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Not sure if the Sunday Friend is worse than the physics-warpingly rich man in the shipping container. Less human, maybe; the rich man at least still sounds like a person where the Sunday Friend was a set of platitudes and propaganda lines in a meat suit. But they're both pretty terrible and insulated from any reason to be terrible as well as any consequences of their terribleness. Also failing this Perception check must be immensely disappointing.
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Nov 24, 2020 03:22
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The Sandman posted:Not sure if the Sunday Friend is worse than the physics-warpingly rich man in the shipping container. Less human, maybe; the rich man at least still sounds like a person where the Sunday Friend was a set of platitudes and propaganda lines in a meat suit. But they're both pretty terrible and insulated from any reason to be terrible as well as any consequences of their terribleness.
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Nov 24, 2020 07:37
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Josef bugman posted:The Sunday Friend though? The Sunday Friend has chosen evil. Not because it was something that gave his life meaning, or that allowed his miserable life the ability to look down on other people, but because it made him rich and powerful. He chose to slowly choke the earth because he considers it a good thing. Someone who looks around the world, sees that it is dying and that people are suffering and that life is generally not all that great and then decides "No. Things like this are Right and Just" Lemme roll an Empathy check here. If the Sunday Friend isn't human, how come he's *here* in Martinaise, in the shittiest shithole in the shittiest continent, just before a possible civil war, while the representatives of his regime are being lynched in his back yard.... just so that he can meet his gay lover, and it's not even Sunday? Either he's astoundingly dumb, in which case the whole He Has Knowingly Chosen Evil argument falls apart, or there's something more complicated going on here. (Or I guess you can concoct some kind of conspiratorial explanation, but that still leaves why he's talking to you. Better, I think to just take the character at face value.) Also I wonder if people react especially strongly to this guy because the Sunday Friend is the closest character to *you*, as in you in real life. He's not actually especially rich and powerful, he's a low level bureaucrat doing a vaguely alienating job. The rich and powerful don't carry leaflets to hand out on the merits of inflation targetting. Fangz fucked around with this message at 12:00 on Nov 24, 2020 |
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Nov 24, 2020 11:52
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I could see that kinder view of Sunday Friend maybe adding up, yeah. But it feels almost impossible to get any sense of connection or understanding about him when he talks so far past you. Personally I didn't see him as being especially clever or self-aware enough to have "chosen evil" in any active malicious sense, more the everyday kind of Milgram Experiment evil. Where even if he means well in some places, he can enable and condone a lot of bad systematic things just by going along with whatever the Moralintern considers normal, and by being so insulated from ever needing to examine the status quo, or his place in it.
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Nov 24, 2020 13:39
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Fangz posted:Lemme roll an Empathy check here. Because he enjoys bringing what he sees as "civilization" to a benighted province. In the same way how Orwell described a lot of low level functionaries going to India in order to feel like "Gentlemen" because they could lord it over people. He believes, quite genuinely, that nothing bad can happen to him. "It's such a shame that things have gone badly wrong for one of the people who support us via violence, but it's really nothing to do with 'me'". It's the utter sureness of someone who believes that consequences are for other people. It's what makes him fundamentally inhuman is the steadfast refusal to see himself as part of the world. He can be in this exact situation but think it doesn't effect him at all. Sure there is a bit of that, but the major problem is that most of the people playing this game probably don't actually believe in what they are doing. They hate it. He has no indication that he hates his line of work. He cares deeply about nothing but he knows what he's doing is right regardless of interaction with observable reality. Bifauxnen posted:Personally I didn't see him as being especially clever or self-aware enough to have "chosen evil" in any active malicious sense, more the everyday kind of Milgram Experiment evil. Where even if he means well in some places, he can enable and condone a lot of bad systematic things just by going along with whatever the Moralintern considers normal, and by being so insulated from ever needing to examine the status quo, or his place in it. That's a fair point.
