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Req.Martyr posted:Where is our Cryptid Communard to show Raphael the true, red, path. Harry is the Cryptid Communard the way Arist has been playing him. We were the hero Martinaise needed.
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Mar 21, 2020 17:13
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| # ? Jun 8, 2024 14:18 |
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Played through this game. Loved it.
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Mar 21, 2020 21:13
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So is Gary the Third Racist?
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Mar 21, 2020 22:21
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Manic_Misanthrope posted:So is Gary the Third Racist?
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Mar 21, 2020 23:21
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Chapter 28: 20:55-22:46: Racism And Death ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Before you go check on those traps, you should see what Gary has to say. This better be good, Reaction Speed.   ARIST: [Easy: Success] Not very *crypto*, this fascist. Hell of a first impression! KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant raises his eyebrows slightly and takes out his notebook. LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Yellow Man? Interesting. This is something to ask him about, after a little probing first…   GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Dark times will do that to good men.” He nods gravely, then shifts his gaze to the pile of soggy logs at his feet.  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Oh, so *that’s* what the RCM is in Martinaise about? Great.” He nods in sincere approval. “Great to hear someone’s finally taking care of that.” KIM KITSURAGI: “So you *do* know something about it?” GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No, no,” he shakes his head emphatically. Then corrects his tie. “Nothing. He was some kind of mercenary, but everyone here knows that… I’m just glad to hear you’re looking into it, that’s all.” COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He’s not feeling very comfy in his clothes, is he? Strange…    ARIST: [Medium: Success] You hear racist jokes all the time? Dig up, stupid. GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Okay, okay, I admit it. I threw the mug away in the trash container behind the hostel. I know I shouldn’t have, and I am very sorry, officer.” He pauses.  ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] Honestly, you probably would have forgotten if he hadn’t reminded you. GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: He then accepts the slip of copy paper with a bow. “Okay, I deserve that—and I won’t do it again. You have my word. I don’t know what got *into* me. Stuffing my garbage in another man’s property, it’s… I’ve been having trouble at work lately. The kojkos are price dumping us out of competition.” ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You’re not sure if you’re more bothered by the sycophancy or the racial slur. But it should probably be the racism. MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “WHAT DID YOU DO, GARY?!”    GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Then I cane out to clean up the rags because *no one else would*. I put them into the Whirling’s trash—along with a broken mug, admittedly…” He changes his mind mid-sentence. “Okay, I was coming to throw the mug away and, well, I threw the mug there and the clothes too.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Right, it was just *civic duty*,” the lieutenant remarks drolly. GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Exactly! That’s exactly what it was—civic duty.”   GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “So I can use the Whirling’s trash compactor to store my own stuff,” he says, bowing shamefully like a fallen knight. “Garbage disposal is expensive as hell, the drat himeans run it like a mob… I’m sorry okay. I thought I could cut costs. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have disgraced myself.” ARIST: [Easy: Success] Okay, this is just getting pathetic now. What a coward. KIM KITSURAGI: “Disgraced?” The lieutenant raises his eyebrows and looks up. “No need for the histrionics, sir. It was, after all, just a trash container.”   GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Really?” He fans his arms out slowly, and this time, his motions are soundless. “There’s lots of weird stuff out here in the reeds, though—insects, trash. Could be the wind shifting some garbage nearby.” SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Every day, the wind shifts the reeds and whatever was left in them: tambourines and condom wrappers, plastic and glass bottles, the smell of decay.  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Armour? No.” He changes his mind. “I mean—yes, of course. I know he was wearing armour. But I don’t know anything *about* it…” DRAMA: [Medium: Success] An infant could see he’s not telling the truth—but he’s too scared to admit more wrongdoing.    GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No-no… I help Morell with research sometimes and I’ve learned some things along the way. But I don’t usually go in for picnics like this on my own.”  That was a *successful* Reaction Speed check?! GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Not many Seolites here, or anywhere, other than Seol. I meant no offense, truly.”    GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No, no problem at all.” He flashes an impenetrable smile at Kim. RHETORIC: [Challenging: Success] Sounds like some conspiracy topic. You might be able to discuss it with him when the lieutenant isn’t here. *If* you can remember it.     ARIST: [Medium: Success] Well, let’s get to the main event here. GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Sure do, officer.”    GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “So you work for Evrart Claire!” He realizes what’s going on and changes his tone: “Officer, please tell him we’re good. No, no, tell him I’ll make it up to him… What have I done? He’ll send the muscle after me…” The man looks around, whispering, he makes sure no one hears you talk.  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Whatever it is, tell him I’m silent as the grave.” The man thinks. “I was probably talking too loud in the Whirling the other night, about some theories…”  HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] This scared him proper. He’s positively *melting* from fear. Has to prop himself up with a lot of anger to keep it together. KIM KITSURAGI: “The weather vane has turned,” the lieutenant remarks with a smike. “He can not be un-turned.”    ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, let’s stop terrorizing this poor racist for now. You see something curious out of the corner of your eye…      SMALL BUOY: The number ‘11’ has been written on the yellow plastic. It hasn’t been in the water for very long, but it’s already discoloured and slimy with silt. A latch holds it close, but only just barely—the brittle metal of the latch has cracked.   SMALL BUOY: It smells like you would expect it to smell: A concentrated version of the coast. Salt, industrial slop and decay.       KIM KITSURAGI: “That may very well be the case. We should keep an eye on her.” He sighs. “Nothing more for us to do here. Let’s go.”   ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Before you leave, you turn back and look at Gary. Something about him is still bothering you. Think. What is his body language suggesting? We put a point into Composure.  Immediately after putting that point in, Composure contacts us.  COMPOSURE: Mag it sideways? What are you talking about?! You need to Mag it *up*! You’ve probably had two heart attacks and a minor stroke already… and the only prescription is insane amounts of magnesium.     Anyway, let’s talk to Gary again before he leaves.        GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: He freezes, then sighs heavily. “I knew you’d figure it out, officer. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at once. I was…” He unbuttons the shirt. You see gleaming white ceramic shine underneath—a thing layer of interlocking plates covers his gaunt torso. “I was ashamed of what I did. And I didn’t want you to know.” DRAMA: [Medium: Success] We’re not detecting falsehoods, sire. He’s gearing up to admit the truth. EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This *shame* is surprisingly sincere. MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “GARY! WHAT’S GOING ON?!” GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “LATER, MORELL! I’VE GOT APOLOGIZING TO DO.”  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Everyone was picking those pieces off him and I was watching them do it. And they scattered his clothes all over the yard, everything was smelling…” He looks at his feet. “So I went there to take out my trash and started cleaning up. All those rags on the ground, him swinging up there, and…” He swallows. “I had a lapse of honour, sir. I thought: he’s a foreigner. They all say he wasn’t from here. Only the cuirass was left, so I stripped it off him. It was early in the morning, no one saw me. I took it with me. It was a mistake. Had I known it’d give you guys trouble, I wouldn’t have…” His lips start quivering. “gently caress…” KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s okay.” The lieutenant jots something down in his notebook. “It was a loose end and you’re tying it up now.” GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “I’m so loving sorry I called you *yellow man*.” He says silently. “Seolite officers commanded the Suzerain’s navy. Most of them sided with the King, when…” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] They were thoroughly *conservative* men, he realizes suddenly.  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Because I was weak.” He says, staring at nothing in particular. “I should have told you the moment I saw you, but…” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “The HELL, Gary?! You in trouble?”  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “I always thought it was the Union, but… I sure as hell won’t go around saying that any more. You have my word. I don’t know—and I won’t be running my mouth on this subject any more.”     ARIST: [Easy: Success] loving Gary, huh. What a character.   ARIST: [Easy: Success] From Morell and Gary, you head south, looking for the first trap they set.   ARIST: [Medium: Success] Oooh, happy pills!   ARIST: [Medium: Success] As the light glints off your new sunglasses, you notice the trap nearby.  TRAP: BOATHOUSES: Behind you, the ruins of a residential building loom over the reeds. They whisper amongst themselves confidentially. Snowflakes cling to their shivering stems.  TRAP: BOATHOUSES: Locusts are crawling around in the trap, confused but uneaten. You see no carnivorous *reed-phasmid* gorging on them.             KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmm, correct.” The lieutenant examines the wall closely. “The density of the bullet holes is unusual, even in a general *average bullet hole frequency in Martinaise* sense. Grim affairs.”          VISUAL CALCULUS: A host of men, probably in everyday clothes—ragged from the conflict and covered in dust. They were not sitting (a common practice for executions in some nations), as demonstrated by the height level of the bullet holes. They stand, facing the wall… It’s impossible to discern any details about their personality or background.     KIM KITSURAGI: At first the lieutenant doesn’t say a word… he just stares at the wall. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I don’t know who died here, lined up beside that horrible wall. It could have been any of the parties involved in the Revolution. Perhaps the ones executed here were the loyalist-conservatives—killed by the communists at the start of the civil war. Or it could have been the communists, put to death during the last stretch of the conflict by the Coalition forces. It could even have been the employees of the Feld R&D Center down the coast, as their building was taken over by the revolutionaries.”  KIM KITSURAGI: “Yeah… it’s very unlikely the Coalition forces were the ones who died here. They were always the *last* ones against the wall.”    ARIST: [Medium: Success] After that sobering thought, you return north to Morell’s last trap. He and Gary have already left.  TRAP: MORELL: The reeds by the abandoned camp site sway and tremble, while the snow falls all around.  TRAP: MORELL: The trap is also full of panicked locusts. No sign of any cryptozoological beast inside.    