what_we_dream | Magic Kaitou: Shades of Grey (2/4) (Reply)

Title: Shades of Grey (2/4)
Series: Magic Kaitou
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Sequel to Heavy Silences. Pretty Squad-centric.

Summary: Things are seriously amiss in the Tokyo Metro. For the first time in his life, Nakamori dreads Kid's next notice.

Back to Introduction

The note comes one afternoon at the tail of the rainy season, along with the real smothering summer heat. The office is on edge, and in the oppressive humidity tempers are running high. Iwada's raising backs left and right with his procedural changes, breaking up old teammates and changing shifts and report formats with what looks on the surface simply like extreme zeal. No one believes it. Nakamori, who has 20 years' experience studying misdirection, can recognize an attempt at keeping the right hand from knowing what the left is doing when he sees it.

It's while they are trying to adjust to this change in direction, like men trying to keep their balance on a tilting surface, that the notice arrives.

I will recover what General Varus lost when the cow bellows.

Kaitou Kid

Nakamori doesn't have to say anything; the men file into his office from force of habit and routine, each with paper and a pen. Iwada arrives last, shoulders sharp, eyes watchful, and hands empty.

"As you know," Nakamori begins from behind his desk, Kid's note sitting on top of a pile of paperwork and fluttering in the breeze of the fan – so far still no AC authorized until July, "Kid's sent out his notice. We have time and target in the notice. Whatever this Varus lost – Oogawa, take who you need and figure that out – when the cow bellows – Sawara, that's you. He doesn't specify date, so we'll assume it's in the next 24 hours. Yamamoto, you're interdepartmental liaison, notify them we have a heist and tell them we may need back-up depending on target and location. Get going." Nakamori waves a dismissive hand.

"And me, Inspector?" asks Iwada curtly, before anyone has the chance to leave the room, thick jaw set in stony defiance. Nakamori's irritation flashes, quick and strong as a summer rain, before he quashes it. Apparently the man's not above trying to score off his boss in front of his subordinates.

"You can coordinate the reports, Lieutenant. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, sir."

Nakamori glares at the rest of the men, gathered awkwardly around Iwada and the door. "What are you waiting for? Move!"

They scatter, Iwada more slowly than the rest. Nakamori sits heavily, sighs.

After a moment, he picks up the note. Sitting in his baking office with the fan's warm breeze in his hair, Nakamori reads the paper again and hopes it's not the thief's death warrant he's holding in his hands.

Compared to some of Kid's notes, it's not difficult to decipher. Nakamori knows the time without having to send Sawara to look into it, although checking does no harm. Oogawa comes in with the target not long after. Just him and Sawara. Iwada's on the phone in the outer office; Nakamori is sure no one wanted to disturb him to point out the impromptu meeting.

"Varus was a Roman general about 2000 years ago. He was famous for his disastrous loss of three army regiments in a battle in what's now Germany."

"We're looking for an Italian piece?"

Oogawa shakes his head. "Varus was also famous for the loss of the symbols of the regiments, three eagles – not actual eagles; they were made of metal and carried as standards."

"We're looking for an eagle?"

"Possibly, sir," says Oogawa, grinning slightly. "But more likely, something like this." He pulls a photograph out of a manila folder and pushes it across Nakamori's desk. A photo of a yellow stone on a piece of dark velvet. "This is the Eagle's Eye, part of a temporary exhibit at the National Museum in Ueno Park. It's a yellow diamond, very rare. Worth billions of yen, of course."

Nakamori nods grimly. "That'll be it, alright. Sawara, the time?"

"Most likely hour of the cow, sir. The old hours added up to two modern ones, so any time between one and three am. He doesn't give a date, so it will be tonight." That's one fact they know for certain from experience.

"Great. We'll assume he means one, but don't relax if he doesn't show up right away. Sawara, tell Yamamoto to warn the museum's guards – we'll be taking over security as of midnight. Tell him we'll need enough men to set up a perimeter around the building, plus …" He considers the layout of the museum, and the surrounding area, "ten extra. We'll need them by eleven." He looks at Sawara, dismissing the man with his eyes. Sawara nods and hurries out.

