Conversation · The Deserter

"Yes Klaasje. You hadn't heard her name, had you?"

"My ears don't reach the city."

"You know her, right? She had intimate relations with the victim. The mercenary."

"With the victim..." He turns his sight from the whitening field of flowers and falls silent. Then the muscles in his jaw twitch, a spasm.

There is a small tremble -- looks like a smile. A crooked smile. Yet isn't quite voluntary. He's about to burst...

Don't leave any loose ends. Get him on everything.

Almost. But you need one more. Just one. Or maybe two...

"May bells -- behind the victim's window! I saw them growing here." (Point to them.)

"Damn May bells..." He looks at the blossoming field: "The whole island is turning white with them..."

"Okay. Let's back off for a moment. Tell me this..."

"You're lost, droite. You're lost..." He shakes his head, tufts of grey-white hair on his skull and chin...

"You did it -- because you're on the side of the Union, right? It was political."

"The Débardeurs' Union is a social democratic piss-stain, and the fat bourgeois pig who keeps it..." He shakes his head.

"Mr. Claire? What about him?"

"Never trust a social democrat. Social democrats are pederasts -- and women. They're the real enemy."

There is something here for later, he knows his name. But don't let this break the pace now, push forward...

"You did it. You had the means and the motive. It's over."

"Over? It was over when they shelled the coast... and bodies ripped apart from the pressure. It was over then. For all of us." His eyes look right through you.

"You fucks don't understand. The ordnance, the mist of blood... it's beyond belief their aggression, when you attack their class interests."

"I'm sorry for what happened." The lieutenant softens his voice: "But we're not with the Moralintern. We're Revacholian citizenry, like you."

"You're the enemy," his voice screeches. "You're halberdiers of the market liberal regime."

He would really, really get riled up if you said:

"I'm ten times more radical than you. I'm a radical centrist. I keep this place sane."

"You call this sane? Every twenty seconds there's a gun shot. Kids shooting shit, while they come and pick them... fucking child molesters..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

You see the killer in him. Coughing from the thin intensity of his own voice. The words have run out, his eyes budge from their sockets.

The whole world is a locked mechanism for him, all of history, with only one shaft of light that shone in 44 years ago.

In his fit of rage he seems to have broken loose from something. A little fire gutters deep in his eyes, like a pilot light in the hallway...

Just one more, it can't be more than one now...

"We're going to have a parliament. It will safeguard the market and stabilize the streets. That's what I'm for -- real democracy."

"Stabilize... that parliament will be the lock on the cage. It won't stabilize shit. The market is ruin, dripping with pity and suffering..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

"You're right. I'm a collaborationist, but I at least do something. I keep peace on the streets, while you just break everything."

"Keep the peace? You call this peace? Every twenty seconds there's a gun shot. The war's still there, only we're losing it..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

"I know what happened here, in this city. You rabid lunatics tore it to pieces and killed 50 million people."

"It was 200,000! 200,000 tops. Those numbers are madness," he hisses. "Millions, tens of millions have died after the Landing! In your hands..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

"I don't care. I don't care what happened 50 years ago. This is now and I need to keep the city safe."

"Safe? You call this safe? This is defeat! Every twenty seconds there's a gun shot. The war never ended, we're just losing it..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

"I'm Revacholian like you. I don't work for the dogs up in La Delta. I subvert the system from within."

"Subvert the system from within... you diseased dog! You lick their balls, that's what you do..." he almost chokes from his own voice.

"We ain't with them yo," the kid splurts. "This is fuckin' Revachol West representin' here."

"You're with the enemy, kid." His voice screeches. "A fucking halberdier of the market-liberal regime."

"I wonder what brand of boots you're wearing?"

"Everything is brands with you individualists... Who cares what brand my shoes are? Sansa..." He looks at his running shoes, covered in mud. "Some shit."

"Show me the soles please, Mr. Dros."

"Fucking imbecile..." The old man stretches out his leg. A black and white spiral pattern covers the sole of the worn out old running shoes on his feet.

The maker is Sansarique -- the model is Corbeille and the size is 43.

These are not the unusual, horizontal patterned soles you saw in the dust on the floor of the hidden room. They do, however, seem to be about the same size...

"The size fits, but not the sole..." The lieutenant comes to the same conclusion.

Wait, maybe it's simpler than that...

Sire, he doesn't have to be wearing them right now.

"People change shoes. It doesn't mean you weren't there -- near the room the victim died in -- sneaking around."

"Racking those brains, are you?" He squints at you, black pearls gleaming with hatred. "Desperate to report something back to your masters. They must have really loved that dead fuck..."

The lieutenant gives you a quick sideways glance and nods to acknowledge...

The prints were his, you can see it in those eyes, he can't keep them from flickering, looking for something...

The old man stares at his own prints in the ash around the fire. Silent suddenly, some strange process within him. A gush of wind. Seagulls in the distance.

You've almost got him. Just a last little push...

More. He's gonna crack, but you need a little more.

The kid gives you a quick sideways glance and nods to acknowledge...

Simpler? No. This is another loose thread you will never connect!

"God damn footprints, everywhere... I hate them..."

The lieutenant raises his brow.