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Perception – You have examined the dusty, gloomy room behind the Whirling's kitchen.
Encyclopedia – You have examined the historically-themed pinball machines.
Rhetoric – And you have made a fool of yourself.
Perception – That leaves the elevator in the far end of the room. The door is open, but the lattice inside is pulled closed.
Physical Instrument – You open it.
Perception – It doesn't glide so much as stutter open. Pieces of it catching on rust in the hinges, no doubt.
Kim Kitsuragi – Kim steps into the elevator after you, filing himself in between you and the wall further from the control panel. He folds his hands behind his back and waits.
You – You drag the lattice door shut.
The Elevator – Now it complains, every moving part of it chittering and squawking in protest.
The Elevator – If your stepping into the elevator didn't do it, the lattice door closing made the elevator move. It would barely be noticeable if it wasn't for the small, circular motion of the lightbulb in its ceiling. Now, the cramped space is full of swaying shadows.
You – You turn to the control panel. The edges of your shadow play along the wall as you push the button labeled 'Monter'.
Perception – There is a near startled hum of electricity, of power stirred in lines that likely haven't been active in years. The elevator shudders.
Inland Empire – The shiver of an animal woken from a too long sleep. Of muscles, grown weak and unrealiable with disuse.
Logic – Or it is just the sounds that an old, untended mechanism tends to make. Every little shudder, every little creak could be the sign of rapidly incoming disaster.
Pain Threshold – Kim is probably right. Three to four months in hospital, if it fails. Five, at most.
The Elevator – It hiccups as it begins its ascent. The sudden, jerky motion sends a jolt through you.
Perception – You can hear the mechanisms tugging and rolling and pulling somewhere, both above and deeper below you. It clicks and creaks and clangs.
Encyclopedia – Might be normal for an elevator.
Kim Kitsuragi – Kim doesn't seem worried. He just looks as the lattice door, face neutral as he waits.
Visual Calculus – It's a journey of a few seconds. Not even a minute.
You – You follow Kim's example. You look at the lattice door. Your eyes follow the varicose cracks in the paint and plaster of the wall you're passing. You can see the next floor coming down as a gift from above.
Drama – Curtains rising on a new scene.
The Elevator – With a sigh of silence, the elevator slows. The clacks and clangs come to a stop, the hum of electricity in the broken walls cease. Your ascent to the next floors comes to a decisive stop.
The Elevator – The light in the ceiling sways excitedly, the shadows rising and falling away like waves lapping at the sides of a ship.
Endurance – It's enough to make your stomach churn.
Kim Kitsuragi – Beside you, Kim looks up towards the ceiling. His eyebrows knot.
Empathy – There's no worry there. It's annoyance. This is just an inconvenience.
Pain Threshold – From this height? You could probably walk any injuries off.
Visual Calculus – Unless the Whirling has a basement.
Pain Threshold – Did Kim include that in his assessment? Maybe six to seven months and permanent damage would be more realistic, in case the elevator car drops.
Perception – You can see the floor below through a hand-wide gap. You can see the floor above.
Visual Calculus – There is enough space to climb up and through, should you need to.
You – If the elevator starts working again, it would just push me up.
Logic – If it drops, it would cut you in half.
Pain Threshold – It might not do it quickly.
The Elevator – The machinery of the elevator is silent. There's no telling, based on that alone, whether it will climb or fall.
The Elevator – The excited bounding of the naked lightbulb has slowed slightly. If flickers.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Hm.”
Empathy – His annoyance is beginning to give way to worry. Not fear, not at all. Just a concern that this might be an actual problem that neither of you are able to fix.
Suggestion – Clearly this isn't going to resolve itself. You need to do something about it.
You – You turn to give Kim a reassuring smile. You can feel yourself doing it. The skin tightens on your dry lips.
Inland Empire – The shadows shift and slide over your face. The impression of you becomes a liquid thing, shifting and morphing before his eyes like an extraworldly apparition.
