently, which...seems unlike you.
Jean, watching you take in the meager sum of your life, follows your eye. "I was going to drink them, but you have shit taste, so I flushed them instead."
"Thanks."
That wasn't the reaction he was-- expecting? Hoping for? He rolls his eyes and huffs. "I didn't do it to be helpful, I did it because I'm a spiteful bastard."
There is, tiny and tucked away, stamped on and uncared for, a fraction of him that is secretly pleased to hear you say that.
Once, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare cared very deeply for your acknowledgement. That time was short-lived and lies dead in the long past.
"Take tomorrow off. Or don't. But Pryce wants to see you Wednesday morning." He pauses. "Do you even know how to get to the station?"
You consider this. You saw a Fritte! on the corner. If you turn left past it...the taste of old beer percolates on the back of your tongue. But carry on straight-- the looming hulk of an old silk mill. A burn in your calves, from the long hill. It'll be a long walk with your leg the way it is, but your feet know the way. You nod.
"Sure, fine. But if you don't show up, I'm not coming to get you out of whatever ditch you fell into." Again, he doesn't say. He hasn't decided yet if that's true.
Unsympathetic to your exploration of your own apartment, Jean makes to leave. He stops in the doorway, the halogen rectangle on his back catching the yellow halogen lights.
"So, what, you're just fucking better now?" He doesn't turn around. Years of bitterness layer over his voice.
You glance at the liquor stains on the counter. Your hands have been shaking for days, and you've stopped trying to convince yourself it's from the gunshot wound. It feels like someone's parked a soaking wet motorcarriage on your sternum.
He waits for your answer. His knuckles are white where he grips the door.
"I don't know." It's not a good answer, but at least it's the truth.
The door slams, and you're alone.
You don't know if you could've said anything he'd want to hear.
God damn if you couldn't use a drink.
You find 20 reál in the pocket of a jacket balled up behind the couch. Best get something to eat, at least.