Conversation · Scab Leader

"RIGHT TO WORK! RIGHT TO WORK!" the ostensible leader of the strikebreakers chants furiously. "SHAME ON YOU!"

"I wasn't done asking questions."

He looks annoyed. "Things are busy enough. You going to waste less of my time?"

"We'll see."

The hulking man oozes stark scepticism.

"Are you a mercenary hired by Wild Pines?"

"FREE FLOW OF COMMERCE!" The man yells and wipes his face. Sweat is dripping down his brow.

Don't talk to him any longer. Just leave, please.

Say very quietly: "Is there a tribunal being convened by any chance?"

"Fucking bug..." He breathes out slowly -- his giant chest deflating and his mouth slightly open.

A punch is not imminent, but it's being cocked. Hard.

You hear a tiny rattle, a small radio, cracking somewhere -- an earpiece?

I'm going to interpret that as a yes. There's a tribunal. And it won't be long until it's ready.

"How about you fuck off now, huh?"

"Okay. Of course." The lieutenant says, his voice a soothing calm. He looks at you.

There could be weapons aiming at us right now -- somewhere above, in the buildings. The other merc. Don't push this -- he's thinking -- this is not the time.

"'Hell no, I'm just an honest scab?' That didn't sound too convincing."

"Fucking loincloth..." He stares you down mutely for a second.

Loincloth? Now, you see, that's not really what a scab would say is it? Better not to press the issue further, sire. He seems... tense.

"Okay." (Back off.)

The man's breathing steadies but his eyes are still narrow. Slowly he's trying to get his 'Right to Work' dance back on...

It's hard to do that, when you want to beat a man into a pulp instead.

"Hell no. I'm just an honest scab. I won't have talk like that around here, you understand?"

His neck muscles tense up, the veins on his neck bulge. Be careful -- he's holding it deep in but there are things in there you don't want to meet.

It just has to be said -- that was not a convincing line.

"Okay, I gotta ask. Where exactly are you from?"

"What's it to you?" Deep-set suspicion drips from every syllable.

"I thought you looked real familiar for a second there."

"No, don't think we've met before." His eyes narrow with mistrust. "I came to help out the people."

Every once in a while, it is like you can see glimpses of another guy under the guise of this fighter for jobs. He seems a more brutal, cunning and suspicious person. Just a hunch. Or... you just might be paranoid!

"Makes sense, I guess. Never mind, not gonna pry."

The man has turned his attention elsewhere, he shakes his fist slowly -- while observing you from the corner of his eye.

"Already got that. I'm interested in your background."

"We're all workers. Right? Workers stick together. Came from the Eminent Domain, in Jamrock. Background's in odd-jobs -- heavy lifting, cargo hauling, bouncer work. I know the drill."

A monstrous shadow, high above the firetraps of the Domain -- the 8/81 motorway running over this district of Jamrock. Concrete pillars rise up from the midst of the dilapidated wooden houses. On the horizon, barely visible, the hazy machinery of the harbour...

Shudder and breathe on your hands.

Life in the Domain is even worse off than in Martinaise. The cold air is stiff from the fumes of motor carriages and lorries roaring overhead.

Below -- broken-down, battered people mill on the dusty streets with no purpose. Yet amongst them there is no sight of this man. Nowhere.

"A bouncer? Where? I frequent a lot of bars, maybe it's one I know."

"Worked at... Territorial. Ring a bell?"

Pretty okay, as far as lies go.

"Not right now, but I might have been there. I don't really remember things well."

"Uh huh. Was a long time ago." The man is quickly losing interest in talking with you.

"Yeah, I think I've been there."

"Never heard of it. Are you lying?"

He squints at you -- a little spark of violence gutters in his eyes. Then he blinks and turns to his men. "We're done here. I have a strike to break."

He's stopping this to control himself. You were on to something.

"I don't really drink. But work has taken me to some. Which one was it?"

"You're not from The Domain."

"Yeah?" The man grunts. "What makes you say that?"

"It's a... gut feeling."

"Your gut's got too much alcohol in it. Getting delirious." The bulky man guffaws and turns away from you, focusing again on the harbour gates.

"I don't know what makes me say that."

The beefy man snorts and spits on the ground. "Yeah. I don't know either." He turns his attention back to the harbour gates.

"No one there knows you."

The beefy man snorts and spits on the ground. "They know me -- that's bullshit." He turns his attention back to the harbour gates.

"Sweet, I know bars. Been thrown out from several. Maybe that's why you seem familiar."

Don't. No need. Focus on something else.

"So anyway, cop. That's where I'm from. It would be stupid to doubt that."

"Curiosity. Going to figure out this strike mess."