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Nov 24, 2020 14:44
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Chapter 57: 16:53-17:59: The Spectre ARIST: [Medium: Success] Holy poo poo.   THE DESERTER: He looks confused. “There’s nothing there.” INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The stick insect is over three metres tall. It looks straight at you with its tiny pinprick eyes and its grotesquely small head.   KIM KITSURAGI: “I can see it.” VOLITION: [Easy: Success] Four simple words—thank god. If he can see, then you’re not insane. LOGIC: [Easy: Success] But that means… INSULINDIAN PHASMID: It’s really there. Spinning slowly—in absolute silence—its limbs long and slender.   ARIST: [Easy: Success] Cautiously, you approach. You know it’s stupid, that you probably shoudn’t, but you just feel an irresistible… curiosity. It’s a pure feeling, childlike in its absolute simplicity.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: Reed-like tufts stick out of its joints. As the insect moves its forearms it produces a faint hiss—like a reel-to-reel machine spinning after the tape breaks.  PERCEPTION (HEARING): Tik-tik-tik… hisss… tik-tik-tik… hisss…   KIM KITSURAGI: You glance over your shoulder. The lieutenant holds a piece of milled aluminium. He begins to pull it open, extremely carefully—it’s the camera!  KIM KITSURAGI: “We *need* a photo—no one will believe us.” He continues to pull the lens open…  KIM KITSURAGI: “I won’t be one of those fools who didn’t take a picture…” He has stopped fiddling with the camera, but does not put it down.  KIM KITSURAGI: He comes to, abruptly. “Understood. Of course,” he says with a nod.   INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The creature tilts its tiny head to the side and appears to look at you. It is incredibly light, like the slightest gust of wind should blow it away, but it doesn’t…    EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Like laughter. A sort of happiness. ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] Sweat drips from your brow, soaking your chest… you reek of it, your chemicals. ENCYCLOPEDIA: The tracheal system on the creature’s abdomen expands in front of you, to take in and expel air—it’s *smelling* you.  KIM KITSURAGI: “Maybe it *is* real, the pheromone…” The lieutenant’s mouth is agape. AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] About now he is ready to believe in anything. INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The insect’s head is crowned with reed-like scales, the shape of seed heads. They rustle as the air moves. The ventricles at its abdomen continue expanding, like lunglets…  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The insect stops its stridulation, seeming to observe you. Below its crown of reeds, little pin-prick eyes detect motion, glittering. The world stands still around you.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: As you do, the invertebrate comes to life, its limbs moving independent of each other. As if each has a mind of its own. They are white like stalks of porcelain, knitting above you.    KIM KITSURAGI: “Careful. It may be poisonous.” The lieutenant watches you apprehensively.   INSULINDIAN PHASMID: There is no change in the insect’s motion while it’s being aimed at by the camera. It remains fixated on you. KIM KITSURAGI: “In three,” the lieutenant whispers, his voice tense. “If it moves, you jump back, I’ll shoot. Here we go. Three, two, one…”  KIM KITSURAGI: “I got it…” You hear the lieutenant whisper, as the creature’s shape develops onto photo paper in his hand: a polychrome ghost of white streaks against the reeds and the sky. And you, as a shadow before it.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The antennae hang from a great height. With your hand shaking you barely touch the tip of the left whisker. On contact the chitin curls into a spiral, like the tip of a poison ivy. Its touch on your fingertip feels cold, ticklish… INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] It is suprisingly delicate—the curly end of the whisker, like a young bine. It’s even a bit wet.   INTERFACING: It tastes like… sugar. Very faint. The arthropod towers above you, tufts of reeds pointing from limb and head alike.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The limb before you is incredibly light, like eggshell. It’s much lighter than a reed. You feel a soft push could tip the creature over, its hollow exoskeleton collapsing…  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: A sudden shiver passes the limb. Looks like the creature is awakening, wave by wave from its stupor.         INSULINDIAN PHASMID: I do not have fire inside me. In me there is not even blood, but lymph—like sap from a wine palm.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: Shapes of plants and animals. And *internal* sensations. A swarm of sounds, tiny vibrations on the inside of my forearms—all speak of complexities totally beyond my understanding.           INSULINDIAN PHASMID: You can also eat it. If it’s a leaf you can put it in your mouth. Yum yum. Or a reed.    INSULINDIAN PHASMID: I am an unknown species of the order Phantasmodea—endemic to the Insulindian isola. For the last three hundred and fifty years I have hidden in plain sight, masquerading as the reeds. Moulding, cloning myself, unfolding at night to play with trash bins and buoys. I went unnoticed by the first settlers and the land surveyors of the suzerain. Also by the soldiers of the revolution and the officials of the occupation. Even the Semenese islanders who came here first, but did not stay, have not seen me.  INSULINDIAN PHASMID: No. *You* are. The moral of our encounter is: I am a relatively median lifeform—while it is you who are total, extreme madness. A volatile system, ominously new to the planet.              INSULINDIAN PHASMID: As you’re turning away, the phasmid mirrors your movements, stepping on the water—the long limbs carry its feather weight without breaking the surface.    PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Easy: Success] …and something under it! In the place it stood, bobbing there, among the reeds. A collection of items.    THE DESERTER: “What now…” the old man behind you repeats suddenly. He’s put his hand into the ash—it’s dirty and black. EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] In some kind of strange, semi-catatonic state.    ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t expect that to pop up here.    ORANJESE PASSPORT: It’s Klaasje. With short, black hair and glasses. She looks boyish, younger somehow.    KIM KITSURAGI: He opens his notes. “She said it would be for *Annouk Meijer-Smit*. Annouk – Meijer – Smit.”   KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know. But it’s not Katarzine Alasije. Or Klaasje. Or Annouk Meijer-Smit. We didn’t even scratch the surface with her, detective.”        ARIST: Now that you’ve examined the various trinkets, go investigate the deserter’s mysterious stupor.   