All Cops Are Botchcops: Let's Play Disco Elysium

Put your Let's Plays in here.
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VOLITION: This is a bad idea.

Oh, absolutely.

Disco Elysium is a revolutionary role-playing game from the fine folks at ZA/UM, written and designed by some European dude.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: His name is Robert Kurvitz and he’s an Estonian novelist.

Yeah, that. Anyway, Disco Elysium puts you in the role of a detective trying to solve a murder. Everything else, however, is up to the player. You can be whatever kind of cop you want—from fascist pig to sympathetic fascist pig! Wakka wakka amirite

AUTHORITY: Watch your tongue, hippie.

For real, though, the possibilities are enormous: preach laissez-faire capitalism! Sideline your investigation to sing karaoke! Do lots of druuuuuugs!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Drugs?!?

Yes, drugs! Disco Elysium is a true role-playing game, one that allows the player to do pretty much whatever they want (within reason, of course, and often outside of reason as well). But what makes this game truly revolutionary is the way it simulates thought. The game lacks combat--

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Boo.

--but instead, your skills have the benefit of giving you more dialogue, in the form of various aspects of your personality. The more skill points you put into an aspect, the more often it will activate. Your thoughts can interact and bicker with each other, or just try to steer you along the right path. These thoughts can be used to unlock dialogue options, pass skill checks, or just provide loads of flavor. This is the part where I mention the game is incredibly funny, too.

Now, the problem with LPing this game is that it’s absolutely massive and incredibly modular, with tons of writing that will change based on your decisions. I’ll try to show off some alternate decisions, but seeing everything is impossible due to the sheer scale.

This game’s still pretty new, so I’m gonna ask that we not get too deep into spoilers. I might relax that policy in the future, but for now, just don’t.

I'm going to warn now, this game features the use of (censored) homophobic slurs, as well as depictions of racism and mentions of rape (both real and in the form of false threats). In context, I do not believe the writer is invoking this stuff without thought or being a shithead about it, but I'm telling you now. If you don't like that I'm putting this warning up, too bad.

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Chapter 1: 8:07-8:21: Wake Up, Get Up, Get Out There
Chapter 2: 8:21-10:18: Buddy Cop
Chapter 3: 10:18-11:40: Cuno Don’t Care
Chapter 4: 11:40-13:38: Radio Chatter
Chapter 5: 13:38-15:18: Cop Discovers One Weird Trick To Recover From A Hangover In Just Thirty Minutes
Chapter 6: 15:18-16:48: Copologies For My Misconduct
Chapter 7: 16:55-19:06: Racists Of All Stripes
Chapter 8: 19:07-20:36: These Pants Are A Burden
Chapter 9: 20:36-21:45: Crane Games
Chapter 10: 21:45-23:17: Big Boss Man

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Chapter 11: 7:30-8:44: Cryptid Chat
Chapter 12: 8:44-11:12: Cuno Witnesses An Autopsy
Chapter 13: 11:12-13:08: Crime, Romance, And Biographies Of Famous People
Chapter 14: 13:09-14:14: The Death of Capitalism
Chapter 15: 14:14-15:31: Missing Persons
Chapter 16: 15:31-17:13: Let’s Get Wild
Chapter 17: 17:13-17:58: Show Me The Goods
Chapter 18: 17:58-19:22: Why Won’t These Cops Go Away? A Hardie Boys Mystery
Chapter 19: 19:22-21:08: Apartment Complex
Chapter 20: 21:08-23:34: Roll Playing

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Chapter 21: 7:30-9:24: Detective Tact
Chapter 22: 9:25-11:43: Dark Pinball Secrets
Chapter 23: 11:43-13:56: Sign My Petition To Save The Rec Center!
Chapter 24: 13:56-15:19: Bullying Works
Chapter 25: 15:19-17:01: Drama King
Chapter 26: 17:01-19:38: The Death of Raphael
Chapter 27: 19:38-20:55: Accidentally Doing A Centrism
Chapter 28: 20:55-22:46: Racism And Death
Chapter 29: 22:46-01:28: Karaoke For Spirits
Chapter 30: 1:28-Around 2:00: Incrementalism In The Night

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Chapter 31: 7:30-9:14: A Little Light Mail Fraud
Chapter 32: 9:14-10:49: The Despair At The End Of The Rainbow
Chapter 33: 10:49-13:23: Building Bridges, Burning Buddies, And Being Boring
Chapter 34: 13:23-13:50: Supply-Side Economics
Chapter 35: 13:50-16:00: Ceramic Hornets
Chapter 36: 16:00-17:02: Beyond The Pale
Chapter 37: 17:02-18:21: War Stories and Boxing Trivia
Chapter 38: 18:21-20:09: Anodic, Anodyne
Chapter 39: 20:09-21:39: A Sobering Conversation With The Crab Man
Chapter 40: 21:39-23:00: The Sound Of Silence
Chapter 41: 23:00-1:09: Error Undefined

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Chapter 42: 7:30-8:23: Long Lonesome Road Home
Chapter 43: 8:23-9:09: Lieutenant Bumblefuck
Chapter 44: 9:09-15:09: The Grand History Of The Fuckatoo
Chapter 45: 15:09-17:28: The 2mm Hole In the World
Chapter 46: 17:28-19:45: Dancing With Oblivion
Chapter 47: 19:45-23:47: Game Night
Chapter 48: 23:47-0:23: Descent Into Madness
Chapter 49: 00:23-Around 2:00: Cave Story
Chapter 50: The Tribunal

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Chapter 51: 9:06-10:18: Aftermath
Chapter 52: 10:19-11:38: Fire Guy
Chapter 53: Someday The Dream Will End
Chapter 54: 13:10-13:31: Island Time
Chapter 55: 13:32-15:09: The Final Missing Piece
Chapter 56: 15:09-16:52: Nihilism, And What Comes After
Chapter 57: 16:53-17:59: The Spectre
Chapter 58: 17:59-19:56: Denouement

I also did a parallel run of the first day to show off some alternate paths through the game. Behold, the glory of Botchcop:

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Addendum I: Botchcop Begins
Addendum II: Botchcop Is Terrible On Levels Even I Was Heretofore Wholly Unprepared For
Addendum III: Botchcop Tries Again
Addendum IV: Botchcop Knows Karate
Addendum V: Botchcop Begs For Money
Addendum VI: Botchcop Does A Night Autopsy, Desecrates A Corpse (Again), And Dabbles In Fascism

And the last update's just a brief bonus list of stuff I didn't show that you should check out for yourself:

Addendum VII: The Disco Elysium Home LP!
Last edited by Arist on Thu Dec 03, 2020 4:36 pm, edited 67 times in total.

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Let’s begin.

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These are the three base archetypes we can pick to start. As someone who tends to gravitate more towards the INT/PSY skills, I like none of these, as I don’t think putting 1 in any category is a good idea.

