Conversation · Mirror

Use your chaincutters to fix the faucet. Stop steam from fogging up the mirror.

The faucet is quite terribly mangled, but you just might be able to twist its parts into place.

You handle the chaincutters deftly, applying just enough pressure. The faucet regains a recognizable shape. The steam stops.

Told you that you needed those chaincutters. Everything is connected. Everything has a purpose.

The mirror begins to clear slowly without you having to wipe it.

Told you that you needed those chaincutters. Everything is connected. Everything has a purpose.

Your hands, however skilful, can't manage this task on their own. You should get your chaincutters out.

The chaincutters slip out of your hands as you attempt to twist the faucet into place. Well, you know one thing for sure -- you've probably never been a plumber.

[Let the mirror be for now.]

Dig deep into your mind to locate the source of The Expression.

It belongs in The New -- the third decade of the current century. Enough time had passed from the failure of Revolution that, for a fleeting moment, free market economy seemed like the ultimate, uncontested way of life for our species.

Okay...

Things were good. It was smooth sailing. People made gold-and-champagne-tinted interiors and façades to suit the times, calling this The New Style. But, more importantly -- disco happened.

For Revachol -- your city -- that meant only one thing: Guillaume Le Million!

If it doesn't rhyme, you're not pronouncing it right.

Out of the dazzling swirl of disco music, in an open air boîte de nuit somewhere in Revachol West, Guillaume's blond mane appeared on the screen. He sang some bullshit. Then he made The Expression.

Anything else? Like who am I? Why did I drink myself into oblivion?

You have some understanding of the near history of disco, plus the trivia you've picked up along the way. Episodic memory, however, remains in the dark. It may never return. You should prepare yourself for that.

You have some understanding of the recent history of disco. The rest is darkness.

How long ago was The New?

There is a vast ocean of time between right now and The Expression looking good on you -- or anyone. Two decades, if the calendar is to be trusted. Humanity has run aground in that time, it's a different world now. The Expression is a relic.

Some twenty odd years. There is a vast ocean of time between right now and The Expression looking good on you -- or anyone. Humanity has run aground in that time, it's a different world now. The Expression is a relic.

Does this have anything to do with Ostentatious Orchestrations?

Not really. OO must have just stirred your mind. They're more like a disco rock band anyway...

I guess that's it then. (Conclude.)

It doesn't have to be. You can swoon over Guillaume and his champagne-cork smile whenever you want to... Maybe some of the stardust will return?

So I adopted it? Why?

Everyone loved it. Maybe you thought some of the stardust would rub off on you? Maybe it did? Either way, it's all gone now. Only the grimace remains.

I feel the need to add a clicking sound when I make it: Click-click.

The click is used to spur on a horse. It also features heavily in Guillaume Le Million's regional mega-hit "Don't Worry (Your Pretty Little Head)".

Sometimes you like to add finger pistols to the mix, because unlike Guillaume le Million you are a police officer. It's your nifty little way to say: I'm armed and dangerous.

Like the rest of you, it comes from a bad place somewhere in the past. That's all you know for now.

This idiocy has gone on far too long. It's time to wipe that decadent homo-sexual grin off your face. Time to see yourself as you truly are.

An old mirror hangs on the wall. You see the reflection of your face in it -- such as it is without The Expression. It's just hairy.

An old mirror hangs on the wall. You see your reflection in it -- The Expression fixed to your clean-shaven face. You're still not accustomed to it.

An old mirror hangs on the wall. You see the reflection of your face in it -- adorned with The Expression.

An old mirror hangs on the wall, half-covered in shadows. You cannot see yourself fully, just the outline of a man. You have no memory of the face that awaits you there.

Really? Nothing?

Really -- all recollection of the person you are, the people in your life and even the world you're in has drowned in a sea of blood alcohol. This was no mere night of drinking, it was a deluge. Of world-ending proportions.

With all the synapses you extinguished, it's a miracle you can even think this sentence. You've interrupted a true act of self-annulment here.

Wipe the mirror.

As you slowly reach your hand toward the surface of the mirror...

Abort! You clearly have not thought this through. You won't like what you will see there -- and you will never un-become it.

I don't care. (Still wipe the mirror.)

Behold!

You have no idea who this thing is, do you?

Of course I do. It's... uhm... is it some kind of superstar? I think I'm a superstar.

It appears you're also dead. There's clearly rigor mortis on your face, or wait... is that an expression? Are you trying to make an expression with that face? Why?

I think it might be because I'm a superstar.

Please stop, it's horrible! You're scaring yourself.

You couldn't stop if you wanted to. It's neurological.

Actually, I'm not sure I can stop.

No. That would be too insane.

I'm pretty sure I can't stop.

Oh my god, you're right! It's like it's not even voluntary anymore. You have worn that grin into your face and now it won't come off...

What does it even mean? What is the emotion you're trying to convey?

It's an expression of pain.

You are correct.

Have you really been wearing that decadent homo-sexual grin this whole time? It's disgusting. No wonder you haven't been able to truly face yourself.

God, I don't know -- it's indescribable.