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March ‘46, Precinct 57.
After two months of waiting, Kim Kitsuragi’s transfer to Criminal Investigation is finalized.
“Congratulations, Sergeant Kitsuragi,” Captain Bastien says, bringing a cigar to his lips with a meaty hand. His beady eyes shine with amusement as he looks him up and down. “I hope you make good use of your talents in your new position.”
Kim keeps his face impassive. “Thank you, sir.”
(Today marks the end of fifteen long years shackled to the Juvenile division. Fifteen years of delayed promotion, fifteen years of transfer requests denied or otherwise mysteriously lost. Fifteen years of dealing with Revachol’s wayward children.
The Kim Kitsuragi of five years ago, of ten years ago would have felt a sense of accomplishment. This transfer of his certainly wasn’t because of his own merits—not in this precinct, anyway, and he would be a fool to think it was—but at least it was all over. Now, however, at thirty-eight, with deep lines carved into the corner of his eyes and the plane of his forehead, he feels empty.
Fifteen years of service in the RCM, and this is all he has to show for it. A humiliating nickname, a useless skill, and a transfer more than ten years overdue.)
It takes Kim the better part of the morning to clean out his desk.
Over the last fifteen years, he’d accumulated quite a collection of dusty, long-unopened notebooks and binders, stuffed to the brim with handwritten files and personal notes for cases he’d handled. Two boxes sit by his feet; carefully, he stacks the files into the larger one, making sure they fit snugly with each other.
(These notebooks contain the profiles of all the juvenile delinquents he’d caught and interrogated. Young, unsmiling faces in black and white would stare at him from between the pages, their photos surrounded by dense handwriting. Some of them are now dead. Most of them are repeat offenders, born and raised in a life of crime and unable to see anything beyond it.
He has no desire to open those notebooks ever again. Nor does he want to think of the children, their cruelty, and their inevitable fates any longer.
Five heavy notches in his ledger. He does not want to think about their blood on his hands.)
The other box contains his personal belongings, not that there are much to speak of in the first place. Pens, half-filled notebooks, an assortment of stationery. Just enough to cover the bottom. A smaller box would have sufficed, but nobody had any to spare.
The other officers have already gone out for lunch by the time he finishes cleaning. A bead of sweat trickles from his brow. The desk in front of him bears no trace of its previous owner—it sits there, ready to service the next junior officer who will take his place.
The precinct’s archivist drops by shortly after to take the larger box. She does not linger to chat; they exchange pleasantries, but nothing more. He watches in silence as she leaves, fifteen years’ worth of information cradled in her hands.
Once they disappear, he does not spare another thought towards them. He takes the remaining box into his arms and leaves, never looking back.
“Mind if I give you a hand?”
When Kim turns, he sees another officer walking in time beside him, rain still clinging to his patrol cloak. Droplets roll onto the tiled floor, but he steps over them without a glance, leaving behind thin prints of mud in the shape of his soles.
The officer has warm brown skin and curly hair falling to his shoulders. He looks young—if Kim were to guess, he’d be around thirty or so. A patrol officer, perhaps? He smiles at Kim, head tilted slightly towards him as he walks.
(From looks alone, Kim figures the officer must be Mesque. That's a surprise; there aren’t a lot of officers like him in Precinct 57. The fact most of their colleagues are born-and-raised white Revacholians with a streak of nationalism tend to strongarm most of them away.
For a moment, he wonders what brought him here, to the RCM. He discards the thought as soon as it forms. It’s none of his business.)
He shakes his head. “I’m fine. Thank you for the offer, though.”
“All right, then.”
Still, the officer does not leave his side. Kim suppresses the urge to sigh; he's not in the mood for idle chit-chat today, and the man looks like the type to engage him in just that. “Do you have somewhere else to be, perhaps?”
“Nope. I just got back from patrol, actually.”
Ah. Luck was not on Kim’s side today, then.
“Where are you going, anyway?” he asks as he continues to keep up. He walks faster than Kim does; he purposely slows down to match Kim’s stride when he overtakes him. “Did they offer you a good spot in another wing?”
“I’ve been transferred to Criminal Investigation. I'm moving my things to my new desk.”
“Oh!” His eyes widen. “You're the new transfer from Juvenile!”
“Yes, I am.” A nod. Truth be told, the officer’s enthusiasm baffles him. Officers shuffle between divisions all the time—there is nothing inherently special about his own transfer. He wonders what the officer sees in him.