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Instead, we’ll be creating our own archetype.

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We’ll be going with this archetype. We have 12 points to work with, and we can put anywhere from 1 to 6 points in any category. I generally don’t recommend going higher than 4 or lower than 2 if you don’t know what you’re doing, though.

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The reason for this is that your stats don’t just impact your starting skills, but also your growth; you can only put points into a skill up to a certain degree. This degree is determined by your initial archetype. So since we have two points in Physique, we can only put two more points into Endurance. This is going to heavily limit what skills we see, especially closer to the end of the game, but for now this is fine.

As for this screen, it’s asking us to pick a “Signature Skill.” This isn’t too complicated. It just means that we get a free point to put into whatever we like. It also raises the cap for all skills in that category by one (I didn’t actually realize that latter bit until just now, and if I had I probably would have chosen, say, Physical Instrument instead of wasting it like I do here).

Now, let’s go through each skill and see what they do.

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Logic is our basic reasoning skills, though it also affects our ego. Also, don’t worry too much about the supposed negative consequences of having too high a stat. We’ll see some of that, but we won’t be nearing max with anything and the effects will be a lot subtler than this makes it out to be.

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Encyclopedia fills our brain with trivia.

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Rhetoric is what got you that solid B minus in high school debate class.

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Drama helps us lie and sniff out lies.

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Now we get into the granular. Conceptualization lets us… see art? Okay?

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Visual Calculus is a bit specific, but really cool. It lets us reconstruct crime scenes.

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Volition is basically our sanity, our voice of reason. It controls how many Morale points we get, which is good because if we run out of those the game ends.

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Inland Empire is one of my favorites. It’s your hunches, the whispers in your head—but also your imagination. It will give life to the inanimate.

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Empathy allows us to feel the emotions of others, useful when you think someone’s being false or performative.

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Authority is our inner fascist. It craves respect and deference. Well, that's a bit reductive. More broadly, it's our sense of power dynamics.

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Esprit de Corps… look, it lets us “understand cop culture,” all right? I really don’t want to spoil what this one does. It’s too good.

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Suggestion lets us try to charm and manipulate.

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Endurance controls the other health resource, aptly named “Health.” We’re only going to have two points in it to start. It’s how much we can take, basically.

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Pain Threshold increases our pain tolerance, which will eventually turn us into someone with masochistic tendencies—like LPing Disco Elysium!

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Physical Instrument is our strength, used when diplomacy has failed. Or when a door needs busting. Either/or.

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Electrochemistry makes us want the good shit. It increases our knowledge of various vices.

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Shivers turns us into Batman! We will hear the city streets cry out to us!

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Half Light is our fight-or-flight response, and lets us sense the ominous direction the wind is turning.

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Hand/Eye Coordination is exactly what it sounds like, and is important for shooting.

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Perception is how attuned to our senses we are.

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Reaction Speed lets us think quickly and come up with daring moves or witty lines.

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Savoir Faire is basically our style.

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Interfacing is how in touch with machines we are, but also how nimble we are with our fingers, allowing us to pick pockets and locks.

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Finally, Composure is how well we can keep a straight face and not let the world break us down. Its main purpose, though, is reading body language.

We’re going to make our Signature Skill Inland Empire (because I didn’t quite understand all of what the Signature Skill does) and move on. It’s not terribly important anyway.

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ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Ever.

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LIMBIC SYSTEM: You wouldn’t like it if I told you what’s back there. Why do you think you had to bludgeon yourself into oblivion? Or did you not sense yourself—marinating? Poured so much over yourself… Got a bit *carried away* did we chef?

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This is our first passive skill check, or “black check.” The game is constantly rolling passive checks on certain lines of dialogue. If your relevant skill is high enough, you have a better chance of passing and getting a line of dialogue. Less frequently you’ll get failure messages, too. This one is for Inland Empire, as you can see. Passing a black check will occasionally give us new dialogue options, as well.

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Chapter 1: 8:07-8:21: Wake Up, Get Up, Get Out There

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Your eyes open, and the only thing burned into your brain in that moment is a desperate cry for escape from the pounding of its own shell.

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It’s too much—the light, the cold, the pain, all wrapped up in a cacophonous sensory overload that exacerbates the hangover.

These green orbs are places where we can make observations about the environment.

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Examining the tape player will let us pick up the empty cassette case. Not worth much on its own.

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You should probably put on some pants.

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Clothing can offer skill benefits. While these trousers reduce our Savoire Faire by 1, they increase our Electrochemistry.

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We can also get “thought” orbs that will appear around our head.

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The cold air streams in through the broken window. You feel an overpowering urge to figure out what happened here, even sans shirt.

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This is an active check--a White Check, to be more precise. The number next to the check is the number we need to roll, which adds our current stat onto it (in this case, Visual Calculus, which is 3.)

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Hovering over the check will show its likelihood of passing. Even if we fail, however, we can retry any White Check by simply putting a level into the relevant skill. I’ll go over levels when we gain some experience. Also, as you can see, snake eyes or double sixes are critical failures/passes, respectively. The chances of either of them are about 3%, apparently, though I have no idea how they arrived at that math. Getting one is just an automatic fail or pass, it's not special or anything.

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We passed!

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We gained 5 experience for solving the mystery of the shoe through the window. We will gain a level every 100 experience, which will allow us to do one of three things. The only one that is immediately relevant is putting points into a skill.

Also, we gained a task. Completing these objectives will reward us with experience and generally help us make progress.

Finally, you may notice that time has passed. Time will only pass during dialogue, never during movement. This allows us plenty of time to explore, though we should be wary of long conversations.

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You see a filthy blazer on the… bed? It’s disgusting, but you’re freezing, so it’ll have to do.

The Disco-Ass Blazer gives +1 Esprit de Corps.

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Wait, what’s that hanging from the fan?

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Somehow, you feel that there is a 58 percent chance of this going horribly awry, and reconsider this course of action. You choose to pull on the fan’s switch first.

CEILING FAN: The blades come squeaking to a halt. It should be easier to reach the tie now.
YOU: Grab the tie.

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Changing various factors will change the odds of passing certain checks. Here, we gain a +3 because the fan is stopped.

SAVOIR FAIRE: [Medium: Success] You swoop up and catch the tie… snap! It’s released from the blade. WARNING! WARNING! The necktie is no longer contained.

The Horrific Necktie gives no apparent benefit. Immediately apparent, anyway.

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Your head is still pounding. Maybe the bathroom has something to help you.

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We pick up the White Satin Shirt, which increases Conceptualization by 1 and reduces Suggestion by 1.

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MIRROR: Hot water sprays from the base and steam covers the mirror. You cannot see yourself, just the outline of a man.

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MIRROR: As you slowly reach your hand toward the surface of the mirror...

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BEHOLD

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Check fails.

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Check fails.

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Again, any White Checks we fail will remain in the world until we get another skill point and re-attempt them.

