Conversation · Lena, the Cryptozoologist's wife

"Nope. Sadly not. Revachol is what's called a Zone of Control. Under an alliance of foreign powers called the Coalition. We have no government of our own and what democracy we have is..." She thinks. "Market driven."

Meaning: buying is voting.

"We are governed by intelligent machines that perform calculations to determine the freest market. Everyone hustles and grinds like a bad ass visionary."

"Oh... no, nothing like that, dear. Revachol is a Zone of Control, led by an alliance of foreign powers called the Coalition. We have almost no government of our own -- certainly no machines."

I don't know... still looks like there's a lot of hustling going on. Maybe she's wrong. Also...

"It's totally '43."

"Oh no, dear! It's the early spring of '51."

She leans back in her chair, alarmed by your answer.

The lieutenant tries to pretend he's not hearing it and is out of the conversation.

"It's the spring of '51."

"That's right, dear! How splendid!"

Her relief is palpable. She was getting pretty worried about you there, but now she relaxes her shoulders...

"That's right, dear! How splendid! Here, take this pen. Knowledge should always be rewarded."

"I know it's the '50s, but I'm not sure about the year."

"Good, dear, you got the decade right! It's the spring of '51."

Though she praises you, it is clear that she was taken aback by your response.

"Sure. It's the year 973."

"You're joking. Try again, one more time. What year is it?"

"All I know is: we are approaching the end times."

"Perhaps, dear, perhaps. But for now it's just the spring of '51."

She is perturbed by your not knowing what year it is -- but not by your mention of the apocalypse. It must be the end times.

The New was in the Thirties, and two decades have elapsed since The New, so it must be the Fifties now.

That tape you picked up said '43. You seem to be a hip modern man who listens to hip modern records, so it must be '43.

"Honestly, I don't really know anything about Revachol."

Her grey eyes widen. "Oh my. How would I even begin to tell you? Revachol is the most beautiful city in the world. We're fortunate to be here, you and I."

"I haven't seen very many other cities personally, but everyone says so. Revachol is a rare jewel. This city used to rule the world... Though it has seen better days." There's a pause as she studies your expression. You must look quite lost.

"Mhm, okay."

"Yes -- and Revachol...?" She examines you.

"Revachol is the disgraced capital of the world. Something like that?"

"Yes, great, see -- we're getting somewhere. What else do you know about our city of splendour? Tattered as she may be..."

"In hell. We're all in hell."

"We're in the city of Revachol, dear." She flashes you a worried look.

"On something called the urban coast."

"Yes, we're in Martinaise, on the coast of Revachol."

"The edge of civilization."

"See -- I have no idea."

"We're in Martinaise."

"That's right! We're on the coast of the city of Revachol, in the district of Martinaise."

"A war zone. At the edge of the world."

"It does still look like that in some parts of the city, doesn't it..."

"We are in a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, dear. And the Whirling itself is in the city of Revachol."

"I don't really know... some seedy hotel?"

"A seaside hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, to be precise. And the Whirling itself is in Revachol."

"We're in Revachol."

"That's right! In a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, to be precise."

"We're dead. Haunting each other. We're ghosts."

"Now, now." She tilts her head as she looks up at you with maternal solicitude.

"We are alive -- in a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags. And the Whirling itself is in the city of Revachol."

"On Insulinde?"

"Yes, but, more specifically -- on the coast of the city of Revachol, in the district of Martinaise."

"Things aren't bad. They're catastrophic."

"Yeah, I'm blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Forget I said anything."

She nods, but still looks worried.

"On second thought, things are bad. I don't even know enough to know what I don't know about this world."

"I've changed my mind. I'll tell Morell you're worried."

Maybe you could convince her to tell you about some cool cryptids?

"Hello, dear. It's good to see a familiar face." The elderly woman smiles up at you hopefully.

"Oh, hello, sweetie. So nice to see you again."

"Oh sweetie," she says, beaming. "I don't even know how to thank you for finding my husband and helping him out. I hope we haven't been too much trouble for you..."

"I'm basically also a cryptozoologist now."