Chapter Text
Harry jerks his head up. “How the fuck do you have my gun?”
“Ah, so it is yours,” the Legate says, “I was told it had been recovered on-site but not to whom it belonged.”
“She’s working for you? Big Mole Seon from the Sam-Yuk-Gu is working for you?!”
“I am afraid I do not follow.”
“And that’s why she wanted the notebook, and why she shot the guy, and, fuck, an unmarked white van? Really?!”
“Again, I am not—”
Pryce raps his pen against his desk. “What the hell is going on, Du Bois.”
“Yes, lieutenant double-yefreitor.” Berdyayeva’s voice prickles, and she’s a shadow silhouetted against the window. “Please explain the situation.”
Kim taps Harry’s shoe—let me handle this. “It’s in the report, captains. A squad from the Sam-Yuk-Gu ambushed us yesterday, led by a woman named Seon. She fled the scene after a confrontation with the lieutenant-yefreitor, taking his gun and a notebook full of information about the trafficking ring with her. We managed to retrieve most of this information from our subsequent interview with Ehara, but were in the process of tracking down the missing gun.” He points at the case. “Which had been in Legate Shirata’s possession. The lieutenant-yefreitor believes Seon has cut ties with the Sam-Yuk-Gu and brought the notebook to the task force. Because the only way for Legate Shirata to have had the gun is if she was working for both organisations, either as an informant or an undercover operative.”
The Legate has been nodding along to every word. “I am not in a position to confirm your theory,” he says, lacing fingers over his knees. “But once you come on board, you will be granted full knowledge of operational specifics, such as the identities of any informants or agents who may be working with the task force.”
“Seon is also the prime suspect in a murder investigation.”
The Legate cocks his head. “That is a grave charge. What leads you to make it?”
“She said so.” Harry slams the case shut. “She confessed!”
“I see. Did she say she had committed the act you accuse her of?”
“She executed Ehara’s sister for killing one of her men.”
“In those words exactly?”
Harry hesitates. “Not exactly.”
“Ah, well.” The Legate’s chair creaks as he sits back. “I appreciate you bringing it to my attention, regardless. If she is affiliated with the task force in some capacity, it will be accounted for during the internal reviews. Not to worry. Justice will be mete.”
Pryce glares as if the other man had shot his horse. The Legate ignores him and glances at his watch. “I must be on my way soon,” he says, standing and rebuttoning his blazer. “But it has been a pleasure meeting you, lieutenants, and I am very much looking forward to seeing you apply your talents on the task force. I am told its leaders have been following your investigation closely.” Another smile brightens his handsome face. “Your work has allowed them to flush out overstayers and illegal migrants throughout Jamrock.”
A sigh breezes into the stuffy office, rustling paper and smoothing the hair on Harry’s arms—
Villalobos, 4 Gesso Road. Officers in riot gear pour out of armoured vans and swarm the tenement, black and orange carapaces gleaming like carrion beetles, truncheons clenched in welcome /
A young woman sets a plate of oranges on a makeshift funeral altar, a yellow ‘Collection of Body’ form where a photograph should be. Incense sweetens the air, coiling as a joss stick burns to the root. She brushes away the column of accumulated ash. Boots tromp down her corridor /
In Couron, Corentin kisses Sabine on their apartment balcony. Wood splinters as a battering ram thuds their locked door. “I love you,” he says, and boosts her onto the tenement’s roof. “Run.” An armoured shoulder bursts into the room. He raises his gun /
Cue Ball kneels in his kitchen, pressing his daughter’s face to his chest and covering her ears. The other children scream as they’re dragged out of the apartment, arms reaching for him, zip-ties biting into their tiny wrists. He turns away /
Aya sits on Rainier’s teak desk, massaging his hand as he reads. She hears vans barrelling past the agency. She watches sunlight slant across the polished floorboards. She ignores the open window /
Lieutenant Kitsuragi breathes quietly in a cramped office. Dust motes dance in a light beam. He looks sightlessly ahead. The tide recedes from Martinaise’s rocky shore, stripping his bomber jacket from his shoulders, taking his badge and gun, filling his boots and dragging him down and down and down, sinking through time until he’s here again. A lost little boy with nothing and no one /
Kim stares, bereft. He breaks—
“Thanks to you, the task force’s detection and containment procedures will be made more robust.”
