The air outside is brisk, the lieutenant is silent for a moment. He listens to the…

The air outside is brisk, the lieutenant is silent for a moment. He listens to the traffic hum, then...

"Where shall we begin? We should talk about the investigation first and foremost, but I also remember you wanting to discuss the RCM?" He lights a cigarette.

"The Moralintern -- what is it?"

"The Moralist International are the world's largest political organization." He pulls on his cigarette. "You know who they are. They have been running this place after the Revolution failed."

"If I didn't know -- how would you describe them?"

"They're a union of centre-left and centre-right parties across the Reál Belt. Our Coalition Government is just one of its many projects. They also run the ICP, EPIS... most inter-governmental organizations in the world."

"What do they believe in?"

"What do they believe in? They are Dolorians. They believe they continue the humanist project set forth by Her Innocence Dolores Dei four centuries ago. Others say they're just technocrats."

Those others say they continue the humanist project set forth by Dolores Dei.

"What do you think of them?"

"The Moralintern are a fact. I try not to have opinions on facts -- until they change. And," he looks at the city below, "it doesn't look like that's about to happen."

It's more than that. There's some kind of affection in him.

Better not to ask.

The lieutenant breathes out a chestnut-scented cloud of cigarette smoke and looks at the city he's sworn to guard.

"You like the Moralintern."

"Yes. I did -- when I was younger. In my twenties I considered myself a moralist. A blue forget-me-not, a piece of the sky," he quotes. "They're not all that bad."

That's another leitmotiv associated with moralism.

"But the years have changed that. I don't know what I believe in now...." He thinks, then changes his mind. "No. I believe in the RCM. That's enough for me."

"I have an opinion on the Moralintern." (Conclude.)

"Do you?" The lieutenant arches his brow, then pulls on his cigarette. It's a slim white thing in his fingers.

"They've done an awful job here. Have you seen the place? This isn't humanism."

"We are in what is called the twilight of international law. The laws we claim to enforce come from the MI. Without them, we are simply vigilantes."

"Yeah. Vigilantes sounds bad."

He nods. "Sadly, it is what we already are to the people of Martinaise. Most of them at least, especially the Union -- vigilantes. I expect our job here to prove quite challenging." He looks at the roundabout.

The lights of the orphan district are reflected in his glasses: the red and golden orbs of the motorway sliding like pearls on a string, from East to West, as Revachol commutes back to the suburbs. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Monday is over.

"Actually, vigilantes is okay with me."

"Then you will adore Martinaise. For many of these people -- the Union especially -- vigilantes is precisely what we are. Personally, I don't enjoy it much." He looks at the roundabout.

"Maybe we should make our own law?"

"Spoken like a revolutionary, not a cop. But hypothetical aside -- in Martinaise we already are vigilantes. At least the Union thinks so. I expect our job here to prove quite challenging." He looks at the roundabout.

"Things are bad out there." (Point to the city.) "We need them here, giving us the right to police Revachol."

"In fact, we would need them even if you didn't think that way. We are in what is called the twilight of international law. The laws we claim to enforce come from the MI. Without them, we are simply vigilantes."

"We are stooges of the world's biggest bourgeois organization, protecting bourgeois rights."

"No. We are stooges of the world's biggest bourgeois organization -- protecting the people of Revachol. That's the hand we were dealt. Without the MI, we would be common vigilantes."

"On second thought -- I don't have an opinion. Forget about it."

"My kind of police officer," he nods. A light smile. Then looks at the roundabout.

The lights of the orphan district are reflected in his glasses: the red and golden orbs of the motorway sliding like pearls on a string, from East to West, as Revachol commutes back to the suburbs. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Monday is over.

Mutter silently: "Immigrants, liberal kipts, fucking... men are turning into women."

"Well phrased." He nods and breathes out. "I understand answering to foreign powers doesn't sit well with immigrant-bashing -- but without the MI we would be common vigilantes. That's just the way it is."

"What is their symbol?"

"Interesting question. It's a blue forget-me-not. Their motto is: Love, Compassion, Self-Discipline. I think you can gauge what they want you to think of them from that."

Something kind and usual.

Something almost self-explanatory.

Something ominous.

Something even a little feminine, but in a strict manner.

Something like the dark blue, serious colour of the early night sky above.

"Who was Dolores Dei?"

"A historic figure? The author of the modern age?" He thinks. "You will have to look elsewhere for opinions. The subject of humanism is too abstract for me."

For you, she is something painful, though it's hard to say why.

"I really don't know. That's how bad it is in here." (Point to your head.)

"Okay. They're a union of centre-left and centre-right parties across the Reál Belt. Our Coalition Government is just one of its many projects. They also run the ICP, EPIS... most inter-governmental organizations in the world."

"Thank you for this." [Leave.]

"Yeah, it's getting very cold now. Let's go." He puts out the stub of his cigarette and looks to the door.

"I didn't know you smoked, Kim."

"I have a cigarette every night when I go over my notes. It's something of a ritual."

Oh man, he looks so devastatingly cool with that cigarette.

"How did you get so cool, Kim?"

"You mean this?" The light of his cigarette illuminates a fleeting smile. "This isn't cool -- it's an unnecessary trial of will. And unhealthy." He flicks the ash.

Keeping the habit within the parameters he's given himself takes a lot of focus. It would be easier to simply quit.

Yet were he to quit, he would lose the cool factor. This man relishes his cool quite a bit -- below it all.

"A cigarette is such a great idea. I think I'm going to have one too."