Oogawa, left behind, raises an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"You are aware of our new orders, Lieutenant?"

Oogawa's face hardens almost imperceptibly. "Yes, sir."

"You are also aware that Lieutenant Iwada would see no reason not to carry them out." A nice way of saying, He's a bloodthirsty lap dog.

"I'm aware, sir." Oogawa's expression doesn't change.

"With his inexperience in Squad matters, you'll understand why I don't want the lieutenant giving orders to the auxiliary men quite yet."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of it. Don't worry, sir, he won't beat us."

"Kid, you mean," says Nakamori, eyes sharp.

"That's exactly who I meant," replies Oogawa, voice and eyes steady.

Nakamori nods, lets a hint of approbation into his glance. "Very well. See that he doesn't."

They surround the museum, of course. Mostly they use the borrowed perimeter guards, with Squad members scattered here and there at critical locations. Inside the museum itself it's mostly the Squad who stand guard around the room holding the Eagle's Eye. For tonight's heist, they've taken away the glass display case and put a metal box in its place, weighing about a hundred kilos. No way Kid can lift it, much less take it with him.

Nakamori's worried. Not about the jewel. The police security's at least as good as usual, and the museum's got a damn good system. Everyone's briefed and knows their orders and responsibilities. It's not that aspect of his work that he's worried about. He frowns, moustache bristling. The police barricade around the building means Kid will have no choice but to come in by glider. And that will make a perfect target.

And that is the crux of it all. He's not even sure these days whether he really wants to catch the thief. Whether rather than the capture, it's the challenge of the hunt that he craves. But whether or not he wants to trap Kid, he knows for damn sure that he doesn't want the boy harmed. Doesn't want him shot down at his feet like a game bird.

Does not, of all things, want him killed.

He stands in the front lobby at midnight, his men gathered around him in a semi-circle. Lieutenant Iwada is conspicuously absent, probably off cleaning his gun. In the hush the huge dark space feels like a tomb. But despite the quiet it's not empty. Oogawa is watching him now, the tall lieutenant staring him straight in the eye. Behind him, the rest of the Squad are unusually quiet, and he can feel the weight of their stares on his shoulders.

"Alright," he says at last. "We've set up a perimeter. It's our job to see that Kid is taken into custody. Alive." Even with them, it's the closest he can come to directly countermanding his orders. Fortunately, with them, it's the closest he needs to come.

His lieutenant nods crisply. "Understood, sir."

Nakamori raises his head to scan the rest of the men. They straighten under his eyes, and he can see their agreement written plainly across their faces. The faces of men who have followed him for months, and years. The faces of men who have, in some cases, had their lives saved by the thief. The faces of men who owe the lives of their children to the Kid.

"Leave it to us, sir," growls Sawara, who until two months ago had never shown an expression other than a smile. Who still has a wife, and now a son, thanks to the thief.

"Then get moving. And, if you somehow forget to keep our new colleague in the loop… well, no one can be blamed for a moment of carelessness." Nakamori smiles, but it's all teeth and sharpness. A predator's grin, flashing in the dark night.

The men chorus agreement, and move to take their places.

Nakamori, as always, is stationed beside the jewel. His first instinct was to move it – to the cellar vault, or some secret location – but that's never been successful in the past and this room has prime security: motion-trigged grilles over the doorways and a laser-triggered cage over the tall pedestal beneath the jewel. Nakamori stands beside the metal-covered case with Iwada on the other side, the two of them like a pair of ornamental lions.

He strongly considered assigning Iwada an outdoors position where there would be more space for Kid to out-manoeuvre him, but he'd rather have the glowering man where he can keep an eye on him than outside taking pot shots at the thief.

Nakamori can hardly believe he's planning his distribution patterns to facilitate sabotage. But then, before this month he would never have believed the Tokyo Metro would give approval to shoot on sight a man who is famous for having never in twenty years seriously harmed anyone. He closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose. He's had a nearly perpetual headache since this whole mess started.

The museum is at least gratefully cool, the whole building well air-conditioned to preserve the more delicate pieces of art. Nakamori drops his hand to raise the collar of his jacket, allowing the cool air closer to his skin. After ten hours in his sweltering office it's the next-best thing to the ice-bath he can't have. Iwada has his own jacket open – to grant access not to the cool air but to something else entirely.

