- Joined
- Feb 6, 2007
- Messages
- 358
- Capital
- Partenopea
- Nick
- Coroström
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The rain stopped shortly after 5:00pm. The man crouching beside the thick tree trunk carefully removed his coat. The rain hadn't lasted for more than half an hour, and it hadn't been heavy, a cold damp feeling had penetrated his clothing. The feeling had given him a sudden flash of anger. He didn't want to catch a cold. Getting sick during this time of year never felt particularly well. The Godthåbland winters could be harsh although the rain rather than snow surely stated otherwise.
He laid the raincoat on the ground and stood up. His legs were stiff. He started swaying back and forth gently to get his circulation going, at the same time looking around for any signs of movement.
"Hey, are you seriously pissing on the tree?" a familiar voice said from behind him. He turned around seeing a face the matched the lovely voice of his not so lovely partner.
"Good to see you too Jóhanna."
"You don't look all that pleased to see me."
"It probably has to do with the fact that you're late."
"Since when were we in a hurry? We're just getting coffee."
"It's rude."
"You're rude."
He laughed as they walked over to the Tjorven 900 that he'd been driving for the last seven years. He wondered if Tjorven would continue to sell cars in Godthåbland now that they had broken away from the mainland of Fjäderholmarna. It was a reliable car, so he hoped so. He turned the ignition and put the car into first gear.
"So why are we getting coffee again?" he asked.
"Because we got promoted. It's not everyday you get a promotion you know. We should mark this day with something, and I could really go for some coffee."
"Jóhanna we're got promoted because this shitty country needed a national investigation unit."
It was odd to think that Godthåbland was now its own country. They never did speak the same as Fjäderholmarna did, but there was history and never really any animosity towards the mainland.
She retorted, "Hey, this shitty country is still our home. Love it for what it's worth. I also still want a job. So watch your mouth Gunnar, I bet big brother is watching."
Turning his eyes onto the road and shaking his head, he smirked.
Gunnar Magnússon and Jóhanna Vilhjálmsdóttir were originally police officers. They belonged to the homicide unit. This morning they were told they had been removed from the Vik Police Force and moved to the new Socialist Investigation Agency. While they weren't entirely sure what kind of role they'd play because they were homicide detectives, it did make sense in their minds. Of course it would only make sense in their minds. Godthåbland was a small country. Not necessarily in area but in population. With just less than a million people, inhabitants had grown to learn to take on a wide array of responsibilites. Everyone had to take on a role, and then the equivalent of someone else's role. Hard work was important so was education.
The roads were relatively empty and had been since the Revolution. The new citizens of the country were enjoying the week off. Only the bumps in the road interrupted the silence in the vehicle as the Tjorven 900 rattled down the bumpy road. Whenever it rained the water would freeze in the small cracks in the road and expand. The expansion would make larger cracks and eventually potholes. Godthåbland's roads were in relatively poor condition. It was too expensive to replace them every year.
Pulling into a small café parking lot Gunnar and Jóhanna took a seat by the front window. A small crowd was developing in front of Parliament. Three men would lose their lives.
The rain stopped shortly after 5:00pm. The man crouching beside the thick tree trunk carefully removed his coat. The rain hadn't lasted for more than half an hour, and it hadn't been heavy, a cold damp feeling had penetrated his clothing. The feeling had given him a sudden flash of anger. He didn't want to catch a cold. Getting sick during this time of year never felt particularly well. The Godthåbland winters could be harsh although the rain rather than snow surely stated otherwise.
He laid the raincoat on the ground and stood up. His legs were stiff. He started swaying back and forth gently to get his circulation going, at the same time looking around for any signs of movement.
"Hey, are you seriously pissing on the tree?" a familiar voice said from behind him. He turned around seeing a face the matched the lovely voice of his not so lovely partner.
"Good to see you too Jóhanna."
"You don't look all that pleased to see me."
"It probably has to do with the fact that you're late."
"Since when were we in a hurry? We're just getting coffee."
"It's rude."
"You're rude."
He laughed as they walked over to the Tjorven 900 that he'd been driving for the last seven years. He wondered if Tjorven would continue to sell cars in Godthåbland now that they had broken away from the mainland of Fjäderholmarna. It was a reliable car, so he hoped so. He turned the ignition and put the car into first gear.
"So why are we getting coffee again?" he asked.
"Because we got promoted. It's not everyday you get a promotion you know. We should mark this day with something, and I could really go for some coffee."
"Jóhanna we're got promoted because this shitty country needed a national investigation unit."
It was odd to think that Godthåbland was now its own country. They never did speak the same as Fjäderholmarna did, but there was history and never really any animosity towards the mainland.
She retorted, "Hey, this shitty country is still our home. Love it for what it's worth. I also still want a job. So watch your mouth Gunnar, I bet big brother is watching."
Turning his eyes onto the road and shaking his head, he smirked.
Gunnar Magnússon and Jóhanna Vilhjálmsdóttir were originally police officers. They belonged to the homicide unit. This morning they were told they had been removed from the Vik Police Force and moved to the new Socialist Investigation Agency. While they weren't entirely sure what kind of role they'd play because they were homicide detectives, it did make sense in their minds. Of course it would only make sense in their minds. Godthåbland was a small country. Not necessarily in area but in population. With just less than a million people, inhabitants had grown to learn to take on a wide array of responsibilites. Everyone had to take on a role, and then the equivalent of someone else's role. Hard work was important so was education.
The roads were relatively empty and had been since the Revolution. The new citizens of the country were enjoying the week off. Only the bumps in the road interrupted the silence in the vehicle as the Tjorven 900 rattled down the bumpy road. Whenever it rained the water would freeze in the small cracks in the road and expand. The expansion would make larger cracks and eventually potholes. Godthåbland's roads were in relatively poor condition. It was too expensive to replace them every year.
Pulling into a small café parking lot Gunnar and Jóhanna took a seat by the front window. A small crowd was developing in front of Parliament. Three men would lose their lives.