ARIST: [Easy: Success] To the east is the boardwalk. You decide to explore it a small bit for a reprieve from trap-hunting.         PERCEPTION (HEARING): Dripping water falls from a high place. All you can see is the shadow of a collapsing staircase. ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Wait, what do you know? You’re hearing, not sight!  KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” He shakes his head. The windows rattle in their frames. “I won’t even try. You know…” he takes his glasses off. “I had a partner once. They called him Eyes, because he had to show me things. It’s that bad.”   ARIST: 7 out of 10’s a C. Not terrible. Let’s just hope we never need your skills.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] You pass the phone from earlier as you make your way along the boardwalk.      RAILING: It’s streaked with dried seagull s hit and tangled with pieces of seaweed. A dangling arm suggests that there might be a jacket beneath the crust of filth. LOGIC: [Medium: Success] It seems likely that it was left in the surf until someone laid it out on this bench to dry out. Unfortunately that just seems to have stiffened it into a shapeless mass.   KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant sighs.     FILTHY JACKET: It’s a sordid and filthy tale, not for the weak. Are you sure you can stomach it?  FILTHY JACKET: It occurs to you that you’re not even *holding* the jacket itself, but rather the thick crust of jetsam and seagull poo poo that ensconces it.     ARIST: [Medium: Success] Just take your pills and forget this ever happened.         ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You’ve seen many a locked container around, but until now it’s never occurred to you that you actually have a *tool* to open them. Whip that prybar out, baby!        PERCEPTION (SMELL): It doesn’t help. You can still smell it.  PERCEPTION (SMELL): Don’t you recognize it? That hideous pungency, that faintly cloying sweetness? Only death smells like that. HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] Something cold wakes in the pit of your stomach: fear.    ARIST: [Medium: Success] You crawl forward, dreading whatever awaits you at the end of the boardwalk…  ARIST: But it was the only thing it could be. Tragedy.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] You ignore the body for now in favor of the trash next to it.. You can’t bear to look at it. TRASH CAN: Two empty bottles of ‘Touloula’ vodka and a can of black ‘Potent Porter’ is all you find. PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] No. There’s more in there. “Livis” strawberry liquor, plus some pilsner bottles too. Better not pick them up, they seem unhygienic. KIM KITSURAGI: “A tragedy…” The lieutenant looks in the can, eyes watering from the smell.  TRASH CAN: Whoever tossed it here was a heavy smoker: the brand name reads “Red Astra”.  TRASH CAN: You see traces of mayonnaise and ketchup on it, as well as a tomato wedge. The wrapper reads: “SHISH KEBAB REVACHOL.” VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] It’s no older than a day, or two. No mold yet.  ARIST: [Challenging: Success] All right. You need to look at the body now. No getting around it.  PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Easy: Success] Half of his body has slipped between the cracked boardwalk, starting with the left leg. The fall has left him broken, contorted like a sad puppet. PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Medium: Success] The smell is… not as bad as a two weeks old corpse, but it’s definitely heading there. KIM KITSURAGI: “Hold on…” The lieutenant squats next to the corpse and examines his face. Two bulging eyes stare back at him, void of any signs of life. “Lividity is fairly pronounced. Whoever this is, he’s been dead for two days, no longer.” He stands up and shivers as a gust of wind blows through his bomber jacket. “We need to investigate.” ARIST: [Easy: Success] Yes. You suppose you do, don’t you. Take a deep breath. This isn’t supposed to be easy. AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] Another dead body. This is your job. Steel yourself.  WORKING CLASS CORPSE: He’s wearing mud-caked boots, beige trousers, and an old brown leather jacket with a bright blue lining. There are traces of kebab sauce on his chest. COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] The leather jacket suits him well. It must be custom-made.    WORKING CLASS CORPSE: The man has fallen through a crack in the boardwalk and hit his head against the metal bench. Coagulated blood covers his black hair. One of his feet is still tangling through the hole.  WORKING CLASS CORPSE: His expression is dull like the sea behind him, drops of water shining on his moustache. His eyes, empty and wide, look frightening in their frozen gaze. VISUAL CALCULUS: [Easy: Success] Height 170-175 cm, curly hair, stout build. Age approximately 50-60 years. EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He was confused when he died. Confused and alone, most likely. Overcome with the awful surprise of it all.   WORKING CLASS CORPSE: A dried chunk of blood covers the hair at the back of his head—an open wound. It’s sticky and cold to your touch. LOGIC: [Medium: Success] This is what killed him. INLAND EMPIRE: [Challenging: Success] This is where he came out of himself. Drop by drop when he was unconscious. It took three, maybe four minutes.   WORKING CLASS CORPSE: They screech under your feet, ominously. It’s hard to say whether the dead man’s weight was what caused the boardwalk to break… It definitely looks fragile. PERCEPTION: [Medium: Success] You see waves churning below… Something cracks beneath your feet.  WORKING CLASS CORPSE: A 0.75 litre ‘Touloula’ vodka with its cap missing. There’s hardly anything left inside. KIM KITSURAGI: ‘Tare, all around us…” He looks at two other bottles near the coin-operated viewer, then at your yellow plastic bag. “I’d prefer if you didn’t collect them this time. It’s not… proper.”   WORKING CLASS CORPSE: The blackness of death. Stench. You think you see white chewing gum too. PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Confirmed. Nearly the whole pack is there, solidified on his lower rear teeth. KIM KITSURAGI: “He ate the whole pack, right? It’s to cover the smell of alcohol before going home. The worst this is…” The man shudders from the cold. “I’ve seen if before: almost the same scenario. Even the chewing gum. It’s always the same…”   KIM KITSURAGI: “Looks like one of the locals—he’d have to know this spot to come here. You don’t *just* walk over here.” He looks south, the way you came. “But that’s just a lazy assumption. What do you think?”      KIM KITSURAGI: “No, I don’t see anything that points in that direction. For now let’s treat this case as a simple—albeit sad—accident, unrelated to the murder case.”   KIM KITSURAGI: “Some symptoms of acute alcohol poisoning could have definitely played a role here: severe confusion, respiratory depression, unpredictable behaviour…”  KIM KITSURAGI: “What about it? The deceased ate some kebab.” He shrugs. “It’s probably from a nearby place, maybe in the Pox…”  KIM KITSURAGI: “They’ll seal this place off after the news reaches the Coalition officials. I doubt that they have enough resources to actually repair the boardwalk.”    KIM KITSURAGI: “A field autopsy isn’t necessary if the cause of death doesn’t appear to be criminal—and this looks like a simple accident to me.”      ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You turn from the body and make your way back down the boardwalk. All you see in that corpse is yourself, yet again.  To deal with this tragedy, we put a point into Volition and another into Composure for good measure.    ARIST: [Easy: Success] You leave the boardwalk and head east, then north when you reach the church. Your objective is the next trap Morell set, a welcome distraction.               KIM KITSURAGI: “Frankly, you’re just going to have to accept the fact that you can’t get in through every single door.”  KIM KITSURAGI: “Yeah, I understand you, I like opening doors as much as the next guy, but this one is simply beyond repair and we don’t have the resources needed to open it.”  ARIST: [Medium: Success] A little bitter from the mysterious door, you continue heading forward.    ARIST: [Medium: Success] It suddenly occurs to you that you haven’t actually looked at that library card yet. Were you putting it off, or did you legitimately just forget with everything that was happening? No matter. It’s time to open it.   A FOLDED LIBRARY CARD: Whoever owns this card is an avid reader: you find a list of books written in blue pencil: “Radiothriller”, “Stand A Little Less Between Me And The Sun.” The last one in the list is “The Glinting Curve” by M. Thibault. A library stamp indicates that the book has been returned.  A FOLDED LIBRARY CARD: “If lost, please return the card to the library. Dial 005-02-55-211 or visit us at Meroe Street 78, Jamrock. Business hours: 09 to 18.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Good.” He takes a note. “We should give them a call from my Kineema, see if we can learn anything about Billie Méjean.”    TRAP: LAND’S END: The reeds shake sadly in the coastal breeze. Snow specks the stalks. Most of it melts quickly, relinquishing form to darkness.        ARIST: [Medium: Success] The rotating lights from the tower in front of you are a welcome help in the thick snow. You feel a little warmer inside every time one shines on you.     PERCEPTION: [Challenging: Success] In the distance you can hear the breakers roar.  KIM KITSURAGI: “To warm his hands before pulling the trigger? Perhaps. But anyone could have made this. The coast is specked with fires this time of year.” He looks around.   KIM KITSURAGI: “Those?” He points to them. “A smoking assailant who favours Tioumoutiri to Astra or Drouin? Cigarette butts are everywhere. This is a common brand for old men.”  VISUAL CALCULUS: There, 1.2 kilometres over the cold water of the bay, through a thick snowstorm melting flake by flake in the waves you see the smallest rectangle, barely visible.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, we’ve ruled out one option.     ARIST: [Easy: Success] From there, it’s just a long journey back, past the church, past the fishing village, past the motor carriage, to the last trap by the water lock.  ARIST: It’s barely even visible through the snowstorm.  TRAP: CANAL: The reeds bend forlornly toward the sand. Snow covers the broken stalks like a shroud, and they shimmer, ghostly, in the darkness. In the east, the city centre hums to you.    ARIST: [Godly: Failure] CRYPTIDS ARE REAL!!!!!!!   KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant studies the trap with you. “Well, the bait worked on *something*. This doesn’t mean it was a reed-monster, though. Unless you see one in there? I just see an empty trap…” ARIST: It’s the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua!     ARIST: [Easy: Success] And so, you head back to the Whirling to notify Morell. Arist fucked around with this message at 23:23 on Mar 27, 2020 |
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Mar 26, 2020 16:31
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Magnesium-Based Lifeform comes up in response to talking Kuno about the magnesium in his shack, provided you have the Composure. I did not know it could pop up several hours later, as when you put more points into the stat. Odd.Manic_Misanthrope posted:So is Gary the Third Racist?   I love this exchange. Xander77 fucked around with this message at 19:27 on Mar 26, 2020 |
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Mar 26, 2020 19:24
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Eh, Measurehead is still the best racist
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Mar 26, 2020 23:32
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I really love the characterization everyone gets. It's been a while since talking with Joyce Messier and I still think about her perspective on the Revolution sometimes as the story progresses. Kim is still the best though. I love his reactions during this whole exchange.
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Mar 27, 2020 01:48
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This is my game of the year for 2019 and 2020 (I played it for the first time early March and finished it mid-March). What a great story this game has. Please don't burn out on this one, Arist.
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Mar 27, 2020 05:47
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Xander77 posted:
You can almost hear the knuckles crack as they plot how they're going to make this guy's life very very uncomfortable for the next few minutes.