THE DESERTER: “S-s-s-see…” He stares at the reeds and falls silent. KIM KITSURAGI: “Mr. Dros?” THE DESERTER: The man does not respond—he keeps staring, black eyes glazed over and bulging from their sockets, his gap toothed mouth shaking.  THE DESERTER: A light shiver passes over him—followed by nothing. His hands are trembling and he breathes slowly. KIM KITSURAGI: “He’s going into some kind of… psycho-motor immobility.” The lieutenant inspects him gently. The good news is—this solves our transportation problem. Doesn’t it, Mr. Dros?” THE DESERTER: The trembling mouth appears to sigh.   KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. The arrest and the appearance of the phasmid—the combined stress…” He looks at you. “But you think it’s something more than that, don’t you?” INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] There’s *much* more. Remember what it said, when it spoke.  KIM KITSURAGI: “That could be part of the shock. But you’re right—something is off here. Mr. Dros…” He touches the man’s shoulder.   KIM KITSURAGI: “Mhm.” The lieutenant inspects the man. “Mr. Dros—have you *ever* seen a stick insect, pretending to be the reeds?” THE DESERTER: “Th-the…” The old man stutters.   KIM KITSURAGI: “He does not seem to be *animated* now that it’s left…” He looks to the sea. “Honestly, I’m ready to believe anything at this point. Maybe it *is* psychoactive.”  KIM KITSURAGI: “He did seem distressed when it finally came to arresting him. Like he didn’t want to leave this place. And the insect maybe…” He looks at his notebook. “I have absolutely forgotten to take note. I hope I remember all of this.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “This will be one hell of a report—thank *god* we have the photo.”   THE DESERTER: Nothing. Just dull staring—not even rage left wherever he is.  THE DESERTER: No reaction. His breathing is slow and he appears very old all of a sudden. Around eighty. COMPOSURE: [Challenging: Success] This is an old man—at least. No longer a tin soldier, but the broken down remains of a man. KIM KITSURAGI: “Did you take this passport and other papers from a buoy on the coast?” THE DESERTER: He blinks and continues to stare at the reeds. “The… spirit.” KIM KITSURAGI: “He hears us… The spirit?” THE DESERTER: No reply. He’s gone again.   THE DESERTER: He turns his eyes to the reeds again—as he’s done so many times. Beige and white stripes… KIM KITSURAGI: “He lost the scope. Then it somehow made its way over there. With the help of a magpie phasmid?” The lieutenant observes the lens sparkle in your hand. “This sight is a T-9, Mr. Dros. Was it attached to the rifle, when you made the shot?” THE DESERTER: Silence. Not even a sigh.  THE DESERTER: The plastic cape flaps around his face, in a gust of wind. His back is slouched and his mouth open. PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Challenging: Success] The blacks of his eyes are receding, his pupils are returning to normal.   All right then, let’s head back to the skiff.    ROO A72 MOTOR SKIFF: The skiff rocks gently under your weight as you get in. The ride back is uneventful and quiet. PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Easy: Success] But for the sound of conversation on the water. There is someone inland, waiting for you. ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Two men and a woman stand on the concrete square of a nameless village, looking at a small yellow boat as it draws closer. The sea is calm.    ARIST: [Formidable: Success] Well… poo poo. You’re in for it now.
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Nov 25, 2020 23:57
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YOU: Before you yell at me, I quit drinking. And put that women behind me. And got a pep talk from an ancient stick insect that told me I would eventually lead to the heat-death of all that lives.
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Nov 26, 2020 00:45
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get stick bugged *sobs uncontrollably*
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Nov 26, 2020 00:51
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Funky Valentine posted:YOU: Before you yell at me, I quit drinking. And put that women behind me. And got a pep talk from an ancient stick insect that told me I would eventually lead to the heat-death of all that lives. Eh, we tried to forget the world, but it didn't really take in the end. Spinal Cord wouldn't let it happen.
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Nov 26, 2020 01:04
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Glazius posted:Eh, we tried to forget the world, but it didn't really take in the end. Spinal Cord wouldn't let it happen. There's probably something to reflect on the fact that the ancient reptilian brain survived that oblivion, ready to wake the rest of the system up.
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Nov 26, 2020 01:09
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Hwurmp posted:get stick bugged *sobs uncontrollably* Pretty much. God drat if the writing in this isn't beautiful.
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Nov 26, 2020 01:28
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ah man, you didn't take probably my favorite dialog choice in the game.
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Nov 26, 2020 01:39
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Thank god for the magical stick bug of hope. I mean that sincerely.
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Nov 26, 2020 03:19
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We spent several days out cold after getting shot. How strong is that pheromone?
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Nov 26, 2020 06:18
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OK, as endings go... did NOT see that coming. Not in the slightest. And yet it works so well for the game anyway. Though I can't help but wonder if Harry's amnesia in the game might be somehow linked to the phasmid's presence too. Also I hope the game lets you tell Lena before what I expect is the quickly upcoming end.
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Nov 27, 2020 10:57
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I remember when I got to this bit I started interacting with the game really carefully, physically I mean. Like I moved the mouse slowly and clicked really gently on the options, as if I'd spook the phasmid by moving too quickly in real life  I also rolled loving snake eyes on the Inland check for the 'conversation', despite having a mid teens score and being all-in on cryptids. Luckily I had a spare skill point and the free space to spend it for a retry.
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Nov 27, 2020 19:28
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man I’ve enjoyed this
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Nov 28, 2020 01:43
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MadDogMike posted:OK, as endings go... did NOT see that coming. Not in the slightest.
