Conversation · Jean Vicquemare
Speakers · 29
Jean Vicquemare
Judit Minot
Esprit de Corps
Trant Heidelstam
Inland Empire
You
Perception (Hearing)
Kim Kitsuragi
Authority
Cuno
Suggestion
Conceptualization
Shivers- Perception (Sight)
Rhetoric
Logic
Volition
Pain Threshold
Encyclopedia
Reaction Speed
Endurance
Physical Instrument
Savoir Faire
Hand/Eye Coordination- Perception (Smell)
Empathy
Composure
Drama
Electrochemistry
When
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"I don't want to. But you discovered a new species. And solved the murder..." He shrugs.
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"Okay." He sighs. "We have vehicles in the square. And the perpetrator needs to be taken into custody. Let's go."
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- "You manipulative fuck... Fine. It's cold and we have vehicles in the square. And the perp needs to be taken into custody too -- let's get a move on."
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- "You manipulative son of a bitch..." He shakes his head and sniffles. "It is cold, and we have vehicles in the square. The perp needs to be taken into custody. Let's get a move on."
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"Us? We're the Bloody Murder Station, haven't you heard? We're the bad guys. No one likes us."
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"That's not true. Jamrock is too big for one precinct. You're just understaffed. And everyone respects the 41st -- you have Captain Pryce."
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"Thank you, lieutenant. You're being kind. It is an understaffed station and the district is too big -- which is why we need to..." He tilts his head northward...
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"So he remembers that... Yes, there may have been a raid on some churches. It wasn't good press."
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"Our enemies were hiding in a church -- to the best of our information. That's it. I'm not talking about this anymore. Your security clearance is shit-tier right now. You have to wait for it to go up."
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Your clearance will not go up while you're within earshot of the Union headquarters.
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"Okay -- it's not the Bloody Murder Station. It's an old converted silk mill with green desk lamps and a coffee corner. A lot of good people work there. Hard. Every day."
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"Jamrock is the largest ghetto in Revachol. Faubourg, technically... but it's divided into eleven districts. Jamrock only has us."
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"The press will blow over," he says in a reassuring tone. "Jamrock is lucky to have you. And it's often considered to be the greatest of the districts -- you're lucky to have it."
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"Cuno's likin' this shit. Jamrock is the real shit -- Martinaise is fucking white as balls. Sea-shit. This ain't a real ghetto."
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"God..." He sighs. "There are four wings, Harry: A, B, C, and D. We're in C. It's made of losers and clock-punchers. You and I re-conceptualized it as a task force. It was a mistake."
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"There's also a lot of outside help involved. Not only me." He smiles. "Other losers too."
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He's anything but a loser. Although he would like to be seen as one. It's cooler that way.
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Somewhere under the curved roof of a former silk factory, shaped like a ladybird with two chimneys, Police Captain Ptolemy Pryce sits behind a heavy wooden desk. Resident medic Nix Gottlieb pours him coffee. It's silent in the captain's office...
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They speak of change. The city. The tension on the streets. They speak of the events of April and the blood on the streets in May.
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"Mack 'The Torso' Torson and Chester McLaine --" She arches an eyebrow. "They're not fit to run a wing. Believe me. Things are shaky as it is."
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"Yeah -- not like us. Two clinically depressed old men. Where's the contrast here? We're garbage."
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"What?! Bitches dream of the 41st. Why you think Cuno's in this shit? Word is it's fucking violent. Your Captain Pryce dusted like... a thousand people."
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"Thank you, Cuno," he says with an amused half-smile. "You're being kind. It's an understaffed station and the district is too big -- which is why we need to..." He tilts his head northward and clicks his tongue.
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"Okay. It's an understaffed station where there's too much work, so we need to get back to it. It's not your problem anymore."
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"Fuck it, let's go." The man points down the street. "Trant brought his motor carriage. It's a 20 minute drive to Jamrock."
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Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A dark chessboard of wooden houses in the rain, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the rainswept horizon...
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- Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A chessboard of old wooden houses in the snow, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the horizon...
- Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A dark chessboard of wooden houses in the rain, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the rainswept horizon...
- Under the violet morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the glowing horizon...
- The great district hums with the noise of human habitation: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Grand Couron, from Precinct 41 to Boogie Street forking into the distant horizon...
- Under the afternoon sky the great district hums: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the snowswept horizon...
- The great district hums in the falling rain: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Grand Couron, from Precinct 41 to Boogie Street forking into the rainswept horizon...
- Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street forking into the dark horizon...
- Under the violet morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the rainswept horizon...
- Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street forking into the snowswept horizon...
- Under the pink morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the snowswept horizon...
- Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street disappearing into the rain on the horizon...
- The great district hums in the slowly falling snow: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the white horizon...
- Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A black chessboard of old wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street forking into the darkened horizon...
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You close your eyes and hear the dogs bark. A lone woman sits by a factory window, dreaming of meteorite strikes. On Rue Saint-Gérôme a square bullet slides into a square-shaped chamber. In Old South a man without eyelids smiles. Spring has come. It's time.
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"Torson?" "Yes." "McLaine?" "Yes." "Heidelstam?" "No." "Vicquemare?" "Yes." "Du Bois?" "Of course."
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"Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's quite unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce points his pen at the doctor. It's dim in his office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through -- and when he does, he'll side with Revachol." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
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"Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce gestures with a ball point pen. It's dim in the office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through. When he does, he'll side with the people." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
"Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce gestures with a ball point pen. It's dim in the office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through. When he does, he'll side with the RCM." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
"Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce gestures with a ball point pen. It's dim in the office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through. He's always been... money over bitches." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
"Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's quite unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce gestures with a ball point pen. It's dim in the office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through. When he does, he'll side with Revachol." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
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- "Really?" Nix Gottlieb looks up from the list. "I hear he's quite unstable." "You say that like it's a bad thing," Captain Ptolemy Pryce points his pen at the doctor. It's dim in his office and the curtains are drawn. "Harry's our man, he'll pull through -- and when he does, he'll side with Revachol." "Understood." Gottlieb returns to the list. "Minot?" "Of course."
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"Wonderful," the woman looks north. "Then can we please just go back to Jamrock now?"
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