The gnarled hawthorn tree on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine. A wintry breeze blows by, making the…

The gnarled hawthorn tree on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine. A wintry breeze blows by, making the magnetic tape flutter.

"Good hawthorn." (Pat the tree.)

The hurt feelings of the tree are not alleviated by this sudden display of care and emotion, you manipulative bastard.

The younger stems and branches are adorned with sharp thorns that scratch your hand.

Oh, whatever. This barely registers as damage.

It was a retaliation for your earlier assault... the trees... are they plotting something?

"Alright, tree. You got me, fair and square. We're even, for now."

The lieutenant looks at you mumbling at the tree, then at his wristwatch. "Maybe we should get back to the case."

The tree looks by, in silence. No doubt plotting its next move against humanity. The bronze-coloured tape twists around its branches.

Trees likely do not understand the concept of fairness. Better watch your back from now on...

"What the fuck, tree?"

"You put your hand on a tree with sharp thorns, what did you think was going to happen?"

Keep an eye on these trees. They're up to no good.

"My god, nature is plotting an uprising against us?"

"Yes. 'One day, grass will grow over our cities' and so on..." He looks at the tree. "Very poetic. Better not to dwell on it -- what with a murder to solve and all."

Shhhh! You shouldn't say it out loud... they'll realize you know!

Say nothing.

Patting the tree reveals a small sticker which has almost been worn to oblivion. It reads: "RCM Emergencies Desk No. 8-100-2". Underneath, a slogan: "Mankind, be vigilant!"

You tree-hugging pansy!

The bronze ribbon twists around and within the branches in an intricately natural pattern... but there's something...

Ignore thought.

What do I see?

There's a twisted logic in this mess... you see the ends of the ribbon, the way it flows, how it twists and turns... it's all starting to make sense. It'll be easier to remove now.

Disentangle the tape.

With slow and deliberate motions, pulling, bending and unravelling -- you manage to extricate the magnetic tape from the branches.

It curls up into a mess inside your pocket. If only you could find a way to re-spool it, so that you could hear what's on the tape...

Maybe Roy from the pawnshop can help you with this?

The lieutenant looks at the mess in your hands. Only after you've successfully cleaned up the branches does the curiosity get him: "What's the tape for?" he asks.

"It's for Egg Head. I promised to make his van Eyck's jam hit a bit harder. Maybe this tape can help."

"How? It's broken and unspooled. Do you think your new buddy knows how to fix it?"

"He has to -- he's the Master of Ceremonies after all."

"Alright." Looks like the lieutenant doesn't really know what that means. "You could also get it fixed at the pawnshop across the street -- we shouldn't waste our time."

He looks at his wristwatch a little impatiently. "You know, since tape-spinning isn't really our day job. Solving murder investigations is."

Good idea. He might have the tools -- the tape projector in the pawn shop uses similar tape...

"I'd think at least one of the ravers would know how to fix a broken tape if they want to set up a nightclub."

"You could also get it fixed at the pawnshop across the street -- we shouldn't waste our time." He looks at his wristwatch a little impatiently.

"I'm not sure, but I'll find out. Maybe Egg Head can point me in the right direction."

"I'm too embarrassed to say."

"This is part of your church-thing, isn't it? Of course it is. It's too broken to play, you understand, right? It's not like Egg Head and his friends know how to fix it."

Like an immaculate labyrinth, the magnetic tape twists and turns around the branches...

You just can't get it loose. All you've done is make your fingers bleed from the thorns.

[Leave.]

"Piss off, nature!" (Punch the tree.)

The hawthorn tree is disappointed by your betrayal and psychopathic tendencies. Also, your fist hurts. A little.

The pain, it is nothing! Revel in it! Absorb it! Gain power from it!

God damn straight! Suck on that, object. My existence out-classes yours.

Yes, your pain is real. The pain of a tree is mute and base and uninteresting.

"Had enough assaulting madre natura?" He looks at his wristwatch. "We should get moving."

I thought it would be cool, but instead all the violence made me feel sad and hollow...

Yes. Beat yourself up for it. Good. Everyone must suffer. You, the tree, everyone.

A little? It's awful! The pain surges through your knuckles and then lingers there... slowly pulsating, reminding you of your mistake.

"Smooth move, operator." He looks to his wristwatch. "We done here?"

The hawthorn tree is not an inanimate object, it is a living thing. The thunk against the bark echoes with discontent.

At first the destructive urge felt exhilarating, as if it added something to your persona... but the feeling swiftly receded, leaving you with a sad emptiness.

The hawthorn tree on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine. Bronze-coloured ribbons of magnetic tape are caught in its branches, fluttering in the breeze.

Just like promised... You've stood here for what seem like aeons, guzzling the sickly fumes of lorries and carriages.