Kim Kitsuragi – He does not look reassured.
You – You turn away, hands flying to the small panel with the three buttons.
Interfacing – You do not fumble for them.
You – You press the 'Monter' button. When nothing happens, you press it again. And again. And again.
You – ”Oh, you fucker,” you breathe, shirt collar tightening as you try the 'Descendre' button.
The Elevator – The elevator remains as silent and docile as before.
Inland Empire – It is a stoic animal, unbothered by your demands. If it had a mouth, it would curl in a serene smile.
You – You pause for a second before you push the last, obviously broken button. Call For Emergency Assistance. It just makes a dry, grinding sound, as if your touching it crumbled the already broken mechanism further.
Inland Empire – If it had eyes, it would glare at you.
Empathy – Someone will have to come looking for you, sooner or later. Someone will have to help.
Logic – Who knows you're in here? The cook? He might have already forgot you were even there.
Inland Empire – You were a passing apparition. You were a shape in the steam.
You – Garte must realize we're gone. Sooner or later.
Logic – Garte might miss Kim's 20 réal for the room and find it strange that he doesn't show up for the night, but hardly enough to come looking for him. No doubt he'd write it off as your bad influence on him and just leave Kim's room empty.
Logic – Someone might start looking tomorrow. If we're lucky.
You – Who would look for me?
Empathy – The only one who would look for you is in here with you.
Esprit de Corps – Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi from Precinct 57 keeps immaculate notes. He is punctual, precise, and very private. He does not contact his colleagues without a pressing, immediate reason to do so.
Esprit de Corps – His lack of communication will not be considered out of the ordinary until tomorrow evening, at least.
Endurance – It's getting harder to breathe. The air must be running out.
You – You slip your fingers into your shirt collar in an attempt to loosen it.
Perception – You hear the button bounce against the elevator floor with a light plastic click.
Savoir Faire – It's gone forever.
Kim Kitsuragi – Next to you, Kim draws a breath through his nose, holds it for a short moment and lets it out in a sigh. His shoulders slump slightly.
Half Light – You have to get out.
You – Wait, what about the elevator dropping and cutting me in half?
Half Light – You *have* to get out.
You – You grab the lattice door and begin pulling. Your hands shake. Your collar still feels tight.
Physical Instrument – The door doesn't budge. Despite how flimsy it looks, something seems to hold it in place with an iron grip.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Detective,” Kim says, his voice firm and calm. ”It's likely an electronic lock holding it in place until it reaches its destination. We're better off waiting for a while.”
You – ”But I need to get out.”
Kim Kitsuragi – He raises an eyebrow at you.
Empathy – It's surprise. Mixed with a litte bit of that annoyance.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Do small spaces bother you?”
Endurance – Your palms sweat. Your lungs ache as if they're swelling out between your ribs.Your mouth is dry and your tongue flaking like a dead fish in the sun.
Half Light – You need to get out.
Esprit de Corps – The lower half of the pipe is invisible under the murky-brown water. The entrance in barely a meter in diameter, and it's not likely to get wider inside. Somewhere in there is a hand with only three fingers left, if what you found in the dog's mouth is connected to this case. With some luck, the rest of the body is there, too. You have to exhale and stretch out to give your shoulders space to get in.
Half Light – It isn't the space.
Endurance – Your heart is a painful twinge in your chest.
Kim Kitsuragi – His lips tighten.
Empathy – This, if anything, worries him. *You're* worrying him.
Suggestion – You just need to take control of the situation.
You – ”No,” you say, and you know the smile on your face doesn't convince him. You do give up on the door, but you turn back to continue hammering on the buttons.
Empathy – No one else will come looking for him.
You – Monter. Monter, monter, fucking mon-ter!
Empathy – Not for a long time, anyway.
Physical Instrument – Try the door again.
You – But he said …
Authority – *You* could get it open. Eventually. He chooses not to attempt it.
