"I've told you everything I've got." He looks around nervously. "Can you please stop…

"You two make a cute couple, you know that?" The lorryman spits.

"The stench is getting unbearable." He turns to you. "Is there a reason you're bothering me?"

"Welcome to Revachol!" The lorry driver recognizes you. "Got rid of the other one, eh? Good call."

"You mean my partner, Lieutenant Kitsuragi?"

"Ye... no... never mind, officer. Pleased to meet you. I'm a camionneur, a father of three, and a Revacholian patriot."

"That's... disarmingly direct."

"Just the truth." The man shrugs. "I'm a truth-teller, above all else."

His physique reeks of heavy motor oils. His breath smells of high-tar content cigarettes. Probably Astra Whites.

"Oh, so you drive a lorry?" (Pretend you missed that last part.)

"Yeah, I drive a lorry. Back and forth. Sometimes I sit stuck in a traffic jam, guarding that lorry."

"What's a camionneur?" (Pretend you missed that last part.)

"A lorry driver. Who drives a lorry. Or is sometimes stuck in traffic jams, guarding that lorry."

"That's no way to talk about an officer of the law."

"Yes, sir." He gives you a tiny mock salute. "Pleased to meet you, officer. I'm a camionneur, a father of three, and a Revacholian patriot."

"Welcome to Revachol!" announces the rotund man. The remark isn't addressed to you. It’s addressed to the lieutenant.

"What's a... Revachol?"

"Don't you Welcome to Revachol me," the lieutenant fires back. "My grandfather came here from a three-thousand-year-old racist-isolationist culture, while your ancestors came to this island a mere three hundred years ago."

"Every school of thought and government has failed in this city -- but I love it nonetheless. It belongs to me as much as it belongs to you."

The lieutenant's impassive mask has been replaced with intensity. He speaks not as a cop, but as a citizen. He is Vacholiere. A Revacholian.

Say nothing.

"It's men like you who keep Revachol divided, making it that much harder for everyone to climb out of this post-war limbo."

What he means is: fixation on the Revacholian nation makes it harder for Revachol to actually attain self-determination.

"Limbo? What's going on here?"

"C'mon, man, I just said 'Welcome to Revachol'... It's a lorry driver thing."

"He's right. You're undermining our best shot at real self-determination."

"Okay, I don't want to deal with this." [Leave.]

"Stop ripping into this guy. He's just really proud of being Revacholian."

"Oh, so we're in Revachol."

He pays you no attention. "It's men like you who keep Revachol divided, making it that much harder for everyone to climb out of this post-war limbo."

"You tell him."

"What's happening? You sound angry, Kim."

"Never mind, let's keep moving." [Leave.]

"Why are you addressing my partner like that?"

This man looks like trouble. You might not want to get into this right now. Plenty of time later...

"Welcome to Revachol!" the rotund man announces. He has a lit cigarette between his fingers.

Usually he says it with derision, but to you he seems to say it as an actual greeting.

"Uh, welcome, indeed. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm just a simple camionneur, a father of three, and a Revachol patriot."

"Hello. Who are you?"

"Nothing worthwhile here." [Leave.]

This man looks like trouble. You might not want to get into this right now.