It’s twenty-five years after Roha was dispatched in Central station, and Augustine had his overactive lip split by a griffin woman. I take an excursion to the Kir household to pick up materials for the story I am working on.

Augustine’s elder sister, Petra, receives me at the door of the pearlescent six-floor manor. A woman in her 50s, she retains much of the attractiveness and dignified energy of her acting days. Her makeup is immaculate, but she nonetheless appears tired. ‘I have to pick up the kids in half an hour,’ she warns me. Unsmiling, she leads me into the front hall, a high-ceilinged room centered around a grand ivory staircase. The flooring is cloudy blue marble. It’s certainly impressive but compared to the opulent photos of old, the atmosphere seems featherlight, almost too airy, hollowed. A number of packing boxes are strewn about, some half filled, some taped up in large stacks. There is little to no furniture set out. I ask if they are in the process of moving, and she shakes her head no.

Outside, the vast gardens also seem to have waned with age, the fountain long since deactivated and overgrown. In the days of their grandfather, this house was once a hotbed of activity; champagne gatherings, lounging starlets, and shocking scandals.

The Kir family was once - and some might say, still is - one of the Central’s greatest theatrical treasuries. The late Ansel Kir, Augustine’s grandfather, was five-time winner of the Best Actor award by Central’s film academy, also possessing a mountain of other accolades from various smaller organizations. Augustine’s grandmother Ruether, an actress who had her training in opera and stage, was said to have reunited cinema of the Central and the Northern Territories with her openness toward foreign projects and her incredibly empathic performances.

Andon and Nia, Augustine’s parents, have achieved three awards between them. While there were inevitable rumors in the early 19xxs that Andon would be riding the coattails of his great father, but films such as Breathe and Comfort in the Cold remain in the public consciousness to this day in no small part to Kir’s acting chops, in addition his inherited charisma and rough-edged good looks. Nia, a handsome woman known for her ‘distinct eyebrows’ had been modeling since childhood and made a shift to acting, became an arthouse and charity scene darling, meeting Andon on the set of war drama Comfort in the Cold.

The awards are packed away, Petra tells me as we pass by the grand staircase. Nia, or mother, is home, but she is resting upstairs in bed. Andon is out on the press docket for a new project.

Grandma Rue is in the hospital, where she has been for the last six months.

Petra takes me to the lounge, still decked out in its iconic ivy-print wallpaper, the very same seen in many a old glossy old tabloid. Two more of the Kir clan are sprawled over upholstered chairs, one in a robe and the other in a tight pantsuit. They are using one of the many cardboard boxes as a tea-table. Uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows drench the room in hard, blue shadows. At the far end, like an unwanted child confined to the corner, is a wilting palm tree in a pot. There is little else.

Neither of the two loungers respond to my entry. I recognize them as Augustine’s younger sister Calya, another longtime actress, and their cousin Emile, a music critic of semi-renown. They are glued to what’s playing on a phone. A jaunty tune pops from the tiny speaker.

‘The same chords. Are they dense? It’s all the same chords,’ Emilie is saying. He falls to silence when he notices Petra pulling something out from a closet.

Petra hefts the cardboard box and thrusts it at me. ‘That all? I have to pick up the kids in half an hour.’

The box rattles with empty space - the contents are small, but contain years’ worth of information. There are eight hard drives, three handheld cameras, and a zip-lock bag of SD cards of varying capacity - all used by Augustine during the production of his videos. Petra takes the lending contract that I hand her and promptly stows it in her pocket without a passing glance. ‘The lawyers already made copies years ago. And all the reporters before you copied them hundreds of times over on top of that. We don’t need to see any of that stuff again.’ She checks her diamond-studded watch.

Half hour, kids to pick up.

I leave the way I came and ask if I can take a few shots of the house for the impending article. Petra nods, lighting a cigarette beside a trellis of charcoal-colored roses - which I later notice have actually rotted black in the heat of summers past and present.

As I try to get a flattering angle of the sagging garden arch, she says, “we don’t blame her, you know. We never blamed any of them.”

The court records suggest otherwise. But instead I ask, why would you say that?

With a sigh, she waves me off, and slips back into the azure shade of the manor.

—

There is one other member of the Kir family I hope to meet that day. After the Kir homestead, it’s an hour drive down to the warehouse district in the South end of Mainline. The neighborhood has been pleasantly revitalized by artists and breweries, along with the massive crackdown on gang activity.

The office I’m looking for sits in one of the older brick buildings, painted white, with tall iron-bar windows.

Inside, I knock on an apartment door panelled with frosted glass. A minute later, an assistant answers. He is a striking figure, in an expensive-looking suit - yet he is inexplicably disheveled, as if he’d just been yanked out of bed where he’d been lying, fully dressed.

With a smile, the assistant tells me Mr. Kir is out on assignment. It is not known when he’ll be back. It would be best to try to get in touch via email. (I later try, to no avail.)

I give him my card and request that Kir give me a call. I say that I wish to interview him for a story.

About what, he asks.

I mention it relates to his family.

The assistant cuts me off before I can elaborate. With evident acting chops of his own, he says that he sincerely wishes he could do more to help, and shuts the door.

—

One of the first folders I peruse from Augustine’s digital archives gives me a start.

The scene opens with Calya, Petra and Emile, draped over furniture in the Kir’s forest-green lounge. The windows are open; harsh sun, blue shadows. Dead ringer for what I'd seen just earlier that day.

But like a childrens’ puzzle book: look close and spot the differences. The back of the room is lined with rococo furniture. There is a small glass-top table for tea instead of a box. Calya is wrinkle free without the aid of makeup, Petra is in an expensive cocktail dress and Emile’s hairline is full and frothy. Beyond the wide open windows in the backdrop, the flicker of water can be seen - a fountain in motion. This is the trio, and Kir manor, back in their prime.

They face the camera, laughing and pointing at the watcher. They utter ‘how silly’ intermittently. Some faint noise, like an old radio, is playing in the background. I feel Emile is putting far more into emoting than the others, but there is still some charm to the womens’ dismissive chortles and huffing.

The fuzzy tune ends and Emile’s face drops into line with those of his cousins.

It’s all the same chords. Listen, even a ten year old could have written it.

We know, we know Em. You say that every time.

I’m just stating facts. Society has really gone downhill if this is the stuff they lap up. If this one takes off, I’m gonna be really pissed–

You are such a pig. Look, the singer said it was written for his dead brother. You’re insulting a dead guy.

Well duh, obviously I wouldn’t go yelling that it was shit if it were playing at a funeral, but I’m just saying…

A colleague of mine identifies this footage as a ‘reaction’ video, possibly for an old Twisted Roses single. To make that sort of video, Emile would compile the filmed reactions picture-in-picture with the music video. The collage would then be posted to Emile’s long-since-discontinued channel on Neovision (the original iteration), where he first attempted his foray into music reviews. It appears he occasionally borrowed Augustine’s filming equipment.

In the video, the young, fashionable Emile fumbles toward the audience; toward the computer, to stop the recording.

Calling me insensitive. When you’ve got fucking Augy posting outright filth for everyone to see-

Watch it, Em. Remember whose setup you’re using.

I’m just fucking saying…

As if on cue, the next video on the memory card features Augustine Kir engaging in sexual activities with what appears to be a very young girl - with spines protruding from her chin.