Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"Why do you ask?" She seems unsurprised.

Just have her answer the question. Don't give explanations.

"It came to me in an occult vision."

"Occult vision? Of course. I do not -- for one moment -- think it wasn't an occult vision. I do not doubt the signs, but maybe..." She draws it out...

"...mayyyybe you're interpreting them wrong? He enjoyed life, you see. A little too much, if anything. Up to the point where other people had to pay for it."

Everything checks out here. It's all A-Okay. Good answer.

No, it doesn't check out. Can't you see she's clearly avoiding something here?

That's a strange thing to suggest. The laedy iseth faere and juste!

"Wow. A superstar and a mystic. How intriguing. I have no doubt this is all adequate and true. I do not doubt the signs, but maybe..." She draws it out...

"Wow. A mystic. How intriguing. I have no doubt this is all adequate and true. I do not doubt the signs, but maybe..." She draws it out...

"It's just a feeling I have. Indulge me."

"Well, it's wrong. He had too many drinks to down and too many bad things to do. Couldn't tap out just yet."

"Please answer the question, miss. Did he enjoy the moment of his death?"

"I don't think he enjoyed dying, officer. He had too much left to do -- too many third world conflicts. Couldn't tap out just yet."

"Where is Lelystad? The place, I mean."

"In Oranje, officer. It's a... I think municipality is the term? A nowhere-town there."

The Lelystad municipality has few boroughs and even fewer cities -- it's made of agricultural plots near the border of Gottwald. Executive summary: cows, silos, and wheat.

Oranje? Oranjese map of waterways? This fits with his tattoo.

"This means his race was Occidental, which fits the statements of another witness," the lieutenant says, pleased.

"Hold on, Kim. I did not know this was a competition."

"It isn't. Police work is a cooperative sport."

There is no challenge without competition. There must be an opponent.

This is clearly a sport for him. Something like archery -- or darts?

"It's still about getting hits, right? And not missing?"

"That's too pinball for me. I just like to get autopsies right on the first try." He makes another note. "Where were we?"

He's lying.

Let it be.

The young woman looks at you, then the lieutenant, then you. She enjoys the silence.

"Then the competition is against the world?"

"That's too conceptual for me, I just like to get autopsies right -- on the first try, if possible." He makes another note. "Where were we?"

(Look at the autopsy paper.) "Moving on..."

Her eyes follow yours on the piece of paper.

She doesn't mind this questioning. On the contrary, she enjoys thinking back to him now. This is a sort of wake for her.

(Look at Klaasje.) "You were both from Oranje?"

"Yes. We were compatriots."

"Did that bring you together?"

"No. He was too old for that -- and from another part of Oranjenrijk. I didn't even understand his accent. What brought us together wasn't Oranje -- it was bad habits."

Sex, alcohol...

Speed -- probably also sildenafil.

And violence.

No love for Möther Oranje? Wasn't he a söldier?

No need to get political.

The young woman is smiling -- still -- about their bad habits.

"A military man -- but not a patriot?"

"No, he left the National Service after they taught him to do what he did on Semenine. He wasn't the flag-waving kind. He was the making money killing people kind."

"He was by no means a stupid man..." She takes a long drag of her cigarette, then washes it down with coffee. "A people person, a small platoon leader. Certainly not a patriot."

A flash of rage comes over you, the words have already left your mouth:

"A disgraceful mercenary. The Oranjese state should have checked his breast for sublime patriotic rage before they trained him!"

"Had he passed that test, we wouldn't have gotten along. Come to think of it -- maybe it was our hate for Oranje that brought us together."

"I love Revachol, though." She looks around, the wind in her hair. "I hope she loves me too."

A column of air encircles her, brushing gently on the metallic silver fabric that covers her shoulders and her long, slender arms...

Shake your head.

The feeling dissipates, the cold passes. The woman's eyes follow yours -- to the piece of notebook paper.

"Revachol chooses carefully."

"True -- it did not love him."

"Revachol loves everybody."

"It didn't love him."

"You don't seem like much of a patriot yourself."

"Mhm," she hums. "There is nothing on Mundi. The Old Old World is dead and we both knew it. Maybe Oranje did bring us together -- in loathing."

"As an Oranjese yourself, didn't his lack of patriotism annoy you?"