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Mar 28, 2020 21:40
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Chapter 29: 22:46-01:28: Karaoke For Spirits Content warning: Cuno’s back, folks  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Disco…  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Oh hey, Morell and Gary made it back.   ARIST: [Medium: Success] Okay, fine, we get it, talk to Lena.  KIM KITSURAGI: “I knew it…” you hear Kim say quietly to himself. ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] I’m not surprised it’s already getting out of hand.  INTERFACING: [Easy: Success] The little silvery knob holding the tie together feels warm in your hand. It’s in the shape of an avian skull. With *eight* eyes.  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh… you don’t want to hear about some old woman’s ramblings…” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “‘Ramblings’? Nonsense! Your description of the phasmid is the most precise I’ve ever heard!” LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But darling, I didn’t even get the *size* of it right.” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “You were a *child*, my dear. Really, it’s extraordinary what you were able to describe. Now go on, tell our friend about it. He’s proven his interest in the field.” KIM KITSURAGI: Reflexively, the lieutenant readies his familiar notebook.  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. I was five and a half. In Betancourt, in the suburbs. My grandmother had a summer home there.”  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The strangest moment of my life: I looked up and one of the reeds *moved*. Not like a plant, but like a living thing—it stood up and looked at me. Its body unfolded like some antique toy… I’ve never seen anything like it.”  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I tried, but I was only a child. There was mud and high water, I couldn’t see it anymore. I was just standing there, knee deep in mud, looking around me…”  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I ran back home to my grandmother and asked her if *reeds* could *walk* and told her they were looking at me.” She chuckles. “Of course, she just laughed at me, but I knew what I’d seen… For years it was a story I told at parties, when I wanted to impress *boys*, that sort of thing.” She brushes her hair back. “Of course, most people just took it as a strange, amusing anecdote. So did I, honestly. But then I met Morell…” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “We were on a date, can you imagine? She tells me a story and it’s the most detailed report of the Insulindian phasmid I’ve ever heard. The sounds—she told me it hissed…” SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] So that’s how they met. This is *beyond* significant for them. LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It did, yes—like reeds in a gust of wind.” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “…the way it moved, the colour, how some of its limbs were white like marble…” He breathes excitedly. “It matched *perfectly* with what I know from other accounts! It was amazing.”     ARIST: [Easy: Success] Hey! That’s rude! MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “How could she? Who imagines this? She didn’t *know* about the phasmid. This is the main thing here, what makes it a confirmed sighting—she had no previous knowledge of the insect.” LOGIC: [Medium: Success] So she couldn’t have made it up. Or imagined it. LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That’s true, yes. I’m almost certain neither my mother nor my grandmother knew of it. It was only when I started telling my story as a teenager that boys would tell me: ‘Lena…’” She lowers her voice, imitating a boy.  KIM KITSURAGI: “I thought it was a wonderful story, ma’am.” He closes his notes and gives her a simple smile.  LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “You’re welcome, sweetie. I do appreciate the chance to relive it, whenever I get one. It was just…” she sighs. “Such an impossibly sunshiny day. So warm.”    We put on the Eight-Eyed Teratorn Tie. ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Part of you resists the urge to take off the Horrible Necktie, but let’s be real: it only ever gave you bad advice, and you never liked the way that thing looked at you.   MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Hell no, I had no idea. And I’m still cross with him to be honest. It’s not like him. He’s got his quirks, but dishonesty—or disloyalty—are not one of them.” GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Thanks,” the man mutters in the distance. He doesn’t dare say more.    LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “No locusts… but no phasmid, either…” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “That’s not *ideal*, but…” LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: The old woman’s face lights up. “It just means the Insulindian phasmid is even more clever than we thought!” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] She’s engaging in a well-known self-deception called “motivated reasoning.” You should *correct* them. KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course,” the detective whispers to himself. “More clever…” SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] You’re dealing with a subject near and dear to their hearts. It might behoove you to tread *lightly*. MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Yes! The *phantasmodea* picked off the locusts and escaped. This is good news! Though we’ll have to reconsider the design of the traps, make them *more* secure…”  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: The cryptozoologist’s face flushes with indignation. “Of course we have!” LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Wait, Morell…” the old woman raises a hand. “He may have a point. We have an obligation to rule out other hypotheses…” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: His face relaxes. “You’re right, dear. It’s a fair point. But what other explanation could there be?” He turns to you.  INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Heartfelt gratitude—but does it feel like closure? What *really* happened? KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you, it’s an honour,” he says with a straight face, then turns to you. “We should probably return to our *main* investigation here. This has been refreshing, but…”     MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “A little ‘hooligan’? But what would a *child* want with bugs?” ARIST: [Medium: Success] Is this dude *kidding*?  KIM KITSURAGI: “Delinquents—my favourite.” It doesn’t sound like it’s really his favourite.  GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: The man turns to his companions. “Well, I see you’ve got all the help you need. I’ll see you tonight at my place—let’s play ‘Suzerainty’ —but no more field trips for me.” LOGIC: [Easy: Success] After this is your last chance to talk to Gary. LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Really, Gary?” The woman’s voice is a little shaky suddenly. “We’re *getting* somewhere here. I’d love to play Suzerainty, but…” GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Lena, I’m sorry, but you’re not *getting* anywhere, it was some kids. I know the little mutants around here—leave anything out in the open and they’ll steal it. Even if it’s bugs.” He looks at his tea. “Morell, it’s been fun, really. But I need a bath and I have deliveries to handle. When this tea is done, I gotta run.” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “No-no. No need to apologize, Gary. You’ve been more than helpful. We’ll have to take a rain check on that game of ‘Suzerainty’ today though—we’re gonna follow this through.”  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: He eyes you skeptically. “All right—what cryptids, precisely? I usually discuss these things with *specialists*, so I don’t know what…” RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] *…we would have to discuss?* he wants to say, but decides against it since you’ve offered to help.   MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “They’re not people, really—some argue that they’re not even animals, as they seem to have evolved directly from trees.” He says it in a self-explanatory, everyday manner. ARIST: [Medium: Success] That sounds… dumb.   MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Gary and I painted an entire grove’s worth of trees in slow-drying paint. It was a bright lavender colour. I was hoping one of the willow people would get paint on it and not be able to camouflage itself.”  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I chased it with a net—not very elegant, but you can’t be elegant in the field—and, well, it was faster than me!” KIM KITSURAGI: “A lavender shadow…” He smirks. MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I know you think we were snacking on funny mushrooms. It’s easier to mock someone than to admit that the world might be more interesting than you’ve imagined. Furthermore,” he raises his finger. “I am not saying it was a *confirmed* sighting. I am painfully aware of what goes into verifying such things. There is a serious possibility that I saw a squirrel, or a trick of the light. I am my own harshest critic.” ARIST: [Challenging: Success] That’s probably not true.  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Confirmed,” he replies quickly. “It’s 100% verified and meets all the standards of an authentic cryptid sighting.” LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: The woman nods, thoughtfully, while her hands smooth over the plaid covering her knees.  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I see you’ve been talking about cryptids with Lena,” he smiles. “The kind green ape is one of her favourites.” EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] A warm wave passes over him. Of course the *kind* green ape is her favourite, he thinks. MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “We travelled to South Safre to look for it once. Gary and I got stuck in a rainstorm, though, and had to spend most of our time there in a little village. The search was fabulously unsuccessful—but the people were very nice. I’m glad they didn’t understand what Gary was saying about them…” EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He’s a good and loyal man despite his ramblings, the elderly cryptozoologist thinks to himself.  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “*Formerly* the most dangerous, yes… But do you know the most dangerous *living* cryptid?”   MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Oh, you’re just talking about *humans*. Well, yes, we are quite dangerous, but we’re hardly cryptids.” He corrects his hat and says—as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world…  ARIST: [Medium: Success] This loving *rules*.    MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “You can’t! That’s what makes it so dreadful… and hard to identify.”  KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course you do.” MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “The bodies found in the forest are just one piece of physical evidence. There’s more—sightings in Vaasa, reaching back *four centuries*. But, of course, nothing satiates the skepticism of…” KIM KITSURAGI: “A *detective*.” He finishes the sentence for him, then his tone turns surprisingly mild. “Pardon me, I did not wish to seek conflict. It’s simply my training to question things.”    MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I haven’t had a chance to travel to *Koko Nur*, no. And I likely never will. The Samarskilt desert region has been embroiled in a small civil war for the last eight years. I fear this mindless barbarism may have wiped out the elusive creature entirely. Sightings of *towering luminosities* have grown rare recently. While they once used to be constant…” LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Yes. Sightings of *mirages* are constant. A mirage is a constant phenomenon that people have no time to *report* when a war is going on.  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Oh, everyone knows about that one, thanks to professor Mijanou being the talk of the town for a time…” He coughs in his fist.  MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “A flightless *cursor owl* found in the Semenine isles. Its long legs permit the Nnong Okk to run faster than any other avian, perhaps any other *animal*, who knows? When it’s not hunting its prey in this manner, the Okk hangs from tree branches, like a bat, waiting to dive on hapless prey below, on the jungle floor.”   MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “No offense, officer, but I’m not much of a *pedagogue*—I don’t know what I would’ve done if Lena hadn’t persuaded me to go back to field research. You should ask her, if you want interesting stories. Me—I’m not a people’s person, unless you haven’t noticed. And I don’t make a good lecturer. My strength lies in field work and *persistence.*” He brushes an errant strand of hair from his eye. ARIST: [Medium: Success] Oh, you *absolutely* noticed he wasn’t a people person. COMPOSURE: [Challenging: Success] This is a gruff man who’s been ridiculed too many times to feel comfortable talking about what’s dearest to his hear. It’s in his shoulders, his face, his… everything. LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Be friendly, dear,” the woman says. “The detective really likes these critters, we’ve talked about them in great *detail*.”     ARIST: [Easy: Success] Looks like you’ve exhausted this racist. Better find another.  GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, you *don’t*. It’s not happening.” COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He tries not to look at you—it’s dangerous to *acknowledge* the karaoke man.          AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] This is the look of a man who’s *defeated*. He knows he’s out of excuses.  PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] “I’m having it uninstalled,” he mumbles to himself.  ARIST: [Formidable: Success] When you look back over at Gary, Lena, and Morell, they’ve all left during your conversation with Garte. The Hardie boys have vacated their booth as well. Perhaps they overheard the word “karaoke” and decided to split…  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Hell yeah! Get up on that “stage”! Actually now that you’re up here, these lights are really bright. Bright and hot. Oh god, what are you doing?  SAVOIR FAIRE: [Easy: Success] You feel a little dizzy. A little *unsteady*, suddenly.   KARAOKE STAND: Immediately a loud feedback noise startles the room. You feel like an amateur. How are you supposed to hold the mic? Should you just *sing* into it? Where should you stand?  KARAOKE STAND: The bar is full and buzzing with chatter. No one is paying you any attention, but still you feel your knees turn to noodles. Okay, now a couple is looking at you! Even worse…      Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns (Watch this)   ARIST: [Easy: Success] The noise emanating from your throat more closely resembles a dying animal’s desperate cries than anything that could be called “singing”.         KARAOKE STAND: Your words echo in the karaoke mic. People talk in the distance. A couple tries not to look at you.  ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] Oh gently caress, ghost!!!!!! LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Settle down, he probably came back for his keys or something. KARAOKE STAND: You hear—or *think* you hear—uncomfortable shifting around. A bit of laughter, maybe? No one’s saying anything.  GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “That’s it, I’m unplugging it.” He presses top on the tape carousel. You hear a little whine of feedback and then the mic dies in your hand. INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] That’s it. You’re unpowered.   ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] I mean it, he thinks.  ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You and Kim… you’re connected through time and space, by an unbreakable bond of cop-hood.    Sweet, sounds dope.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Go get the dirt on those locusts from Cuno.  CUNO: “No. Cuno doesn’t give a gently caress about bugs.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] So he knows locusts are bugs. CUNOESSE: “Oh my god.” The little one seems distraught. “I told you that poo poo is lame!” CUNO: “Shut up, C!” CUNOESSE: “Now they’re gonna take you to lame-prison!”  CUNOESEE: “Deny everything, Cuno! You need to lawyer up!”        KIM KITSURAGI: “Well, detective, it appears you’ve solved the case…” The lieutenant looks around, writes something in his notebook, and turns to you…   KIM KITSURAGI: “If anything, the presence of the locusts points to the opposite—the phasmid did not take the bait from the traps. It was Cuno. The phasmid doesn’t exist…” He shrugs. “But what do I know?”    ARIST: [Medium: Success] Ignore Kim’s attempt to spoil the cryptid hunt and go talk to Cuno again.  CUNO: “Yeah,” he says slowly, meeting your gaze with sullen defiance. “Cuno took the bugs. So what?”   CUNO: “It’s not Bug Town, it’s the *City of Locusts*, he says, enunciating every syllable. “Locusts aren’t just bug-poo poo. They come out of the sky like a loving shadow. poo poo *descends*.” CUNOESSE: “Stoooooop!” she wails from behind the fence, then buries her face in her hands. CUNO: “You stop! It’s like they’re loving *night*. Locust City, Night City, City of Rage…”  CUNOESSE: “Cuno, the pig wants to *help* you…” she moans. “That’s how lame it is. Please just don’t say you’re—“ CUNO: “An *artist*?” He pushes his chest out. “Maybe I *am* an artist? You hear that everyone, I’m a loving *artist* now.”  CUNO: “Cuno made Cuno. Cuno says whatever the gently caress he wants! There are no rules here, pig.” He steps closer… “I loving say ‘I’ when I wanna and ‘Cuno’ when I wanna. Cuno’s free. Cuno’s free to loving *die*, bitch.”  CUNOESSE: “OH MY GOD, CUNO! He’s gonna make you totally lame in, like, three seconds! Don’t let him, Cuno!” CUNO: “Yo, gently caress you, C. Cuno can be what Cuno wants to be. Cuno’s his own man, Cuno’s *free*!” He tears at the buttons of his shirt, trying to rip them open. They don’t give way. “Cuno made himself into Cuno. Cuno can make himself into *anything*. Cuno can make himself into a *pig* if he wants, Cuno can make himself into a f******t. Cuno doesn’t give a poo poo.” Whatever word that is, it is too long to be the word I would assume it was. CUNOESSE: “Don’t make yourself into a pig, Cuno. You’ll have to take me away…” A leaden silence fills the yard. PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] In it, you hear snow melting, dripping from the eaves. Someone closing a window.  CUNOESSE: “I don’t believe you!” she disappears entirely behind the fence. CUNO: For once, the boy is lost for words. He’s turned completely red now, with splotches of white beginning to appear across his face. AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] Use this momentary confusion to take *control* of the situation.    CUNO: “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s poo poo. Cuno just likes to focus. Cuno likes to concentrate on poo poo, build poo poo when he’s zipping hard. gently caress…” He turns his face up to the heavens.    CUNO: “Huh…” he mutters to himself.  CUNO: “Bitches think Cuno doesn’t *know* poo poo…” he says angrily. “The gently caress outta here, Cuno’s tired of this poo poo.” COMPOSURE: [Challenging: Success] As you leave, you notice his usual rooster-like swaying posture has changed, slowed down. Like clockwork unwinding.  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Don’t stop to think about the rift you just created between them. To the motor carriage!   ALICE: “I’m afraid they’re closed. It says here that the library is open from 10 AM to 6 PM.” ARIST: [Easy: Success] Wait… that doesn’t match the hours on the library card! It said 9 to 18! Not that that would have helped you! KIM KITSURAGI: “We should try again during business hours.”  ALICE: “One moment…” You can hear her shuffling through some papers.  KIM KITSURAGI: “We suspect he might have been inebriated when he fell—there were bottles all around him, and traces of vomit on his shirt.”  ALICE: “No field autopsy necessary…” she repeats. PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] You can hear her quickly typing in the background.    ALICE: “I have assigned the case to lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. Please follow up on this library lead to identify the man. We’ll send someone to take the body to the morgue.”  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Now, we head back west, near the Capeside Apartments, to see Joyce. We have garbage to scour and questions to ask!        JOYCE MESSIER: “Word has travelled, yes, but nothing of real substance has surfaced yet, I gather?” She smiles, then explains: “Wild Pines has eyes on the intersection—but not ears.” VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] One of the tall buildings overlooking the roundabout—it would give them a read on the entire quarter.  JOYCE MESSIER: “By love, you did!” She inspects the piece of blue plastic, her eyes scanning from left to right. COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] Fast, observantly. Like an electronic printer. LOGIC: [Challenging: Success] She is memorizing your badge number. JOYCE MESSIER: “She hands it back to you. “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois. I am glad to see a man of high qualification—the situation is precarious.” Seaweed drips from the badge in your hand. It smells of fish. “What can I help you with, lieutenant-yefreitor?” KIM KITSURAGI: “How about you share your information on the lynching—now that you’ve seen his badge.” JOYCE MESSIER: “The goal posts have moved, lieutenant. In the absence of the badge I have informed my employer there will be a probe.”  ARIST: [Medium: Success] God, you’re just getting played by all sides in this, aren’t you? JOYCE MESSIER: She shakes her head vigorously. “My plan is to share information. The only way to do that *now* is by telling my employers you’ve kept your end. Which I hope you will, because let me tell you: we are in *dire* waters.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Meaning: the information she has will raise the stakes in this game.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] All right. This is the real poo poo. Get to it.        JOYCE MESSIER: “On the other hand…” She turns north, to the bombed-out buildings lining the waterfront. “Maybe you’re right.” EMPATHY: [Challenging: Success] No. The tiny apes are doing all they can to be better. It’s not their fault.  JOYCE MESSIER: “Those would be the communists. Generally speaking, 40 million people got shot in the head during the World Revolution. But the communists—they *all* got shot in the head.” EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] She’s not gloating. It’s a relieved celebration.   KIM KITSURAGI: “It was a kerfuffle all right,” the lieutenant mumbles from behind his notes.   JOYCE MESSIER: “Oh, lots of people. Even the king got shot in the head, or thrown beneath a horse. Or drowned. Accounts differ. It was unceremonious.” She shakes her head. “Just as well—he wasn’t actually the king. Just the king’s nephew.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “I prefer the term *risk-averse*. King Guillaume was nobody’s fool—he could smell a PR disaster brewing. So he got out alive and his nephew Frissel got shot in his place…”   JOYCE MESSIER: “Liberals are usually middle class people, detective. Or the remaining gentry. The beneficiaries of the pre-revolutionary *arrangement*.  JOYCE MESSIER: “They didn’t *win* so much as survive. *We* were the last ones standing when the war ended—everyone else got shot in the head, remember?”    JOYCE MESSIER: “The Coalition of Nations. Graad, Mesque, Vesper, Messina, Oranje and Sur-La-Clef—the armed centre of the world. They landed here and ended the Revolution. It was the *moralist* thing to do.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “The moralists believe in keeping everything exactly the way it is. They believe in mineral rights—and not shooting people in the head… At least not in the same *manner and volume* as the others do. They are the long-standing provisional rulers of Revachol now—the Coalition Government. This is their Zone of Control. They embolden the RCM with crumbs of the same law they took. Technically speaking—*you* are a moralist.”   