Conversation · Soona, the Programmer

"Apologies, I was just thinking out loud. Go on."

"What?" She snorts with disdain. "I'm not going anywhere. This is a public space and I am free to bend the circuit as I find necessary. Besides..."

A small satisfied smile breaks free on her face, infuriatingly triumphant.

"I'm protected by the Wayfarer Act."

"No, please, not the Wayfarer Act again..." (Close your eyes.)

"It's the Wayfarer Act again," the lieutenant says, nodding. "You can't just throw citizens out of public spaces, at least not legally."

"Yes, thank you. Now, if you'd only let me work..."

"The Wayfarer Act states that citizens have the right to gather in public spaces unless they're disrupting the public order."

"And she's not. Disrupting any order, I mean."

"I'm a circuit bender and no one ever has anything against circuit benders."

Look at how pleased she is with herself, playing with her 'important science machines'. Academics!!

"And before you go on, I am not disrupting any order here, I'm a circuit bender and no one has anything against circuit benders."

"It's really hard to be a cop with all these laws!"

(Cross your arms.) "There is no Wayfarer Act."

"Ah, but there is and it protects me!"

"What's the Wayfarer Act?"

"Gotcha. It's almost party time!"

(Ignore him and address the lead programmer) "I want you to take your belongings and leave within an hour."

"Interesting, a police officer trying to evict a citizen from a public space despite the Wayfarer Act."

Evict her.

All you hear is the accelerated heart rate in your ears, pounding at 100bpm. Beat by beat, your blood readies for conflict.

"You better start going if you don't want to be frogmarched to the jail." (Roll up your sleeves.)

"God..." She immediately steps back and raises her hands, sensing the aggression. "Easy now, I'll go. It's not an issue. Can I pack my things first?"

"Fuck your things. Get out now."

"Is that really necessary, detective?"

"Okay, I'm going. You can tell the ravers that they can move in."

She turns off her computer and leaves.

"Okay, I'm going. You can tell the ravers that they can move in."

(Nod once.) "Just make sure you're gone by the time I get back."

The lieutenant sighs, but says nothing.

"Okay." She lets out a relieved sigh. "I'll go make a phone call outside and then return for my things. You can tell the ravers that they can move in."

She turns off her computer and leaves.

"Okay." She lets out a relieved sigh. "I'll go make a phone call outside and then return for my things. You can tell the ravers that they can move in."

"You're leaving this church..." (Take out your gun.) "...one way or another."

"Detective..."

There's caution in his voice.

"God..." The girl immediately steps back and raises her hands. "Easy now, I'll go, it's not an issue! Can I pack my things first?"

"Put the gun down, detective." The lieutenant's voice is low and firm.

"Miss, I need you to be gone from this church when I come back." (Put away your gun.)

"I'm not putting down my gun unless she promises to be gone when I come back."

"I promise, I promise!" she exclaims, words echoing below the ceiling rafters.

Finally, compliance.

Her lower lip is quivering.

"Good." (Put away your gun.)

You're not really feeling it, but you should try to force it, anyway. Maybe she won't be able to tell?

"I don't care about the Wayfarer Act! Get out of here!" (Stomp your feet.)

"No, but you see, it doesn't matter whether you care about it or not. It's the law," she explains to you without even sparing a look, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Please just go, will you? Please... Pretty please, I don't want to fight. Fighting is scary, and gives me breathing difficulties."

"Have some dignity," the woman sighs, turning back to her radiocomputer.

The lieutenant pretends he didn't see your little temper tantrum, preferring to inspect the golden stained glass window instead.

"You're right. The Wayfarer Act is the foundation of our legal order. I can't cross it on a whim. You're welcome to stay."

"Of course I can stay. It wasn't even a question."

"Wait, I have my... I have my..." (Take out your gun.)

But you don't take out your gun -- instead you fumble with the holster, desperately trying to free the weapon from its pouch... It looks pathetic.

I can't do it. I don't feel scary.

She's still typing behind the radiocomputer, her sweater-clad frame hunched over the machine.

You don't feel scary? What are you, some kind of diva?

Come up with a site for a mega-longwave radio antenna.

Close your eyes. Unfold your mental map of Martinaise. It's morning. You're standing on the plaza before the Whirling-in-Rags.

The wind pushes a piece of tare across the cracked tiles. From the north comes the malicious laughter of two children...