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Having attempted to defeat “The Expression” to no avail, you decide it’s probably past time you pick up that other shoe and figure some stuff out. Like everything.

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What adventures lie in store for you in this beautiful world brimming with possibility?!

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Not gonna post the entire backlog at once because it's 38 updates and I'd like your computers to not catch fire when you try to load this page, I'll do it over the next week or so hopefully.

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Chapter 2: 8:21-10:18: Buddy Cop

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All right, the immediate vicinity of your room looks marginally less disastrous than the inside. This is progress. You consider talking to the woman, but you decide to go find your shoe on the balcony first.

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You feel an inexplicable attraction to the strange table coins. You know not what they do, but you pick them up anyway.

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Mission complete! Your poor toes can finally unclench from the biting cold.

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Completing certain tasks or selecting certain dialogue options will restore Health or Morale. However, note that by the same token we can also lose Health or Morale for picking certain options. There are other ways to restore Health and Morale, though, so don’t worry too much.

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Back inside, the woman greets you rather familiarly. What does she know?!

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Uh… no.” She seems perplexed by your question.

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Do NOT use The Expression on her! You promised yourself! Besides, you don’t know what you’re unleashing!

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Also, there’s only a 28 percent chance it’ll work!

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Don’t be so harsh on yourself. They let almost anyone be a police officer.”

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “We are in Revachol.”

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh yes, various artists. Ostentatious Orchestrations prime among them.” She raises an eyebrow, waiting for the name to connect with you.

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “There was. I think you screamed that you… didn’t want to be ‘this type of animal’ any more. I may have misheard, but it was sort of memorable.”

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There is nothing left for you here. You descend the stairs.

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From across the cafeteria as you make your way down the staircase, you notice a man in an orange bomber jacket waiting by the doors. He does not move. You sense he is waiting for something, but for what you have little idea. You ignore him for now and tend to more pressing matters...

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…like karaoke!

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INLAND EMPIRE: Utterly. And it needs to be heard. Through a PA system. By other people.

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INLAND EMPIRE: Serves them right! Wipe that smirk off their face with your sad, tragic small church song. Who’s laughing now? No one.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh no,” he says without looking up. “You’re a hero. A real hero cop.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: A competent work of taxidermy, the white and brown seabird lies among piles of coasters and drying mugs, one of its wings broken. The man is trying to mend it. Looks like the bird was ripped off the shield that was used to mount it—most likely on a wall.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Look, your *buddy* is over there.” He looks at the doors, where a man in a bomber jacket is tapping his foot on the floor.

Wait, that dude’s waiting for you? Ah shit.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I’m not the *bartender*. I’m the cafeteria manager.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “She just, you know…” He shrugs.

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Okay, you have the important information that the man by the doors is waiting for you. Shit, what did you do? Shut up, idiot, that was rhetorical, look at your room, what *didn’t* you do? Better procrastinate dealing with him until you think of an excuse.

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This is a healing item. We can use this Nosaphed to recover Health whenever we want, even mid-conversation, by clicking on the orange plus icon by our Health bar.

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ELECTROCHEMISTRY: What happened, man? You used to be *cool*. Go get your boring normal person drink then…

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Magnesium is another healing item, but it restores Morale instead of Health.

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Despite the dismal odds of success, you decide to try waking the man up. You fail miserably.

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Yeah, you probably can’t get away with putting this off any further. Trying to chat up the old lady five feet away from the guy you’re avoiding is pretty ballsy though, not gonna lie.

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Quick—lie!

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Perfect!

KIM KITSURAGI: As you approach, he narrows his eyes and extends his hand in greeting.

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What!? Oh, that was *poetry*.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Helllo, I’m Kim Kitsuragi.” His grip is firm. “Lieutenant, Precinct 57. You must be from the 41st…” You realize he is waiting for your name.

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This is a Red Check, which is like a White Check, but you can’t ever retry it if you fail. Choose them wisely, basically.

Fuck yeah, let’s do it!

The check fails.

SHIT

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HORRIFIC NECKTIE: You instinctively run your hand over your multi-patterned orange tie. The sensation of wrinkled silk somehow makes the name sound even cooler.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, well…” He doesn’t even process what you just said, just moves on.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “If you don’t mind, we should talk to him again. Ask him for a run-down of the area—now that I’m here as well. I understand the scene is out back, right?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay. We’ll have time for that after we take a look at the coroner’s case.”

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The lieutenant’s voice takes an ominous tone as he says this.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “So, the body is still in the tree…”
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] This is the first time you detect a weariness in the lieutenant’s voice. It is obvious he would have preferred for the body to no longer be in the tree.

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KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you for a moment, in silence. “I can see you drank last night, and the night before. And that you are still drunk now. But I have seen officers go through much worse. Much worse.”

This guy doesn’t like you, does he?

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I was sent here to meet a detective from Precinct 41. You have the insignia of the Citizens Militia on your sleeve and on your back.” He points to your jacket.

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KIM KITSURAGI: They’re not *just* white rectangles. They bear a halogen watermark with the letters RCM and a pattern resembling the street grid of Revachol West.”

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And now we have a party member, in true RPG fashion! Can’t wait until we recruit the dog.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Mr… Garte, right?” Kim glances into his little notebook. “You run this place?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes,” he responds tersely.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Right… Now, I know it took us a while to arrive at the scene. It also took you a while to call us and report the dead body—it *was* you who placed the call, yes?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I only just got here. It was probably Sylvie who called you. She usually works the bar here. I’m only temporarily taking over her duties.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you have her number?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “You said you just got here—from where? Are you a local?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What? Of Martinaise—no. I live in Jamrock. I only *sometimes* come here to keep an eye on the place. This is just one of the many, many cafeterias I manage.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “But you still know your way around, yes? In case we need directions.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes, I know where *some* things are. But, as I said, I don’t live here. I just used to work here. And I’m not going to start working here again, if that’s what you think.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “That’s easy! See that door there?” He points to the west. “First you exit through that. Then to your right you should see a big hole in the fence—a really big one. You can get to the courtyard through there. No need for the keys. The hole is big enough for the Franconigerian cavalry to fit through.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh my god! What is your *obsession* with this Sylvie person? Get over it!”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Not so fast.” He points to you. “You owe me 130 réal.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] No one is saying the multi-patterned necktie you found tied to the ceiling fan can *talk*. No one. It must be merely *imagination*, but…

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Twenty-eight percent?! Better take your chances with whatever this réal thing is.

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh, excuse me. You owe me 130 *reál*.” He pronounces the “r” with a mock aristocratic accent.

Wait, is it “réal” or “reál”? This is getting confusing.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Wow, you’re a genius! Yes, that’s right—money. You owe this establishment 130 reál.” He points to the red ledger on the counter.

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KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant watches you fiddle with your horrific tie, sweat stains forming under your armpits. He puts his hand on your shoulder. “If you don’t have the money, it’s okay. None of us are in this for the wages.”

