Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

The young woman raises a cigarette to her lips.

Her eyes are brown and her face is speckled with birthmarks. She can't be more than 28.

A silver jumpsuit falls off her like scale armour, sparkling. This is the sparkle of too many nights out on the city.

Turn your bloated face away from her beauty and just keep on walking. [Leave.]

"Officer? Am I military personnel?"

"Uh... no." She seems perplexed by your question.

There's only one solution to this. You're a businessman.

"Then why did you call me an officer?"

"Because you're a police officer, sir." She pulls on her cigarette.

"Are you sure?"

"I am, yes. Unless you've been feeding us a set of very well rehearsed lies all this time..." She takes another drag.

"All this time?"

"You've been here for three days. On official police business, no less."

"And what business is that?"

"I couldn't say. In truth... so far, mostly drinking."

You have no doubt about the drinking, but do you strike yourself as a tight-lipped drunk? She must have heard something.

"I might not know where I am. Or who I am. Or what a Coupris Kineema is; how I know what one sounds like..."

She nods.

"That's it."

"Good monologue!" She smiles, flashing her pearl-white teeth.

"...but I do know when someone's not telling me the whole story. What am I doing here? What's my case?"

"There's a mercenary out back. He's been hanged. The body has been there for a week now. The locals probably got tired of it and called the cops."

She speaks matter-of-factly, but there's a sadness in her voice.

"And why didn't you just tell me that?"

"I didn't mean to overwhelm you with information. You seem a bit... lost, officer."

Try The Expression on her -- let her know you want her. Physically.

Try The Expression? C'mon, why are you still doing this?

"I'm at death's door, bloated, a goner. And still..." (Sigh.) "Does the longing ever stop?"

"Alcohol raises testosterone levels, especially in men," she says matter-of-factly. "The levels remain elevated after inebriation ends and the pain begins. You seek comfort. It's only natural."

Isn't it the other way around? Heavy drinking decreases testosterone... and believe me, you would know.

She puts out her cigarette.

Something stirs in you as she's about to go. Must be that killer instinct again -- the need to ask questions. It's like you've said the words a million times before...

She looks back at you, a light glinting off her eyes.

What if I don't want to ask questions?

You're a cop, Harry. It is unnatural of you not to want to ask questions.

You don't have to. No one is forcing you to be a cop.

"Wait! I have some questions before you go."

"Yes?"

"What is this place? Where am I?"

"You're in a hostel, sir."

"No -- where are we? Where in the world?"

"We are in Revachol."

Revachol is the disgraced former capital of the world, divided into zones of control under foreign occupation -- half a century after a failed world revolution. She is central to our moment in time.

"Should that mean something to me?"

"You sure look like you're from Revachol. Revachol parties."

Her accent suggests she is not from around here. She's from Oranje, another part of the world.

"Revachol forever."

"For ever and ever."

And ever and ever... Out of the corner of your eye, you see the hair on the back of your hand standing on end. It feels as though low-grade lightning is coursing through you. You must be hypersensitive from the hangover.

"How about you tell me something else instead?"

"Yeah?"

Those words -- "tell me something else" -- feel like something you've said innumerable times before. Your mouth is the very shape of them.

"Tell me what year it is."

"It's '51."

"What century?"

"The Current Century."

"And that's what? What number?"

"Centuries don't have numbers, they have names, and this is the current one."

"How many centuries have there been, then?"

"Civilization has existed for eight thousand years, sir." She grins.