Conversation · Shivers
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Mack Torson
Jean Vicquemare
Chester McLaine
Electrochemistry
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The snow falls lazily, making the beach sand paler still, mixing with the rust-coloured sewage run-off.
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You're warm in your hat and your coat. Like a well-equipped explorer, you comfortably survey the white landscape.
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You should be warm, with your hat and your coat, but you notice that you're missing a shoe. You feel like a traveller ill-equipped to survey the landscape you have set out to explore.
You should be warm, with your hat and your coat, but you notice that you don't have any shoes on. You feel like a traveller ill-equipped to survey the landscape you have endeavoured to explore.
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- Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. Your hat is of little help. To distract yourself, you look around...
- The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. Grandmothers don't let their grandchildren out dressed so lightly in this weather. At least your hair is protected from getting wet and sticking together. You look around...
- You're warm in your hat and your coat. Like a well-equipped explorer, you comfortably survey the white landscape.
- The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. Grandmothers don't let their grandchildren out dressed so lightly in this weather. You look around...
- Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. To distract yourself, you look around...
- You're warm in your coat, though your cold, damp hair sticks to your head unpleasantly -- you should have a hat. You survey the landscape around you.
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The lieutenant looks at you standing there shivering with some concern, but makes no comment.
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The canal you crossed to get here, and beyond it -- Martinaise proper, the district the police forgot to police. There is laughter, lights, attempts at entrepreneurial activity, cynicism.
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Someone is scraping snow off their windshield. At the roundabout, in the midst of which a statue of Filippe the III serves as a destination for grade-school field trips and a fine perch for winter birds.
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A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood.
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A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. You've seen it. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood.
A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. You've heard about it. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood.
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Clean white light, coming from the windows of a clean cube-shaped office building hidden amidst ruins. A secret...
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Like all monuments, it's also a warning. Six-story ruins on the south side of the roundabout cast a long shadow over the profligate king.
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Near. Snow falls into dark water. She prays, though she doesn't believe. There is a hum in the air.
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Layer upon layer of sand poisoned with industrial run-off. The storm drainage. Hidden bunkers. Rats scuttle...
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Someone's stuffed a big old polar anorak into a concrete pipe under the boardwalk. It would keep you warm. You will probably never happen across it, but who knows.
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More coalition aerostatics. Occasionally, lights flash as they manoeuvre through the falling snow. One large airship carries crates in its belly.
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Coalition aerostatics hang like apparitions under the cloud cover. Occasionally, lights flash as they manoeuvre through the falling snow.
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An abandoned church that's being turned into a dance club. Four youths are hard at work there, making it ever harder core.
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- The abandoned church. One of two remaining stave churches which were collectively called les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
- The abandoned church, its walls covered with hoarfrost now. One of les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
- An abandoned church that's being turned into a dance club. Four youths are hard at work there, making it ever harder core.
A serpentine strip of land weaving its way into the Martinaise inlet. Unfortunates on the run -- from the law, from themselves -- sometimes hide out on nearby islets. Little dots in the ocean that are occasionally submerged when the tide is high and the weather foul.
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- A serpentine strip of land weaving its way into the Martinaise inlet. Unfortunates on the run -- from the law, from themselves -- sometimes hide out on nearby islets. Little dots in the ocean that are occasionally submerged when the tide is high and the weather foul.
- Further out, the lights burn bright on Résurrection; way beyond Martinaise -- a popular spa destination for ample-bodied Ozonne kids with equally ample pockets.
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The Bay of Revachol, vastness, great depth -- over 1200 m at its deepest. Water, air brinier than here. It is crisscrossed by huge cargo ships bearing company logos: Wild Pines, ZAMM, Moriyn.
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And, at the farthest reaches of the Bay of Revachol -- the shadow of Coalition Warship Archer, on perpetual patrol duty, ready to unleash artillery fire if you were to rise up against the market. You shudder.
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The remains of a camp on a jagged piece of rock -- a tent, old dishes and cutlery. Long since abandoned. A hermit crab scuttles among the debris, looking for a new shell.
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Further out, the lights burn bright on Résurrection; way beyond Martinaise -- a popular spa destination for ample-bodied Ozonne kids with equally ample pockets.
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- The abandoned church. One of two remaining stave churches which were collectively called les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
- The abandoned church, its walls covered with hoarfrost now. One of les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
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The abandoned church. One of two remaining stave churches which were collectively called les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
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The abandoned church, its walls covered with hoarfrost now. One of les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
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The raised motorway, 8/81, with vehicles whooshing past one another day and night, while those who reside beneath the motorway attempt to carry on with their lives in the snow and the slush. And south of the 8/81 is the Pox.
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- The raised motorway, 8/81, with vehicles whooshing past one another day and night, while those who reside beneath the motorway attempt to carry on with their lives in the snow and the slush. And south of the 8/81 is the Pox.
- The raised motorway, 8/81, separating Martinaise from Jamrock. Vehicles whoosh past one another day and night, while those who reside in the labyrinthine alleyways beneath the motorway attempt to carry on with their lives in the snow and the slush. And south of the 8/81 is the Pox.
...was once a park, a place for reflection and recuperation for the patients of the Old Military Hospital. In the Twenties, it was used as a quarantine centre during a measles outbreak that killed many children. Most everyone has avoided the hospital and surrounding park ever since.
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The Pox is completely wild now. Evergreen thickets covered in snow and industrial dust. Feral dogs and even wolves roaming in packs. The police try to keep the deepest corners cordoned off.
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...heavy drug users do slip through and hole up in the Old Military Hospital, hoping to find something to get high on among the hastily abandoned supplies. Or just to overdose in peace.
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A line of motor garages with armoured carapaces, hunched in the cold. A mechanic is hard at work, patching up bullet holes in the side of a Coupris 40. These are the garages of Precinct 41. Snow settles on the roof of the re-purposed silk mill that serves as your station. Shivering RCM personnel hurry in and out of the main entrance.
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Patrol Officer Judit Minot stands in the corner, beneath the narrow awning that hangs over the main entrance. She is watching the snow absent-mindedly as she searches for her gloves in her briefcase.
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The surgeon watches her for a moment, pulling on his cigarette. "You know, it's not so cold that you're going to get frostbite without your gloves."
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She nods, then looks down at her hands. No frostbite, sure, but a web of thin red cracks around the wrists. She is visibly embarrassed by the delicacy of her skin.
Suddenly, she smiles at some thought that had just come to her, nods to the surgeon again, and sprints down the stairs, gloveless, into the falling snow.
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Map points
1- Observation · MartinaiseObservationDialogue · 1