Kim’s all right.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Let’s see.” He dramatically turns a page in the ledger. Three nights at a tarif of 20 reál comes to 60 reál. Then there’s the window you *annihilated*--the hole in the window was the first thing I saw when I came to work, so don’t try to tell me you didn’t! That will be 40 reál in damages.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “It is.” He stands silently looking at the coppers on the counter.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “It does, doesn’t it.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He turns to the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, but he has to pay, I can’t let him stay here any longer if he doesn’t. If he doesn’t have the money by tonight, then...” He shrugs.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer…” A pattern of creases appears on his forehead. “You really need to take this up with your station, I have a shortwave radio in my car. Call them, ask for assistance. We have to get this investigation started now.”

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We gained a thought!

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Gaining our first thought lets us interact with the Thought Cabinet. Thoughts are things we can focus on internalizing, which confer a bonus during the thought process, as well as a different bonus once it is complete. It should be noted that either bonus can be positive or negative, and there’s no way to know what the final bonus will be other than looking it up on the internet.

Internalizing a thought takes time. It doesn’t spend time on its own, but as time progresses when you talk to people, your active thought will gain experience until it finishes. You can only have one thought progressing at once, and you can only progress it while awake. Once a thought is internalized, the only way to get rid of it is to spend a skill point. We can also spend skill points to unlock more thought slots beyond the starting three.

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Lonesome Long Way Home’s immediate benefit is +1 to Encyclopedia. We won’t internalize it just yet, though. I kind of want to save slots in the earlygame, but we’ll get a taste of thoughts in a short bit. It should also be pointed out that internalized thoughts can also affect dialogue options, which is neat.

Anyway, now that you’re in financial peril, you decide to talk to Kim.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Three days ago the RCM Emergencies Desk received a report about a security guard who was found hanged in Martinaise. An anonymous caller said there was a dead body behind the Whirling-In-Rags hostel-cafeteria. The cadaver had been there for four days—no one had come to investigate...”

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We completed a secret, unmarked task. Neat.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, it just so happens there’s a beautiful, blonde nineteen year old woman at the heart of this case. A rich one, in fact. Part of a murder-sex-cult.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Extremely.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] It can still be an otherworldly sex-mystery *in your head*. With a dark twist, even.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m afraid you and I are pawns in a…” He considers the phrasing. “A *pissing* competition.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Have you tried concentrating on something other than your personal affairs?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Not a fan. It’s just the nature of lieutenancy.”

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For the love of god, do NOT ask him where he’s “from”!

KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s correct.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Are they? They’re mostly just cumbersome.”

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oh god what are you doing

KIM KITSURAGI: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant’s Conceptualization skills must be rather *rudimentary*.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant is a police officer of the *old school*. His concerns are material and extrinsic.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “So, what? That makes *you* the *new school*? Gods spare us… For real detective work, nothing beats a good notebook by your side.” The lieutenant produces his small blue notebook and idly thumbs through a few pages.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] That’s where his conversations with himself take place.

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The check passes.

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INLAND EMPIRE: Yes, you killed him. And then, as part of the plan, you drowned out the memory…
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] Maybe this is why your chest feels so hollow—you did an awful thing, and you can’t even bring yourself to acknowledge it…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know. Containers… contain, I guess. I’m making assumptions. We should move on.”

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All right, enough chatting with Kim. Talk to the others and then move on from the Whirling-In-Rags.

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Try this one again now that you’ve made some progress in the area.

The check passes.

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: The worker stares at you, his eyes dry from sleep. A web of wrinkles covers his tanned forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, kind sir, but when I’m out, then I’m really *out*. No corpses. No mausoleums. Just *quality-time*.”

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “That’s the name of my employer. I work in logistics.”

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “How’s it going?” The dockworker lets out a big yawn, then stares at the cafeteria’s terrace doors. Some fingerprints glisten on the glass.

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “Good.” He doesn’t dwell on the particulars of your existence. “We’re in the middle of a strike down at the harbour. Trying to force some sense into the executive board of Wild Pines.”

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “You know, people die here every day. Someone’s found in a ditch, another one falls in a manhole, a third one gets eaten by stray dogs.” He respites.

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SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “You heard what I said. Draw your own conclusions. That’s all I know, and I prefer to keep it this way.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant gives you a little nod—then makes a note in his blue notebook.

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Finally, let’s talk to this nice lady.

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant nods politely.

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I see you are still grieving. Well, I won’t pry.” She smiles gently—paying no heed to the inexplicable winking. She slaps herself on the forehead. “You must forgive me! I’m getting so scatterbrained! I completely forgot to introduce myself. I’m Lena. My husband Morell and I are staying with our friend Gary just down the street, but I come here for tea when they’re away.” Her eyes glitter over the rims of her glasses as she looks up, smiling.

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Please don’t bring up this nice old lady’s wheelchair or ask her for money, you oaf.

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: Her grey eyes widen. “How would I even begin to tell you? Revachol is the most beautiful city in the world. We’re fortunate to be here, you and I. I haven’t seen very many other cities personally, but everyone says so. Revachol is a rare jewel. This city used to rule the world… Though it has seen better days.”

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COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] Her relief is palpable. She was getting pretty worried about you there, but now she relaxes her shoulders…

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh sweetie…” she smiles a sad smile. “It’s really not. There used to be people who thought that way—other people, who wanted those things—but… they all went extinct. Revachol is a Special Administrative Region, led by an alliance of foreign powers called the Coalition. We have almost no government of our own. And *certainly* no dictatorship of the proletariat.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh dear…” She shakes her head, suddenly very worried. “And you were doing so well. There aren’t any cops in Revachol, not in the traditional sense. The status of law enforcement has been a complicated matter since the Revolution… But we should stop for today, sweetie. You look like you need a break. Besides, I’m not the best person to explain the *big* things to anyone…”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “You were doing quite well up until the end there. It *does* look like you’re having trouble remembering things. History and places. Remembering *Reality*, in a word. It’s very odd…”
KIM KITSURAGI: A sigh. The lieutenant buries his nose in his notebook.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But—maybe a *fresh set of eyes* is what this world needs? And—while I’m no doctor—such bouts of amnesia are often temporary. So I wouldn’t worry *too* much.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It has something to do with everything. I really don’t know how to explain it better…”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Someone more educated in *sweeping* matters? Maybe you should ask...” She turns to the lieutenant.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” He looks away. “I’m not an encyclopedia. I won’t be a guide either. I’m a detective.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Of course, dear. Good luck with your case!” She gives you a small wave.

And so you just spent two hours scaring people by asking them about basic facets of reality. Good work, detective.

Maybe next time we’ll actually make it outside of the building and see the goddamn body.

