Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

He was a serviceman. He must have had a gun lying around. Close to her hand -- a military weapon using jacketed ammunition.

Now you guys suddenly have theories pouring out? When they're obviously just stabs in the dark...

"Okay. I'd like you to answer some other questions, miss." (Conclude.)

"Like what?" She waits, her light brown eyes wandering... over the floor... over your face...

"It's okay if you did it in self defence."

"I did not kill him to defend myself from rape," she says. "I told you before. That wasn't what happened."

True, sire. 'Tis true.

"Desires drive people loco..."

She simply shakes her head.

She has the training for it. You've known it since she first greeted you. Here on this roof.

Say nothing.

Her shoulders do not shake, despite the strength it takes to keep herself from crying.

"You have the training for it. I can see it in your posture, your shoulders..."

"The work I did -- they don't just send you in with no training. Corporate security is a thing. But I'm not a trained Sam Bo fighter, I've never needed it outside the gym."

She's fought outside that gym of hers. That much is clear. Moreover -- she would like to do it now: hit you. It's in her shoulders...

"Do you want to hit me right now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm under stress." Her mouth is tense, the muscles in her feet tighten.

"Why?"

"Because life is hell, officer," she finds refuge in her cigarette. It's thin, but it's something.

"We'll try to make it less stressful, miss. But these are questions we need to ask."

"Relax. One more thing."

"Sure." She nods and relaxes her hands.

Samaran boxing, or Sam Bo. Graceful martial arts stuff -- stealth, cleverness, and cool.

She has the training for it. Two, maybe three years of self defence? Her body is hard and lean underneath that jump suit...

"Drugs were an integral part of your relationship. Perhaps they contributed to its end?"

"What does that mean?"

"Do drugs make you aggressive?"

"No." She shakes her head. "People don't take drugs to kill each other -- they take them to feel okay with each other."

"I thought officers in Revachol would be more enlightened about these things." She looks you in the eye. "Especially since you've admitted to taking drugs yourself."

The lieutenant gives you a sideways glance.

It's not one of respect. You may want to add a clever retort to this one.

Say nothing.

She takes a healthy -- nay, giant healthy -- drag of her menthol cigarette, waiting for what's next to come.

"I don't."

"Of course." There's a pause. "I'm sorry. I withdraw my statement. I'm under stress here."

"I do drugs to keep working, cleaning up this shit you've created here."

"I'm sorry." There's a pause. "I withdraw what I said -- I didn't mean to judge anyone."

"Clever retort."

She looks at you, confused.

The lieutenant shares her confusion. Respond with something professional, now...

"Me and my drugs are none of your business."

"I thought Revachol would be more enlightened about this." She looks you in the eye. "Especially since you've taken them yourself."

"I thought you Revachol people would be more enlightened on this..." She pauses. "I'm sorry, officer. I'm under some stress here."

"You know what I mean. Do drugs make you aggressive?"

"Who among us, having been in love, can say they haven't thought about it?"

"What? Fucking themselves over for no reason? This is not what happened, officer."

"He must have had a weapon nearby. Did you use that?"

"No. I specifically asked him not to carry firearms when he was with me. He only had his stupid armour..."

"The bullet in his head. It was jacketed. Military-grade. Who else here has a military rifle?"

"I don't know. His friends have rifles, maybe those psychos did it? Coalition military have rifles. I'm not a munitions expert -- and I did not shoot him."

She might have been a tad disingenuous when she avoided talking about the bullet in his head before...

Look who's waking up from a thousand years of sleep!

Better not start on this.

She pinches the filter of her cigarette, hard. Then looks at you.

"You've lied to me about this bullet before. When I said he was shot? You said you're confused."

"I've said I'm sorry. What more do you want me to say? I did my best not to lie. It didn't always work."

"Downstairs people have this crazy idea that you killed him."

"I'm sad to hear that. They must have said it in some fit of frustration, or under pressure. They couldn't have meant it. I've talked to them after it happened -- no one has implicated me."