Conversation · The Deserter

It's war time slang for an experienced soldier of high rank. From the days of the Revolution in Revachol.

"Just put the gun down, okay? I don't know how else to convince you."

"I'm not from the homo army."

"No one cares, droite." He shakes his head.

"Put the weapon down, NOW!"

"Fucking NOW!"

He scoffs. The corner of his black eye twitches. He does not reply to the command.

He is not afraid of such displays. This was the wrong move...

"Kim?" (Turn to the lieutenant.)

"I am an enemy commander of rank -- put it down."

The words "I am an enemy commander" sound cold as iron from your lungs. The old man still hugs his gun...

"And what rank would that be, dog?"

"Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor."

"A big wheel of the 4th Regiment of the pederast army." He sighs. "To hell with it. It's a walking stick anyway...."

You were right.

"Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant-Yefreitor."

It's a good line, but your voice slips on commander, producing a little squeak. Sounds like you're afraid.

"Okay, but keep the gun down while we talk."

"No." The lieutenant aims his pistol square at the man's head and says:

"The fuck?!" Cuno's looking at you like you just shat yourself.

There does not seem to be a magazine in the well... the rifle's side is clearly visible.

i wanna see phasmid with cuno

"I'm with the police. You can keep the gun, but keep it down. Not one move." (Proceed.)

"Yeah-yeah, one move and you'll kill me. Put me against the wall..." He sighs. "To hell with it, it's a walking stick anyway."

"It's out of bullets." He lays the rifle down, slowly. Then just looks at it lying there.

"The Hsin-Yao Commune?"

"You heard me. It's good now. Like chalk wiped from the board." His gaze turns inwards.

He's right. Almost no one remembers there was a third metastasis of the World Revolution, in the Safre Empire, extinguished in '06.

Let it vanish.

It's almost as if they were never there. Only the rifle remains, cradled by the old man.

"It's not wiped from the board. I remember it."

"They wouldn't like hearing their name in your mouth. A damn dog..."

The time will come to win his trust, comrade. It is not now. You need to take care of the gun first.

"Nice gun you got there."

"It's not nice, it's a piece of shit." He shrugs. "But it gets the job done."

"What make of rifle is that, exactly?"

"It's a Triangong 4-46."

Southeast Samaran-made. Exotic. Must be defunct too. No modern rifle manufacturer of that name springs to mind.

"A Samaran rifle... How did you get hold of one?"

"It was sent to us by our brothers in the Hsin-Yao Commune. Military aid." He pats the rifle.

It has stayed true to him. He can still make it sing.

"Whoa... massive gun." Cuno looks at the weapon.

"It's actually quite light. It was sent to us by our brothers in the Hsin-Yao Commune. Military aid." He pats the rifle.

It has stayed true to him. He can still make it sing.

"How did you get hold of it?"

"A Samaran-made rifle."

"Military aid," he pats the rifle, "from our brothers in the Hsin-Yao Commune."

"Is that a Belle-Magrave?"

"You've retained your eyesight."

"My eyesight?" He clears his throat. "Yes. Helps me see all the shit."

A shudder of disgust passes his right side. His left side remains motionless.

"Are you the fire-guy?"

"The what now?" He cups his ear. "I can't hear you."

"Nothing."

"Fire-guy..." He shakes his head. "Regressive bourgeoisie henchman. Can't even talk like a grown up."

"Did you recently tell two kids to put out their fire? Two twins."

"I may have. All sorts of little rats have come sniffing around, trying to give up the position..."

The position? Sounds like a hiding place...

"Your weapon has stayed true to you. Mine has stayed true to me too." (Put your hand on your belt.)