Part 55: 13:32-15:09: The Final Missing Piece
Chapter 55: 13:32-15:09: The Final Missing Piece
THE DESERTER: …then spits it out into the extinguished fire before him. He raises his black eyes, hooded by creased eyelids, to meet yours.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Unclouded by cataracts—his eyesight is sharp.
THE DESERTER: “I may have. All sorts of little rats have come sniffing around, trying to give up the position…”
SAVOIR FAIRE: [Medium: Success] The *position*? Sounds like a hiding place…
THE DESERTER: “Reactionary rock and roll music.” He gestures north. “Playing on the water.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I did.”
THE DESERTER: “Sad FM, huh? I always hated that station. Phlegmatic, counter-revolutionary dirges… Sadness is a mental illness, a weapon of the bourgeoisie.”
THE DESERTER: “It’s a Triangong 4-46.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] South-east Samaran-made. Exotic. Must be defunct too. No modern rifle manufacturer of that name springs to mind.
KIM KITSURAGI: “It was sent to us by our brothers in the Hsin-Yao Commune. Military aid.” He pats the rifle.
THE DESERTER: “Yes, I bet you’ve killed a lot of people with it…” His eyes narrow. “…you fascist *fuck*. Have you come to make me one of them?” His grip on the rifle tightens.
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] His right eye twitches—with what? Fear? Rage?
KIM KITSURAGI: “We have *come* to ask you questions, nothing more.” The lieutenant puts his hand on his holster. “If you do not comply, we will take you in. Do you understand?”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant pulls his pistol from the holster.
THE DESERTER: “You’re a glorified night-watchman.” He looks you in the eye. “This is a service rifle. I can only lay it down before an enemy commander of corresponding rank.”
THE DESERTER: “A big wheel of the 4th Regiment of the pederast army.” He sighs. “To hell with it. It’s a walking stick anyway…”
THE DESERTER: The rifle’s in a shabby state, like a crutch that’s seen too much travel. Hieroglyphs are embossed into the forearm made of walnut.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No one said it had to be a Belle-Magrave…” The lieutenant does not take his eyes off the old man. “We were just guessing.”
VISUAL CALCULUS: From ballistics, it could easily have been a Triangong too.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The right type and the right calibre,” the lieutenant nods—glancing at the gun.
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] Some kind of involuntary response? Something is slightly off with his motorics…
THE DESERTER: “My name…” He looks across the water, then back at you: “…is Iosef Lilianovich Dros, Political Commissar of the 114th Anti-Aircraft Division of the 4th Army of the Commune of Revachol. I am a deserter, a partisan, and a prisoner of war. This is my termless surrender.” His eyes turn to the reeds again, dead and dull.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The Commune of Revachol…” The lieutenant forgets to close his mouth. “Do you mean the ICM? You’re a holdover form the…”
THE DESERTER: “From the Insulindian Citizens Militia—the Army of the Revolution. I was recruited in Jamrock in ‘07, trained in the Ecole de Contrôle Aérien and consigned to emergency defence duties in ‘08. I left my unit on the eve of the Landing. When I returned here on May 14th the Commune has fallen. Still armed—and *ideologically trained*—I wrote a criticism of myself. And resumed partisan duties.”
THE DESERTER: “No.” He looks into the fire—a wisp of smoke rises from somewhere between the charred logs. “I’ve been on other islands too.”
THE DESERTER: “It’s not how a human being should live, but I had to…” He grimaces, clearly in pain. “…I couldn’t just forget. I couldn’t just forget what I saw.”
THE DESERTER: He nods.
VOLITION: But he can now.
KIM KITSURAGI: “What have you been doing during all this time?”
THE DESERTER: “Hiding, fishing, waiting…” He looks across the water.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Where the afternoon grows late. On Rue-de Saint-Ghislaine people walk home, streetlights will soon be lit. Further inland the streets are alive with workers: men, women, children. Streethawks and migrant labourers. The temperature is steady. Altocumulus clouds form above Precinct 41.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Two police officers step out of the Whirling-in-Rags cafeteria. Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare inspects giant letters across the plaza mosaic, in dark red government-marked heavy fuel oil. Patrol Officer Judit Minot points west. “The fishing village…” She glances at her watch. “We meet in 15 minutes. It’s a ten minute walk.” The officers go, leaving behind the writing, still smelling of petroleum. ONE DAY, it says, I WILL RETURN TO YOUR SIDE.
THE DESERTER: “For her to return.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Her, who?”
THE DESERTER: “A waste.” He blinks his black eyes. “The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves…”
THE DESERTER: “You could say I misunderstood the historic role of the proletariat, and thought Mazovian socio-economics were fallible. For a second I doubted the irreducible laws of historic materialism.”