Empathy – He chooses to concern himself with you again.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Detective,” he says, his voice bordering on chastising. And then he waits until you stop pushing buttons.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”It isn't going anywhere. Let's just give it some time. It's probably just a fuse someone needs to fix.”
You – ”No one's going to look for me.”
Rhetoric – Those words, half-slurred and low, sound pathetic.
Kim Kitsuragi – He pauses.
Empathy – Hesitates?
Kim Kitsuragi – ”We left the door to the kitchen open. If we really need to, we could just shout.”
Volition – He doesn't want it to come to that.
Authority – Who would respect you if you had to scream and whine for someone to come get you? Like a pair of disobedient boys getting stuck where they shouldn't be?
Empathy – He doesn't need more disrespect today.
Logic – Disrespect? It was just a matter of connecting the dots.
Authority – You remembered his nickname. That's all.
Suggestion – Maybe saying it wasn't the best choice.
Rhetoric – Considering the tone of the thing.
Endurance – Your lungs still ache, even if your hands have stopped shaking. The ache climbs into your throat.
Composure – You are about to start crying.
Composure – Maybe going back to beating the door would be less pitiful.
You – ”I'm sorry I called you Kimball.”
Kim Kitsuragi – He looks away from the space to the lower floor to you. A slight twitch in his eyebrows reveal a moment's confusion.
You – ”I shouldn't have done that.”
Kim Kitsuragi – His eyes go from your face to the hand on the panel. And back. He shakes his head.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”You didn't know the story of it. You just remembered the name. It's fine.”
You – ”It's Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”
Kim Kitsuragi – The corner of his mouth twitches. He pulls his shoulders back, as if reminding himself to mind his posture.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Yes.”
You – ”To everyone.”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Yes. Thank you.”
Rhetoric – There's a touch of amusement to his words.
You – ”I'm sorry I locked you into a broken elevator.”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”It's not your fault, it's probably just an electrical error. Someone will fix it soon, and we'll be out. It's fine, detective, we'll just have to wait.”
Composure – He'd wait to the point of torture before he tried calling for help.
You – ”Okay. Okay. We'll wait. I can do that.”
Kim Kitsuragi – He nods. Once he seems to trust that you are calm, he looks around the elevator again, as if to try and spot some detail he missed before.
You – ”What do we do?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Nothing. We just wait.”
Volition – Kim knows how to wait. Kim is *good* at waiting.
Empathy – In fact, he has made it part of him.
You – ”I don't want to just wait.”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Well, there's not much else we can do. Unless you want to discuss the case?”
Rhetoric – You could always ask him about himself instead.
Rhetoric – Not that it has ever gone over well.
Savour Faire – Challenge him to something else!
You – You raise your hands, one fist resting in the palm of the other. ”Rock, paper, scissors.”
Kim Kitsuragi – Kim looks down at your hands and gives a slight chuckle.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Alright.” He raises his own to mirror your pose.
You – Your eyes meet. There is no signal. Kim just starts to move and you follow.
Savoir Faire – Two taps of the fist to the palm, then the reveal. This feels as familiar as walking.
Reaction Speed – Pick scissors.
Encyclopedia – Statistically, rock is the most common opening move. Therefore, paper is a better choice.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Tie,” Kim decides, looking down at the two pair of scissors. ”Go again.”
Reaction Speed – Go with scissors again!
You – ”I win the first round.”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Best of three?” Kim asks with a slight smile on his lips.
Rhetoric – He probably didn't really want to discuss the case, either.
You – You keep playing in silence for a while, aside from keeping score.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Best of seven?”
Authority – He's winning. For now.
Empathy – The distraction is good for both of you.
You – ”I hope Garte holds your room.”
Kim Kitsuragi – There is a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. The game still holds his attention. ”It's not even noon yet.”
You – ”What do you do at night? When I leave?”
Kim Kitsuragi – This question draws a quick look from him, but not enough to stop playing.
Perception – He plays a lot of scissors.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Sleep. What else?”
