Conversation · Metal Grille Door

You can hear animated voices coming from the other side of the grille.

Bang on the grille.

The clang of metal reverberates all along the scaffolding. The voices coming from the other side fall silent.

A pair of frightened hares cowering in some dark crevice of their burrow.

"Who's there? Is that you, Maurice?"

"It's not Maurice, it's the police!"

"Ever hear of the Wayfarer Act, you Coalition pawn? Come back when you've got a warrant, or when you've woken up to your own class interests."

"That's exactly why I'm here! I'm trying to get organised. Can you help me?"

For a moment, silence.

A slight sensation of static electricity, as before a storm. A miniature conference is taking place inside, and you are the subject.

"What's the passphrase?"

"Look, I don't know your passphrase. Could you just let me in?"

"Not a chance. We can't afford to compromise our operation, not at this point. Come back when you know the passphrase."

"Look at that, the pig's trying to break in without the passphrase. Tsk, tsk." The girl shakes her head slowly.

"Let's go, detective. We'll get nowhere standing around in the snow." The lieutenant brushes a few scales of snow off his jacket.

The metal grille is cool to the touch. The long stretches of canvas billow like sails in the night breeze.

"Let's go, detective. We'll get nowhere standing around in the rain." The lieutenant wipes back a wet lock of hair.

"Let's go, detective. We'll get nowhere standing around here in the dark." The moonlight reflects white in the lieutenant's glasses.

"Can't I get a hint at least?"

"It's 'The end times cometh'."

"Not even close."

"Perhaps he's drunk?" the other voice asks.

"It's 'Disco Supernova'."

"No, it's not. We don't do ironic passphrases here."

"Is it '1234'?"

"Are you locked out of your radiocomputer or something? No, it's not '1234'."

"It's 'We await the silent mole empire'."

"He said something about moles. Perhaps he's just a night-wandering lunatic."

"It's 'Blessed are the sausage grinders'."

"Did he say something about sausages?" The voice appears completely confused by your response

"It's 'Remember Dobreva and Abadanaiz'."

There's no response. You begin to wonder whether they've slipped out some back way...

No! They're still there. You can feel them back there.

"Alright. The key's taped to the back of the doorframe. Just make sure you put it back when you're done or we'll all be locked out..."

"And do watch the concrete. It just kind of... falls away... in places."

"Charmant. After you, detective."

"Have fun at your underground meeting, pig. Hope it's a blast."

"Are you all communists? I'm looking for some communists."

"Who said communist? Did we say communist? Get out of here."

"Listen, I've already built like .0001% of communism but now I need to get organised. Can you help me?"

"That's right. It is I... Maurice."

"Come crawling back already? Get out of here, traitor!"

"Uhh..."

"That's right!" Another voice jumps in. "Take your miniscule, bourgeois turnips and get lost!"

Face it, sire, your little subterfuge isn't leading anywhere.

"I'm not actually Maurice. I'm trying to get organised. Can you help me?"

[Leave.]

Try to listen.

You can make out at least two separate voices.

Two voices, both male. Approximately early 20s.

"... Careful with those now..."

"I have it. It's going to work, I can feel it..."

The voices are male, you think. Beyond that, you can't tell...

"Hey, it's me again!" (Knock on the grille.)

You hear the voices conferring once again.

"He came back?" There's a note of surprise in the voice. "Do you have the passphrase this time?"

As you approach the metal grille you can hear several voices having what appears to be an animated discussion.

This must be it. Beyond this door lies the beating heart of radical communism in Martinaise.

Somehow the night air softens the smell of trash and sea brine. As the breeze pulls through the canvas like a shuttle through a loom you catch a hint of something unexpected, something earthy, warm, and burnt...

The acrid smell of failure...