Esprit de Corps · Voice lines

'But I am interested,' you read from his face.

Suddenly he's a little worried about your memory...

Do not bring it into a gun fight, he thinks. Please understand it's merely ceremonial.

Come on, this is not the way real police solve crimes. The real police are some twenty kilometres away, sitting in an armoured motor carriage.

We're all under stress. This is turning into a great big mess. I'm not judging. Just keep it together.

An angry cop refusing to face his demons and taking his frustration out on others -- just a badge and a gun away from those he's manhandling. A fast burning candle -- that's the side you just exposed to the lieutenant. He doesn't judge, has seen it too many times all ready -- you both have probably, but he takes a mental note.

Words are not necessary to feel the lieutenant's discontent for the situation.

There are officers who wear the signature Perseus Black uniforms to the highest ranks in the RCM and end up buried in them as well -- others do it more casually. Looks like you're one of them.

It feels like you haven't worn yours in a long-long time.

Cop with an anger issue, underpaid, overworked and on the verge of collapse in both personal and professional life -- that's more of a rule than an exception. And the lieutenant knows this. He understands.

"Goddamn..." officer Michel 'Elfboy' Williams speaks to himself. His partner, Sundance Fischer, looks at the patrol uniform he's wearing -- then at an identical suit framed on the wall. It's blue and covered in dust. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he turns to Williams, "he hasn't been here in days."

Somewhere in a dank rental apartment, two police officers stand in the dark. Trash and liquor bottles cover the floor. Things are not good.

One of the men, trying not to slip on old newspapers, makes his way to the window and pulls the curtains apart. Roaches scatter as the light comes in.

"Bleed, pig!" someone opens a window and says, but Émile can't see who. His sight grows dim with pain...

Porta Rosa, a side alley of the Boogie Street spearhead. A young man in his early twenties approaches Patrol Officer Émile Mollins and asks for a cigarette. As Officer Mollins reaches in his coat pocket for the pack of 'Astra' he just purchased this morning...

The man shoots him point blank in his chest. Breathless, the patrol officer collapses in the gutter. His right hand is grabbing the armour on his chest. The bullet didn't pierce it, but he can't breathe. On the pavement, the patter of the perpetrator's feet growing distant.

You are making excuses, he thinks. For aiming your gun at a child nonetheless.

Whatever he has in store for you, it can't be good, he thinks. I'll do my best.