You – ”*Before* you sleep?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Nothing,” he says with a slight shrug. ”Look over my notes. Set everything in order. Read.”
You – ”What do you read?”
Kim Kitsuragi – There's a slight pause.
Perception – Scissors. Then paper.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Right now I don't really have the time for more than the notes.”
Drama – This may verily be truth, though I sniff avoidance.
Logic – Well, you *do* work long days.
Rhetoric – This is skirting so close to revealing personal information.
Empathy – He is very aware of that.
Rhetoric – Alright. Alright, alright. Don't prod too hard, now. Be very, *very* gentle.
You – ”What do you read at home?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”It varies. I just read a piece about the Therriers.”
Encyclopedia – The secret servicement of the Innocence Dolores Dei.
Encyclopedia – That's all I've got. Sorry.
Perception – He hasn't looked up from the game in quite a while.
You – ”What else?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”I enjoy biographies.”
Rhetoric – That was short. Maybe pull back.
You – ”No, what else do you do? At home, when there are no notes?”
Inland Empire – Immaculately pruned house plants. Sturdy. They can live for a long time without water, and often need to.
Kim Kitsuragi – A displeased crease settles between his eyebrows.
Rhetoric – Okay, you ruined it.
Empathy – No, wait.
Empathy – Is it aimed at you?
Perception – His eyes are still fixed on the game. He's still keeping rhythm with you.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”What everyone does. It isn't relevant.”
You – ”I don't know what everyone does.”
Encyclopedia – Well, you can guess. Normal things. Make dinner. Spend time with friends and loved ones. Play with the kids. Enjoy life or settle into the monotony of it, I suppose.
Empathy – Kim mostly waits.
You – For what?
Empathy – Something. Everything.
Empathy – No one will think to look for him in here for a long, long time.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”You've played rock ten times in a row.”
Savoir Faire – What? Did you?
Rhetoric – It's a blatant attempt to change the subject. Even if it's true.
Visualization – The time and place for this conversation. Trapped behind thin bars that have been shut for so long that even attempting to open them alerts everyone to their disuse. Surely it affects him.
You – Oh.
You – Should I stop?
Half Light – This is dangerous.
Pain Threshold – This is *cruel*.
Volition – No. Steady course.
Volition – He is, after all, still playing.
Perception – Paper after paper after paper. Eyes on your hands.
You – ”Do you miss it?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Miss what? My apartment?”
You – ”Yeah. What you do there.”
The Elevator – The light flickers. It sounds like a dying insect, ruining itself against a glass pane in an empty room.
Perception – The light coming from the kitchen doesn't actually illuminate much. Barely enough to cast any shadows.
Visualization – Barely there, but there they are.
Perception – Paper. Paper. Paper again.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”There's not really that much difference,” Kim finally says with an air of indifference. ”I do the same things here as there.”
Logic – And whoever owns that place wouldn't miss sleep over turning him away if the didn't have the money for it, either.
Logic – That's just how it is.
You – ”Don't you wish things were better?”
Kim Kitsuragi – ”Most people do.”
Perception – Paper.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”But I am fine where I am. With what I do. 'Fine' can be enough.”
You – ”I'm not.”
Kim Kitsuragi – He nods once, in sober agreement. ”You've had a challenging time.”
Rhetoric – He's trying to turn the conversation to you.
Pain Threshold – You could let him.
You – ”I wish things were better for you, Kim.”
Kim Kitsuragi – He stiffens, eyes still trained on your hands. He doesn't play during your next move.
You – ”I mean, you deserve more than fine. And not being stuck.”
You – You play again.
Kim Kitsuragi – He pulls his shoulders back again, muscles in his jaw shifting.
Kim Kitsuragi – Then he plays paper.
Kim Kitsuragi – ”I would also like to not be stuck in an elevator. Sure.”
Visual Calculus – It hasn't even been an hour.
You – ”I wish I could do more.” You play rock.
Kim Kitsuragi – He plays paper.