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I mentioned when I started this that I wanted to show off some alternate possibilities for the path of this game. Well, we’re doing it. But not in any way that makes sense. It’s time for…

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Botchcop is a nightmare person. Botchcop is two hundred and forty-five pounds of gelatinous libertarian biomeat. Botchcop straight *sucks*, yo. This is going to be a trainwreck.

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Botchcop also picked Authority, because of course he did.

Addendum I: Botchcop Begins

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We’re just going to rush through some of these options to see the new content.

When we try to figure out the mystery of the broken window:

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When we try to grab the tie off the ceiling fan without turning it off first:

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CEILING FAN: This is not a *real* heart attack. This is a joke. It’s probably just your lungs or your oesophagus. The oesophagus does practically nothing.

When we turn on the lights:

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When we inspect the mirror:

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Even with 7 Electrochemistry, this check is near-impossible.

When we talk to Klaasje:

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Okay.” She breathes in the silvery smoke.

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Smooth, dipshit.

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KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “All right, then. Looks like I should go and prepare for what’s to come. And thank you, this has been delightful. I do hope it happens *sooner*. Otherwise...” She extinguishes her cigarette.

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This is information we wouldn’t have gotten until much later without having attempted and failed that check.

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ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Good. They’ll make you stronger and better. You’re too old to be cool now, but find cigarettes, smoke them—blam! Instantly a cool renegade man, a mystical red dragon with smoke rising from his nostrils!

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When we think about singing karaoke:

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We haven’t heard about Ostentatious Orchestrations yet, so this dialogue option is more vague.

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INLAND EMPIRE: No-no, don’t sing the happy song, it’s stupid. Sing the sad song, it’s profound.

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When inspecting the spilled booze next to the sleeping dockworker:

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ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You press your tongue against the counter. The stain is crusted at first, but after a couple of licks it starts to melt like a snowflake. If snowflakes were made of spiced black rum. Maybe it’s your imagination but there’s already some lemonade in it too. And some human hairs.

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When waking up the dockworker:

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We’re able to get him awake on the first try this time.

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When meeting Kim:

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Passing this check is actually really fascinating because it means that Raphäel Ambrosius Costeau never comes up. It’s a running joke for the entire game and passing this check means you just never see it.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay then.” He processes the information, then disregards it.

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KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you for a moment, in silence. “I can see you drank last night, and the night before. And that you are still drunk now. But I have seen officers go through much worse. Much worse. If you need something for your headache, there is a general store nearby. But, as I said, the dead body should be our number one concern.”
PAIN THRESHOLD: [Medium: Success] Yeah, a painkiller would be good about now. This thing is *pulsating* with discomfort.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Then you’re in luck, because we’re in the midst of a *major* strike by the Dockworkers’ Union. Maybe more than that. The Union clearly wants a *piece*, not just of the Industrial Harbour, but the Wild Pines corporation itself...”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Strike, coup, revolution, it’s brigandage however you parse it.”

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This game is so good.

KIM KITSURAGI: “When I said we have to navigate community matters, I did not mean we have any *say* in them. I meant we should be careful. If we are not… the *shit* will blow right in our faces.” He makes a quick gesture towards his visage—where the shit would blow
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Easy: Success] From an imaginary fan.

When talking to Lena:

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Sequence killers, oh my…” She sounds impressed. “But I think you already have a partner, sweetie.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Yes, and it seems to me that you’d do well to stick close to him. He has the look of an upstanding officer of the law, someone you can lean on—and sweetie, you *are* looking unsteady.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Thank you, but...” She looks out the window wistfully. “Martinaise isn’t the most wheelchair-accessible place, you see. I’d slow you down.”

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Lame! I’ve decided this game sucks, actually! (Lena was apparently originally meant to be a full party member early in development, but was cut for pretty much the exact reasons already stated)

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Now, now.” She tilts her head as she looks up at you with maternal solicitude. “We are alive—in a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags. And the Whirling itself is in the city of Revachol.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “There, there. The year is ‘51, and spring has only just started. I’m sure there are better days ahead.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant studies you, rubbing his chin.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] I’m beginning to suspect that you might indeed be completely adrift in this reality, thinks the lieutenant. How can it be *that* bad? Never mind—we’re in this now.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Outside, the melting snow seeps into the cracks in the walls and the cobblestone streets. All the way down into the sewers… Above ground, the first may bells blossom. You can feel it. A great cold. Then the shiver passes.

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh… no, nothing like that, dear. Revachol is a Special Administrative Region, led by an alliance of foreign powers called the Coalition. We have almost no government of our own—certainly no machines.”
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] I don’t know… still looks like there’s a lot of hustling going on. Maybe she’s wrong.

When talking to Garte:

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What is this, a joke to you? Is *this* what you get when you call the police now? *This* guy?” He turns to the lieutenant. “We’ve been waiting for a week here!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Sir, I understand your concern, but we’re here to do a job, and for us to do it, I need you to stay calm.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes, of course.” He takes a step back.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What are you—crazy? Of course I didn’t *kill* him.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Do I have to answer him?” He asks Kim. “Is this mandatory?”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He ignores you.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Fuck you, man.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He stares angrily at you. “That’s a real pity.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Does she? Maybe she does… maybe she *pertains* to the apocalypse.” He snorts. “Sylvie is not here because I asked for her number. The dead body out back didn’t help either, but it was mostly me. I hope you appreciate that…”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Good for you. Was there something else? I’d like to get back to what I was doing.”

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This looks like a job for Botchcop!

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oh no

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I hate you Botchcop

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ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You are *way* cool, cooler than the bottom of the sea. Too cool for this world.

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oh god i’msorryi’msorryi’msosorry

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s a joke, sweetie. I didn’t actually think you saw the Kind Green Ape of Tien-En in a hostel in Martinaise. That would be ridiculous. Are you okay?”

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We take one Health damage.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The chair took the brunt of it. Don’t worry.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Are you sure, ma’am?”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Yes, yes—check on him!”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Sir, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry, this has always been a cop-friendly place...” The man seems shaken by the incident. “The drinks are on the house, okay? There were *a lot* of drinks on the tab. I still have to charge you for three nights and the broken window, though—that’s 100 square.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Not *entirely* cool. You still owe me 100 reál. If you don’t have it by tonight, I can’t let you back up there…” He points upwards, toward your room.

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Nothing to say about any of this, Kim? All right.

When thinking about how we don’t know where we live:

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KIM KITSURAGI: “A saying. Up on Marvel Hill—a great, high place. One that is impossible to climb back to.”

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HOBOCOP

Talking to Lena after fucking crashing into her, you monster:

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Don’t beat yourself up over it too much, dear. People do strange things when the old fight-or-flight kicks in. I’m just glad you weren’t injured.”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: Her expression becomes very serious. “Oh sweetie, I heard your conversation with the manager about your… financial troubles. When do you get your next pay check?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “You must be joking.” He pauses, reflecting. “Although our pay does sometimes feel like a joke.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s not easy to assert your right to a decent living wage when you don’t have a strong union behind you…. Maybe you should talk to Evrart, the Union leader?”