The air is dead again. Screams echo in his ears. The Legate offers a handshake, and metal locks bite into Harry’s palms as he stops himself from smashing the suitcase into the other man’s skull.
“They’ve done nothing wrong,” Harry says through his teeth.
The Legate lowers his hand. “They have broken the law, lieutenant-yefreitor.”
Harry can feel the captains watching them. Berdyayeva raking over every shift in their posture and tone, Pryce’s pen making lazy loops around his thumb—why aren’t they saying anything / are they scared? / no they hate his guts / some kind of political chess is happening here, moves being radioed through your thick head—
Pryce raises a bushy eyebrow—well ?—and Harry realises that they’re waiting to see if he’ll can-opener the Legate.
“Maybe they shouldn’t have needed to break it in the first place,” he says.
It is not a question of need,” the Legate says, “it is a question of choice. They chose to engage in illegality when they left Seol.”
“The legal way costs years and years of wages,” Harry fires back. “Most of your countrymen can’t afford that.”
“Then they should not have left.”
“Leaving isn’t a choice if they’re being forced to make it.”
“Who is forcing them to leave? No one is putting a gun to their heads. No one is forcing them to make illegal passage in cargo containers. It is unfortunate this is occurring, of course. In this very case we see the human cost of their actions.”
“So they deserved to die?”
“Obviously not.” A sudden snap chills the Legate’s voice. “I must admit I am puzzled by this line of questioning. The RCM fulfills the same regulatory function as the ICP and the task force, albeit on a local scale. You must be familiar with this sort of work.”
“With murderers, arsonists, and drug traffickers. Not people who’re only here because they wanted to make their lives better.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be operating under the assumption that Seol is some mud-hut backwater, and that all Seolites are destitute and desperate to leave. I can assure you that it is not and we are not.”
Harry grabs a navy blue sleeve. “What would you know about being poor?” he says, fingernail tinking the crystal watch face.
The Legate jerks his wrist away. “Plenty.”
“You had to downgrade to one motor carriage when daddy’s money ran out?”
“I slept under the cashier’s counter of my parents’ restaurant, yefreitor. For years, like a dog, because all the money they made went into servicing their debt—” He checks his watch for scratches and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I have not forgotten.”
he’s said more than he wanted / that’s your opening— “What was their debt?”
“Who they were not in debt to. Landlords, utility companies, suppliers—”
“And gangs who smuggle people in containers?”
Sweat blots the rim of Legate Shirata’s collar. He takes out a white handkerchief and mops the back of his neck, scrutinising Harry like a sniper cleaning the bore of their rifle, and his smile returns. “You would truly be an asset to the task force.”
bullseye—”This case is personal.”
“It should be personal for all of us. These gangs cause incalculable harm to communities, to society as a whole. It is our moral imperative to stop them.”
“How can ripping people out of their homes be moral?”
“That acts as a deterrent.”
The suitcase crashes to the floor as Harry leaps up. “You were one of them! Why don’t you care?”
“A safer world,” Legate Shirata says softly. “Isn’t that what we all want? Migration without exploitation.”
“Bullshit. The employment passes, the exit permits, the welfare contribution—you’re running a business and you’re shutting out the competition.”
“Lieutenant-yefreitor, that is cynical of you.”
“Guess it’s that famous Revacholian pessimism.”
The Legate gestures at the framed drawing on Pryce’s desk. “You would understand, captain. Your daughter turns eighteen this month. Surely you want to give her a better world than the one we inherited.”
“My son is none of your business,” Pryce growls.
“Ah, my apologies. He is blessed to have a father as understanding as yourself.” The Legate checks the time. “I am afraid I am late for my next meeting. Perhaps it was necessary to discuss our ideological positions before you officially joined the task force—”
“Screw the task force,” Harry says.
“I am sensing some friction here, but there is no need to change your answer for now. Take your time to think it through.” He glances at Kim, sitting unresponsive in his seat. “You and your partner.”
Berdyayeva opens the door. “I’ll see you to your motor carriage, Legate.”
he’s slipping away—”Wait, you can’t just leave.”
“My sincerest apologies, but I have to make my way back across the river.”
“I had more questions—”
“You may direct them to my office at the Mission, or we can arrange a call later this week.”
Harry blocks his path. “You’re answering them now.”
