Conversation · The Hanged Man

"I should get a drink."

"No. You should not get a drink. You should perform an initial inspection of the victim's corpse -- we're on the rope part."

"This is a bad time for a drink, right?"

"Extremely."

[Leave.]

Inspect the boots.

The material appears to be ceramic. Its clean white stands in stark contrast to the decaying flesh above the knee. The man wore thick polymer socks, probably for padding. A fine array of interlocking plates covers them.

Delicate and fragile, they feel alien to the world around you. Out of place somehow.

These are clearly not boots, they're armour. Possibly part of a larger set.

"These aren't just boots, are they -- they're armour."

"Indeed..." With his notebook under his arm the lieutenant crouches to inspect the soles: "Technically speaking these are sabatons, not boots."

Oh! The lieutenant uses a Mnemotechnique A6 -- that's not just any notebook, it's a classic!

Forget about the notebook -- tell me about the armour!

It's clearly some manner of super-armour. Or future armour? Super-future armour? I'm useless.

"What kind of armour is this exactly?"

"Ceramic plate. Zirconium dioxide most likely. This is where the make would be..."

"Where?"

"Under the heel. Fairweather..." He turns the boot slightly. "Fairweather model T-500 / VE. I'm guessing that's 'vitreous enamel'. This is advanced stuff."

(Back off and look at the corpse.)

"How could this man afford such expensive hardware?"

"He worked for Krenel -- like Joyce told us. This is military equipment, provided by a wealthy security contractor. With state ties. Way above what we have."

"Looks like he worked for a private contractor -- like Evrart told us. Wealthy. With state ties. This is way above what we have."

"That's for us to find out." He checks his notes. "Mr... Garte implied he was security personnel for the harbour company. This confirms my own assumptions."

"Okay. Makes sense."

"No." He shakes his head. "Your first instinct was correct. This equipment is way beyond what a security guard can afford."

"These look pretty advanced for a security guard."

"I agree. This equipment is way beyond what a guard can afford."

"Initial report?"

"Just something I scraped together from my station. An area report on Martinaise. I'm sure you did the same..."

He's not actually sure of that. He's just being tactful.

"That's for us to find out. My initial report on the area suggests he was a security guard for the harbour company -- but that's just hearsay."

Knock on the boot.

A small bell-like sound fills the air. Like tapping on the side of a porcelain cup.

The prybar in your hand is itching for some action.

Punch it harder.

Your fist connects to the boot with the same ding. The sound does not appear to get louder.

The only difference is a barely audible click underneath. Sounds like the end of a long dice roll.

The lieutenant cups his ear: "Did you hear that? A click?"

"Yes, like dice rolling."

"This is a kinetic re-distributor. It spreads the incoming energy horizontally, from plate to plate. When the plates connect, there's a click. That's the sound you heard." He points to the toe. "See these lines?"

Faint, organic lines cover the plates where they separate into smaller ones. These plates then divide into smaller plates, until there are hundreds of them altogether...

...like whorls of floorboards. The design looks organic, influenced by highly resistant wood materials, like Lignum Vitae and ebony perhaps.

What does this remind me of?

If trees were made of porcelain, this is what their cross-sections would look like.

Run your finger over the lines.

The smooth glossy surface fractures into ever more intricate interconnections, peaking on the right sabaton, where you notice...

The whorls are in the shape of a letter and number combination: E50.100.1000.

(Point to it.) "Looks like there's a serial number on the right sabaton."

"Good. Can you read it to me?" He tips the drying ball point of his pen on his tongue.

X54156745678222! Let's lie.

"E50.100.1000."

"We have a make and a number -- that's something. We can use the radio in my Kineema when we're done. Either station can chase it for us."

"X54156745678222."

"That doesn't sound like a serial number. Where's the structure and logic of a line of manufactured products..." He pauses to think. "No matter. We should run it anyway."

True. It didn't have the cadence and logic of a real manufactured item.

"Actually, I don't know why I lied. The number is: E50.100.1000."

"Officer, the decomposing corpse has temporarily suspended my sense of humour. Let's continue in a less playful manner." He pauses to think. "Anyway..."

"Yes. Let's run it as I said."

"We have a make and a number -- that's something. We can use the radio in my Kineema to run it later. Either station can chase it for us."

Not interested.