Conversation · The Hanged Man

"How much are we talking about?"

"For a full set -- about four years of wages."

For the Northwest Region of Revachol, an officer's average yearly income is 5,500 reál (unadjusted for rank).

"That's a lot, I take it?"

"As a wage, it's regrettably small. But for a piece of hardware -- yes, that's a lot."

"Wait -- my yearly pay is 5,500 reál?"

"Not too much, yes."

"Pathetic. I need to hustle more and hate less."

"I have no idea what that means."

"Sounds puny. No wonder I can't pay my hostel bill."

"It's a sorry situation, I agree."

"It's enough."

The lieutenant nods, wiping his finger on his sleeve.

"Ka-ching, baby!" (Nod to the boots.)

"By ka-ching do you mean..." He tilts his head. "'Let's not log them as evidence, let's steal them'?"

What was that about the Constabulatory before? You need to push some buttons if you want to recruit the lieutenant in a conspiracy.

"No. That's not what I meant."

"Of course." He nods.

The lieutenant nods often. It's part of his un-plastic expression range, communicating both professionalism and sarcasm. This time, the latter.

"That is what ka-ching means, yes."

"Mhm. It means 'disciplinary hearing'." The lieutenant nods, wiping his finger on his sleeve.

"If this Constabulatory is dragging their feet why not start ourselves, before more good men die?"

"So they don't get shot in the foot? I think our extremities are fine without a dead man's boots."

"Uhm..."

Oops. Well, no one said it would work. Back to detecting now.

"Yeah."

"Okay then -- what kind of armour is this?"

Thanks, super useful to know.

It's all you, baby.

Back off.

"What kind of boots are these?"

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

Look him in the eye.

His eyes are milky white and blind to the world, protruding comically from their sockets. There is no one home, just sub-aquatic terrors there.

These eyes used to be blue. Baby blue.

Dark brown hair grows on his head, his face is ready to explode from the organic processes inside. The death's head grin has passed, what remains is an unrecognisable mess.

Underneath the curdled meat there is an expression, not carried on his features but below, inside: an expression of pleasure. This man was experiencing joy at the moment of his death.

"This man enjoyed the moment of death."

"Why do you think so?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm..." The lieutenant marks something in his notebook.

I am less sceptic about this hunch, he thinks, than I was of the supra-natural premonitions that overtook you at the trash container. He then covers his nose again...

"For supra-natural reasons."

"There are no supra-natural reasons," the lieutenant says, marking something in his notebook.

"It's an intuition."

"Okay." The lieutenant marks something in his notebook.

(Back off.)

The corpse looks right through you as you distance yourself from its stench, eyes like a shark...

"His eyes, they used to be blue."

"Good. The victim is of Occidental descent," he scribbles in his notebook. "Light brown hair -- blue eyes."

When he says Occidental he means white. Originally from the Occidental sub-continent on Mundi.

"Occidental?"

"I mean white."

"Tell me, who are you, dead man?"

I'm gone.

The corpse is dead silent. You have no idea why you just said that.

"Who is he? He is male, forty to fifty. With an athletic build."

"Yup. The preliminary examination is done -- let's get him down from there."

Squint and take a step back.

As you narrow your eyes, the monster before you blurs into a violent mess of green and pink.