“Step aside,” Berdyayeva orders.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“You are not causing a diplomatic incident today.” She points at a vacant chair. “Sit down.”
Legate Shirata clasps his hands at his front, like a pedestrian waiting for the crossing lights to change—grab him / sweep the legs, yank his arms behind his back and cuff him / no, invite him to participate in rational debate / show him who’s the law—
Harry steps to the side.
“Thank you, yefreitor,” the Legate says, “I look forward to your final response, whether you decide to join or no. Please keep the suitcase. As a gift.”
Berdyayeva ushers him out. Right before she leaves, she throws her co-captain a significant look.
Pryce nods in response. The door shuts. “Justice will be mete,” he mutters under his breath, “what a farce.”
Harry stares at the door. “I had him.”
“You did what you could.”
“If I had more time, I would’ve cracked him.”
“And the Coalition Government would’ve buried us.” Pryce opens the folder on his desk.
Harry runs a hand through his hair, tacky with grease. “So what now?”
The captain licks his thumb and flips to the next document. “Legate Shirata made the suggestion that the immigration raids conducted today could be used to generate positive buzz with the press.” He grimaces. “There was talk of an award ceremony, press conferences, and promotions. All contingent on you joining the task force.”
He pushes his glasses up to rest on his forehead, dark ovals denting either side of his nose. “Which I assume you’re not.”
“Fuck no!”
“Understood. Kitsuragi?”
The lieutenant is utterly still.
Pryce raps his desk. “Kitsuragi?”
Kim slowly raises his head. “I’m done.”
“I will inform the Legate—”
A blue card clatters onto Pryce’s desk, LTN KIM KITSURAGI printed across it in white block letters. The Armistice A9 lands next to it. “I’m done,” Kim says, tugging off his orange bomber jacket and flinging it to the floor. “I quit.”
He walks out, narrow shoulders pulled upright. Harry moves to follow him.
“Du Bois.” Pryce motions him back. “Let him cool down.”
Harry hovers by the doorway. “He said he quit.”
“Yes.”
“He quit everything.”
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you more freaked out about this?”
The captain replaces his glasses. “Because officers storm into my office threatening to quit everyday. Vicquemare’s done it," he checks a note stuck to his desk. "Twice this week alone. I have a bet with Minot he’ll crack double digits by the end of the month. But he’s not quitting. No one does. We’re all addicts.”
“When Kim says something, he means it. He’s quit.”
“Until the formal resignation letter crosses my desk, he hasn’t.” He sighs and shuffles his papers. “As I was saying, I will inform the Legate of your decision—”
“What if I go with him?”
Pryce looks up, eyes tightening into a squint, staring at him like he’s gone crazy. Which says a lot given the shit Harry’s pulled during his tenure at the 41st. “Who are you if you aren’t a cop, yefreitor?”
high school gym teacher / murderer and fuck up / a void where a man should be —”I don’t know. Maybe I should find out.”
The captain lowers his papers. “You’re serious. We need you, and Kitsuragi too. We’re thinly-spread as is.”
“So recruit. Promote Judit and graduate more junior officers. The Wing won’t fall apart without us.”
“I’m not talking about C-Wing.” He leans back in his chair, mental abacus clacking as it reaches its final tally. “What I’m about to say does not leave my office. Is that clear?”
Laughter brays from the corridor—Chester’s—as Mack yells a joke about motorboating across the station floor. The Legate’s shiny motor carriage will be pulling away now, zipping over the Esperance to the gleaming towers on the Delta, where men in sensible suits turn suffering into welfare performance indicators. He should be out there. Feeling his streets through his soles as the motor tract roars overhead, tracking leads and sniffing out clues and solving the goddamn case.
Harry rubs his chops. He should be in Revachol, with Kim by his side.
“Fine.”
“Get the door.”
He shuts out Mollins’s scatological retort. Pryce closes the window with a thunk and brushes paint flakes from his hands. A scar, ridged and dark pink like an earthworm, runs down his forearm and disappears into his rolled sleeve, a reminder that even though he spends his days corralling officers and sifting through reports, the captain has paid his dues.
“How much do you know about the Insulindian Citizen Militia?” Pryce says, settling behind his desk.
“The communards’ army? Some people think the RCM comes from them.”
“What if I told you that was true?”
“But the Coalition wiped out all the communists.”
