Conversation · Scab Leader

"Can you tell me what the tattoo means?"

"What it means...." He points to one tiny star in the web of lines, away from the man's heart, almost on his stomach.

In what must have been Semenine.

"I can tell you what this one means. Only one." He squints at it. It's so small. "You wanna hear what happened here?"

"Actually, no." (Take the photo back.)

"Good choice." He nods.

The lieutenant turns to you. "I think we should maybe even get going now?"

There is absolutely no need to push this any further.

He clearly does not think poking the hornet's nest is a wise plan anymore.

"Yes."

"Our colonel is deep in the bush here. Deep in the fucking bush, in Banaital, '41... Monsoon season. He's on a reconnaissance mission."

Banaital is one of the inhabited islands of the Semenese archipelago, near the pale. Covered in jungle. It was the anchor point for the Semenese nationalists -- in the proxy war held on the islanders' territory.

"He's spent a month behind enemy lines scouting kipt villages. Nothing but fucking bugs and snakes for fun. Men are getting restless... there's talk of switching employers..." He licks his lips, as if drunk suddenly.

With some strange emotion. This is about to get really graphic. Last moment to back off.

Don't interrupt him. (Hear it.)

"Our boy -- he's only a captain then -- but he knows how these men think. If they don't see action soon..." His voice gets strangely quiet. A long, long way from right to work. His gaze pierces the paper.

"At dawn he comes upon two kipts, breeding in the bushes by the river. Or maybe they weren't breeding -- maybe they were just making eyes at each other. I like to think they were breeding..."

"We shot the boy, he was useless, but the girl... she was nice. A little fat you know. But not too old."

"Okay. This isn't useful." (Take the photo back.) "You knew him right?"

"What's the matter, militiaman... no stomach for it?" He looks at the photo in your hand and smiles. "This man was worth a thousand loincloths. We're done talking here."

Say nothing.

"She was quite the entertainment. For the week she lasted. Expired in the hands of Sarge Mason -- the kinda guy who'd make Chief there," he nods towards the man on the gates, "shit his pants and cry like a bitch."

"God..." He suddenly bursts out laughing. "Mason couldn't let go. Cut the tits off her cold body and fuckin' ate them. Said primitive spirits were watching over him now..."

Suddenly the laughter stops. "Drowned in a creek a week later. Spirits my ass."

Something stirs in your stomach.

The story must have stirred up some conflicting emotions. The man looks tired for a second...

There's a word on the tip of your tongue. Colourless, odourless. It's...

"You can have that." (Conclude.)

"Nah, you've earned it." He turns toward the gate, slowly, and yells: "All right now! FREE COMMERCE! KEEP THE GOODS FLOWING!"

On the photo in your hands -- the dead man's skin is studded with stars. Tens, hundreds of them, littering his dead skin.

"What is evil?"

"It's just... nature. This guy," he points at the picture, "he used to say evil is when nature and spirit meet in the wrong place."

"You were there?"

"No -- I was in the Domain. In Jamrock. Being a bouncer."

"No. I was somewhere else. That's just a guess. As to what this one little star on his belly might mean. I'm just a bouncer."

"You're not really a scab leader, are you?"

"Fucking mask is getting sweaty. I want take my mask off, but..." He shrugs.

He's under orders. And orders -- are orders.

"Can I have it back?" (Conclude.)

"Go ahead." He turns toward the gate, slowly, and yells: "All right now. FREE COMMERCE! KEEP THE GOODS FLOWING!"

"Evil."

"You bet it was."

"Actually, no." (Take the photo back.) "You knew him right?"

"It was on your colonel." (Give him the photo.)

Wordless, he takes the photo and looks at it. Grey eyes dart back and forth on the glossy surface -- his face is unmoving.

"Of course. Yes. Forget about it. Let's discuss something else." (Cancel task.)

"Actually..." The lieutenant turns to you. "I think we should maybe even get going now?"

He clearly does not think poking the hornet's nest is a wise plan anymore.

Another grunt. He's turned his attention to the gates and seems tense.

"We're investigating a murder. These tattoos were on the victim's body." (Give him the photo.)

"Don't think so," he grunts.

"I'm just going to leave now." [Leave.]

"Maybe."

"Hey tough guy, I had more questions."

"Excuse me, I had further inquiries."

"RIGHT TO WORK!!" the man chants, then turns to you. "Back again, eh? Here to show the militia's support for our cause?"

"Uh. I'll be going now." [Leave.]

"What kind of a cause are we talking about?"

"Rights of people. Rights of workers. To have gainful employment. To make a salary and feed their families."

His manner of speaking is wooden, the tone of voice bland and uninspired. Almost as if compiling replies from a set of learned phrases.