JOYCE MESSIER: “The Turn-of-the-Century Revolution?” She smiles, mischievously. “Don’t answer it—it’s a trick question.”      JOYCE MESSIER: “Why, you and I, officer—“ She spreads her arms, raincoat flapping in the wind. “Our lives in the Zone of Control.”   JOYCE MESSIER: “A city state divided into free market zones. Under the *everlasting* interregnum of the Coalition of Nations. And you, of course—the Citizens Militia.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] The clatter of typewriter keys fills the main hall of a re-appropriated Silk Mill—Precinct 41. Chad Tillbrook presses ENTER. Outside: Officer *Elfboy* Willians slams the door of an armoured motor carriage…  JOYCE MESSIER: “Modernity. They developed the marvels of inter-isolary communication, telematic milieus, radiation, coloured plastics. Meanwhile, in Revachol West, the *aftermath* continues for the fifth decade.”        JOYCE MESSIER: “I’ve no right to be dissatisfied,” she shakes her head. “This shirt is Barbara Muskova. This raincoat is impervious to rain and is guaranteed for a hundred years, my daughters will wear it. No, it’s just…” She looks at the crumbling tenements, paint flecking from the stone…  JOYCE MESSIER: “Good question.” She cranes her neck: “What would *you* have done differently?”   ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Sometimes there’s only bad options. JOYCE MESSIER: “Then you would have died, most likely. Not far from here—maybe even *right* here, during the Beachhead, defending the coast the day the Coalition took the city.”  SHIVERS: The wind stops, there is silence on the dark water of the Martinaise inlet… PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] A dog barks, a gunshot echoes off the walls of some distant building.  JOYCE MESSIER: “They are what they are—who knows, an afterbloom may yet come… Anyway, enough sentimentality. Is there anything else you want to know?”  JOYCE MESSIER: “It’s a neurological disorder, caused by a lack of vitamin B in the brain. Symptoms include retrograde amnesia. It’s… quite serious—you should get yourself checked out.” EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] She conveys it in short, cold bursts, trying not to invest too deeply in the condition of this doomed detective.       ESPRIT DE CORPS: To his left, his partner Emil Mollins whispers: “You heard what happened to Tequila Sunset? In Martinaise?” “Yes, he lost his mind,” Tillbrook answers, finger on the trigger. “Don’t worry, Emil…” He pulls on it slowly. Slowly now… “He’ll find it again.”    JOYCE MESSIER: “Nothing more nor less than the de facto law enforcement body of post-revolutionary Revachol, detective.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes,” the lieutenant steps in to make a gesture encompassing you both: “*We* are the Revachol Citizens’ Militia.”   JOYCE MESSIER: “The RCM’s responsibilities are defined by the Emergency, Wayfarer, and Ailments Acts—three pieces of legislation keeping the city in a—let’s be honest—laissez-faire stasis to the benefit of foreign capital.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “There’s nothing *basic* about your role, detective. It’s true that the RCM keeps everything the way our seemingly *permanent* provisional rulers like it…” She leans in.  JOYCE MESSIER: “The post-revolutionary decade was a disaster for the Coalition Government. Revachol in the Twenties was hell, especially on the west side of the river: gang warfare, a botched privatization scheme, a nuclear pile meltdown… They called it the *International Zone*—because no nation wanted to claim responsibility. The RCM restored peace where the Coalition failed. A true-blue citizens’ initiative,” she smiles. “They will never forgive you.” KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s *somewhat* of an exaggeration,” the lieutenant interjects. “In reality, ours is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Revacholians get to keep the peace in Revachol, and the Coalition doesn’t have to worry about it…” he coughs. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. Please continue.”   JOYCE MESSIER: “Hmh…” She hums.  JOYCE MESSIER: “I am the vilest of the vile,” she says with a sudden flash of teeth. “A traitor, a devourer of nations and infants… I am an Ultra.”   JOYCE MESSIER: “Yes,” she nods slowly. “I am the nether creature of the forbidden swamp. I pushed the king under a *shitwagon* and betrayed the Revolution. My kind surrendered the nation to financial colonists… I can see you thought we’d gone extinct. After all, no sane person identifies as an *ultraliberal* anymore. Not in broad daylight.” She looks into your eye. “You’re a man of the left, no? Tell me—now that I’ve *uncoiled* myself—are you repulsed?” EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] In her green eyes you see a mixture of truth and self-satire. Decades of guilt *and* pride. SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Forgive her.   JOYCE MESSIER: “I’m afraid you’ll find that *every* woman is a Devil Woman, detective. There are only *aesthetic* differences between one and the other. Honestly…” she paused. “I may have even *preferred* it, had the communards won. Who knows? They might really have built something better. But they didn’t, because they lost.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “With due respect to our overlords, the eternal *caretaker* government that keeps Martinaise a monument to the efficacy of its artillery…” SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] While a gentle wind sweeps the streets in the rebuild East, light drizzle washing it clean, lights go up and motor carriages circulate the tracts… JOYCE MESSIER: “I would not have relinquished sovereignty to the Coalition. Not here in Martinaise—and not in the Stella Maris or Delta beachheads either. If not for my own sake…” COMPOSURE: She realizes her small, cold fists are clenched. She loosens them. JOYCE MESSIER: “…the for my daughters’. We had an obligation to defend our sovereignty. We should have *burned* the whole isola down rather than let them have it.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “Yes, I suppose I am. But I wouldn’t be a patriot anywhere but here.”     JOYCE MESSIER: “Ah!” She spreads her arms almost as wide. “*This* is the pier of Rue de Saint-Ghislaine 33A, where the tenants have been kind enough to rent me a slot…”  JOYCE MESSIER: “A pre-revolutionary tenement. Old buildings are called *tenements*, you see, and new buildings *batiments*, after *les batiments noveau*. But 33A and 33B are not *noveau*, they’re old.” She looks up at the crumbling facade…  JOYCE MESSIER: “Mostly the urban middle class, I believe. This was once *primo* real estate. Before the cannons lopped four or five stories off…”  PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] You could be wrong—but from here it appears as it she’s running the brush *across* her throat, in a sawing motion.    JOYCE MESSIER: “Yes—you and I belong to the supraculture. We’re common, the herd. The music on the radio, the food in the chain restaurant—those are all too *popular* for the girl in the old-lady rags.”  JOYCE MESSIER: “I can’t. That’s how simple it is. One may dye their hair green and wear their grandma’s coat all they want. Capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself. Even those who would *critique* capital end up *reinforcing* it instead…”    JOYCE MESSIER: “What world?” The fading pearls of her eyes look to the sea. “The only one, I suppose—the world of matter and its pale antipode…”  JOYCE MESSIER: “Great bodies of water, forest-covered surfaces… clusters of light where the cities lie. You’ve seen the montage, we all have—this world is enough,” she concludes.   JOYCE MESSIER: “Not in this case, no. That sounds more like something the Mesque petrofascists might say…” Her gaze wanders. ENCYLCOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] The Confederate Republic of Mesque—the world’s largest state by territory—has fallen into an especially nihilistic strain of nationalism lately.       JOYCE MESSIER: “That’s looking less and less likely, detective. You wouldn’t know it from the tabloids, but the ORG nations have been launching weather balloons into the lower ionosphere since the thirties.” ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Trivial: Success] ORG: Occident-Revachol-Graad.  JOYCE MESSIER: “Yes.” She pauses. “Pale covers 72 % of the surface. There are grey flares and prominences, even arcs above entire isolas… The images are blurry, but if there was a sphere in there it certainly looks like it fractured a long time ago.”  ARIST: [Medium: Success] You’ve stopped breathing at some point. Just… just relax. It’s all gonna be fine…  JOYCE MESSIER: “They say there is a rarefied envelope of matter surrounding the darkened disc of our planet. That is, if we are still living on a planet. Or, to speak more plainly, imagine vast swathes of land disrupted by nothingness. I am sorry, dear,” she looks around. “It must sound quite terrifying through the acute encephalopathy. Even scientific positivism isn’t entirely convinced about what we’re dealing with here…”  ARIST: [Easy: Success] It’s crazy. She’s crazy. Don’t listen to her, she’s clearly completely out of her loving gourd. JOYCE MESSIER: “You have mis-imagined it. I don’t have the power to convey to you the effect and geometry of the images that depict our world from below low orbit. It’s…”   SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] The cold seeps into you. The air is heavy with 80% humidity. INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Suddenly you’re conscious of yourself standing there, on… whatever this all is. Your arms hang down by your sides.  JOYCE MESSIER: “The pale is not, technically speaking, part of *reality*…”  AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] His voice is low, but firm. All she can say is…  ARIST: [Easy: Success] No! Don’t let Kim stop this! Find out more, you have to find out more! JOYCE MESSIER: “I don’t think your colleague would appreciate that—he has already been so patient with this whole… exercise.”    ARIST: [Medium: Success] Sorry Kim, but this is something we *have* to know.  Oh, come on!   ARIST: [Easy: Success] Left hanging on the mystery of the “pale,” your mind is reeling. Arist fucked around with this message at 17:25 on Mar 29, 2020 |
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Mar 28, 2020 22:24
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Well, that is... unsettling, to say the least. Kim might have the right of it asking you to not get preoccupied with potentially eldritch scientific discoveries about the nature of the world. But it's still VERY interesting.
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Mar 28, 2020 22:58
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That cranked up the odd by whole lot real quick. Love it.
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Mar 29, 2020 02:05
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 lmao this rules
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Mar 29, 2020 02:17
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Yeah, up until this point the world of Disco Elysium is a pretty standard setting. Then you pass this check and suddenly you learn that 72% of the world doesn't exist.
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Mar 29, 2020 08:57
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Botchcop definitely needs to do karaoke nearer to the endgame, after certain developments. I want to see what effect that would have.Arist posted:“Just as well—he wasn’t actually the kind. Just the king’s nephew.” On the game's part, I see that "where" instead of "were" is still around even after the great spelling error cleansing.
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Mar 29, 2020 10:05
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drat, I hoped that he would be able to cull the King in Orange.
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Mar 29, 2020 10:44
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i am the copotype, the true self
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Mar 29, 2020 18:13
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Xander77 posted:Botchcop definitely needs to do karaoke nearer to the endgame, after certain developments. I want to see what effect that would have. I actually recorded all of Day 3 in a big clump back in February, so this is before that patch.