Nakamori's just glancing at his watch – 12:59 – when the radio at his waist crackles to life.

"Sir, we've spotted what looks like Kid's glider coming in low from the north." It's Sawara, and he sounds puzzled. Nakamori knows immediately why – there are no tall buildings for several kilometres to the north, and tonight the wind's not high enough for the glider to drift that far. It occurs to Nakamori that somewhere along the line he's become a specialist in the aerodynamic properties of gliders. Just another of the skills a career in the Tokyo Metro will teach you.

"Copy that," replies Nakamori. "Move in and prepare –"

"You will open fire as soon as the glider is in range –" cuts in Iwada, snapping harshly into his own radio, thick neck straining against his collar. "You have shoot-on-sight authorization, sergeant. You will bring down that glider."

There's a pause, and then a prolonged crackle of static from the other end through which Sawara's garbled voice emerges every few seconds. "Sorry, sir – may be – outside interference – heavy – can't…" The transmission cuts out. Nakamori tries to restrain himself from rolling his eyes sky-ward.

"Kid has used transmission jammers in the past to confuse large operations," he says instead, covering for Sawara, who clearly needs to cut back on the old war films. It's technically true that Kid's used jammers, but it was only once and that was in the old era – the old Kid.

Iwada's expression says very plainly that he doesn't believe the excuse any more than Nakamori.

There aren't any windows in this room, but Nakamori still thinks he can faintly hear whistles blowing and men shouting – in other words, the typical sounds of a Kid heist. He's just about to radio Oogawa, standing guard on the roof, when a siren rips through the air like a chopper blade, so loud that Nakamori claps his hands to his ears. The heavy metal grills slam down over both entrances into the room, floor trembling at the impact, and then a split second later the siren dies. So do the lights.

"What the hell," growls Nakamori, reaching with one hand for his flashlight and with the other for the heavy box beside him, feels a surge of thankfulness as his fingers brush against its cold side. For Kid to have snuck in and lifted it in his second of distraction would have been impossible, but around Kid the impossible seems to happen like clockwork.

He finds his flashlight and clicks it on at almost the same instant as Iwada, and they find themselves staring at each other over the cast-iron box. In the harsh light the usual shadows are washed away while others replace them, giving extra prominence to the ridge of the eyebrows and cheekbones. Although Iwada has a square bulldog face, Nakamori can see him now as he would be if he dropped two dozen kilos – weedy and glaring. Then he notices the metallic gleam in Iwada's hand and such light-hearted thoughts are crushed by the weight of his sudden anger. He grinds his teeth together and forces his thoughts back to the job.

Nakamori turns, shining the light as he goes, and the dark corners reveal themselves to be empty. Iwada steps over to the hallways, gun in hand, and checks the long black corridors. "They're empty. Sir." Without the Squad to prompt his behaviour with their mere presence, he adds the honorific belatedly. Nakamori ignores the slight.

"Why haven't the lights come back on? This place has its own power supply."

"Maybe Kid cut that, too."

The radio beeps, and he picks it up without looking, now scanning the ceiling for fissures. "Nakamori."

"Sir, what's happening?" It's Yamamoto, liaising with the borrowed officers outside in the gravel courtyard.

"The grilles're down and the power's out – what the hell's going on?"

"We got the glider, sir. It was empty, just a prop with a low-powered fan. That's how it got this far coming from the north. Kid must've gotten in on the ground somehow. The external power was cut by a timed device. We've sent someone to check on the museum's generator."

"Have them report the findings to me. And get some men with lights in here."

"Yes, sir."

Iwada, still at the grille, wraps strong fingers around a metal crossbar and pulls upwards. The grille shifts, but doesn't lift away from the ground; Nakamori knows from the security briefing that they lock into place electronically once dropped. Kid won't be getting his jewel if the power doesn't come back on, but they won't be getting out, either.

From the corridor comes the sound of jogging footsteps, and the beam of a flashlight appears around a corner. Nakamori steps over to stand beside the new lieutenant, and they stand ready – Iwada with a gun in his hand, Nakamori with a radio.