THE DESERTER: “It’s the same thing… you haven’t seen *it*. Not really—not naked. It’s impossible not to be afraid.”
RHETORIC: [Formidable: Success] It remains unclear what *it* is. He makes leaps he doesn’t expect you to follow.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And this was… when?” The lieutenant instinctively looks to his notebook, but does not take it out.
THE DESERTER: “The combined might of international capital, all at once—all the greed and terror in the world—tore into Revachol. It lifted streets from the ground and turned houses into ghosts. We were in the flak tower…” He gestures toward it. “…huddled on the floor. The artillery was eighty kilometres away in Ozonne but I *knew*, I knew the Commune would fall. We would all be turned into ash. So I said I was going to the map room…” He looks east.
THE DESERTER: “Airships. I climbed out.” He closes his eyes: “Into hell. The Landing was complete. The chain was submerged, I had to swim back. The fortress was half-submerged too. Shattered.”
THE DESERTER: “The mask of humanity fall from capital. It has to take it off to kill everyone—everything you love; all the hope and tenderness in the world. It has to take it off, just for one second. To do the deed.”
THE DESERTER: “Coalition military called it Operation *Death Blow*.” He winces. “I later found out, on the radio. They called it…”
THE DESERTER: “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…
KIM KITSURAGI: “How is your health, Mr. Dros?”
THE DESERTER: “I’ve been throwing up blood since winter. Red, like beet root—been passing it in stool too…”
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] He does seem frail, gaunt for his age, more like 75 than 65. Trouble putting on weight could mean cancer.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The RCM can provide medical services. You need to be looked over.”
THE DESERTER: “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.
THE DESERTER: “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… 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.
THE DESERTER: “It was hard into ‘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.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “There were posters. Campaigns.”
THE DESERTER: “We communards still hopes and they needed to snuff that hope out. The East capitulated, Martinaise and Coal City were turned to dust…” He looks south. “But Jamrock, Fauborg, even Couron; and Boogie Street of course—those fucking kipts had Mazov coursing through their veins…”
THE DESERTER: “At night. I used a dinghy…” He nods toward the deflated tire in the reeds. “I only went after dark then. When I got to the city I stayed underground. Patrols. You lot. The commons too, they’d started snitching…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “In the city you move underground?”
THE DESERTER: “I don’t want to. They’re all traitors—pigs, rabbits, and dogs. Men without ideals are only animals.”
THE DESERTER: “I know.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So you’ve been there?”
THE DESERTER: “Sleeping…” He coughs. “Some nights. Ammo-scrounging on others. Those Magraves were shit even before they corroded—some had bullets in the chamber, however.”
THE DESERTER: “The propaganda bunker?” He coughs. “I used to, but not anymore.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Propaganda bunker?”
RHETORIC: [Formidable: Success] You can’t possibly be this naïve.
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Hey, whose side are you on!?
THE DESERTER: He stares at you coldly. “You’re the RCM—you represent the Moralist International, the enemies of humanity, who took this city. I represent their adversary, le Parti communiste d’Insulinde. Take me to them as a prisoner of war. I have relinquished my weapon, I can no longer serve. No superiors can relive me of my duty, you bulldozed them all to a mass grave for trying to free humanity…” His hand shakes and he breaks into a coughing fit.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] A spray of blood from his mouth, on the black charcoal in the firepit…
THE DESERTER: “Liberal reactionaries signed that instrument—traitors, who should have been burned alive…” He draws his breath. “I answer to the Communist Party.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Is that part of why you’ve been here all this time? Because the Party didn’t surrender?”
THE DESERTER: The old man does not answer. He tilts his silver head and looks at the reeds—you see a small tremor pass through his legs.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant speaks softly. “His job was to assure the army answers to civilian control—and follows the ideology of the commune.”
THE DESERTER: “Scientific communism!” The tracksuit-clas old man is suddenly reanimated. “A *commisaire politique* is a knight-philosopher of the Revolution, a future human.”
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] Awakened from shutdown by the promise of *ideology*.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective.” The lieutenant gives you a stern look. “We have not come here to discuss ideology.” He then turns to the old man. “We have come to ask questions regarding a murder investigation.”
THE DESERTER: The old man spits into the fire pit. He does not say anything more. A hitter passes his lower body…
COMPOSURE: [Challenging: Success] The expression on his face is unreadable. There’s some sort of interference there… neurological?
THE DESERTER: “I’ve used it for killing people.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Killing people?”
THE DESERTER: “It’s a gun. That’s what they’re for. You want a moralist euphemism—defending your family and your property? I haven’t done that. I’ve used it to kill people.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Interesting.” The lieutenant nods. “During, or *after* the War?”