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Nov 28, 2020 09:52
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Chapter 58: 17:59-19:56: Denouement JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Harry… you’re bleeding all over the place. You’re half dead.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Whatever this is, it is completely unimportant compared to what you’ve just *seen*.   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Bothered by it?! Harry, you look like you need a loving organ transplant!”    ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Oh goddammit, *this* guy. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’m your goddamn *partner* Jean Vicquemare, and this is *your* special task force,” he says, gesturing toward his companions. “Or what’s left of it. Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam, Patrol Officer Judit Minot.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “We’ve come to scrape what’s left of you off the pavement.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, Precinct 57. We’ve just come from the island…” He points to the seafort. “Where our investigation led us.” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] The scene is making even him feel as though he has to justify your actions. KIM KITSURAGI: “We might need your help with something later,” he adds, suddenly regaining his confidence. AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] As if he recalled that he’s, in fact, a decorated police lieutenant, and not a naughty boy.  JUDIT MINOT: “It’s good to meet you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” she says warmly, flashing Kim the tiniest of smiles.  JUDIT MINOT: “Harry, we want to help you. Trant, I believe this is where you come in?” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Uhm…” He takes a step back. “I don’t *quite* know what I’m doing here. I was asked to participate as an expert—I think I need to manage your expectations a little. I’m at best an enthusiast in cognitive science. My background is in something else entirely. I engage in *neurology*…”—he makes air quotes—“…on a merely theoretical level. In fact, I should probably get going…” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “No… Trant, it’s too late. You’re part of this poo poo now!” He turns to you. “What have you got to say for yourself, shitkid?”     JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Guilty as charged.” He exchanges a look with the special consultant. “I heard you’d lost your mind *and* your memory. I wanted to see if it was true. And it was. Good work, Harry. You’re insane now. There’s one less person for me—and everyone else—to rely on.”   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Did you?” He adjusts his tie. “Or did you literally not recognize my face? We’ve been partners for how long, Harry? Don’t answer that—you don’t *remember*.” EMPATHY: [Challenging: Success] Judging by the familiarity you feel toward him—two years minimum? Or maybe a short, but close stint on the task force…  ARIST: [Formidable: Success] I cannot loving *believe* you just opened your mouth and said that out loud.  JUDIT MINOT: “Okay.” Another sigh. “Because you’re my commanding officer. I… I really want to respect you. I want us to have a normal relationship.”    TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “No. I was just interested in the Feld building and the Martinaise Beachhead. And Mikael wanted to see Martinaise. It was a coincidence.”  TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “What indeed?” He looks at the dilapidated shacks, then at you. “I was asked to share my take on some of the more *obscure* theories developed in Königstein in the Thirties. Like—partial psychotraumatic amnesia, group personality theory…”   KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. I’m still Kim Kitsuragi—still a lieutenant from Precinct 57.”   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Refresh your memory? It’s a god drat Major Crimes Unit. There’s you, me, Jude, Trant loving Heidelstam, and Guillaume Bevy…” He stares at you. TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I’m technically just a civilian advisor.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh, that’s an interesting story, actually!” He’s not smiling. “Guillame Bevy is a police reporter who joined our team. He was really good. Then he left, because he lost faith in your ability to lead the unit. Other people have left too. Good, smart people. People we won’t get back. Only me and this *really patient* patrol officer are still here. And Trant—because I’m *forcing* him to stay.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “See—there!” He wags his finger at you. “He’s getting it! I was *impersonating* him. Look at me, I’m G-Bevy. It was going to be funny. But then you really did have brain damage—so not so much anymore.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Do? It’s a Major Crimes Unit! We clear the desk of cases so Precinct 41 doesn’t look like the worst station in town. We’re *poo poo tier* now, Harry. Because of you.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] They’re your posse. Or what remains of it. Hand-picked. Hand-lost.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Goddammit, Harry…” He shifts his weight, crosses his arms, and looks you in the eye.  JUDIT MINOT: “It wasn’t like that…”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh, you think it was *cool*—you saying that? *Aesthetic* somehow? You were crying when we got here. Breaking things. You said we were going ‘into the abyss.’”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “The *bells* aren’t ringing because you have brain damage. Trant,” he turns to the blond, “this is where you come in—how bad is it?” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Well… He doesn’t have visible tremors. He talks without slurring. He can drive a boat. He’s standing, reasoning. All good signs. But—complete retrograde amnesia, episodic *and* semantic…” RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Meaning: you forgot both who you are and the definitions of ‘money,’ ‘isola,’, ‘pale,’ and so on. TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “As displayed in the station call, our interactions with him, and—I don’t want to be a ‘snitch,’” he makes air quotes, “but also mine with him before, when Harry did not seem to know who I was… It’s all very interesting.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Interesting?”  SAVOIR FAIRE: [Medium: Success] Nonsense! You’ve got 153 réál in your pocket, however the hell you spell it… You’re not poor! You’re living the high life! TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Not when you phrase it like that. But I don’t think critical theory—I know everyone thinks this is far-fetched, pink academia, but still—I don’t think it should be off the table here.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What?! He lost his memory because of *capitalism*?”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Psychotraumatic amnesia?” He turns to the special consultant. “I can go for that—shitkid is a broken man, always has been. Who isn’t? I know I am. But you know what?” He turns back to you. “I keep my poo poo together. Also I *know* a person can’t wipe their own mind—however traumatic it gets. That doesn’t happen. You’re lying. Or insane. Or both.”  