Conversation · Mirror

An old mirror hangs on the wall. You see the reflection of your face in it -- such as it is. A regular clean-shaven police officer.

It's time. Time to see yourself as you truly are. It's going to be absolutely devastating, but there's no way to avoid it.

Attempt to stop The Expression from happening.

It's like something snaps in you -- a nerve ending, a thought, a sadness. Your face in the mirror is suddenly clean of the leer that had distorted it for god knows how long.

Just like that it's over -- the running gag that your life had become. A sad old man looks back at you.

It's like something snaps in you -- a nerve ending, a thought, a sadness. Your face in the mirror is suddenly clean of the leer that had distorted it. For god knows how long...

Still not happening. It won't come off that easy.

It's too late. Like an image on film, The Expression belongs to your primary motor cortex. It would take a minor neurological miracle for you to cease producing it.

Face yourself.

It's time you knew the truth, bröther.

I am ready.

Love... time... Revachol...

It's all shit.

All of it?

All of it.

Even love?

Especially love, bröther. Face it, no one's willing to make the sacrifices that are necessary, not in this day and age.

Look deep inside yourself. You know it's true, because it hurts.

What's going on? I thought I succeeded!

Bröther. You have succeeded...

It takes a true kingsman to summon the will to face reality in all its darkness. To stare straight into the abyss and do what must be done.

How do I know I'm a true kingsman?

There's a lever in front of you. Pull it, and atomic fire blankets your beloved Revachol. Millions die in an instant. But you are spared. You, and the voice in the payphone.

That voice... so warm and sweet...

No-no, not the voice! Make it stop...

While the world burns, the two of you, together again, ride an aerostatic into the sunset. Maybe it will work this time? Spare Revachol and you'll never hear from her again. Will you sacrifice a second chance at love to keep Revachol safe?

An involuntary twitch runs through your hand, almost like reflex.

Pull the imaginary lever.

You're a hard motherfucker... (Tightness -- in gaseous form -- leaves your body.) If we didn't know better, we'd say you enjoyed consigning your city to the flames.

Nine million souls flicker out of existence. Sixteen if you include the greater metropolitan area.

Enough. The Franconigerian Court of Honour has held your naked soul up against the Sevenfold Sun Miracle and looked right through it. Close your eyes and know, this is who you are:

Nothing -- not pain, fatigue, hunger, fear or desire -- will ever deviate you from the path. Like an icebreaker you crush all opposition, ploughing forward no matter what it takes.

Now open your eyes and witness the wonder! The HMS Last Kingsman has left the docks. The world will tremble as you smash all the ice in the world.

Wait, what happened to my face?

It was time to banish that pitiful, sad look from your face -- and replace it with a perfect reflection of your unyielding resolve, your noble suffering.

Maybe it will make you temptation-proof, so something good will come out of this at least?

This is the face worn by the first law-bringers, the noble tyrants. Today you join their number...

You'll plough your way toward the frigid lands of Katla and Vaasa, smashing every ice sheet in your path. Nothing, nothing can stop an icebreaker...

Ahem. It's a lot like the face on that rather unfortunate muscle-man t-shirt you just so happen to be wearing...

Will I ever be able to make another face again?

Never. May this serve as a constant reminder of your sacred, un-put-downable burthen.

That's one way of saying that the nerve damage is quite severe. The only way you'll be able to change your face now is with your fingers...

Ahem. It's a lot like the face a certain muscle-man is making on that t-shirt you insist on carrying around...

Ahem. It's very similar to the face Hjelmdallermann is always making on the cover of those books...

You are a terror even to yourself!

It was time to banish that ridiculous Expression from your face -- and replace it with a perfect reflection of your unyielding resolve, your noble suffering.

I will never forsake my vöws. (Conclude.)

Now shout from the top of your lungs: YOU ARE THE NOBLE SUFFERER.

In a rundown shack on the far coast, a middle-aged man pounds his fist and looses an animal cry as he stares into a sliver of clouded glass...

From above the Bay of Revachol, a cold wind gathers in response. The people of the fishing village pull their coats and blankets tight about themselves...

You step back from the mirror. A loose board creaks.

You step back from the mirror. A bead of water drips from the pipe beneath the washbasin.

A cold damp seeps in through the gaps between the wall planks. There is no one to bear witness to your vow...

You used to believe you came from a large family with many half-brothers and sisters, but where are they now? However you shout, they can't hear you...

In a mould-covered bathroom inside a trashed hostel near the edge of Martinaise, a middle-aged man grips the sides of a cold sink in white-knuckled fury...

Meanwhile, his colleague is filling in the last clues of his nightly crossword when he hears what seems to be some kind of animalistic howling from the adjoining room. He directs his eyes toward the door of their shared bathroom...

He sets down the paper and quickly scribbles the date and time in his notebook, along with a note: 'HDB possible relapse? Check in first thing.'

He sighs and returns to his crossword. He is a police officer, not a baby-sitter.

Despite doubt, fear, sentimentality and weakness, you plough ever forward, like an icebreaker, tearing through the frigid North Sea.

You're tired, afraid, sad, hungry and in pain. But most of all: confused. Yet still, like a tiny icebreaker -- the tiniest boat in the fleet -- you plough ever forward...