You – ”You deserve more.” Another rock.
Kim Kitsuragi – This time, Kim catches it. His palm covers your index finger and thumb. ”Harry, that's enough.”
Perception – His voice is lower. Quieter.
Perception – Only now does he look up from your hands to you.
You – ”Did you win?”
Perception – There's a shiver. A ripple. Something running across the surface of his face.
Kim Kitsuragi – His eyes dart towards the small space between the elevator and the wall, where your feet would be visible to anyone.
You – ”Kim?”
Volition – Something in him does not break, but it bends.
Composure – You can practically hear it. 'Fuck it'.
Kim Kitsuragi – The hand not covering your fist moves up. Pauses. He takes a step towards you.
Visual Calculus – A small step. You could even say discretely small.
Perception – The gloved finger brushes against your jaw and pauses there. If he moved it up, it would cup your cheek.
Kim Kitsuragi – He pauses for a moment, eyes resting on his hand close to your face with what looks like an appraising, almost critical look.
Empathy – Does he reconsider?
Visualization – Does he like the sight?
Kim Kitsuragi – He inches closer to put his other hand on the other side of your face. His palms are warm against your jaw, his fingertips warm against your cheeks.
Kim Kitsuragi – The odd, evaluating look on his face is still there.
Physical Instrument – As if he's about to turn your head to evaluate you and force your mouth open to inspect your teeth.
Kim Kitsuragi – His eyes drop to your lips.
Perception – You feel a tender pressure from his hands, a light squeeze, as if he's made up his mind.
Kim Kitsuragi – He moves closer, closes his eyes.
Perception – His lips part. Slightly. Barely.
Kim Kitsuragi – He stops. Freezes. His lips barely a hand's width from yours.
You – His hands are shaking.
Electro-Chemistry – Close the distance!
Volition – Do. Not.
Composure – This is a balance he never thought he'd upset.
Composure – No doubt it scares him, how easy it is.
Kim Kitsuragi – He gives a short exhale.
The Elevator – The light goes out without a sound. You are not exactly plunged into darkness – it's still just the gloom of a barely-lit room.
Inland Empire – Your world tilting on itself.
Reaction Speed – You don't take your eyes off Kim, but you can't keep from startling.
Kim Kitsuragi – He opens his eyes in response.
Kim Kitsuragi – For a second, he looks terrified.
The Elevator – The light turns on again with the gentle, metallic ting of something inside the bulb sparking back to life.
Kim Kitsuragi – Just as quickly as they landed on you, his hands are gone. He has returned to some form of status quo, tugging at his gloves to righten them with a neutral, perfectly calm look on his face.
Composure – How quickly he settled back into it. The *ease* of going back to the familiar!
The Elevator – And somewhere far above, a mechanism sputters back to life. Hacking and coughing as it continues on where it was interrupted.
Endurance – Your stomach drops as if you've been pushed off the side of a building.
The Elevator – The elevator smoothly rises the last, infuriatingly tiny distance you needed to reach the next floor, and stops with barely a hiccup. The electric lock on the lattice door releases with a clear, definitive metal clang.
You – What – what do I –
Kim Kitsuragi – He looks up at you. His hands are clasped behind his back again, his face looks perfectly calm and neutral. Unbothered. ”Detective, shall we?”
Composure – It's as if nothing happened. Nothing at all. Almost enough to make you think you just dreamed it.
Electro-Chemistry – You didn't.
Suggestion – Still, you must act as if you did. Trying to do anything else – at least for now – will likely end worse than you can imagine.
You – But … I don't want to pretend it didn't happen.
Kim Kitsuragi – He raises an eyebrow at you. Then sends a meaningful look towards the door.
Volition – Well. You're going to have to.
Pain Threshold – No, you're not going to feel good about it. But you're going to bite your tongue and take it.
You – You turn away, take a breath, and open the lattice door.
The Elevator – It stutters and hitches, but doesn't complain.