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LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh, I’m sure you would make a wonderful *gigolo* dear—with those strong arms of yours. But welfare checks aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. My husband and I are barely scraping by.”

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Well, that was… a trip. What wacky hijinks will Botchcop find himself in next?

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Chapter 3: 10:18-11:40: Cuno Don’t Care

Content warning: (censored in-game) homophobic slurs and false sexual assault accusations

Before we start, some of you asked for the item descriptions because they’re funny. Well, I am a kind host, so I will oblige:

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I’m not sure I like the attachment we’re forming to this tie.

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With that out of the way, let’s head outside.

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THE GARDENER: “Oh that…” She points north. “That’s right there, in the yard.”

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THE GARDENER: “Yes, sir. District of Martinaise…” She looks around, thinking what else to say. “This intersection is called Roundabout North.”

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THE GARDENER: “Excuse me?” She doesn’t understand.

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THE GARDENER: “I have a greenhouse in the yard there.” She gestures over her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to get some work done…”

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THE GARDENER: “As you already know, there’s a corpse there. Hanging from a tree. It smells pretty bad, so I have to take breaks.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Don’t worry, Miss. We’re here to clean it up—you can get to work soon.”

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THE GARDENER: “Of course, I won’t hold you back.” She wipes her brow with the canary yellow glove.

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Ooh, bottles!

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A girl stands outside, shivering in the cold. This building sits next to the Whirling-in-Rags. You should talk to her. She might know something.

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ANNETTE: “It’s a book store, sir! We sell books, postcards, and some board games.” She points at the window. “It’s called *Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People*.”

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ANNETTE: “A postcard,” she observes you for a moment, “is a small cardboard picture. You can write a few words on the other side and send it to your friend or your *beloved*.”

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ANNETTE: “My name is Annette, sir. My mom, her name is Plaisance, she owns the store. She’s inside, minding the register… or organizing the stock.”

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ANNETTE: “I’m signaling that the store is open.” She nods eagerly. “Otherwise people might not know… they’d miss out on the *Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People*.”

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ANNETTE: “Kind of you to offer, sir…” She doesn’t know what else to say.

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ANNETTE: “Mom says it’s necessary to do both, because it builds character. Mom says a proper worker is dutiful—that’s how you get ahead in life, you succeed.”

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ANNETTE: “Mom says it’s peachy. She was a little afraid at first, there’s talk about this house being…” She looks over her shoulder. “Cursed.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “We can go into the bookstore and ask about the case, but I don’t see much more to look *into* here.” The lieutenant makes a note in his notebook.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “No such thing.” The lieutenant stands at your side, stern and serious.

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ANNETTE: “Head. Yes!”

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ANNETTE: “If you say so, sir.” She smiles mischievously. “He’s just a fictional character, he’s no match for your… *soul*.”

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ANNETTE: “It’s the type of book where there’s a rich lady and she has to choose between the good man and the bad man.” She smiles at the thought, perhaps imagining herself in that situation.

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ANNETTE: “Yes!” She nods, relieved. “She knows books, definitely.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] What *was* that? An idea for an unfinished novel stuck somewhere in your fore-brain?

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ANNETTE: “Oh, kings and queens and generals of old, or artists and writers, or musicians, those kinds of people. There’s usually something extraordinary about them.” She scratches her cold-reddened cheek, then continues: “I think that’s why people read them. To find the secrets of their fame.”

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ANNETTE: “What do you mean, sir?” She knows where this is going.

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ANNETTE: She looks around anxiously. Her hands remain folded in front of her. She doesn’t want to show them.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant stands by—looking at the two of you with little interest.

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ANNETTE: “It was okay, sir.” She’s still got a rebellious streak.

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ANNETTE: “You’re quite sober.” She snaps back quickly.

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Somehow this feels worse than if he had just broken out in laughter.

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That wasn’t very productive. You’ve wasted enough time. Head for the crime scene already.

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Well, after you examine this broken fence, anyway.

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PERCEPTION (SIGHT): Cop habit. You look at everything.

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AUTHORITY: He was exaggerating. People blame *cops* for everything that goes wrong in the world. This has nothing to do with you.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “You are correct. This is a rather motor carriage-friendly city.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m not sure… there are plenty of traffic accidents waiting to happen in Martinaise. With the jam right here on the roundabout. I would keep them separate.”

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You see a buzzer for the building in front of you, with several different businesses available to contact. You put them out of your mind and decide to inspect the crime scene for now.

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A small, grotesque child throws rocks at the corpse. Out of the corner of your eye, you see another child egg them on from behind a fence.

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You feel an urge to ask the children if they know anything, despite the simultaneous feeling in your gut that it’s a mistake…

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Outta the way, Kim. Geez.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] If there ever was such a thing as an ugly kid, then this is it. He’s almost exquisite in his ugliness. Like a gremlin.

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CUNOESSE: “Right in the dick, Cuno! Get him right in the dick!” The children ignore you.
CUNO: “F****ts love it in the dick.”

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CUNO: “Can’t talk, pig. Shit’s coming up strong. Throwing rocks.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: [Easy: Success] Shit coming up strong… that sounds good. Joyous. You should hang out with this kid and see what that juicy *shit* is all about.
CUNOESSE: “Yeah, Cuno! Ride the lightning, Cuno!”
CUNO: “Cuno’s riding it, C.” He wipes sweat from his brow and sends another rock flying.
CUNOESSE: “The rake, Cuno! You should throw the rake at him, Cuno.”

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CUNO: “The fuck are you talking about?” He throws another rock.

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CUNO: “Shitload, pig, what’s your question?”

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CUNO: “I don’t know, some fucking…” He looks around, trying to come up with something.

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Sounds real. Demand more information about this cool-sounding city.

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CUNO: “Just a couple of pigs sniffing around in the dirt. That seems pretty fucking suspicious to Cuno.”

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CUNO: “You’re testing Cuno’s patience here.”

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CUNO: “The fuck are you calling a *third person*?! Cuno’s the fucking FIRST person.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He looks slightly confused but proud he came up with that retort—but right as he’s getting distracted, you hear a malevolent hiss from behind the fence…
CUNOESSE: “Watch out, Cuno, he’s trying to fiddle you. He’s gonna put his HANDS on you!” The *thing* behind the fence starts squealing, shrill and violent like a fire alarm. The sound gets louder as the child shouts at the windows overlooking the yard. “Help! Pigs got Cuno! Help! RAPE!”

Kill all children, I always say. Annette can live.

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CUNO: “No one,” he whispers suddenly. “Cuno’s doing this because he *likes* it, pig.”
AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] This is where Cuno establishes dominance. Over you.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “You put him up to this yourself—when you decided to talk to him in the first place.”