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Mar 29, 2020 18:30
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Chapter 30: 1:28-Around 2:00: Incrementalism In The Night Still pissed about those snake eyes. ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Well, time for you to head back to the fishing village for some slee—OH gently caress  >1. What?ARIST: The smoker on the balcony! You were supposed to go back and find him!  ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Thankfully, the man is apparently fine with hanging out here smoking until 1:30 in the morning in the biting cold while not wearing an undershirt. How aloof.   SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “Beautiful,” he replies, smiling. As he looks at you, something sparkles in his eyes.  SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “Beautiful,” he says again. A nearby street lamp cast shadows on his chin, drawing out the slender cheekbones.    SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “That’s nice, but I don’t have anything to tell you. It’s my friend you’re looking for, not me.” He takes another drag of his unfiltered cigarette and looks around. It’s getting dark and the neighbouring windows have lit up one by one. “Getting” dark? PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Downstairs a cat crosses the yard, disappearing into the bush. SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “Besides, I’ve got to run.” INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] He’s going to leave you alone again. That’s sad.  SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “To the city.” He gestures idly towards distant motorways. “It’s a beautiful night.”  KIM KITSURAGI: Something flutters in the corner of the lieutenant’s mouth as you’re saying those words. SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “We’ll talk,” the smoker assures you, brushing his hand through the hair. “Just not tonight.”     KIM KITSURAGI: “His shirt…” DRAMA: [Medium: Success] He’s trying to dive deep into the mysteries of his *shirt*! KIM KITSURAGI: “His shirt… No, I don’t know why his shirt is always unbuttoned.” His mouth tightens, as though trying to hold something back. COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He’s barely holding it together. It’s all he can do to keep from bursting out in laughter.             ARIST: [Medium: Success] This seems… unfortunate.      ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, talk to the *important witness* you’ve been dying to see.  AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] You shouldn’t be seeing him in an intimate setting. For some reason you feel this man is your… *superior*. ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] Superior? But he’s not in the command chain… COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] His hands are clean and well-manicured. This is a man who knows the importance of appearances. SUNDAY FRIEND: “My name is Charles Villedrouin and I’m an official with the Coalition Government. I work for the Institue of Price Stabilitié, on assignment from Sur-la-Clef. I heard you talking to my friend outside… Very good. Super. I am here to assist you in any way possible. Ask me about the hanging.” SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] No, first ask an innocuous personal question to get the interview off on the right foot.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “I got it from the head of the Samaran delegation on my trip to Lo-Manthang. It’s made from a *special* charcoal-coloured bamboo. It’s an emblem of the formal normalization of our diplomatic relations.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] He’s alluding to the decade-long war of independence while deftly brushing aside the *complex* causes behind the conflict. SUNDAY FRIEND: “That’s really all I can tell you about it.” He forms a little rooftop with his fingers. Cold air sweeps in from the balcony. AUTHORITY: That didn’t work at all.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “I’m sorry to say I did, officer.” The man gives a solemn nod.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Because I *did it*?” the man scoffs.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Officer, it’s very difficult to describe what I saw that night. It was so surreal to me, like in a play.” DRAMA: [Medium: Success] He holds out his hands and blossoms his fingers, like a drama teacher setting the scene. KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant is already scribbling down notes. “What do you mean, ‘like in a play’?” SUNDAY FRIEND: “It was just so strange. I could barely comprehend what was happening… I was on the balcony when it happened, getting some fresh air. I remember that first they came in, carrying what looked like a body, and then I saw all the surrounding windows go dead one-by-one… That’s when I understood—I should not be seeing this.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Only that there were about eight or ten—I couldn’t make out anything, it was so dark—and that it was *quiet*, he says, smoothing his hair. “Quietest lynching I ever *heard of*, let alone heard…”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “The Coalition is only looking out for *ze price stabilitié*.” He raises an index finger. “Inflation is a killer, like a heart disease blocking the normal circulation of the economy—It must be controlled…”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Ah, well, I’m renovating it. It is an interesting project. The building used to be a twelve-story skyscraper before the cannons took the top four stories off. This of course happened when the Coalition forces landed here…”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Yes. As I said before, I’m a commissioner from Sur-la-Clef working for the Institute of Price Stabilitié.” He glances at his watch. “This is one of the main projects of the Moralintern.”    SUNDAY FRIEND: “It’s the central goal of any sound monetary policy. Maintaining ze price stabilitié is essential to maintaining high levels of economic activity, which is essential for maintaining high levels of employment… Which is essential for maintaining *ze social stabilitié*…” KIM KITSURAGI: Basically it makes sure the price of bread doesn’t change.” SUNDAY FRIEND: “*Précisément*! Too much inflation, bread becomes too expensive; too much deflation, it becomes too cheap for bakers to produce…”    SUNDAY FRIEND: “A sound monetary policy is *essential* for addressing *uncertainty*. Stability is the *raison d’être* of the Moralintern. It’s the reason why I identify as a moralist.”      KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmm, me? I… uh…” COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] You’ve managed to catch the lieutenant off guard, but only for a moment. He quickly recomposes himself. KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m a lieutenant of the RCM, dedicated to maintaining law and order in Revachol.” SUNDAY FRIEND: “A very moralist answer,” the man nods.    SUNDAY FRIEND: “Revachol is generally… difficult. It’s led by an interim government, which means it hasn’t yet achieved *full* democracy…”  KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant clears his throat. “Of course, the detective’s personal views do not represent the views of the RCM.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Oh, yes, the big bad Coalition crushed the revolution. Tell me, if the revolution was succeeding, would it have been crushed so easily?” “If you’re so smart, why did I punch you in the face?” SUNDAY FRIEND: “Are we really so bad for wanting compromise, peace, and prosperity—on reasonable achievable terms? Ask yourself that.” ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Man, gently caress this dude.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “What’s there to say? Sur-la-Clef is a modern, urbanized country that measures very high on the Human Development and Freedom Index. Mostly, though, it’s known as the executive heart of *EPIS*… Moreover, it is a great sponsor of less-emerged countries. Revachol is only one of its darlings whose progress it supports and cherishes.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Because a great percentage of Revachol’s culture hails from Sur-la-Clef—its language, its people, its cuisine even, or at least in the downtown La Delta area.”    SUNDAY FRIEND: “Oranje’s economy is one of the most advanced in the world. It has successfully transitioned from heavy industry to advanced services, and generally acts as an engine for sustainable change in the international community.”   SUNDAY FRIEND: “Oh, it’s very urban and very well-organized. Their streets are clean, their horsecars run on time, the people are polite and efficient. Like I said, they are an example for less-emerged nations to follow.”    SUNDAY FRIEND: “A *fugitive*? Well, I would say that is very bad, indeed. Not super.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “That is *extremely serious*! Corporate espionage may technically be legal in *Revachol*, but elsewhere it’s a very high-level offense. It violates a number of international agreements, in particular the First La Cherte Accord… This fugitive must be turned over to the ICP immediately. Have you apprehended them already?” KIM KITSURAGI: “A moment, if you don’t mind, sir.” The lieutenant pulls you aside. “You do realize what you’re doing, don’t you?” He whispers to you, *sotto voice*. AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] Of course, you’re turning over a dangerous LAWBREAKER.  KIM KITSURAGI: “*Very* real trouble… I won’t tell you how to do your job. But remember, this is an RCM matter. Make sure you weigh your next words carefully.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] He won’t tell you how to do your job, but a good officer knows when to listen to his partner.   Seems like a bit of a risk… let’s not.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Ah, that’s right. You did say this was all just a *hypothetical* scenario… Whew! For a moment there I was concerned that we had *quite* the situation on our hands…” DRAMA: A bullet deftly dodged, sire. ARIST: [Medium: Success] Man, what a putz.   SUNDAY FRIEND: “Well certainly one cannot rely simply on generalizations—that would go against our commitment to individual freedoms…”      SUNDAY FRIEND: The man gives the lieutenant a nervous look. KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant raises his eyebrows as though he’d stopped paying attention.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “Extremely distasteful behaviour. I cannot condone wither drug use or needless boasting…”   SUNDAY FRIEND: “They gave him a successful *career*.” The man holds up a finger as though he’s made a brilliant point.  SUNDAY FRIEND: “That is extremely unfortunate. Yes, it’s regrettable that this practice has a history in certain Occidental nations, even highly advanced members of EPIS…”      SUNDAY FRIEND: “As I said, the loss of any life is terrible, no matter who the person may have been…”     SUNDAY FRIEND: “EPIS is a very special program developed by the Moralintern to support certain Occidental nations. It began as a unified system of weights and measures, which proved to be a *wild* success. Nothing but kilograms and centimetres as far as the eye can see!” LOGIC: [Medium: Success] God, yes. Sweet standardization. The backbone of rationality—and commerce.      SUNDAY FRIEND: “It’s one day going to be a *candidate member* of EPIS, sure.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “No, no, candidate members *do* become members, why do we even have the whole system in place if they don’t. It just takes time—time and evaluation.”          SUNDAY FRIEND: “Listen,” he says, raising his hand…  SUNDAY FRIEND: “No, *listen*,” he says again, looking outside…  SUNDAY FRIEND: “This place used to be a luxury accomodation, before the revolution. Apartments, of course, were much bigger then—a few walls have been added here and there, leaving some of the tenants without a a private bathroom or a kitchen…”  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Yeah, sounds like a real fair trade-off there. SUNDAY FRIEND: “My friend comes and goes. I’m sure you’ll see him around, he’s a busy bee.”   SUNDAY FRIEND: “A moment, officer.”  SUNDAY FRIEND: “It’s against diplomatic best practices for an official in my position to be discussing murders with local militiamen.” He pauses. “And I’m pressed for time. After you leave, I should be leaving as well.”   ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, that was… something. Let’s mosey, he’s going to get his neoliberal all over you.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] It’s finally, *finally* time for bed.   Bye, Kim!       SHIVERS: The room feels muffled, like you pulled your hat over your ears. Outside it is vold and windy, but you’re inside, and it feels safe and warm.  SHIVERS: Overhead you hear the forlorn shriek of seagulls. Far below the birds—a wooden boardwalk, filled with abandoned stands, tables and benches, echoes from a long lost time.  SHIVERS: Outside, the howl of the wind has picked up. The waves crash against the stilts again. It’s as if you think the thought, but in someone else’s voice…  How odd. Well, whatever!     ENCYCLOPEDIA: Things were good. It was *smooth sailing*. People made gold-and-champagne-tinted interiors and façades to suit the times, calling this *The New Style*. But, more importantly—disco happened. Forget about Ostentatious Orchestrations. For Revachol—your city—that meant only one thing: Guillaume Le Million! DRAMA: [Medium: Success] If it doesn’t rhyme, you’re not pronouncing it right.   ENCYCLOPEDIA: The click is used to spur on a horse. It also features heavily in Guillaume Le Million’s regional mega-hit “Don’t Worry (Your Pretty Little Head)”.           ARIST: [Medium: Success] You know, maybe you should shave. New mind, new you. Cast off the old self and all that. WASHBASIN: The water reflect back a vague image of your face—nose bulbous and red, hair unkempt, wrinkles lining the eyes and forehead. The ‘stache is gigantic.      WASHBASIN: The water reflects back a vague image of your clean-shaven face. Despite the bulbous nose, unkempt hair and persistent swelling, you look… a little younger, maybe? LOGIC: [Medium: Success] You almost look like a professional.   ARIST: [Easy: Success] You feel ready to face the world as a new man tomorrow, whatever the future may brin—  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH   ARIST: [Impossible: Failure] What just happened? You blacked out there for a second. You really need to get your poo poo together, man.   