JUDIT MINOT: “Yes, a couple of times. After some of the more… serious benders.” She pauses, remembering. “One was after the Two Drunks case, the other when we looked into that mural.” REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] The two cases… in your ledger. The Unsolvable Case and the Next World Mural. Those were recent. HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] Those cases were hard on you… TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Interesting. So at first he dipped his toes into it. Prepared. That’s where he would have gotten the idea—yes. Practice. And then he used alcohol to ‘get there’, so to speak…” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What do you mean?” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Well—here is my theory. What if this is an absolutely normal reaction to the world we’re living in? What if this is *not* a significant anomaly at all, something to be explained, approached as a defect. Look at the sensory input here…” He gestures toward the scenery. “Look at the ruins, the neon, listen to the radio, the multitudes. The people. Live here for forty years… As a police detective, he’s like a magnetic reader on the world-tape—to borrow a known metaphor. Harry’s been pushed *flat against it*. Total input. Hard-wired to the free market…” He nods confidently. “He just needed for it to end.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Okay, Trant, thank you. That’s… absolutely meaningless. I’m glad we brought you. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know *that*.”      SUGGESTION: [Formidable: Failure] Be honest. You can’t have mutual trust without honesty. ARIST: [Challenging: Success] That’s the worst advice I’ve ever loving hea—oh, great. He *listened* to you. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “So *refreshing*. He just admits it. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for destroying 45,000 reál of police property that’s coming out of *everyone’s* payslip.”       JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man is unimpressed by the piece of plastic in your hand. “And your gun?” he asks.     JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t buy it. Why do you smell like a *corpse* then? Huh?”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man doesn’t reply, but his expression speaks for him.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t believe you.” He squints. “You’re drunk. You let a suspect *escape*—a certain Klaasje. Because you were too *drunk* to assess her flight risk.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh well—if she was *specially trained*…” He rubs his face in frustration. “I’m not even gonna get into the *other* suspect who *also* escaped. Yeah. Ruby-something?” Or the fact that you’re Evrart Claire’s *little peone* now. Doing I don’t know what for him. That’s small-time stuff. That’s nothing. That’s a humorous anecdote…”  KIM KITSURAGI: “He did everything he could,” the lieutenant interrupts him. “*We* did everything we could. The company hired unvetted mercenaries. Lieutenant Du Bois got between them and the locals.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Here comes the cavalry.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you for the input, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. I didn’t mean to sugest you didn’t handle the situation…” AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] He thinks of apologizing but decides against it. JEAN VICQUEMARE: He brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eye and coughs. “You’ve spent the week with him—on this case. What is your take?” KIM KITSURAGI: “On the case?” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “On Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Well…” He pulls up his collar. “The drinking, the gun-losing, also losing the badge—that’s all true. Although he has *not* been drinking on the job this week.” JUDIT MINOT: “See?” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*One* week.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Then there’s the… self-flagellation issue. He likes to apologize—profusely. Making it sound like he’s guilty of at least first degree murder. It’s not a good communication strategy for an officer. It’s… It’s worrying. Especially considering his political views. Detective Du Bois is—as you may know—a Mazovian socio-economist. He wants to liquidate the ruling class. Which—again—for a police officer… is a little odd.”  KIM KITSURAGI: “The RCM consists of policemen of the state that *is*. So—a little discrepancy there.” He turns back to Vicquemare. “And then there’s the motor carriage in the sea—something I was *not* present for…” He breathes in sharply. But—despite all this—he is a great detective. One of the best I’ve seen, in fact. He can talk human beings into telling him *everything*. And he doesn’t stop. In all the time I’ve spent with him, he has not once stopped pursuing leads, however far-fetched and tangential. He is tireless. Madly driven. Well, except for that one time when he stopped to sing karaoke. Which—by the way—was a valiant effort. He really sang his heart out.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yeah… it was what it was…” KIM KITSURAGI: “Other than that one time, he has tirelessly worked on the case. And he solved it. We have a confession, a murder weapon, *and* the perpetrator—locked on the island right now, awaiting transportation. He apprehended a revolutionary brigade who stayed hidden for fifty years, ever since the revolution; who’s probably committed other murders over those years…” He pauses. “Oh—and he also discovered a new species.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “A… new species?” KIM KITSURAGI: “A colossal stick insect. It was on the island, camouflaged as the reeds. It… unfolded from the reeds. I think we may be dealing with the Insulindian phasmid.” He takes out the photo of the phasmid and shows it to the officers across the yard. The wind blows, flapping the glossy rectangle in his hand. PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] You hear gasps beneath the howling of the wind.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: He ignores you, still staring at the phasmid. “loving hell, is that… Is this somehow *connected* to the case?”  KIM KITSURAGI: “The old man was not *aware* of the phasmid’s presence. Exhibiting a strange, atypical dementia, he fell into a stupor after its appearance. He became near-catatonic.” JUDIT MINOT: “So it *is* connected…?” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “…” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I must say, this,” he points to the photo,” is absolutely extraordinary. It’s… I don’t even have *words* for it.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yes. It really does make it hard to fire the drunk…” His tired eyes follow the photo as the lieutenant puts it away. EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] This is a very, very sad man who has just seen something that’s made him forget his sadness.   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “That’s great! *Entroponaut* is a great new career for you—*after* police officer. I don’t care. Go live in the pale.” KIM KITSURAGI: “Four kids were living in a tent on the ice. They were going to drown when it melted. It’s not optimal, but the building *was* abandoned. So he put them in there. It’s okay.”  TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Female? What makes you think so?” KIM KITSURAGI: “You had to see it… It had the subdued colours of a female. And the nesting behaviour too, I think.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Incredible… Were there eggs in the nest?”     TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Mhm…” He ignores your answer. “Then it wouldn’t matter if it’s male or female. The bower would just be rudimentary behaviour from before the parthenogenetic mutation.” LOGIC: [Medium: Success] That makes sense, yes. TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Very interesting.” He looks around, quickly assessing the coast. “Such organisms are extremely vulnerable to disease. A single strain of bacteria could wipe out the whole species. We’re probably looking at conservation efforts here…”  KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, but also reed-coloured—beige and brown, a little green—on the outside. After unfolding from a single stalk, it still retained parts that looks like reed tufts on its limbs.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Incredible…” he repeats, turning to Vicquemare. “The PR value of this is exceptional. ‘Cop Discovers New Species.’ Maybe even: ‘Discovers the Insulindian Phasmid.’ No… That’s too much.” JUDIT MINOT: “This would really help with some of the… *problems* we’ve been having.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Absolutely—this is great. This does not say ‘vigilante murderers’ to me at all. This says: science, news, human interest.” He smiles. “You know, it’s a really good thing you have that photo.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Without it…” He shakes his head. SUGGESTION: [Easy: Success] You’re doing good here. Perhaps only for a moment but still…   TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “The custom started in Graad, where they have patronyms: Krasovich, Larsovich, etc. The revolutionaries saw this as a chauvinist atavism so they used matronyms, derived from the mother’s name, instead. This man’s mother was Lilian. He’s Lilian’s son—Lilianovich. The custom was overturned after the Revolution failed, but not before it made it to Revachol.” JUDIT MINOT: “So… it *is* what a soldier of the ICM would be called.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you, Trant. Thank you for that piece of cultural theory.” He turns to you. “You said you have a motive.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Of course. Excuse me. I just thought it was noteworthy.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Jealousy… I thought this Lilianovich was an old man. To have been hiding for fifty years… seventy-something?” KIM KITSURAGI: “A strange psychosexual fixation. Aggravated—possibly—by proximity to the phasmid and its chemicals. He himself gave a political reason—said he had killed an enemy combatant. Also—we have ballistics from the gun, matching the bullet found in the dead mercenary’s head. *And* two officers on the scene that Mr. Dros *confessed* to.” JUDIT MINOT: “It’s a clean win.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*Perfect folding mechanism*…” He rolls his eyes. “Get over yourself, Harry—I can still smell the booze on the wind.” PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Easy: Success] God dammit, doesn’t it ever *leave*?! It *is* there! Like, in your bones or something…  KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant lowers his voice—just a little. “This is a conversation for when we are no longer out in the open, in Martinaise, where Evrart and Edgar Claire have ears everywhere.” REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] And eyes too—your return from the island must not have gone unnoticed. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Understood. Of course.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] But a case against Evrart would be big… TRANT HEIDELSTAM: The consultant, too, has lowered his voice. “I would prefer *not* to partake in anything Union-related. For political neutrality.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “How? It seems to be ongoing. I see red banners on the gates.” KIM KITSURAGI: “He didn’t quite *solve* it—he cross-pollinated information between the company rep and Evrart. Until the rep came to see that the Union desires war. At which point Mrs. Messier decided to…” He shrugs.   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Maybe? Certainly. You’re Evrart Claire’s peone now. Just as I said. He’s a *mob boss*, did you know? Is that why you want us to investigate the assassination of the previous Union head thing? To get off Evrart’s hook?” KIM KITSURAGI: “No. It’s *nothing* like that. He was reckless with information—but ethical. We don’t owe anyone anything. This allowed us to stabilize things in Martinaise.” JUDIT MINOT: “God… Calm down, Jean.”   JUDIT MINOT: “The body was transported to Precinct 41. Our morgue. I had Tillbrook and Mollins take care of funeral arrangements and family-stuff.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’re not the only cop in the world, Harry. This all comes back to us.” JUDIT MINOT: “Still,” she says quietly. “Good work with the missing person, detective.”   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “*Why*? That’s not what you were supposed to do here.” KIM KITSURAGI: “There was a *fridge* we needed. And a possible witness. He was just chasing a lead and ended up advising a local shopkeeper—it was okay.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Who’s *Cuno*?” KIM KITSURAGI: “You don’t want to know.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I don’t *want* to. But you discovered a new species. And solved the murder…” He shrugs. “So I *have* to. Jude?” JUDIT MINOT: A quick nod. “Anything that ends with the *trial* is okay with me.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] You haven’t been drinking, she thinks. So maybe this time… TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “Agreed. The public relations potential of this is too valuable to let go.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: The man looks westward, impatiently.      KIM KITSURAGI: “The fact that you don’t seem to *know* what homo-sexuality is… And your moves on the church floor—which, honestly, were just *jump aerobics*…” ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] The raw, robust stamina output…  KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course! Contact Mike!”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh—you don’t say?” He arches an eyebrow. “Does he also *vault an impassible gulf of finance and privilege*?”   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yes, you *taught gym* in Couron. I believe that’s the term? Taught gym at a high school. You were a high school gym teacher.” PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Easy: Success] The smell of sweat and glue, the worn floorboards… ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Couron is just east of Jamrock. It was a short walk, every morning—to the baseball field or the sports building… KIM KITSURAGI: “High school. Harry! Your goings-on with Cuno, Andre, Acele—the whole thing on the ice. That’s why you’re so *juvie*.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “The regular—you found some chick. She inspired you to fight the *big fight*. Be more than you are. All that.”      