Conversation · The Deserter

"Th-the..." The old man stutters. Then a sigh.

No. It's not that.

"Th-the..." The old man stutters. Then another sigh.

"How? Like -- it's pretty fucking huge..." He nudges the man, gently: "How?"

"I talked to the phasmid. It said it's destroying him."

"You should be more careful, detective. Are you sure it wasn't having an effect on you?"

"Maybe. Anyway -- it's only trying to remain unseen. The degradation is a side effect."

"A valid hunch. Long term exposure to something like that could be neurodegenerative... Also, please be careful when approaching unknown species in the future, detective."

"No way. I was only talking to it."

"Are you sure? You were looking at it for a long time. Almost as if you were hypnotized." He thinks. "Were you hypnotized?"

"Talked, huh? You sure it didn't have a strange effect on, you? You looked, like, hypnotized."

"Maybe. Anyway -- it's only trying to remain unseen. The degradation is a side effect."

"Yeah, man -- I don't know. I don't know what degradation means. And I don't know about getting close to it like that -- and staring at it for five minutes... You're one crazy cop."

"No way. I was only talking to it."

"Yeah? Just talking. Sure. You were deep in some trance shit."

"Yeah and then there's that shit..." He looks at him with pity. "Gramps couldn't take it. It was too much."

"He's old and fried. Cuno's seen this... like, after a massive bender. Cuno's dad..." He stops mid sentence.

He seems oblivious to the question. The waves slowly lap against the seafort to the south...

"S-s-s-see..." He stares at the reeds and falls silent.

"Mr. Dros?"

The man does not respond -- he keeps staring, black eyes glazed over and bulging from their sockets, his gap toothed mouth shaking.

With fear and longing.

Like an addict of some terrible substance.

Snap your fingers under his nose.

A light shiver passes him -- followed by nothing. His hands are trembling and he breathes slowly.

"He's going into some kind of... psycho-motor immobility." The lieutenant inspects him gently. "The good news is -- this solves our transportation problem. Doesn't it Mr. Dros?"

The trembling mouth appears to sigh.

"Between this and the broken tyre he's used for a boat -- I think it's safe to leave him here, while we go and get help. It will need to be medical first, I'm afraid."

The boy waves his hand in front of the old man's face.

The trembling mouth appears to sigh. There's no other response.

"Yeah, this fried him. We gotta bring him to a doctor. Good news -- this solves our boat-and-piggies problem. He's not going anywhere. He's trapped here..."

"Mr. Dros?"

The trembling mouth appears to sigh. That's all. You've fried him.

Wave your hand in front of his eyes.

Touch his shoulder gently.

The plastic cape feels coarse. A light shiver passes the man -- other than that, no reaction. He feels small and frail.

"Mr. Dros?"

"I'll leave you be for now." [Leave.]

There is nothing. Only the reeds for him. The reeds and devastation.

"It's right there, can you see it?" (Point.)

"N-n..." He doesn't finish the sentence. One letter is all he can produce. His hands are numb and he stares at them.

Nothing -- 'nothing' is what he tried to say.

"Sir, how could you not see the phasmid?"

"Can you see it now?" (Point to the Phasmid)

"S-s-s-see..." He stares at the reeds, where your finger is pointing.