Conversation · Acele

"Hard-cop." She nods to you with respect and turns off her recording device.

The tape recorder lies on the ice like a discarded toy. Pick it up.

The device is still warm from her touch -- and heavy as a brick, from the batteries inside. The company logo "Omicron" adorns its yellow plastic cover. Inside, the tape is rolling -- the girl looks at the device in your hands.

Put the tape recorder down.

Nothing to emote over. You put the device back on the ice.

"I'm sorry you have to sit here on this coast, feeling miserable. At your age -- or at any age -- in this place... waiting for it to get dark."

She looks you in the eye, her pupils wide, surrounded by a ridiculous amount of make-up.

"The people who built this world intended it to be better for you, but they failed. It is easier to live in their failure with this by your side." (Tap on the tape recorder.)

The wind howls. She remains silent.

It's real. Tell her.

"It is not a childish fantasy. It can be a real weapon against what's coming for you now."

"What is...?" Her shoulders shake a little.

"I'm once again reminded of how Contact Mike rose from the slums of Saint-Batiste to the top of the boxing world, overcoming adversity and serious brain trauma. Nothing is coming -- nothing he wouldn't knock out in three rounds. The real fight is for the right attitude."

"I can't believe this turned into another Mike thing... Fine, okay, I'll stick to it." She takes the device from you and places it in her lap. "I'll knock it out in three rounds."

There is little you can do to help her now, but given the chance you feel like you should. There is something about her. A weightiness.

After a moment of silence she speaks again: "So, thanks. I guess. For the psych session. I guess that means we're... even?" She smiles a little.

She means your little talk before, after your breakdown. It's all right, she means to say. You returned the favour.

Something changes between you two. She looks at you differently now -- as an equal. A fellow human being.

After a moment of silence she speaks again: "So, thanks. I guess. For the psych session. Maybe I can return it -- what's been eating you, officer?"

"The dark."

"I know." Her teeth rattle. She takes the device from you and places it in her lap. "I'll stick to it."

"Nothing, if you got this. Don't be scared."

"Okay." Her teeth rattle. She takes the device from you and places it in her lap. "I'll stick to it."

"I'm sorry you have to sit here on the ice, feeling miserable. At your age -- or at any age -- in this weather... waiting for it to get dark."

The device is cold to the touch. An angular "Omicron" logo adorns the yellow plastic cover. Underneath you see a reel of tape rolling. You put the device back on the ice.

"I got shot in the leg." (Point at your limb.)

"Ouch." She looks at your leg. "I did notice you limping, but I thought maybe it was your 'thing' or something..."

"When I was sixteen I used to date this guy who had a limp. But it only showed when he was sober, so I guess it wasn't real or something. I don't know." She shrugs, eyes glazed over...

"Anyway…" She turns back to you. "Shot in the leg... I'm sorry, man, that must suck."

"You said eating me? There's nothing eating me."

"C'mon, I can tell." She shakes her head slowly. "But, okay, be a boiadeiro about it if you want to."

"I guess... there is something... that's been making my life hell."

"What is it?" She listens intently.

"I think it's the plight of the working class."

"Oh, really?"

"The golem of capital runs rampant, smashing creator and slave alike. I fear the process is irreversible."

"Wow. Social justice really matters that much to you? That's commendable. It really had you shaken up there... are you sure that's it, though?"

"No, that's probably not it, is it?"

"No, it sounds like you've just got chick issues."

"You could be right, but I don't know for certain."

"Well... think about, anyway. Was there something else?"

"Now that you mention it, I found these letters I'd thrown in the trash. They might have something to do with it."

"Okay, why do you think that?"

"They were written in a woman's hand. And oh boy did reading them make me not feel good."

"There you have it then. Chick trouble. Who is she?"

"No idea. Haven't seen her, definitely haven't called her. I don't remember a single thing about her."

"Really?" She appears to believe you. "You seem pretty upset about this chica... are you sure you don't remember anything about her? Eyes? Hair colour?"

"I remember her scent and that's all."

"Wow, man. That's some pretty strange shit..." She rubs her sides for warmth. "Are you sure the letters were for you?"

"Come to think of it -- the whore could have written them to her lover!"

"C'mon, man. Don't be like that. I mean, maybe she did, but you don't know that."

Feels good though, doesn't it? The sting.

"What's there to know in this shit hole, anyway?"

"Beats me." She exhales a puff of shimmering cold air. A moment passes.

"How come you don't remember though? Is it, like, some selective memory thing?"

"You might have a point there. Selective memory."

"Yeah, or it might just be psych bullshit, you know? Königstein wank."

"Alright, I had some questions for you."

"Sure."

"What is this Königstein wank?"