JEAN VICQUEMARE: “God, I don’t know…” He thinks. “Six years ago? She was way before my time.”    JEAN VICQUEMARE: “She was extremely fuckable, Harry. A gorgeous bourgeois woman. Waifish. Like a *welkin* basically.” INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Heartbreak Welkin. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’ve only seen a picture—but it’s obvious you formed a real spiritual connection with how *pretty* she was. One you never recuperated from.” JUDIT MINOT: “Look…” She turns to face the sea. “The sun is going down. It’s time to go home.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I think she taught in the Académie des Arts, east of the river. Way east. Hard to say which came first—the middle class chick or the drink? Egg and the chicken kinda thing… My point is, you need to see a *psychiatrist* about this poo poo. Not a psychologist—several degrees harder. Is there something harder than a psychiatrist?” He pauses to think. “A forensic psychiatrist. Go talk to that.”   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “You’re too unstable to work for a mob boss. You’re suicidal, Harry. No mob boss would take you.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “I assure you—I wouldn’t consult for a corrupt unit.” LOGIC: [Medium: Success] He would immediately backpedal out of it.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Us?” We’re the *Bloody Murder Station*, haven’t you heard? We’re the bad guys. No one likes us. KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s not true. Jamrock is too big for one precinct. You’re just understaffed. And everyone respects the 41st—you have Captain Pryce.” JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank you, lieutenant. You’re being kind. It *is* an understaffed station and the district *is* too big—which is why we need to…” He tilts his head northward…   JEAN VICQUEMARE: “God…” He sighs. “There are four wings, Harry: A, B, C, and D. We’re in C. It’s made of losers and clock-punchers. You and I *re-conceptualized* it as a task force. It was a mistake.” TRANT HEIDELSTAM: “There’s also a lot of outside help involved. Not only me.” He smiles. “Other losers too.”  JUDIT MINOT: “Ptolemy Pryce? He’s the son of the old Pryce—one of the founders of the RCM.” KIM KITSURAGI: “He’s one of the most highly regarded men in the force. You’re lucky.” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] Somewhere under the curved roof of a former silk factory, shaped like a ladybird with two chimneys, Police Captain Ptolemy Pryce sits behind a heavy wooden desk. Resident medic Nix Gottlieb pours him coffee. It’s silent in the captain’s office…  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “So he remembers *that*… Yes, there may have been a raid on *some* churches. It wasn’t good press.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Our *enemies* were hiding in *a* church—to the best of our information. That’s it. I’m not talking about this anymore. Your security clearance is *poo poo-tier* right now. You have to wait for it to go up.” AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] He means it. The RCM and its enemies will not be discussed on this coast.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Okay—it’s not the Bloody Murder Station. It’s an old converted silk mill with green desk lamps and a coffee corner. A lot of good people work there. Hard. Every day.” JUDIT MINOT: “Jamrock is the largest ghetto in Revachol. Faubourg, technically… but it’s divided into *eleven* districts. Jamrock only has us.” KIM KITSURAGI: “The press will blow over,” he says in a reassuring tone. “Jamrock is lucky to have you. And it’s often considered to be the greatest of the districts—you’re lucky to have it.”  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Who is Lena?”  JUDIT MINOT: “Tabernacle? It’s on the way over. Near where you live, on Perdition…” She looks at Vicquemare. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fine. If we’re gonna drop you off anyway.” KIM KITSURAGI: “She and her husband were conducting the search for the phasmid. It’s their discovery—in part. They should know as soon as possible. It would do you good to deliver some positive news for a change.” SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] She is going to be over the moon.   KIM KITSURAGI: He pulls up his collar and looks around, the cold spring light reflected in the lenses of his glasses. “Detective, we just stopped a small-scale war. Something is happening to Revachol.”   KIM KITSURAGI: “Work *with* Pryce?” A crooked smile quivers on his lips. “I’m flattered, but I don’t know if I…” ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Would fit in? Am crazy enough? Can take the stress? He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] This truly came as a surprise to him. Not a bad one. But he’s at a loss. JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Flattered? You’re Lieutenant Kitsuragi. *We* would be flattered if you even considered…”   Let’s put one last point into Ol’ Reliable, Inland Empire.  KIM KITSURAGI: “I do like the sound of that…” He returns her smile.  JEAN VICQUEMARE: “gently caress it, let’s go.” The man points down the street. “Trant brought his motor carriage. It’s a 20 minute drive to Jamrock.” SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see—from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street disappearing into the rain on the horizon… You close your eyes and hear the dogs bark. A lone woman sits by a factory window, dreaming of meteorite strikes. On Rue Saint-Gérôme a square bullet slides into a square-shaped chamber. In Old South a man without eyelids smiles. Spring has come. It’s time.     ARIST: [Impossible: Success] Disco. Arist fucked around with this message at 16:48 on Nov 30, 2020 |
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Nov 29, 2020 22:06
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So... yeah. That's the end of the game. It's been a hell of a ride, folks, and I'm glad you all were here to see it. I feel largely happy with the work I did here, which is more than I can say a lot of the time, and this project was creatively energizing for me. But... uh... I'm loving burned out on this game, y'all. Part of that's that I didn't have much to add on in terms of commentary for the last several updates because I felt weird intruding upon a bunch of really great writing with my dumb added bits, but a lot of it's just that I've spent far too much time looking at text boxes. And when I think about the prospect of going through the game again as Botchcop, combing through another two dozen hours of footage for new morsels, I just have to sigh. It's not even just that I've already seen most of the game. It's that I have very little desire to see even the stuff that would be new. So, unfortunately, I think I'm going to call the LP here. I'll rebrand "The Adventures of Botchcop" as "A Day In The Life of Botchcop" and end it instead of dragging this out when my heart's not in it. I'm sorry, but I'm just really not up for it and I'd rather move on to other projects. But I still feel kind of bad leaving it there, so I'm going to add on one final update that I'll post on Thursday, the one year anniversary of this LP, in which I will create a list of everything I missed that people wanted to see in the LP and suggest, if you ever play the game for yourself, you try.