“Then.” The captain plucks his pen from his ear. “Not forever. You can’t kill an ideal, can you, comrade?”
Harry blinks. “You’re a.” He lowers his voice to a hush, “you’re a—” He places his thumbs on his temples and waggles his fingers.
“Hypocritical of me to be sitting here, I know.” The black pen twirls around Pryce’s knuckles. “But I’m not the only one.”
“Who else?”
“A few captains, several cadres of lieutenants, sergeants, patrol officers—not all, but enough. There’s a movement happening. Within the RCM and in the harbours, factories, and universities. We’re not all—” Pryce mimes a set of antlers. “But we share a goal: to end the occupation of Revachol.”
“Does Berdyayeva know?”
“Who do you think is doing the organising?”
Harry lowers his arms—this is it. the Glorious Revolution / and you its vanguard / time to grind capitalist pigs into juicy socialist sausages— and he remembers a girl in a threadbare dress, pushing a trembling button through its hole.
“But you can’t trust the RCM, captain.”
The pen stops. “Elaborate.”
“There are officers who shouldn’t be officers, who hurt people for fun—or because they don’t care. This…” Harry runs his tongue over his front teeth. “This movement’s going to be an excuse for them to do worse.”
“They can be reined in.”
“You don’t know that.”
The captain sighs. “You’re correct. But we need all the men we can get.”
“No, we need to clean house.”
“How can we without autonomy? When our authority depends on the whim of some INSURCOM pencil-pusher?”
Harry scratches his cheek. “There just. There has to be a better way.”
“There isn’t. Berdyayeva and I have spent months discussing this.” Pryce sets his glasses back on his nose. “I’ll be the first to say the RCM is deeply flawed. But we can only start making change, real change, after we’ve removed the Coalition boot from our necks.”
“But what if we fail?”
“Then we fail.”
The room boils. Pryce loosens his tie. Above him, fat flies kick their spindly legs, drowning in glue.
The captain picks up the framed drawing on his desk. “I don’t expect to survive.” His thumb brushes a stick figure, paper yellowing beneath the glass pane. “But I have to act like I will. And that means refusing to accept—out of all the worlds we’ve dreamt and squandered—that this one was inevitable.”
He sets the picture down. “That’s why we need you, and especially Kitsuragi. Violence is easy. Any thug with a gun can wield it. The real work comes after, when we rebuild. The Moralintern has strip-mined Revachol. Built their obscene towers in the East and left Revachol West to rot, parked their aerostatics and warships in our skies and waters.” The captain scowls. “Nothing says humanitarian mission like artillery fire. We’re not their dogs, Harry. We’re the Revachol Citizens’ Militia. We swore an oath of service to our city and all who live in it, and it’s time we made it good. No more raids, no more grovelling, ni Dieu, ni roy, ni tribun. ”
A melody jangles down Harry’s auditory nerve when the captain utters those six words. It coils around his spine, fizzing into ligaments and vertebrae and snapping them straight.
The captain watches him, pen cap tapping his chin. “So you’ve heard her.”
Harry starts in surprise. “Her?”
“The city.” Pryce spreads his arms. “La Revacholière.”
After Kim, the captain is the most sane and sober man Harry has ever known. He can’t be crazy or high, which means Harry can’t be either. At least not this time.
Harry grips the back of a chair. “I thought my brain was fucking with me.”
“I thought so too. Decades ago, when I still did field work, I’d hear music. Audio-hallucinations brought on by sleep deprivation, I thought, a side-effect of amphetamine abuse.”
“Wait, you did speed?”
“You’re not the first cop to chemically enhance their caseload and you won’t be the last.”
Harry opens his mouth to ask a question.
“I quit when I was promoted to lieutenant. So did the music.”
“You haven’t heard her since?
The captain adjusts his glasses. “Only once. When the Coalition Government took one of my cases away, the ‘COAL CITY KILLING SPREE’.” He stares at a stack of files, slouched by a battered filing cabinet. “They’d summoned me and my partner all the way to the Bank of the World Building to make noises about jurisdiction. I was furious. I knew they’d killed the case to protect the bastards that did it. But as I turned off the 8/81, on my way to give up my badge and gun,” a smile raises the corner of his mouth. “She sang to me.”
