Conversation · The Deserter

His gaze follows your motions. The rifle feels surprisingly light in your hand, frame stocked and patched in places with tape and wire.

Still warm from his parched hands. Not the metal. The metal is ice cold. This weapon has been modified several times.

"It's as he said: it's a Triangong. Made in Hsin-Yao."

"No one said it has to be a Belle-Magrave..." The lieutenant does not take his eyes off the old man. "We were just guessing."

From ballistics, it could easily have been a Triangong too.

"It doesn't matter if it was made in Shantih-Shantih. All it has to do is use jacketed ammunition. And it does."

"Worn. Personalized even. Looks like this weapon has seen a lot of use. Hasn't it, sir?"

No response from the old man. The plastic cape around his shoulders rustles in a small bout of wind.

"This guy's smoked a lot of people with this, huh?"

The old man blinks slowly. A strange jitter comes over him, he pushes his right leg down and does not reply.

"The rifle has been patched and modified several times."

"I wonder how old it is."

The old man does not answer. He just stares in front of him.

"Looks like old shit."

"Things keep falling apart if you don't tend to them."

"This is a Triangong, made in Hsin-Yao."

Inspect it closer.

The rifle's in a shabby state, like a crutch that's seen too much travel. Hieroglyphs are embossed into the forearm made of walnut.

They say: 'Triangong 4.46. Hsin-Yao Commune. For Safre -- and for all mankind.'

Look at the butt of the gun.

On the butt you see Vespertine writing, burnt into the wood: Triangong 4.46 mm, made in Hsin-Yao.

I know Seraise?

This is Vulgate Seraise. You can barely intuit the words. Know is stretching it.

(Whisper.) "Kim, I know Seraise."

"What does it say?" he asks doubtfully.

"For Safre -- and for all mankind."

"That's what the little guys told us." The old man says silently. "Every day at 4 o'clock in the morning, they'd go on and on about their Safre, their mankind, and Mazov..."

"Those men were commandos. They weren't shit on a stick, like us. They were small and..." He doesn't say more. The thought dissipates on his lips.

"For Safre -- and for all mankind?"

(Whisper.) "Cuno, I know Seraise."

"Supercool. What's it say?" He sounds incredulous.

Stow the gun. (Conclude.)

The old man keeps following your motions with his gaze. His right arm twitches suddenly...

Some kind of involuntary response? Something is slightly off with his motorics...

This looked very much like the murder weapon. It can be used against him -- later.

This looked very much like the murder weapon. It can be used against him to get a confession -- in time...

"This uses jacketed ammunition. 4.46."

"The right type and the right calibre," the lieutenant nods -- glancing at the gun.

He's liking this.

"Jacketed -- military-grade ammunition. Stable in flight, good for hitting something that's very, very far away..." He says -- mostly to the old man.

As he speaks, he stresses every word. He's liking this.

"Hmhm." The old man smacks his lips.

"One more time, Mr. Dros -- the Colonel. We need to talk about you killing him."

"Been looking at anything else you haven't liked?"

Assess his body language.

"Those words: 'the future teaches you...'"

"Real music, real proletkult." He nods. "That's La Revacholière, not your rock-and-roll misanthropy. Chanson de soldat of the black-and-whites."

Marching song...

Forget about that for a moment. You need to address that remark first.

"What is La Revacholière?"

"It is the anthem of the World Revolution." His eyes remain fixed on the sky. "One of three."

"In Graad they sang 'Brave Children, Favourites of History' and in Hsin-Yao it was..." He struggles to remember, then gives up. "...some Samaran shit, I guess."

In Hsin-Yao they sang "Boy with a Scythe / Golden Sun."

"How does it go -- the song?"

"How did it go..." He looks at his gun in your hand and shakes his head slowly.

"Something about shooting rabbits, I don't know... I can't remember. It doesn't matter. It's gone now."

He waves erratically -- with his hand, annoyed that he can't remember. A little tremor passes through him.

It was dear to him. He resents forgetting it.

'So if I can shoot rabbits then I can shoot fascists too' -- those are the next lines.

"I have trouble remembering things too."