The man approaching turns out to be Oogawa, sweating lightly from his jog across the hot roof and through the museum. "Sparrow, sir," he says, giving the recognition code with his eyes on Iwada's gun. And then, as the lieutenant lowers it with a flat expression, "Division two's on its way, sir, and Yamamoto's got someone checking the back-up generator. Is everything alright here?"

Nakamori nods. "Fine; no activity. We'll have to wait for the power to come back on to get the grilles back up. Has anyone spotted anything suspicious?"

"No, sir. The patrols haven't found anything. Everyone's been keeping in contact with their assigned partners. Whatever he's up to, it's none of the usual routines."

"Right, well –"

The radio beeps again. Nakamori answers it, glancing at Oogawa. "Nakamori."

"Yamamoto, sir. They've found the problem with the generator – someone switched the automatic activation off. They're turning it back on now, should be back on –"

There's an echoing click, the sound of dozens of lights turning on all at once, and the room and hallway light up again.

" – any time," finishes Yamamoto, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"Good. You have the building maintenance staff there with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send 'em up; the grilles're locked down. Don't let anyone split off or join the group."

"Right – I'll send them up now, sir." The radio cuts off again with a beep.

"I'll go back to the roof then, sir," says Oogawa, with a last glance around. Nakamori nods, and the lanky lieutenant turns to jog back down the hall. Iwada begins to pace, his large feet falling heavily on the stone floor. Nakamori sighs and crosses his arms, tapping his finger on his elbow. The two minutes that have passed are nowhere near enough time for the room to have begun to heat up, but nevertheless it feels warmer. Probably his frustration on low boil, he thinks.

The maintenance crew arrives with a police escort led by Takarai, the escort giving the password and the maintenance crew undergoing a quick round of face-pulling for extra security. The grilles are raised after several minutes of re-booting the security system, and the men step in to test the rest of the system. The troop of officers, mostly unfamiliar faces drawn from Section Two, spread out in the area. Nakamori steps aside to let the maintenance crew lower and raise the cage, catching Takarai's eye. The younger officer follows him to a corner.

"What was the situation with the back-up generator?" he asks, eyes on Iwada as the man walks out to check the walls outside the room.

"Someone had turned off the automatic activation system."

"By remote?"

"No, by hand. Could have been just now, or earlier in the day. If the system's deactivated for more than twenty-four hours it sends a signal to the maintenance company, and none had been sent. There weren't any signs of a break-in either inside or on the locks."

"Kid doesn't leave traces," says Nakamori grimly.

"No, sir," agrees his subordinate. Across the room one of the uniforms hails him. "Sir, should we check to see the jewel is still intact, just in case?"

"Fine; raise the box." He's known crazier things to happen. The man, with the help of the crew and a couple of others, raises the heavy metal box and sets it carefully on the ground. The jewel, about the size of a small apricot, sits on a black velvet cushion. With no glass in the way, it sparkles magnificently in the bright lights. Nakamori's wonder for great jewels was dulled long ago by his line of work, but it hasn't dried up entirely yet and he can appreciate that it's certainly impressive.

Unfortunately that's all he has time to appreciate. There's a quiet puff and the room fills with smoke. Nakamori doesn't bother to go for the pedestal, instead spreads himself as wide as he can in the doorway with the quicker roof-access. He just barely feels someone brush past his fingertips, and turns to chase.

Kid emerges from the far end of the smoke cloud sprinting at full-pace. He's dressed as a cop, and Nakamori can't wait to find out where their set-up went wrong so he'll know who to shout at. For now he concentrates on running. Kid's outpacing him already, and he's only just to the first turn on the way to the roof. From behind him comes a fury of pounding footsteps.

Nakamori pulls his radio as he runs, slamming around a corner and skidding on the well-waxed floor. "Attention all officers: this is Inspector Nakamori. Kid's got the jewel and is heading through the Sword Gallery on the second floor heading north. Block all exits. Oogawa, secure the roof access."

He drops the radio into his pocket and concentrates on following the sprinting uniform ahead of him. And nearly runs right past when the thief makes the wrong turn for the roof, turning left rather than keeping on straight ahead to the staircase. He's chosen a dead end.