Distant thunder stutters. A storm moves over Jamrock. The song in his bones unfurls—the one he’d heard at the abandoned lot, humming in the brick throat of an alley in Couron, carried on the air, radioing through him and the city’s green hills, through the steel hulls of Coalition warships dozing in the bay, through the speckled archipelago of Insulinde and into the pale, sparking against oblivion.
“I hear her too,” Harry murmurs. “In the streets, in the space between my cells, she sings.”
“La Revacholière calls, officer. Will you answer?” The captain leans forward. “Will you stand with us?”
A breath ghosts over his cheek. Pressure builds in his ears, crackling static like blank magnetic tape.
He locks eyes with Pryce. “Ils sauront bientôt que nos balles—”
“—sont pour nos propres généraux.”
Harry cracks his knuckles. “Goddamn right.”
“Good.” Pryce sits back, pen flicking between his fingers. “Go get your lieutenant.”
---
He tracks his partner down in the garages. Without the orange bomber, now draped over Harry’s arm, Kim could almost be mistaken for a mechanic. Except for the empty holster lashed around his shoulders, and his fury, radiating from him as he cleans out the Kineema, tools dumped in a pile by his feet. There’s no one around. Everyone else has gone for an early lunch or a smoke break, wisely choosing not to engage him.
Harry crosses into the parking space. “Kim.”
His water canister clunks onto the chain-cutters. The little brush that’s used to clean the leather seats bounces off it and skids beneath the neighbouring Coupris Forty. Harry carefully gets on his knees, wincing as dull pain throbs up his thigh, and gropes underneath the chassis until he finds it.
He places the brush next to the pile. “Kim,” he calls softly.
“Is this when you tell me not to quit?” A sheaf of newspapers hits the floor, followed by a blue plastic glasses case. “To go crawling back?”
“I mean, that would suck. You quitting. But I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
“Was that supposed to be comforting?” An ice scraper pings off the Kineema’s back wheel.
Harry scoops it up. “We both know if I’d said something like, ‘It’s always darkest before the dawn,’ you’d shoot me.” He crouches by the pile, righting the water canister and arranging the tools into a neat line. Then he folds Kim’s bomber and sets it on the newspapers, nestling the glasses case in its ribbed collar.
“If you go, I go,” he says.
Kim whips around. “That is deeply unfair.”
“You said that if I died, you'd retire. What’s so different about that?”
“I can’t be a cop anymore. I’ve sent everyone we interviewed to the gallows.”
“We didn’t know we were being tailed.”
His partner’s mouth twists. “I should have. If I’d been smarter, or shrewder, or more careful.”
“We acted according to whatever information we had—”
“That isn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.”
“You tried to do right by the case. You were doing the right thing.”
“You don’t understand!” Kim blinks rapidly, eyes wet. “My whole career, my whole life—what’s the point if the right thing is vile—” he covers his mouth and turns away.
Harry reaches for him. Strokes his back, pulled tight like a bowstring, his thin frame trembling. “Hey.”
Kim shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, doubling over.
Harry circles around to face him. Kim’s glasses are askew over his gloves, and Harry gently removes them and slips them into a trouser pocket. “Hey. C’mere.” He enfolds him.
Kim cries, clutching him like he’s drowning. Cigarette smoke sticks to his skin— fresh / his second of the day— and Harry pats him and murmurs comforting nonsense. A mechanic wanders by, toolbox in hand, and he’s about to set it by the Forty when he spots Harry mouth get the fuck out and immediately spins in the opposite direction.
Eventually, the sobs subside. Harry’s shoulder is damp, his shirt soaked through, but he cradles Kim’s head and holds him close, feeling his lungs fill and empty as he gets his breathing under control.
“Day by day,” Harry says, pressing his cheek to Kim’s temple, “that’s what you told me. Task by task, step by step. We do our best."
Kim lets out a shaky breath. “Our best isn’t good enough.” His voice is rough. “Not anymore.”
“But it is,” Harry insists. “You and me, we can change things.”
Kim pushes him away. “What, from the inside? Through incremental but sustainable change?”
“No. We tear everything down and rebuild it better.”
“Because two old men make a revolution.”
“But it won’t be just us. It’ll be the RCM, the whole city—”
“I can’t.” Dark circles ring his puffy eyes like bruises. Kim sinks to the concrete and slumps against the Kineema. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.” He hangs his head.