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CUNO: “Help, misters! HELP!” He prances around, eyes bulging out of their sockets, rolling hard, yelling at the windows…
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He’s having the time of his life. Total ecstasy. Fuck the pig.

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Don’t punch the child, no matter how much he seems to deserve it.

CUNO: “Look, f*g…” Cuno whispers, even softer than before, vanishingly silent…

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CUNO: “I can.” His voice is so silent, it seems the words are echoin in your head, not coming from his lips. “Cuno can smell that violence shit. I know what you were thinking… ‘I’m gonna fuck that Cuno up. I’m gonna shut his shit down…’ You know what? You should have hit the Cuno, because NOW…” He raises his voice again. “You’re NOTHING! You’re a joke to Cuno. Cuno LAUGHS at you!” He spreads his arms, taking dominion over the yard. “KING CUNO!”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] Backing up was a bad idea, now he thinks he’s establishes dominance over you.
CUNOESSE: “Cuno turned you into his prison bitch! You’re gonna be *in* this shit with Cuno…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” The lieutenant almost rolls his eyes. “You’re not. We can just leave…”

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CUNO: “Okay, Cuno is kind to his bitch. Ask your questions, but remember.” He taps at his temporal lobe. “This *changes* shit.”

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CUNO: “Get your snout out of Cuno’s ass!” He waves you off. “Cuno knows how hard Cuno pushes it. Cuno pushes it hard-level… You should give up, poppo. Or the Cunn will keep fucking it out of you.”
CUNOESSE: “Are you okay, Cuno?” She looks worried. The *Cunn* has her confused.

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Well, that was a delirious waste of everyone’s time. Just inspect the body and forget that happened.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Active decay,” The lieutenant raises a white piece of linen to his nose. “It’s okay to throw up, officer. No one is judging.”

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Don’t throw up in front of the children! They’ll pounce if they sense weakness!

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I can’t handle the headache.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “That young woman, the gardener, mentioned she used salts for the smell.” He nods toward the plaza. If she doesn’t have any, there might be some in the Frittte store nearby.”

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So, we’ve got a few more things to do at the moment. Go to Kim’s car and retrieve the prybar (and call the precinct while we’re at it) or simply get the keys from Garte, as well as get the ammonia from the gardener. We’ll take care of some of that next time.

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Chapter 4: 11:40-13:38: Radio Chatter

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Thanks, Kim. I promise not to pawn it to pay for my room tonight.

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The call box seems so tantalizing… you cannot fight the urge to play with it any longer.

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ELECTRONIC DOORBELL: This button looks new, but someone has removed the name card. Nothing happens when you try to ring it.

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ELECTRONIC DOORBELL: An off-key melody starts playing after you ring the doorbell… Then a woman picks up the receiver…

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PLAISANCE: “Please don’t do that! Doorbells are not toys, and this one isn’t even working properly. Please don’t call us again, thank you.”

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ELECTRONIC DOORBELL: You ring the doorbell, but no one answers.

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “Yes, hello, this is Tricentennial Electrics.” This is a woman’s voice, crackling and fragile through the static. “Have you come to place an order?”

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “My god…”

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “It’s you. My god, I didn’t think I would hear your voice again…”

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “Michel, just please…” She stops and you can hear her breathe heavily, her breath distorted by ancient static.

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “Ever since I came to work here it’s been different… as if my mind’s been wiped clean…” A spot of static overrides her words; when she speaks again it sounds like she’s submerged: “…It’s so nice.”

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TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: Another seagull passes by… It’s getting cold standing here, staring at the silent call box.

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Let’s just go back to playing with the call box for now.

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Ice Town Costs Ice Clown His Town Crown

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MAIL COLLECTION BOX: The box seems happy.

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All right, that’s the ammonia down. Let’s take care of what we can with Kim’s motor carriage at the moment.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: Vapour emanates from the large engine on the back of the vehicle. It hasn’t had time to cool off yet.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “This is the Coupris Kineema, my motor carriage. You can use the toolbox and the radio if you’d like.” He nods at the cabin.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “The Coupris Motorcorps does provide most of our patrol vehicles, yes.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, sorry about that… the Coupris Kineema does have a rather… distinctive engine sound.”

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: The frequency tableau lights up and a green button labeled PRIMELINE glows like a feline eye… and then you hear something. The soft purr of electrical kittens—radio waves cast far and wide over the metropolis. A woman’s voice greets you through the static:

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ALICE: “This is officer Alice DeMettrie, Precinct 57. How may I assist you?” a voice replies in the radio.

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ALICE: “Just a second, officer…” She puts you on hold, the static crackling softly like a bonfire. After a while you hear an old man greet you from the radio. His rattly voice is oddly familiar:

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KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant’s eyes go wide. “But you said…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-4, message received. This is a *very* serious situation. I need to 10-22 the captain. Over.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Is it *him*?” a dry voice asks in the background. “What does he want?”
JULES PIDIEU: “Says he lost his badge and needs to report it.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “You mean your partner? Over.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What is he saying?”
JULES PIDIEU: “He’s asking who you are.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “I’m his *goddamn* partner!”
JULES PIDIEU: “It’s your partner, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare, sir. Over.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Did he lose his memory along with his fucking badge?” The man in the background sounds like he’s losing his patience.

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JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Dick fucking Mullen, who do you think?”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “It’s officer Dick…” he tries to speak through laughter, “...Mullen from the bestseller ‘Dick Mullen and the Lost Identity.’”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He says this has probably happened to other policemen before him and laughs sarcastically.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Oh goddammit, is he fucking kidding? The whole Station’s gonna be *dicked* for this.”
JULES PIDIEU: “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare is wondering if you might be joking and adds that this tarnishes the reputation of the entire station. Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He wants to know who you are.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “I’m the goddamned Hjemdallermann! Yeah, tell him I hail from the north!” His laughter is high-pitched and joyous, almost childlike.
JULES PIDIEU: “This is Satellite-Officer McLaine, sir. Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He’s asking you to stop. Says this is serious.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Of course it’s serious. He lost his fucking badge!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-4, I hear you officer. I’m just going to make a note here that you are in pursuit of your *misplaced* badge. Over.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Fuck me! Mack, come here, you’ve got to hear this! Dick Mullen lost his badge!”

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CHESTER MCLAINE: “Supercop here lost his badge!”
MACK TORSON: “He lost his *what* now?!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He asks you to please stop saying he lost his badge.”
MACK TORSON: “Why, did he find it?” The room at the other end of the line erupts in volcanic laughter.
JULES PIDIEU: “Sergeant Torson was wondering if you found your badge yet? Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-9, come again, I didn’t get that. Over.” The animated conversation in the back is making it difficult for him to hear you.
CHESTER MCLAINE: “...new heights even for Captain Sober!”
MACK TORSON: “Ask him...” The speaker gasps for air. “Ask him if he still has his *gun* too! The room roars with laughter.
JULES PIDIEU: “Sergeant Torson wants to know if you lost your gun too. Over.”