Behind him, Nakamori can hear the men catching up. Ahead, Kid heads down the corridor which ends in a gallery window to provide light for two well-padded benches sitting back-to-back in the middle of the hallway. Kid, running straight down the centre, vaults over the pair of them as if they were gymnastic horses, and lands gracefully on the other side with his feet together. He's now standing straight up against the wall with his back to the hurriedly assembling policemen.

Kid turns, and there's a brief flash of colour as the dark uniform is torn off to reveal the usual white suit and mantle below. And then, as the thief's about to say something, his eyes widen and he throws himself sideways at nearly the same instant as a gun somewhere to Nakamori's left fires.

Nakamori's seen Kid move fast, but he's never seen him move with the amazing speed he does now. Like a cat on hot coals, he shoots across the narrow space, rebounds off the wall and rolls across the floor in a swirl of white. It's an amazing display of acrobatics even for the thief, but there's no time to appreciate that now. By the time he springs to his feet, Nakamori's stepped over to slam Iwada's wrist into the wall without looking. He draws his own gun with his free hand, and aims it at Kid.

Kid stands stalk-still, frozen in the position in which he regained his feet, his hands out on either side and his body half-turned to the wall. His expression is easy and confident as always, but Nakamori thinks his eyes are a hair too wide.

"We have been given authorisation to shoot on sight. This is your one and only warning. Give yourself up." Nakamori makes himself speak in a perfectly flat voice, doesn't let any hint of emotion creep in. Doesn't allow his revolver to so much as waver in his grip. Beside him, Iwada twists under his hand.

"Let me go," the lieutenant hisses, unable to strike his superior regardless of his higher loyalties.

Nakamori cocks his revolver with a slow thumb. "Give yourself up," he repeats, staring straight into Kid's eyes. It's by no means the first time he's taken aim at Kid. But it's the first time he's done so in earnest, knowing that he should shoot, even if he has no intention to. The acidic burning in his heart feels painfully, disturbingly like betrayal.

"Shoot him," snarls Iwada.

Kid doesn't move. Doesn't bow, doesn't grin, doesn't say anything. He just stares straight at Nakamori, and all the inspector can hope is that he recognises this as what it is: the only way he can pass a message to the thief. We're gunning for you. In earnest.

And then the thief closes his eyes and sighs, as if in surrender. Nakamori's heart jolts, and Iwada stiffens under his arm. Kid's shoulders lower as he drops his hands in apparent acceptance of his fate, and then disappears almost instantly as twin jets of smoke surround him.

Several things happen at once. The men gathered behind Nakamori shout and rush forward. The window at the end of the corridor before them breaks loudly, glass falling outwards and letting in a warm breeze. Iwada, protected by the smoke, twists free of Nakamori's arm and charges on with the rest of them. And as they go, someone knocks against the inspector, running in the wrong direction.

"Watch yourself, Inspector," says Kaitou Kid's voice in his ear.

Nakamori pauses for a moment, while all around him men run about like headless chickens in the fading mist and try to fit themselves out the window in pursuit of their quarry. No one notices a sole echo of footsteps in the other direction. The inspector picks up his radio, and opens the channel.

"Attention all officers: Kid has escaped out window 27. Repeat, Kid's escaped out the east-most north-facing window on the second story."

It's the most he can do for the thief, he tells himself. Much, much more than he should, more than enough to lose him his badge. But he can still feel the afterburn of the horror that blazed at the thought of shooting the thief in cold blood – at shooting him at all. At deliberately levelling his weapon at the boy who saved his daughter's life at the risk of his own, twice.

Nakamori realises two things this night. First, thtat he should no longer be on the Kaitou 1412 Task Force. And second, that while the shoot-on-sight edict is in place, he can't leave it.

"He was there the whole time, sir. Hollowed out the pedestal and waited under it, set everything else off remotely," explains Nakamori, superfluously. His report's on the superintendant's heavy desk, in the good company of other reports on the heist; he can read Iwada's name on the one next to his.

"Didn't you check under the pedestal?" asks Kamioka, fussily.

"Yes, sir. It wasn't hollow at 3pm." As I said in my report, he might have added. Kamioka, possibly sensing his blunder, moves on.

