Conversation · Washerwoman

You know, there could be another way. You'll need to go some place private and discreet, though. Your room in the Whirling would do...

"Do you know who takes the cream off these deals? Real estate developers, construction companies, restaurant owners, Claire's accountants in La Delta..."

"Have some integrity. You're an officer of the law, not some fat slug's corrupt little crony."

It's okay. She's emotional right now. Keep at it, wear her out.

"I could try to ask Evrart to pay you some money..."

"You got to be smart, read the fine print, think ahead, look for opportunities..."

"And what do you think I'm doing right now, Mr. RCM?!" The scrub brush flies into the bucket so furiously some splashes hit your face.

Tastes like soap. Unsurprisingly.

"Sign it or I'll have the RCM turn this place upside down. We're gonna find something..."

You catch the lieutenant's side-glance, but he doesn't say anything.

He did not like that.

"What you'll find is poverty and abandon." She grins. "Not much of a threat you've got there."

Uh, I can't come up with anything else to say.

Maybe just look at her with big pleading eyes?

"Perhaps some... 'financial compensation' would change your mind?" (Wink.)

"Cops bribing citizens? Doesn't it usually go the other way around?" She doesn't wait for your reply.

It's really in her best interest to listen to you. You know how the world works.

"The policeman." She squints at you. "What can our village do for you?"

The old woman still hums her unknown song. She opens her eyes to acknowledge your presence.

There's a gap where the name of that song should be. You should ask her about it, right now!

The woman next to a bucket of clothes hums an odd melody. Her eyes are closed.

"Welcome to the fishing village." She opens her eyes. "Please lean in closer. I have cataracts."

Then how does she know you're here?

"Later." [Leave.]

"I won't be going anywhere." She side-eyes the bucket full of clothes.

"Uh, what if I don't want to?"

"Tut, tut. Don't be shy now. It's going to be alright."

Lean forward.

"Oh." A shadow passes over her face. "Welcome, police officer. We don't cause any trouble around here -- and we don't want any trouble either."

"We're not here to cause any trouble, madam."

Trouble? Say the second thing, bratan! Shows you got style.

"We're cops. We're hellraisers. Click, click. Bang, bang!" (Point your finger pistols at her.)

"No, you're not. I've seen you around here before. Twelve years ago. You didn't raise any hell -- you were quite helpful, actually. But, still, in Martinaise you're considered an ill omen."

"Wait, I've been here before?"

"No, not you personally. I meant the RCM. Some of the men got into a fight, one of them killed another. Locked himself in that woodshed over there," she points to the building behind her.

"He was brooding, needed some help opening the door. You got it open for him and took him to think about what he'd done in a more secluded place. Somewhere more quiet."

She says it as if he was on some kind of spiritual retreat.

"What kind of an ill omen are we talking about?"

"Oh, the usual. Dark tidings. Black hound."

That's you alright. A black hound licking your own heels.

"I am an ill omen, alright." (Proceed.)

"You're not. No one around here considers us an ill omen. People would have told us."

"Maybe they're afraid."

"Why?"

"Because you're an ill omen. But you're still welcome here as long as men with guns aren't chasing you. And maybe even then, because that's the kind of fishing village we've built."

"I'm sorry there's not a lot of room to park your motor carriage. And not a lot of houses. Or a lot of people. My kids are long gone... searching for treasure. So are others'."

"Ah, look at me ramble on." She waves her hand. "What brings you to us?"

"You're still welcome here." She nods. "As long as men with guns aren't chasing you. And maybe even then, because that's the kind of fishing village we've built."

"If I'm considered an ill omen, why hasn't anyone told me that?" (Proceed.)

"I'm a cop, I don't cause trouble, I take care of trouble."

"Oh, of course. Last time we saw you around here was... twelve years ago. You also came to take care of trouble then. Which you did... but, still, in Martinaise you're considered an ill omen."

"What he said. We're cops: We don't cause trouble, we take care of trouble."

"We're cops. We're hellraisers. Click, click. Bang, bang!"

"If you can't see, then how did you know I was here?"

"I still have a golden ear. Come-come." She beckons you toward her.

You're not sure about the melody, but it might be South Samaran, possibly Siigayan (also known as the Apricot Suzerainty).

The old woman still sits in her chair, continuing with her chores. As she does so, she quietly hums to herself.

The buzz of electric lights blends together with the slow rumble of ocean waves at night.

Don't bother her. [Leave.]

She keeps humming, nodding her head back and forth to her unknown melody.