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Nov 29, 2020 22:19
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Botchcop would be a downer after the phasmid and all, imo. The end is a perfect place to end it! Thanks so much for this LP, I couldn't believe you actually got a screenshot LP of this to work. It was a hell of an undertaking and a great way to share the game with more people.
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Nov 29, 2020 22:42
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Thank you so much for this amazing and very disco let's play.  Bifauxnen posted:Botchcop would be a downer after the phasmid and all, imo. The end is a perfect place to end it!
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Nov 30, 2020 01:32
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Agreed, thanks for the LP.
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Nov 30, 2020 01:37
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Thanks for the LP! And honestly, I don't know if I could have handled more Botchcop. The fact that it's so painful is a testament to just how good the writing is, but at the end of the day its really painful.
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Nov 30, 2020 04:27
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Fantastic LP Heck, you managed to show me some new stuff and I thought I had gotten nearly everything. Really good thread.
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Nov 30, 2020 04:38
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Arist posted:So... yeah. That's the end of the game. It's been a hell of a ride, folks, and I'm glad you all were here to see it. I feel largely happy with the work I did here, which is more than I can say a lot of the time, and this project was creatively energizing for me. But... uh... Honestly Botchcop was so uncomfortable I frequently couldn't read it, which is testament to the writing and your handling of it, but I'll echo that this is a great place to end it. And also that it was a great LP. I felt like you had a deft hand with additions that enhanced and letting it stand on its own where appropriate, and I really appreciated you running through it as an expert. Thanks for looking at all those text boxes.
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Nov 30, 2020 05:00
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Had a lot of fun reading this, Arist. I thought I had done next to-100% of the stuff in this game but I learned a lot of poo poo. I missed the Deserter's confession to killing the old Union rep, for one.
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Nov 30, 2020 06:00
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imma post some dialog that wasn't chosen from the phasmid conversation that are probably my favorite dialog in the game. you have to say that you like being yourself to the phasmid.  
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Nov 30, 2020 06:52
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I still lol at the time Botchcop did a spin kick to that one guy's head.
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Nov 30, 2020 07:34
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Thanks for the LP, Arist!
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Nov 30, 2020 08:07
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Arist posted:The custom was overturned after the Revolution failed, gut not Stuff we missed \ stuff I found remarkable: quote:
Xander77 posted:
I don't have a screenshot for this, but apparently once you ignite the necktie cocktail, you can go into your inventory and drink it. Xander77 fucked around with this message at 13:31 on Nov 30, 2020 |
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Nov 30, 2020 10:16
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I'm just gonna say: Holy poo poo this was a hell of a ride! Thanks a lot for the LP, Arist. I feel like this is one of those games I might not have been able to complete by myself.
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Nov 30, 2020 19:10
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Great LP Arist, thanks for showing off so much (I loved your narration).
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Nov 30, 2020 20:14
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Great LP Arist, I've loved watching along
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Nov 30, 2020 20:18
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Kim going "that explains everything" during the reveal that Harry was a gym teacher is great. 
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Nov 30, 2020 21:11
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Great LP artist! Thank you so much!
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Nov 30, 2020 21:27
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Gonna join in with the "Great LP" crowd, but I've still got a weird question: when the phasmid tells Harry to get over Dora, he does it in a pretty specific way, by pointing out she was middle-class. I also played a commiecop so I got the same line - is that any different if you internalize other ideologies?
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Nov 30, 2020 21:32
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anilEhilated posted:Gonna join in with the "Great LP" crowd, but I've still got a weird question: when the phasmid tells Harry to get over Dora, he does it in a pretty specific way, by pointing out she was middle-class. I also played a commiecop so I got the same line - is that any different if you internalize other ideologies? You know, I don't think I'd want to play a fascist or Ultraliberal cop long enough to find out.
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Nov 30, 2020 23:03
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I want the sequel where the Police Chief is apparently plotting a Workers Revolution, and expects Harry to take part in it
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Dec 1, 2020 00:13
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What a year!
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Dec 1, 2020 01:30
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