"I've had some reports, Inspector, I won't say who from, that suggest you prevented an officer from doing his duty last night – and that you failed to do your own." He looks gravely over the top of his thick glasses. Nakamori forebears to point out that one of the first skills a junior officer learns is to read upside-down, and therefore that leaving files uncovered on a desk is foolish unless you particularly want them read; extremely foolish in cases where you apparently want them to be secret. Instead, he straightens and answers in a gruff voice.

"Authorization for an action isn't the same as ordering it. We don't fire on unarmed, non-violent men without warning them." We didn't fire on them at all, he wants to say. Not until you showed up.

"Those may be your feelings, Inspector," begins Kamioka. Nakamori, in no mood to play the dutiful subordinate, pounces.

"They are beliefs and practices of our organization, sir."

"Well, you'll have to put them aside. We've had enough of Kid. You bring him in, one way or another."

Nakamori frowns. Superiors who take their lines from Hollywood films are never good news, especially in the Force. Still, it would have been almost alright if he had ended the meeting there. Instead, he rambles on over the same ground another three times before Nakamori begins leaning pointedly towards the door.

"Things were easier back in the good ol' days," slurs Sawara, slumping dangerously close to the grill in the centre of the yakiniku restaurant's table. Yamamoto grabs the back of his collar and tugs him away from the fiery coals. Sawara doesn't appear to notice. In 'the good old days,' Sawara was always a cheerful drunk. But then, back then they weren't encouraged to gun down teenagers. "We were always the good guys then. No conflict, no con-confusion." He finishes his beer, and Oogawa relieves him of the glass before he puts it down in mid air. "Find Kid; catch Kid. Simple. Now who's the good guy? An' who's the bad guy?"

They don't usually go out to eat the day after heists; there's the clean-up and paperwork to get through and by the time that's done most places are closing. But tonight they have more need of a few drinks than usual.

They're seated in a long room with three tables, the entirety of the Squad present save Iwada, who mysteriously failed to receive an invitation. Nakamori sits at the head of the left-most one, with his lieutenant – Iwada will never be that – and Sawara with him. And, for some reason, the three other men whose children were taken two months ago. None of them made a specific effort to sit together, it just happened. They weren't close before the incident, but there's no avoiding the bond that kind of experience forges.

"It'll all work out," says Oogawa quietly, with a reassuring smile. "You know him; always one step ahead of us."

"Can't outrun a bullet," points out Washio morosely, from across the table. He prods a piece of pork belly on the grill, the flames licking at the dripping fat.

"He survived having his monocle shot off," suggests Takarai quietly, sitting far back on his bench, shy as ever. As a driver, he's had nothing but tea and orange juice all night. Or rather, all morning. It's sometime after 1am, as Nakamori's tired muscles are beginning to emphasise.

"Shooting a glider at a hundred metres is a hell of a lot harder than a stationary target at five." Washio drains his whiskey, the ice cubes knocking against the bottom of the glass. Yamamoto nods gloomily; Section One teaches some lessons very quickly.

"No one can make us shoot him," says Oogawa. "Only the Inspector and Iwada outrank us, and we can always get around Iwada."

Nakamori, sitting quietly at the head of the grill watching the flames lick at the few scraps of meat left on it, doesn't look up. He's been in a strange mood tonight – sombre and withdrawn, even after several beers.

"For awhile," agrees Yamamoto flatly. Sawara is beginning to nod off against his shoulder; the younger man lets him. They all know what having a baby in the house is like. It's why they're sitting together at this table. "He's safe for now. And when they decide we're taking too long? Or when Iwada makes too many complaints about lack of compliance?"

"There's nothing we can do. If we quit the Squad in protest, they'll just hire new cops with no scruples. If we stay and refuse to do what we're told, they'll fire us and hire new cops with no scruples. Damned if you do, damned if you don't." Washio picks his now over-cooked piece of pork up off the grill and eats it sullenly.

"We can't do anything more than we're doing," says Takarai nervously. Oogawa gives him a smile.

