The old man stares at the reeds. His face shows no emotion -- only a faint tremor passes…

"We have drouamine. And other opioid based painkillers. You must be in pain."

"I have been running out of that stuff..." A light goes on in his eyes. He smacks his dry lips.

There's no way he could manage the pain without them. It's safe to say he is addicted to painkillers by now.

"Thank you for clearing that up." (Conclude.)

He looks at you, his face parched from the sun and the wind -- there's a wince of pain in there somewhere.

"How have you coped -- mentally?"

"I haven't. I have holes in my brain. Years missing, others filled with pain only. A decade of..." His eyes roll into his skull and back...

"I don't even know what... Inferno?"

(Nod appreciatively.) "I also live in Hell."

"At least you know it." He nods toward Martinaise. "The traitors of this city turned the lights back on in the Thirties, after the fighting stopped. Ruins, glittering in the dark, like a fucking merry-go-round..."

"It's disgusting..." He looks down at his shoes; his face parched from the sun and the wind -- there's a wince of pain in there somewhere.

Are they not heartbroken? How could they have moved on?

(You notice the lieutenant is about to say something.)

"I would imagine it gets tremendously difficult -- mentally -- to live in isolation."

"Traitors. It's better alone." He nods toward Martinaise. "I watched the people of this city turn the lights back on, more and more each year. Ruins, glimmering in the dark, like a fucking merry-go-round..."

"Cuno could do this shit. Live all alone like this. Cuno could hack it."

"Good, Cuno. Be that." He nods toward Martinaise. "I saw the traitors of this city turn the lights back on. More and more each year. Ruins, glittering in the dark, like a fucking merry-go-round..."

"I also have holes in my brain." (Point to your head.)

"No wonder. All your minds are rotting from the radio waves..." He nods toward Martinaise. "I watched the traitors of this city turn the lights back on. More and more each year. Ruins, glittering in the dark, like a fucking merry-go-round..."

"This is a serious situation. You need to be looked over and we can do it."

"There's nothing to look over. The triage is in and it's black. Administer morphine. Moribund."

"You like that drouamine, don't you?"

"It's the little joys..." A crooked smile appears on his face. "A dark joke. A sunshiny day. Morphine..."

"Cuno's dad has this shit. Wine belly." The kid looks at you. "The cops can take care of this, right? Medicine shit. With, like, facilities."

"The police can give you medical services. You need to be looked over."

"That's what you get stealing things."

"Yes." There's a smile on his dry lips. "That is true, droite. That is true. That's the punishment in the jungle."

"Understood."

He coughs, then looks to his feet, suddenly despondent.

"How is your health?"

"What do you steal?"

"Supplies, vegetables..." He winces. "I collect rainwater. It's the life of a dog, not a human being." He coughs once more, then puts his hand on his belly...

"What is this place? This island..."

"It's not an island, droite." He looks around. "It's a defensive fortification of the Commune of Revachol and I am its last surviving defender."

"What was it used for?"

"The congenitally deformed King Filippe II built it to restrict access to the Bay of Revachol. We captured it in '02, retrofitted the fort with an AA gun to defend against an airborne landing -- against the whole world."

"You mean the Landing? Retaking of Revachol?"

"Coalition military called it Operation Death Blow." He winces. "I later found out, on the radio. They called it..."

"Death Blow. You're one of them. Tell me, who speaks like that? We had 50 million people on Caillou alone..."

"Tell me something else."

"No." He shakes his head: "Iblis -- Iblis calls it that."

"Understood -- Iblis."

He nods.

Sha'i'tan, Ahura, The Darkened One.

"Iblis?"

"The black-eyed angel," he nods.

"Murderers. I know what you mean."

"You don't know. You haven't seen it..." He shakes his head, slowly. "Iblis..."

"Coalition military."

He shakes his head and says: "Iblis."

"Someone who's come to end this madness."

"First, I'm not one of them."

"Sure you are, you're RCM. Answer me -- who calls an operation against 50 million people Death Blow?"

"Airborne landing?"

"The Landing. Coalition military called it 'Operation Death Blow.'" He winces. "I later found out, on the radio -- they called it..."

"Understood." (Conclude.)

"Hmhm." His leg jerks.

"How have you concealed yourself all these years?"

"It was hard in the '10s..." He shakes his head. "I didn't have partisan training, they were searching for stragglers, those bloodhounds..." He closes his eyes. "Floodlights on the water at night."

"There were posters. Campaigns."