“Sergeant Kim Kitsuragi, right?” The officer keeps talking, seemingly lost in his own excitement. “I’ve heard about the undercover operation you were in. You did really good there.”
Kim frowns.
Of course, he thinks, suddenly exhausted. It always comes back to pinball. Is there a single soul in this precinct who hasn’t heard any of it?
The officer’s smile dims. “Ah—oh, no. Please don’t get mad,” he says, raising both of his hands into the air. “I’m sorry, it was the only thing I know about you. I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise.”
The beginnings of a headache creep up on Kim’s temples. He keeps walking.
“Fuck,” the officer curses softly. There’s a patter of footsteps; he must have fallen behind. “Sergeant Kitsuragi, I didn’t mean to antagonize you, I swear. I’m from Criminal Investigation, too; I've been there for two years. I’m really, really sorry.”
There’s real remorse in his voice. He must be telling the truth, then—if he had meant anything malicious by it, he would have doubled down or followed up with a mean-spirited joke. Someone’s gruff voice echoes in his ears: “Hey, Pinball, congrats on the promotion! Took you long enough—hell, I thought you’d remain here ‘till you’re fifty. Guess those Seolite skills really paid off, huh?”
They’ve both stopped in their tracks. The officer continues to look at him with sad eyes, and Kim can’t help but sigh. “No need to apologize.”
“No, I shouldn’t have brought it up. God, this is so embarassing.” He pauses, sticks out a hand, then retracts it just as quickly when he remembers both of Kim’s hands are full. “Sergeant Domingo Panganiban. Nice to meet you.”
Panganiban. From Villalobos Mesque, then—not too far off. “Likewise, Sergeant Panganiban,” he replies, nodding towards his direction.
Bit by bit, the sergeant’s smile returns. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time, though; he must still be nervous. “I hope we didn’t get off too much on the wrong foot. I’d like the both of us to work well together when the time comes.”
“Ah. Are you one of Lieutenant Barrière’s?”
“No. I’m under Lieutenant Allard. For the time being, at least.”
For the time being? How odd. Kim raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t push.
At this point, they’ve both reached the Criminal Investigation wing—Sergeant Panganiban has dropped his smile entirely again, eyes darting from left to right. Other officers mill about, carrying stacks of paperwork, but none pay attention to them.
“See,” he says, almost in a whisper. “I’m not really supposed to be joining you. I just… well. I don’t want to be around my partner. We just don’t see eye-to-eye, you know?”
A suspicion forms in Kim’s brain. He sets it aside for later. “Is this something you should be telling me?” he asks mildly, scanning the area for his new desk. He finds it soon after—an empty cubicle just beside one of the windows.
The sergeant knits his eyebrows together. “Not really, but I figure you’d understand.”
Before Kim can ask what he means by that, a sonorous voice calls out, making the sergeant jump in surprise. “Domi! Is the RCM paying you to stand around playing tour guide with every new transfer that comes around? Get over here!”
A tall, imposing officer stands near the doorway with his arms crossed, his jaw set in a scowl. Sergeant Panganiban’s face falls entirely. “Shit,” he whispers, standing up straight and giving Kim a final glance. “He’s here. See you around, Sergeant Kitsuragi.”
And with that, he leaves. The other officers mutter to each other, their eyes following the pair, and Kim catches snippets of conversation.
“Here we go again…”
“You think they’d last two months?”
“Ha, as if! The other guy didn’t even last one!”
“My money’s on two more weeks. Two, and then Domingo goes back to the Captain with his tail between his legs.”
“Antonov’s an asshole, but Panganiban really needs to learn his place. Just because he’s the way he is doesn’t mean he can cry discrimination all he wants…”
"Has he ever wondered if he's the problem here? I mean, it's not every day I've seen someone burn through three partners in two years!"
Loud laughter erupts within the group. A patrol officer in standard uniform catches his eye. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says, shaking his head. “Sergeant Kitsuragi, right? I promise not all of us are like that. Whatever Domingo said to you, just disregard it.”
Ah. So that’s how it is.
He does understand. An abstract sense of anger sits heavy in his chest.
(Who is it directed to? Antonov, who he barely knows? The partners he’d been paired with in Juvenile? The other officers? The captain himself?)
Kim places the box over his desk, his lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze lingers on the doorway, Sergeant Panganiban’s outline still fresh in his mind.