"Right. We can't. So we keep doing that until someone rescinds this order. Eventually they'll realise it's untenable." Oogawa looks over at Sawara, beginning to snore lightly, and then glances down the table. The rest of the men are looking almost equally exhausted, bent crookedly over their tables or leaning on each other. A few are sleeping against their neighbours. "Should we go, sir? The food and drink's run out."

They ordered two hours of all-you-can-eat-and-drink; both ran out twenty minutes ago. The other two grills are empty; Washio is just finishing off the last of the meat from theirs.

Nakamori nods – even if the men weren't exhausted, Oogawa would have been right to get them out now. Now, before their spiral of frustration and uselessness descends any further. They've already become dangerously candid. Oogawa gets the expenses envelope – always filled before parties, to avoid having to struggle with the early sleepers and the heavy drunks for their cash – and goes off to pay. Takarai passes the word down the line and people begin to rouse their neighbours or at least drag them to their feet. Yamamoto, considerably heftier than Sawara, has no trouble pulling the older man up with him.

Nakamori has over the years built up a considerable amount of experience at shepherding his men while tipsy himself, and gets them out of the building and down onto the kerb outside where they split off into their carpooling groups. Takarai heads off towards his car with Washio beside him, Yamamoto and Sawara straggling along crookedly behind. Nakamori, leaning up against the cool building wall, watches the rest of the men disperse in equally uneven lines. Eventually Oogawa finishes paying and comes out to join him, and they head slowly towards a main street to hail their cabs – the two of them live too far out of anyone else's way to carpool. Their own lines are nearly straight; they are old hands at this.

"You were very quiet tonight, Inspector," says his lieutenant, staring straight ahead.

"You were very optimistic," replies Nakamori, doing the same.

"No point in them worrying about something we can't change, sir." The lieutenant's easy-going, optimistic tone of before is gone, replaced by cool realism.

"There's no way to stop it. Even Arakawa's had to sign off on the order. Whoever's behind this has more power than the head of the damn Metro." Which means politics. A world further above them than an oak tree is above a beetle.

"Yes, sir," agrees Oogawa. He already knows that, of course. Probably realised it before any of the others. He's always been sharp – probably sharper than Nakamori. And he's always been good at directing men from the inside of a group, rather than from above.

"It's about time you had a command of your own, Oogawa. Long past time," he says, gruffly.

"I'm happy here, sir."

Nakamori looks over at him, the man's sharp face carefully blank in the street-light glare. "You may not be, soon. You should get out now, Oogawa. I won't blame you. I'll recommend you for promotion and give you a damn good reference. I've still got a few connections in Section One, or Three. Time you got your career going, and got out of this dead-end division. Especially now." Now that it won't be ending cleanly, whatever happens.

They walk on for several steps in silence, the city at its quietest around them.

"Thank you, sir," says Oogawa quietly, eventually. It isn't the first time Nakamori's recommended him for promotion, of course. But it's the first time he hasn't refused it immediately with a self-conscious grin. "I appreciate it. I –"

"You don't have to decide now, Oogawa. Let me know in a couple of days."

"I can't just abandon you, sir. Not now," protests his lieutenant. Nakamori laughs, a harsh chuckle edged with sandpaper.

"Now's the perfect time. No one'll blame you for leaving before the end – and the gods alone know when that'll be. Two lieutenants in a squad this size is one and a half too many – it'll stand up. Besides, I can handle Iwada on my own."

"You shouldn't have to, sir."

"And you shouldn't have this around your neck." They reach the main road. In the distance, Nakamori spots a yellow car, and raises a hailing hand. It switches lanes and pulls towards them. Nakamori watches it advance, hands in pockets. "Take my advice, Oogawa. This isn't going to end well."

Oogawa gives him a sharp look. "Sir?"

The cab stops. Nakamori, stepping aside for the door to open, turns to look his oldest subordinate straight in the eye. "I am protecting Kid against direct orders with no acceptable justification, lieutenant. Whatever happens, it's not going to be pleasant. Get out now."

He steps into the cab, and closes the door before the man can respond. He's not going to let the best subordinate he's ever had flush his career down the drain over this. One is more than enough.

As the cab pulls away, he doesn't notice the shadow that breaks away from the nearby bus stop and fades off into the pre-dawn darkness.

Chapter 2