THE DESERTER: “There is no *after* the war.” He shakes his head and smiles, his teeth rotten black: “Class war is never over.”
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] So he’s continued killing *after* hostilities ended. Okay, okay…
REACTION SPEED: This is what you *live* for. This is *the shit*.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The great serotonin jackpot.
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] Go in straight, no euphemisms, he doesn’t like those…
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: [Easy: Success] No-no. Be careful now, slow and steady does it. Make him repeat it first.
ARIST: [Easy: Success] You’re not really sure why your hand/eye coordination is giving you conversational advice right now, but you push the thought aside.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: I have useful things to contribute too!
THE DESERTER: Nothing comes to you. Silence, his black eyes look at you.
SHIVERS: ALL IS NOT AS IT SEEMS.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective?” The lieutenant turns to you, with well disguised impatience.
THE DESERTER: “What did I just say…” He keeps shaking his head, erratically suddenly. He brushes something out of his eye…
ARIST: You were saying?
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Aww…
THE DESERTER: “I don’t *want* to tell you anything, you grotesque murderer.”
THE DESERTER: “The who now?” He leans in and cups his ear.
THE DESERTER: “Oh yes… that one,” he looks up at the sky and clicks his tongue. “Ugly piece of work, that boy…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did you *kill* him?” The lieutenant takes a sudden step toward him.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Exhaust him with proof. Pile it all on him, get a confession.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: [Medium: Success] The gun. The murder weapon is the perfect opener.
PERCEPTION (SMELL: [Trivial: Success] The scent of blood in the air… but what else? There was something you can’t remember…
THE DESERTER: “Heh…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Not a lot of guns around that use military grade ammunition, are there?”
THE DESERTER: “It’s a real gun,” he points to the lieutenant’s holster, “not like your little musketeer pistols. I’ve seen you prance around with those, jumping hoops for the liberals… You look like imbeciles. Why don’t you ask them to give you real weapons, huh?” He chortles. “Going against automatic rifles with a *flame bomb*… of course you got all those boys killed!”
HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] Damn, he saw you. He’s watched it happen.
THE DESERTER: “None of those people mean *anything* to you. The vultures feed on this city and you prepare the meal for them.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] You’re getting diverted. Push the gun. Only the gun matters.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So you watched the fight?” The lieutenant points inland. “Did you like what you saw? The mayhem? It was all your doing. Your plan. *You* got them killed.”
We put that point we just got into Rhetoric.
THE DESERTER: “Murder…” The old man does not say more—he just glances into the reeds and then twitches once more…
VOLITION: [Formidable: Success] Like a marionette, on some invisible string…
LOGIC: Who cares—there were may bells in the grass when you got her! And on Klaasje’s balcony!
REACTION SPEED: You got it! Remember, the boot prints were like no *modern* sole…
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] Maybe don’t beat yourself any more though? You’re not immortal…
KIM KITSURAGI: Nothing else comes up. You see the lieutenant watch you try to stimulate thought processes by hitting yourself.
THE DESERTER: “Almost *where?* Almost ready to bleed to death?” He looks at the bloodstain on your pant leg…
Okay, let’s talk to the lieutenant.
ARIST: [Medium: Success] You’re fairly certain that Dros can still hear you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Good.” He nods. “We’re doing very good. He *wants* to confess—I can see that. We just need to pile it on, a little more—the more we have on him the closer he is…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ballistics. Let him cook here for a minute or two—we can have another look around the island for a sniper’s nest.” He looks to the small tower on the coast. “I think we should check out the post.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Remember,” the lieutenant whispers. “He wants to tell us—but he doesn’t want to *help* us. It needs to looks like we already have everything.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] There is palpable excitement in his tone. He likes him for this—*a lot*. But there’s something more too…
Okay, let’s return to the tower and see if we missed anything when we picked up the gas can.
ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Oh, hey, look at that. A huge fucking *mattress* just laying in the middle of a cold tower next to some firing slits. How the hell’d you miss this, idiot?
MATTRESS NEST: A single-person mattress. Modern, civilian use. Brand name: Marjorie. There’s a fuel stain on the cover, along with cigarette burns.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): The silhouette of a tobacco picker adorns the paper filter. The brand: Tioumoutiri.
MATTRESS NEST: The springs screech as you lean on the mattress and crane your neck to look out…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Trepidation. A tingling feeling in your stomach.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you have line of sight to the window?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A pair of binoculars? Or the scope of a *rifle*?” He points to the makeshift bed. “You’d be prone, lying on the mattress, barrel resting on the embrasure…”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant pauses. Regret comes over him.
We put a point into Logic, and get ready to return to the deserter. This time, we’ve got him for sure.