The ORPO officer at the desk hands me a form with my personal details typed all over it.

"Your name is Tensei von Amsterg." the officer states in a bored voice, "Confirm your name and other details. Sign beneath your statement that has been attached as an appendix."

I check my personal details and the statement the officer had typed out based on what I dictated to him. Everything seems to be in order. I pick up the pen offered by the officer and sign in the box marked "WITNESS". The ORPO officer accepts the documents in silence and brings out a brown file where the statement is dropped into. He then continues typing into his computer without paying any further attention to me.

"I'll never forgive Nicholas for this." I whisper to myself while settling on to the old seat smelling strongly of tobacco. I hear the noise of the printer on the officer's desk begin spooling up before it spits out another document for the case file. Updated investigation journal. That's what the heading on the new document says at any rate. The officer opens a drawer and retrieves a stamp, bringing it down on the sheet of paper with a thump.

"Mmhmm. You do that Mr von Amsterg." the ORPO officer answers indifferently as he starts sorting through the file in front of me. I begin to shift about restlessly. I should be out there, looking for Nicholas, not staying here at ORPO HQ putting up with a detective that clearly couldn't care less about Irene being dead. What is there to detect? Nicholas did it. Its as clear as day. Why are we wasting time here?

Irene doesn't need paperwork typed up in her name. Her memory needs, no demands, justice.

While I ruminate, stewing in my impatience, a leathery, mustachioed man emerges from deeper within the office and walks right up to the detective handling Irene's case. The mustachioed man gives me a significant look but says nothing, choosing instead to fish out a cigar from his pocket and begins lighting up. I tap my fingers with agitated fervor against the detective's desk as he takes his own sweet time leafing through the file. The mustachioed man smirks at me and extends his hand in greeting.

"Commander Hernandez." the man says, "Sorry for your loss. "

I shake the proffered hand and ask pointedly, "Commander, am I still needed here?"

Instead of answering me, Hernandez turns to the detective, "You are compiling the statements from all the other witnesses right?" The officer nods briefly and goes back to typing at his computer. Hernandez bends down and looks at the screen.

"Alright. Let's do this quickly then." Hernandez instructs, "I got the suspect held in remand right now. Let's get it over with."

My ears prick up at Hernandez's comment. They got the suspect already?

"You have Nicholas?" I question eagerly. Wonderful, wonderful. If I can settle things right now with him, that would really be for the best. Blood calls for blood.

"No. The suspect who kidnapped your wife." Hernandez explains to me.

"Which is Nicholas." I reiterate.

Hernandez rubs his face in exasperation, "The person in the gas mask. That guy. Who attacked you. Kidnapped your wife. Beat up a small army's worth of your Uncle's guards. And beheaded your childhood tutor. Got it?"

"Nicholas." no its not, but it is. Right? Yes. Nicholas is the only one that matters. I must fight Nicholas. I must kill Nicholas. My head hurts, making it easy to think. No wait, I can't think. I shouldn't think. Just go with the flow. Go with Nicholas.

Nicholas.

"No he's not Nicholas." Hernandez grits out, "Come on, get your head on straight." Hernandez then runs through my written statement and points out a series of paragraphs to me.

"That guy. That guy you're referring to in these paragraphs. You got it?" Hernandez waives the statement in my face.

I nod in the affirmative. Of course I got it. Its all linked to Nicholas at the end of the day. Hernandez gives me a dubious expression before sighing. The detective looks up from the computer and reports to the Commander.

"All done here Commander. We can move on with the ID Parade." the detective says.

"Yeah." Hernandez stifles a yawn, "I've been there the whole morning. This is going to be the sixth witness, you know? We still have around thirty minutes on the clock for the suspect's remand. After that we will have to release him. So chop chop."

Hernandez tiredly gestures at me and I get up from my seat, falling in behind him. The detective settles into a relaxed stride by my side and the three of us wander down the fluorescent lit hallways of the ORPO HQ with its cracking plaster and oddly subdued ambiance. In the background are officers typing away at their desks. Some squads are preparing to sally forth on their bikes or patrol cars.

"You saw the videos?" Hernandez suddenly blurts out to the detective, "Every single one of them is like that."

The detective answers, "Yeah. You don't think -" but Hernandez quickly shakes his head and the detective promptly shuts up. Soon enough, we make it to a darkened room divided in two by a glass partition. The detective goes to shut the door, while Hernandez begins speaking into an intercom installed into the wall.

"Alright. Last one for the day." Hernandez says, "Bring them out." The sound of a buzzer is heard and a group of five men, each wearing a black trench coat, file out into the other side of the room.

"Face the mirror." Hernandez instructs through the intercom, "and one by one step forward and shout 'I object'."

The group of men straightens out into a line and as ordered step forward one at a time, shouting the words Hernandez told them to. Their voices are piped into our side of the room, letting us hear what they are saying.

Hernandez regards me evenly, "Alright. You had a front row seat when the attack went down. Which one of these guys kidnapped Irene Scott?"

I cast my eyes across the motley group before me, irritation raising its ugly head once more. Why are we wasting time? Time that could be used to storm that yacht Nicholas hides himself in. Do we even need an investigation done at this point?

"None of them are Nicholas." I answer flatly.

"The guy who kidnapped your wife." Hernandez snaps, "For crying out loud, will you stop talking about Nicholas for just one second?"

"Nicholas kidnapped Irene." I point out, very correctly I must say. The quality of policing has gone down the drain ever since SOPO got dissolved.

"Fine. You know what?" Hernandez glares at me critically, "Identify the man who attacked you with a gas grenade and shot at you with dual wielded rifles. Can you do that?"

Oh that's simple. He may have been wearing a gas mask during the attack, but I would recognize Gallant's over enthusiastic, slightly deranged voice anywhere. And Gallant is standing right there in the ID parade, second from the left.

"Sure. Its that guy over there." I answer, my hand pointing to the rightmost man. I try to shift my arm about, but the limb revolts against me, refusing to budge an inch.

"You sure?" the detective asks for confirmation. Hernandez scrunches his face up in an unhappy and somewhat fearful look. Sweat beads my face as I redouble my efforts at bringing my arm back under control.

"Yes. That guy. Over there." I say, my finger jabbing accusingly at the rightmost man. Why in the world is it doing that? I clench my fist and finally manage to force my right arm down towards my side, groaning from the effort.

"You OK there?" Hernandez queries, chewing on his cigar nervously. No I'm not. What's wrong with me? Why can't I do this simple thing? Whenever I try to lift my arm to point at Gallant, my shoulder just locks up painfully in disapproval. But I'm not done just yet. If my arm won't cooperate, then I'll just call out Gallant by his name. But a bolt of pain lances through my brain, setting it on fire. My throat closes up and no words come from my mouth. Can't think. No, I shouldn't think at all. My traitorous right arm springs back into action, pointing at the rightmost man again.

"That one. That one." the words drone from my mouth, like a song set on repeat.

"Alright fine." Hernandez finally manages to grunt after a long silence before going back to the intercom, "We're done here for the day. Take them back to the lockup." The suspects file back out of the room in silence, but I realize one of them is flashing a smile at me.

Gallant. He knows what is going on with my body. I want to shout, tell him to stop right there. To explain himself before everyone.

But why bother?

He's not Nicholas after all.