A man in his late twenties with a thin, unimpressive beard notices you approaching. He…

"Oh, it's not?!" He raises his shoulders like he's about to say something more, but then gets a hold of himself.

"You're right. It's not."

He has no respect for you personally, but this man sees himself as a law-abiding citizen -- and you a representative of that law. He tries to avoid outright conflict.

"Wait, did you just say I was a cop?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"I can't be a police officer... This is insane."

"It is, isn't it?" He looks at you, shaking his head in disbelief.

Not far from here a 34-year-old man called Jean Vicquemare reluctantly picks his facial hair while a dark-haired woman in an officer's suit waits for an answer. A typical police station morning hums in the background: telephones ringing, the whirr of a roll'o'dex...

"Have you seen the way he dresses?" The man asks. "It's like he's not even a cop anymore. Shows up in here looking like a clown, reeking of alcohol. Screams at everyone... I'm done with that guy."

"Let him sort it out for himself."

"I didn't know I was a cop. Are you sure?"

"I don't know. Am I?" He looks at you, taking stock of your cop-ness and finding it lacking.

"Nothing. I just wanted to hear you say it."

He rolls his eyes.

"That makes sense. Ever since I got up, I've felt something in me..." (Look at your hands and feel it flowing through your veins.) "Now I know it's The Law."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Of course I'm not serious."

He looks down at the stuffed bird, quietly shaking his head.

"The responsibility has taken its toll on my body, but I will take up the mantle once more. This is who I am."

"I really don't know what to say to that." He looks down at the seabird.

"Of course -- if by "The Law" you mean blood alcohol level."

"So not only am I a cop, but I'm also a hero?"

"Yes, you are! A real decorated hero."

"What did I do?"

"What did you not do? First you took the body down, then you solved the murder, then you didn't trash my hostel room. Maybe you even negotiated the strike..."

"What's wrong? Don't you like The Officer?"

"Are you the bartender?"

"No, I'm not the bartender. I'm the cafeteria manager."

He's very animated all of a sudden. This seems like a touchy subject.

"You look like a bartender."

"That period of my life is over. Not everyone who stands behind a counter is a bartender, okay? I'm the cafeteria manager."

"Understood."

"Mhm."

"What's the difference?"

"I have three cafeterias I manage. Three. Get over it."

"I have three cafeterias to manage. Three. Sylvie tends the bar here, not me, I'm only standing in."

"Where did this Sylvie go?"

"She just, you know..." He shrugs.

His eyes dart from left to right. This man isn't lying, but he is hiding something.

"Okay, then."

"Mhm."

"She just... what?"

"So now you're a cop? Forget it."

There's something there and it's not good. That's all you know for now.

"But you can still pour me a drink, right?"

"I could if I were a bartender. But I'm not, I'm the cafeteria manager. So I won't."

There may be some way to get a drink out of him (even for you) but this is not it.

Look at the stuffed bird.

A competent work of taxidermy, the white and brown seabird lies among piles of coasters and drying mugs, one of its wings broken. The man is trying to mend it.

Looks like the bird was ripped off the shield that was used to mount it -- most likely on a wall.

This is a great skua. The seabird is the symbol for the discovery of the Insulindian isola, the part of the world you are in right now.

The small steel tag says as much: "The Great Skua (Stercorarius skua)."

Something about it makes you feel bitter...

Say nothing.

The man plucks at the seabird, frowning.

"Can I help you with that?"

"Look, your buddy is over there." He looks at the doors, where a man in a bomber jacket is tapping his foot on the floor.

"Why don't you go and talk to him, okay?"

"What do you mean, 'my buddy'?"

He pretends not to hear you, concentrating on the bird instead.