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Mar 30, 2020 19:48
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I was going to make a sarcastic crack that the Sunday Friend thinking people should just be quietly proud of their war crimes. But then the rest of the conversation demonstrated that he probably really believed that. Also, I'm still stuck on 72% of the world being missing. Like, how does that even work? And how did no one notice when sailing and exploring, such that it takes weather balloons to figure it out? What the heck? But anyways, got a murder to solve.
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Mar 30, 2020 21:23
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It's kinda amazing how terrible Harry looks without facial hair.
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Mar 30, 2020 21:29
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Sunday Friend is one of the few people that the game just outright despises. The world (IRL and in-game) is a pretty messed up place. The writers for Disco Elyisum are willing to understand every attempt to make it right, no matter how misguided. But
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Mar 30, 2020 21:33
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Jesus christ that's so much worse why is it so much worse He looks like someone kept Emmett Kelly awake for 72 hours
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Mar 30, 2020 22:22
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I imagine he probably looks much better cleanly shaven without the expression. You just.. uhh.. need to figure out how to stop that.
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Mar 31, 2020 05:08
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I shaved and stopped The Expression on my own playthrough. You do not look much better.
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Mar 31, 2020 05:14
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Phy posted:Jesus christ that's so much worse “They shoot Botchcops, don’t they?”
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Mar 31, 2020 05:26
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the moral of today's story is clear: never shave
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Mar 31, 2020 06:03
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Ibblebibble posted:I shaved and stopped The Expression on my own playthrough. Eh, I dunno, he looks better, if extremely sad. Which is apt, because he is.
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Mar 31, 2020 06:18
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Never look in a mirror. Not even once.
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Mar 31, 2020 07:29
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Xander77 posted:Sunday Friend is one of the few people that the game just outright despises. Yeah, god drat does that guy make my skin crawl. It's impressive in this crapsack world filled with assholes that he manages to be near the top of the list of most scummy individuals.
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Apr 1, 2020 11:48
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Xander77 posted:Sunday Friend is one of the few people that the game just outright despises. In terms of "people who are the worst", it takes some balls but I think this guy was near the top of my list.
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Apr 1, 2020 16:41
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Wow that's incredible. I missed out so much interrogating Sunday Friend, both in not pushing him enough when he's being evasive (and maybe having bad authority/suggestion) and talking to him before finishing the hardies/klasje part of the investigation.
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Apr 1, 2020 21:20
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Didn't you need to send off Kim to the station for something or some reason? I honestly forgot. Or does it happen automatically?
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Apr 3, 2020 03:11
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I have just caught up with the LP, and bought the game and started playing a Dex/Int build, because I will just not be deterred by common sense and previous research on the game. So far, having played through Day One, it's been a romp, and I am looking forward to see where you get with this.
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Apr 4, 2020 06:25
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  ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: On and on it goes, for untold hours. At the disco where you first asked her to dance. Rising—rising!—above the dark curvature. The great wingspan of sleep, studded with stars.  ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: It’s the *world*, Harry-boy. And you’re *made* of it. Every day you’re outt there you make more of yourself from it. I’m afraid you can’t be *unmade* now.  LIMBIC SYSTEM: Beautiful? It’s *stuck* on loop… whirling, spitting out words and images. ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You’re the son of the World again. Harrister—a ceaseless agent picking up litter and old newspapers, collecting your little bubble gum wrappers and idiotic picture postcards. Meaningless, meaningless keepsakes.  ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You’ll go insane if you keep going like this. One more day and you’ll be in the loonie bin. I just know you will. And for what, brother-man?  LIMBIC SYSTEM: Beep-beep-beep! The alarm is ringing, Harry. The disco circus goes on and on! You barely slept three hours last night. VOLITION: [Medium: Success] You can do it. It’s nothing. Do it for the city. Go. SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Do it for the wind.   Chapter 31: 7:30-9:14: A Little Light Mail Fraud   ARIST: [Medium: Success] Go on. Face the day.  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Kim strides up to you, oblivious to your troubled sleep. No, he’s only familiar with your troubled *awake* self. Probably for the best.  INTERFACING: [Easy: Success] Wait! Don’t get her signature! Forge those babies! ARIST: Fine, but we’re ratting you out if we get caught. WASHERWOMAN: “I *can* wash it for you,” she says after looking the jacket over, “but it’s going to take about half an hour. Think you can stay put for that long?” VOLITION: [Medium: Success] Hell yeah!  WASHERWOMAN: “Well, hand it over then and I’ll see what I can do…”  ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Despite her warning that it would take thirty minutes, she’s got the downright heroic task finished in fifteen. What a woman.         LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “The name is Lilienne. People call me Net Picker.” She gestures toward the fishnets. “I think I have time for questions. And that was actually the second one.” LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Indeed. You’re always confused as to your whereabouts.   ARIST: [Easy: Success] You instantly realize you aren’t actually looking for any specific person, you dumbass.    LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Sometimes I also walk the beach to see what the sea has given up. The sea is full of surprises.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Keep it professional, man. Don’t make it sound like you’re hitting on her.  LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Wood. Pieces of glass. Every once in a while we see dead bodies—human, animal, fish, other odd sea creatures. A mine washed ashore, once… She looks at the beach and continues: “Bottles. Drugs, also. Lost cargo in general. But most of the time, it’s just wood and glass.”  ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] It’s probably your obligation as a police officer to ask about those bodies… but gently caress that, we need more information on that *mine*! LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Well, the RCM has to wait for another one, cause some army folks came by, took it in the middle of the bay and blew it up.” She spits over the railing. “The blast was surprisingly timid for such a huge spiky thing.”      LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “What makes you think we haven’t?” She smiles. “Heh. The truth is that almost everyone in this life is scared and tired and stupid and too *dull* for that.”  LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Her eyes meet yours and suddenly she starts laughing. It’s hoarse. As if she hasn’t laughed in a while.  LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Sure.” Her face straightens. “It looks as if you could face down any horror in the world with that same unchanging grin. It’s like a shield.”    ARIST: [Medium: Success] You just can’t get enough of these loving missing persons cases, huh? KIM KITSURAGI: “It absolutely does not,” the lieutenant quietly interjects. “We are *not* going to look for him.”  LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “He didn’t respect the sea. Went out there drunk like a skunk and sure enough one day the boat was found floating empty. The bloated corpse turned up two weeks later.”  LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Us working folk don’t have the luxury to be bed-sick with melancholy.” She crosses her arms. “I buried him, mourned for an appropriate amount of time and went on.” She glances at the village where two little kids are playing with what look like rocks. “Life didn’t really change that much for me and the kids…” EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] This is neither a touchy nor a very interesting topic for her.   ARIST: [Medium: Success] loving don’t, Copanova.        We examine and put on those boots we found in the fish for some reason.    LILIENNE’S TWIN: This one doesn’t say anything, kicking the concrete with his worn-out sneaker.  LILIENNE’S TWIN: The stone-kicker laughs suddenly. His head is too large for his shoulders. LILIENNE’S OTHER TWIN: The other one laughs as well.  LILIENNE’S TWIN: The boy stops laughing and looks at his toes. HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] Oh, okay. So now he’s *shy*. Now he’s not talking, just wobbling around like he’s afraid of something.  LILIENNE’S TWIN: The stone-kicking one becomes frantic all of a sudden, as if that’s something to be scared of—the obvious fact that you just stated.  LILIENNE’S OTHER TWIN: The boy doesn’t answer. His brother throws another rock. Both of their hair is covered in some kind of dirt. COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] The rock-kicker was just being *shy*, but now he’s enthusiastic again.     ARIST: [Medium: Success] You pilfer this educational book for first-graders. Never know when that’ll come in handy, I guess.         LITTLE LILY: “Ooooh.” She looks alarmed. “I had gloves, very big ones! Heavy, too.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Where did you get these gloves?” LITTLE LILY: “Found them when Lamby and I were playing hide-and-seek. In an empty house where no one lives! I think someone hid them there…” ARIST: [Medium: Success] Curious. Who could have put them there?  LITTLE LILY: She pouts. “I hid them. The twins were going to take them. They’re stupid…” She lifts her stuffed toy up and looks into its one remaining eye, as though searching for confirmation. KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re going to need those gloves. It’s for important police business.” He enunciates the last two words carefully. LITTLE LILY: “Oooh…” She doesn’t seem to understand, but the lieutenant’s tone has conveyed to her the “important” part.    LITTLE LILY: “Yesss.” She frowns. “They don’t want to play with me. They’re older and play outside!”   LITTLE LILY: “It’s a *grouse*,” she yelps, smiling broadly.    LITTLE LILY: “It’s Lamby! He’s my friend. Sort of, like…” She holds the fuzzy beast up to demonstrate.      ARIST: [Easy: Success] Yeah, just go ahead and steal the taxidermy, whatever. It’s fine, the child said it was okay. That makes sense.  ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Out back, we find what appears to be the sandcastle Little Lily mentioned.      We put them on, replacing the gardening gloves we’ve been wearing for about three days straight now. ARIST: [Medium: Success] Somehow wearing these armored gauntlets gives you *more* dexterity than the rubber gloves did. Figure that one out.           SHIVERS: Chemically sweetened. Across the road, a forgotten bus stop; corrosion has opened a hole in its roof. An elm tree watches over the building. Its branches are dripping with rain and snow.  SHIVERS: A tub warm with water, white with soap. A man bathes while radio waves transmit the lottery numbers: 4, 18, 21, 4, 1… A modern washing machine rattles a drawer full of silverware.   SHIVERS: Craters pocked the surface. Children played in them, until heavy trucks full of black pitch rolled in. The landowners have filled the craters with money. It is a vital artery of flow of trade.     ARIST: [Easy: Success] You notice three rowdy men, already drunk out of their minds. Might as well question them, you suppose.   ARIST: [Medium: Success] Oh god, he knows you.   IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Yeah, Tequila Sunset!” He takes a sip, “How are the uhm, high-concept, reality-based adventures proceeding?” