[Focus. He has to maintain focus. It's hard not to look back on his own experiences with the RCM when his brain is invaded with a flurry of anti-cop rhetoric. Watching his fellow officers completely ignore an old woman's pleas for help--This is why the residents of Revachol don't trust the RCM. This is why they look for the Union for help. A slightly more, ire-laden thought comes bubbling to the surface, something from a few years back--Humiliating. Fifteen years of hard work, and only a diagnosis to come of it. Not even a promotion....]

Obviously not. If you'll excuse me, I'm not particularly familiar with how these strings work.

[His tone comes close to frustration. It's just the headache. The thoughts that manage to come through cause Kim's brow to furrow. They feel...foreign. Not entirely belonging to him. Like the headache that seems to ebb and flow every few seconds. Almost as if--

He glances down at the string attached to his finger. Right. Supernatural shit that seems to pop up everywhere in this goddamn place. Kim lets out a faint groan, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. God, dammit. He's not going to leap to immediate conclusions, but it's hard not to at least consider it.

There are faint memories accompanying this idea--a bedraggled man with a red face and terrible mutton chops saying "There must be some sort of dark, sexy, supra-natural twist to this, Kim." and the resigned, exasperated thought that follows--No. Absolutely not. Where the hell does he even get these ideas? We haven't even gone to examine the body yet.]

You injected yourself with a plasmid a few days ago, right? Have you done any more since then?