Conversation · Joyce Messier

"You've been to Martinaise before?"

"Yes, I was slumming it with some girl-friends of mine. We had boats and..." She smiles. "Don't hold it against me -- my paramour certainly did not."

"Sounds like you miss those times."

"Not overly so. It's not like this was the only place we visited -- me and my girlfriends from Ozonne with our shiny boats, like reavers..."

"We told ourselves we were the worst thing to happen to the coast since the Coalition landed in '08. Imagine!" She tosses her head.

Oh no -- she's sentimental all right. Why would she come here otherwise?

And something more. Something deeper rooted, like a sickness.

"If you say so."

"I'm over-radiated, detective," she spurts out. "I do silly things sometimes -- out of pale-related sickness. Like sail over here. The moral of the story is..."

"Do not spend 22 days a year in pale transit, don't waste your twenties slumming it with your stupid friends, and don't deliver Evrart Claire's mail." Her bony finger is pointed like an arrow at your chest...

"Are you satisfied, detective? What else can you tell me about your mail delivery quest for Evrart? Do you think it will improve the place?"

She's pointing it quite hard in there. Feels like a knife.

The temperature between her skin and her hydrophobic raincoat rises, warming the Numb 12 perfume she's imbibed herself with. You have no other option but to say...

"Numb 12."

She smells the cold air, then withdraws her hand slowly.

An imperceptible droplet lingers. Sweet like the scent of chewing gum on some letter, long ago...

Below her hydrophobic raincoat, in the humidity between her skin and the neoprene. And on the silk scarf on her neck, a perfume. You have no other option but to say its name...

"I'm over-radiated, detective," she spurts out. "I do silly things sometimes -- out of pale-related sickness. Like take this job. The moral of the story is..."

So it was a factor in her coming to Martinaise in the first place? Interesting.

"Why did you come here then? To this jetty?"

Oh no -- she's sentimental all right.

She's sentimental all right. You don't know enough about her to find out why exactly. She will keep her secrets for now.

"When you were a teen? Slumming it, like you told me before?"

"I'm glad to see your short-term memory appears intact. In any case, I wasn't a teen anymore, I would have been in my early twenties. I remember a distinctly vile disco track..."

"Disco is vile."

"Not as vile as me..." She looks over the bay, her green eyes shining.

"Disco isn't vile."

"It is -- but not as vile as me..." She looks over the bay, her green eyes shining.

"Hah! I think I was in my twenties actually. I'm ashamed to say I wasn't a teen anymore. It must have been my early twenties, because I remember a particularly vile disco track."

"You would prefer something else? Not a youth centre?"

"First, there won't be a youth centre, whatever he's told you or the residents. It'll be something horrific. Perhaps even worse than a statue -- so yes, I do."

"Like what?"

"A fishery. I've been speaking with Lilienne here. She gave me the idea. The infrastructure is all here, and with my connections..."

"Sadly, it's just one of the million things I'll never get around to. I just have to accept that I'll never be the rich candy-girl who goes around solving people's problems with money."

"What size boots do you wear, madam?"

"What?" She looks at the soles of her tiny green rubber boots: "Thirty-five, I think. Why? I have mutant's feet. Very small."

The prints are hers.

"So you're sad you can't buy the place?" (Conclude.)

"Yes. I'm sad I will never have the time, detective -- I've always wanted a dilapidating fishing village."

She is more defensive about it than usual.

"Full of ghosts and ancient memories." She smiles. "Has this errand yielded you any... information?"

"He wants to build a youth centre here. For the children of Martinaise."

"A youth centre with Edgar Claire's statue on top of it!" She looks down the jetty, remorsefully.

"Go ahead, help him. Make it so. I have no power to stop him."

The humidity crawls under your skin. Your eyes track her gaze: past the net picker... toward the concrete square of the nameless village off the coast of Martinaise.

Close your eyes.

The concrete plates cross to meet in an abstract shape, in them: small footprints -- impressions left by rubber boots. Small rubber boots.

Keep them open.

"A youth centre with Edgar Claire's statue on top of it..." Her eyes run across the water, remorsefully.

"Nowhere. Let's change the topic."

"Of course -- to other matters you've discussed perhaps?"

"To a nameless settlement, down the coast. Nearby."

"Ah yes, I've been meaning to go there..." She looks over the bay.

With longing... clear and simple longing. Strange. Why does she want to go there?

"Hmh," she nods with well-contained curiosity.

She's not even asking you anything. It's so easy to just say...

"You have?" She smiles, carefully. "And how did you like Mr. Claire?"

Finally -- time to choose SIDES.

"I have the feeling the international community does not approve of him."

"Oh, come on now! He has his uses -- how else would he have stayed in power all these years? Or wait -- actually..." She answers her own question: