descended on this place. I figure I could write a whole paper about this mug alone. Hell, maybe even a book!"
"It's..." she starts to say, but her voice trails off for a moment. "I didn't know they were selling mugs," she says eventually.
"How's the essay coming along?" I ask, figuring I should at least be polite.
"It's fine," she mutters, before adding something inaudible that I can't make out.
"Well," I continue, "I guess I should let you get on. Have fun, or whatever you're planning to do while you're here. Are you going to stay for the whole day?"
"The what?" she asks.
"Until midnight," I reply. "Are you going to stay until the big moment?"
"I don't know," she says. "I hadn't thought about it."
"Apparently there's going to be a choir," I reply with a smile, but it's clear that she's still in no mood to talk. "Maybe there'll even be burning pitchforks if you're lucky."
She mumbles a reply, but once again it's too quiet for me to understand.
As I walk back to my car, I start to feel a little dirty for having come down here. I could probably try to persuade myself that I'm taking an academic interest in the Sam Gazade case, and that I came here because I wanted to study the dynamics of such a highly polarized crowd. The truth, however, is that I came to gawk, just like everyone else. I might be a student of human nature, but I'm by no means immune to the impulses that affect everyone else. Sure, I'm not about to start waving a placard, but I guess that's partly because I don't really have a very strong opinion one way or the other. I'm blessed, in a way, by the fact that I can take a well-rounded approach to the whole thing, rather than being the victim of a burning determination to get any particular point across. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a strong opinion. As far as I'm concerned, the execution of Sam Gazade is a fascinating social and cultural phenomenon, but my interest is mostly academic, even if the five dollar mug showing Sam Gazade's face might suggest otherwise.
Paula Clarke, on the other hand... I can't help wondering what drove her to come down here for the big event, but I guess I shouldn't try to analyze her too much. After all, she's just one girl. One perfectly-timed, perfectly stupid girl.
Joanna Mason
"Mason! You in here?"
Leaning over the toilet, I let out a sigh. I've been kneeling in the stall for almost an hour, my body consumed by a feeling of desperate, gut-wrenching nausea. This is one of the side-effects that always hits when I've had a chemotherapy session. My body is reacting to the poison, and even though vomiting can't possibly help, I'm a victim of my stomach's turmoil. Occasionally, I stick two fingers down my throat and force myself to bring up some bile, but that's really only to make myself feel better. It's futile, in the end.
"I'm here," I call out, just as I hear Dawson letting the door swing shut.
"You okay?" he asks, pushing the door back open. "Mackenzie said you've been in here for ages."
"I'm fine," I reply, grabbing a piece of toilet paper and wiping my lips. I know I should get up and go out to face the world again, but I still feel as if I'm going to throw up at any moment. "Talk to me," I continue. "Tell me what's going on. Any news?"
"On the case?" He pauses. "Don't take this the wrong way, but this is the ladies' bathroom, so I'm just gonna wait outside until -"
"Is there anyone else in here?" I ask.
"Um, no, but -"
"Then stay," I tell him. "Just tell me the latest. I've got some kind of stomach bug, but I can still listen." I take a deep breath, which makes me feel a little better.
"It's just that I was thinking about the links between Edward Hunter's murder and the Sam Gazade case," he continues, sounding a little awkward. "Um, so, like you said, there are definitely too many coincidences for it to be, um, a coincidence, so the obvious conclusion is that someone is trying to copy Gazade, or maybe make some kind of statement. And if
"It's..." she starts to say, but her voice trails off for a moment. "I didn't know they were selling mugs," she says eventually.
"How's the essay coming along?" I ask, figuring I should at least be polite.
"It's fine," she mutters, before adding something inaudible that I can't make out.
"Well," I continue, "I guess I should let you get on. Have fun, or whatever you're planning to do while you're here. Are you going to stay for the whole day?"
"The what?" she asks.
"Until midnight," I reply. "Are you going to stay until the big moment?"
"I don't know," she says. "I hadn't thought about it."
"Apparently there's going to be a choir," I reply with a smile, but it's clear that she's still in no mood to talk. "Maybe there'll even be burning pitchforks if you're lucky."
She mumbles a reply, but once again it's too quiet for me to understand.
As I walk back to my car, I start to feel a little dirty for having come down here. I could probably try to persuade myself that I'm taking an academic interest in the Sam Gazade case, and that I came here because I wanted to study the dynamics of such a highly polarized crowd. The truth, however, is that I came to gawk, just like everyone else. I might be a student of human nature, but I'm by no means immune to the impulses that affect everyone else. Sure, I'm not about to start waving a placard, but I guess that's partly because I don't really have a very strong opinion one way or the other. I'm blessed, in a way, by the fact that I can take a well-rounded approach to the whole thing, rather than being the victim of a burning determination to get any particular point across. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a strong opinion. As far as I'm concerned, the execution of Sam Gazade is a fascinating social and cultural phenomenon, but my interest is mostly academic, even if the five dollar mug showing Sam Gazade's face might suggest otherwise.
Paula Clarke, on the other hand... I can't help wondering what drove her to come down here for the big event, but I guess I shouldn't try to analyze her too much. After all, she's just one girl. One perfectly-timed, perfectly stupid girl.
Joanna Mason
"Mason! You in here?"
Leaning over the toilet, I let out a sigh. I've been kneeling in the stall for almost an hour, my body consumed by a feeling of desperate, gut-wrenching nausea. This is one of the side-effects that always hits when I've had a chemotherapy session. My body is reacting to the poison, and even though vomiting can't possibly help, I'm a victim of my stomach's turmoil. Occasionally, I stick two fingers down my throat and force myself to bring up some bile, but that's really only to make myself feel better. It's futile, in the end.
"I'm here," I call out, just as I hear Dawson letting the door swing shut.
"You okay?" he asks, pushing the door back open. "Mackenzie said you've been in here for ages."
"I'm fine," I reply, grabbing a piece of toilet paper and wiping my lips. I know I should get up and go out to face the world again, but I still feel as if I'm going to throw up at any moment. "Talk to me," I continue. "Tell me what's going on. Any news?"
"On the case?" He pauses. "Don't take this the wrong way, but this is the ladies' bathroom, so I'm just gonna wait outside until -"
"Is there anyone else in here?" I ask.
"Um, no, but -"
"Then stay," I tell him. "Just tell me the latest. I've got some kind of stomach bug, but I can still listen." I take a deep breath, which makes me feel a little better.
"It's just that I was thinking about the links between Edward Hunter's murder and the Sam Gazade case," he continues, sounding a little awkward. "Um, so, like you said, there are definitely too many coincidences for it to be, um, a coincidence, so the obvious conclusion is that someone is trying to copy Gazade, or maybe make some kind of statement. And if
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