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] He says it like it’s obviously your name. Like you call someone Billy Brunuel or ‘leader of the Fourth Street gang’.  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “It’s good to hear that you’re on top of things. Talking about used—did you know that I *used* to be a real mover and shaker?” He thoughtfully picks at his poo poo-stained Lickra(TM) jacket. “Sadly, things aren’t going that well in Idiot Doom Spiral Land. Haven’t found those keys yet; haven’t won that great piece of rear end back. No word from my business-buddies…” He takes a sip from his beer.  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “We are saving the world!” He looks at his comrades.  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Okay, we’re drinking. We’re drinking alcohol—that’s what we’re doing. I *tried* to save the world once, a long time ago, with enterprise, creativity and willpower, but that didn’t work out.”   IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “We’ve met before, don’t you remember?”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Aha!” He takes a sip from his beer. “Do you want to know how Tequila Sunset came to be?”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “You think you feel bad *now*, wait till you’ve heard the story.”   IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Hey, let’s not jump ahead of ourselves, this is *your* story. Stop interrupting.” He takes another sip—then continues. “You got here on Friday to solve a case, hoping to be the early bird who gets the worm. And by ‘the worm’ I mean ‘the buzz’, because as far as I know, all you did was get piss-drunk… Word on the street is you went around the local hostel telling people that you’re a police officer and that it would be *really* hosed up if you shot yourself in the head right in front of them. That’s pretty high concept, if you ask me.”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “It was a late Saturday night, when we, the Union of Moribund Alcoholics, were getting our drink on. Nothing remarkable about this, we get our drink on 24/7. Makes everything warm and glowy, I trust you know the feeling. One moment we hear the sound of a motor carriage revving up somewhere on the plaza, followed by a series of dings and bangs. PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] Do you remember the sound of wood cracking? The billboard…  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Anyway, there was a brief silence—a *gasp* of silence, if you will—followed by a real commotion. We heard the carriage careening towards the coast at top speed. Sounded like someone jumped the canal. We grabbed our brewskies and rushed to the jetty—never underestimate the speed of an alcoholic… What we saw was a sight to behold. A beat up police carriage, containing you. Right there on the beach. You revved the engine and screamed at the top of your lungs… ‘THE TIME HATH COME.’ So, naturally, being the curious cat I am, I asked what time hath come, to which you replied…”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “After which your reality contracted—you jammed the pedal, ploughed right off the jetty and through the ice. We ran towards the ice, whilst you crawled your way out, miraculously unhurt—covered in sea weed and poo poo. Like some kind of sea monster. When we finally got there you were sitting on the beach, crying. You said that your badge and uniform were in the car. It was too late to get in there though, the carriage had sunk too deep.” RHETORIC: [Challenging: Success] In this way, you and your motor carriage have a lot in common. ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Thank you, Rhetoric, for unnecessarily clarifying that metaphor. IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: Recognizing a brother in need, we offered our condolences and invited you to party with us, which you naturally agreed to…”    IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Hours. It was an all-night drink-a-thon. Then at some point—I think it was Sunday morning—you got belligerent and wanted to talk about *Revacholian women*. How they’re beautiful and also whores and so on. How one of them hosed you real bad. After a short while you crossed the event horizon, looked sullen, got up, and left without saying anything.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Wow. That’s *quite* a story.” IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Yeah, I bet Tequila’s a loving legend around the precinct. You must be proud to work with him.”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “You were pretty vague about it, but you kept saying you got hosed *real hard* and that we’ve all been hosed too…” INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Please don’t open that door.    IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Beside your gun and your badge? You said something about your hope, or heart, or something. To be honest the details are a little hazy…”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “You told us that they were a bunch of loving losers whose main interest was ‘cramping your style’…” EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] It’s more like you were cramping theirs.  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Yeah, you said it was no biggie and that you’d solve it in no time.” He takes a strong quaff of his beer. “And that you didn’t need *anyone* to do it. You’re doin’ it *solo* now.” KIM KITSURAGI: “A lot of cops go *solo* and *hermit* once they reach that level of alcoholism.”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Yeah, you kept talking about how the *coal mine owners* were loving us all over just like that woman hosed you…”  IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “You kept apologizing for being such a bad cop and for the damage you’ve inflicted on everyone around you…”  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Enough.   IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “It depends, really. Are you willing to help me out?”   IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: “Booze. Did you already forget our party?” He taps his finger to his temple. “The thing I relayed to you earlier?”  ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Normally you might think twice about indulging an addict’s cravings, but there is plainly no stopping this man. IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL: He lifts his hands and spreads them wide. “Then I will see you again once you’ve procured some. *Par example* —my good friend Rosemary here sells all kinds of stuff.”  ARIST: [Medium: Success] They’re sitting right next to each other. Just hand it to him, why do they need you?     ROSEMARY: “You see, friend,” he raises his index finger, “man makes his own luck—and I made mine real good. Got my hands on three bottles of *liqueur exquise*, sold two to the fellows around here and *immediately* invested the profit. Bought cigarettes, bought beer, even bought a bit of speed. And look at me now… I got everyone on my hook.” He spreads his arms and smiles a crooked toothless smile.   KIM KITSURAGI: “Fine,” he sighs. ROSEMARY: The fresh entrepreneur has forgotten your presence and is now trying to count a small number of coins in his hand. VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] There’s réal, fifty in his palm.  ARIST: [Easy: Success] Just because you think of it and it sounds funny doesn’t mean you have to say it. You’re pissing off Kim.  ROSEMARY: “You know what’s crazy, actually…” He grins, then bursts out laughing, then takes three gulps of his pilsner and stares at you intently.  ROSEMARY: “What?”  ROSEMARY: “This guy, this guy…” He says and shakes his index finger at you.  ROSEMARY: “Oh, this is medicinal spirits. The good stuff. Got it from the doctor’s office. I got one of those scientific ampoules a few months ago. ‘Torpedo’ they call it. It’s supposed to keep a man from takin’ a drink.” He spits a nasty yellow clot on the ground before you.  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Just humor this guy. ROSEMARY: “Well, it really isn’t,” he croaks. “In a week the goddamned kidneys started giving me all kinds of hell. Finally the missus took me to a private doctor’s office—not a charity, the real thing…”  ROSEMARY: “But the idiots left me alone in there. Now, I used to teach high school biology. I *know* what doctors use to preserve dead thingies…” He gets an excited gleam in his eyes. “Swiped three cans of this blue medicinal stuff from the back room. Threw the snakes out and voilá—what’s left is this beautiful blue stuff.” He shakes the bottle. “98.7%, almost pure alcohol. Two I already sold to these fine gentlemen here,” he nods at his companions. “But this last one is your for 3 reál, if you want it?”  ROSEMARY: “Here…” He uncorks the bottle and holds it under your nose. “Be careful, it’s extremely flammable. One spark and the entire City of Revachol is wiped off the map.” PAIN THRESHOLD: [Legendary: Failure] Feels like someone set a mustard field ablaze right inside your nose, then drenched it in tear gas. Your nose is a singular source of pain… but at the same time you don’t remember the last time you felt so alive. LOGIC: [Medium: Success] In all fairness, that might be attributed to the retrograde amnesia. ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] As Rosemary pulls it away from you, your entire body tenses. You almost follow it reflexively until you snap out of your haze. You’d probably die if you drank that… but still… you’re suddenly so thirsty… VOLITION: [Medium: Success] Don’t. Not on the job. Not in front of Kim. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Come on… it’s right there! Fill yourself with the blue, the cleansing fire! VOLITION: Smelling it was a mistake. You need to leave, *now*.  ROSEMARY: “So what do you want then?!”   ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You back away quickly from Rosemary and his pile of vice, eyes still watering from the spirits. You forget about getting Idiot Doom Spiral his drink. You probably can’t be trusted with it right now anyway. Kim looks at you for a moment in confusion before he realizes. He says nothing, doesn’t even acknowledge it, but you know he knows and you’ll forever thank him for not making a big deal out of it. Behind your back, Don’t Call Abigail mutters the same name he’s been repeating since you arrived, “Abigail…” You haven’t talked to him yet, but you don’t turn back. You doubt you’d get anything useful out of him in his delirium, and besides, you find his pain hauntingly familiar for reasons beyond your ken.  ARIST: [Medium: Success] Back over by the washerwoman, you take a few minutes to decompress. Your eyes keep darting back over to Rosemary, now sitting idly chatting with his companions. Needing a distraction, you decide to get to work on that forgery.    ARIST: [Easy: Success] Looks like you’ll have to find somewhere more private if you want to avoid the threat of Evrart Claire looming over your head.    ARIST: [Easy: Success] That’ll have to do.  INTERFACING: Indeed. They look distinctly different and very convincing. These might as well be their actual signatures. But they’re not, and the document will be nullified if they dispute it. That means Evrart will have to start over.   ARIST: [Medium: Success] It occurs to you that any number of things could go wrong with this plan to sabotage Evrart, a man with plenty of power to throw around. He could easily find a way around this roadblock, couldn’t he? Even so, sometimes all you can do is try. Arist fucked around with this message at 17:21 on Apr 17, 2020 |
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Apr 16, 2020 20:29
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Sorry I haven't updated in two weeks, guys. It's been kind of a stressful time for me, plus I was making preparations for a different LP that I just posted on Monday, because I'm crazy. I've been planning that LP since before I started this one, but I'm still going to work on this. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel for the main run, at least. Also, this was supposed to be a Botchcop update, but I made a choice while recording that one that I realized too late would make for a worse experience, so I'm gonna have to rerecord, and I haven't been able to muster up the motivation to do that yet, sorry.
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Apr 16, 2020 20:42
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Botchcop botches everything he touches, it's not your fault.
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Apr 16, 2020 21:37
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One of my favorite quotes.quote:mourned for an appropriate amount of time ans went on.” quote:... Are we saving the spirits and clothing interaction for the Botchcop update?
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Apr 17, 2020 12:11
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Arist posted:"Word on the street is you went around the local hostel telling people that you’re a police officer and that it would be *really* hosed up if you shot yourself in the head right in front of them. That’s pretty high concept, if you ask me.” This is pure art.
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Apr 17, 2020 19:16
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