Tyres squeak as a motor carriage turns into the garages. Harry’s hands flex uselessly at his sides, his tongue inert in his mouth. He’s never seen Kim like this. He doesn’t know what to do or say, doesn’t know how to convey the feeling, singing in his marrow, that what his partner had called the ‘facts of the world’ are anything but—and like a thunderbolt he does know one thing for certain: he’d storm heaven if Kim Kitsuragi asked. Tear the Host from its golden throne and spit in its wrathful face.
An armoured car door slams. Harry kneels and brushes a bandaged forearm with his fingertips.
“We have to try.”
The face he knows best in the world looks up at him. A question quavers in its eyes.
“I don’t know what will happen,” Harry answers.
Kim draws his knees up and hugs his elbows. “Then how can you begin to try?”
“I did the whole giving up and dying thing before. It solved what the scientific community has deemed, ‘fuck all.’”
A weak smile from Kim. Harry touches his knee.
“I have to fight,” he continues, “I have to keep fighting. I have to believe that better days are coming, that we can make something beautiful. Beautiful, and right, and real. And if I fail, if La Revacholière fails, then so be it. We will be a beautiful failure.”
“You will also be dead.”
“I know. But speaking from personal experience, it’s not so bad.”
Kim shakes his head. “Incorrigible,” he says, and strokes Harry’s cheek.
He leans into the touch. “Just stupid.”
“You’re braver than I will ever be.”
“Only because of you.”
Kim’s throat moves as he swallows. “I don’t know if I can share your belief, mon haleine.”
“It’s okay if you can’t.” Harry takes his hands. “I shouldn’t have said I’d go if you’d left. I can fight for both of us.”
“So you’ll stay.”
“I will.”
“Even if I quit?”
Harry nods. “Mais je reviendrai toujours vers toi.”
Kim considers their joined hands. Weighs his risks and options, his potential futures and his mistakes, ever careful. Faith does not come easily to him. But he takes a deep breath and tightens his grip around Harry’s fingers. “Where you go, I go.”
Harry smiles and raises his knuckles to his lips.
“Could I please have my glasses back?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Harry wipes the lenses clean before handing them over.
His partner sniffles. “Thank you.”
Harry slots the little brush back into its cupholder. Newspapers are stuffed into the storage compartment, the tools returned to their homes. Kim dons his bomber jacket and adjusts his collar in the Kineema’s side mirror, the lieutenant once again.
“Did you call me ‘your breath’ earlier?” Harry says.
Kim honks into his handkerchief. “Do you not like it?” he says, muffled.
“I do, it’s very romantic.” He shuts the Kineema’s door and leans against it, watching his partner clean himself up. Kim’s face is puffy, his nose boil-red and wet, but Harry can’t stop looking. He will never tire of looking. “What happened to ‘we’ll go slow?’”
“It’s Le Retour, not a proposal.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Only one of them involves an armed insurrection.” Kim wipes his nose. “Then again. Knowing our luck, we’d walk into a jewellery shop and find the staff dead.”
Harry nods solemnly. “Gas leak.”
“Armed robbery turned violent.”
“Revenge plot.”
“Mass food poisoning.”
“Sequence killer.”
“Oh, that would be a difficult case.” Kim pats his jacket, checking for his notebook. “We should definitely go to a shop outside Jamrock.”
Harry grins. “Maybe we’re better off with no rings at all.”
“That would be safer for everyone, yes.” His partner steps close. “Hypothetically speaking. Because this isn’t a proposal.”
“Definitely not.” Harry’s hands slip under the orange bomber and around Kim’s waist. “We’re going slow.”
“We are.”
“Taking all the time we need.”
Kim slides his palms up Harry’s chest. “Mmhm.”
“Between our jobs and the extracurricular activities we’ve signed up for—”
“We’re committed.”
Joy glows in Harry’s lungs. “We are.”
He lets Kim push him against the Kineema and kiss him breathless. They don’t care who sees.
Notes and Translations
- ni Dieu, ni roy, ni tribun -- No God, no king, no tribune.
- Ils sauront bientôt que nos balles -- They will soon know that our bullets.
- sont pour nos propres généraux -- Are for our generals.
- Words stolen shamelessly from The Internationale.
- Mais je reviendrai toujours vers toi -- But I will always return to your side.