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HALF LIGHT: Okay, it’s gone. Your gun is most definitely gone.
HORRIFIC NECKTIE: Don’t sweat it, *bratan*. You don’t need a gun to have fun… we can still have fun. It’s not all over.

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Uh-oh.

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JULES PIDIEU: “He says he didn’t lose his gun—*or* his fun, whatever that means.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Ask him to describe it! His gun! Not his *fun*, just the gun will do…” He laughs.
JULES PIDIEU: “Satellite-Officer McLaine requests a description of your weapon. Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “Says it’s a Kiejl 9mm… Armistice.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Armistice? What, is he a fucking…?” Clearly he doesn’t have his Villiers any more.”
MACK TORSON: “Dear god, he lost his gun!!! Oh my… I can’t… He…” The man succumbs to laughter again.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “This isn’t really a laughing matter…”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Mack can face the Giant of Koko Nur by himself, but Disco here made him piss his pants!”
MACK TORSON: “Oh I… I can’t… Fuuuuuck, he lost his… Ask him if he still has his wiener!”
JULES PIDIEU: “I’m not going to…”
MACK TORSON: “Ask him!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He acknowledges your joke and asks you to lay off.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Lay off? Lay off?! Tell him we’ll lay off when he retrieves the goddamn police property that he has been entrusted with.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-4, affirmative. Officer is in pursuit of his firearm.” There’s static.
MACK TORSON: “Oh god, I...” The man is fighting back tears.
JULES PIDIEU: “Officer, do you need further assistance? Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-4, I hear you. I don’t heave the authority to grant your request, but…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What does he want now?”
JULES PIDIEU: “He is asking for money.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Is he fucking kidding?!”
JULES PIDIEU: “I don’t think he is.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Don’t give that asshole anything, he’s just gonna drink it all!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “He says he’s in trouble, doesn’t have a place to sleep.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Well, I guess he’d better crack the case before sundown then!”
JULES PIDIEU: “Vicquemare said…”

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JULES PIDIEU: “Uh… okay, 10-4, sir—I hear you, relay your question. Over.”

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RHETORIC: You’re going to be looking at a straitjacket if you tell everyone you lost your memory. Be smart about this! Ask if he’s there alone.

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JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What? What is it?! He’s still on the line?!”
JULES PIDIEU: “He wants to verify the information on his badge.”
MACK TORSON: “But of course, it says Dick Mullen—High General of the Revacholian Cavalry Force.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Tell him to stop wasting time!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “Uh…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What? What is it? What can he possibly still want from us?!”
JULES PIDIEU: “He seems intoxicated and keeps asking me to call him by his name.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Mullen’s drunk and emotionally aggressive. That’s new.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-… uh… excuse me, sir? Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “10-4, well that’s a…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Does he actually want anything or is he hell-bent on disrupting our work?!”
JULES PIDIEU: “He asked if he ever told me about his days before joining the RCM.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “For god’s sake, cut this shit out! Tell him to stop wasting time and be a goddamn policeman for a change!”

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JULES PIDIEU: “Roger that. 10-10. Over and out.” The static ends with a loud click, then everything is silent in the cabin.

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ESPRIT DE CORPS: The small room is filled with cigarette smoke abuzz with laughter, when officer Judith Minot enters. Her left arm is in bandages and hair trimmed short.

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JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What happened is my partner made contact—it’s not good. He’s lost his badge *and* his sidearm. He seemed confused, delirious even…” He stops to think.
MACK TORSON: Mack ‘The Torso’ Torson is finger-fucking his fist, laughing hoarsely and apparently telling some dirty story to his partner, Chester McLaine, near the entrance. “Suddenly he interjects: “Yeah, Mullen was fucked alright. Sounded fucking drunk to me.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: The tall ginger on his right still has tears of laughter in his eyes. “Yeah, Mack’s right, this was some gnarly shit there. I mean, before he started begging for money—it was…”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare bites down on his knuckles. “Enough!” he shouts across the room. The commotion dies down. All eyes turn to him. “None of this is funny! It’s fucking sad, that’s what it is. He’s a cop. He’s one of us, goddamn this…”
JUDITH MINOT: Minot looks down at her neatly polished black shoes. There is a quiet firmness to her voice, when she speaks: “We must help him.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He’s a lost man!”
JUDITH MINOT: “I just know we can’t give up on him when he’s at his weakest. He wouldn’t…” The crowd in the room has started fidgeting uncomfortably. Someone’s trying to slip out unnoticed.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Mack, man the door,” he gestures Torson to block the doorway, then turns to Minot. “You know what he told me? ‘I don’t want to get better—I want to get worse.’ Those were his words.” He sighs heavily and turns to address the room… “This shit does *not* leave this room! Not a word of this to the captain or anyone else. We’ll give him a couple of days to pull his shit together!”
JULES PIDIEU: Oldboy lights another cigarette and says: “I guess I can hold off the report for a few days.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Good,” Vicquemare turns to the others, “Okay everybody, nothing but a prank call here. We all got our laughs, now get back to work!”

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So, yeah. That’s Esprit de Corps. It gives you a psychic link to other cops. It’s amazing.

COUPRIS KINEEMA: A metallic drawer slides out from under the seat and clicks into place. The tools inside are neatly organized.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Take what you need, officer. It’s going to be a long case. I’m not *protective* of my tools. Like some men are…”

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: The prybar feels nice and cold in your hand. Heavier than you’d think.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: The handles are long and sleek. *Snap-snap* go the cutters in your hand.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: It’s robust, weatherproof, and well made. Police issue—blue.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: As you tap the gauge, the indicator pin jerks as if startled. It’s in the large orange sector, indicating the engine is warm. Next to the gauge is a red switch labeled HEAT.
KIM KITSURAGI: “There’s no use pressing the HEAT button,” he says and jingles his keys. “It won’t start without the ignition key.”
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] Translation: We’re not going anywhere right now.

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ALICE: “It will take just a moment, officer…” Her voice fades out into the familiar radio static. “… …”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “Even better! Anything else? I wouldn’t worry about that. Officers your age have coronary trouble all the time. Also—death is a natural part of life.”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “With all the damage you’ve been dealing yourself with drugs and alcohol, I’m not surprised.”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “What else? I’m not a *brain* doctor. Look on the bright side—you’ve got a whole new life now. Use it wisely.”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “Do that. I need to go. Some idiot has glued his eyelids shut with Cyanoacrylate. It *looks* like Mack Torson, but it’s hard to say because his eyes are swollen...”

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Mack’s having a hell of a day.

NIX GOTTLIEB: “Mhphm.” The phone clicks. Suddenly you hear the already familiar voice…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, hold on…” the lieutenant takes a look at his notes. “Her number is 005 1944 298.”
ALICE: “Received. Hold on, officer. … …”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Give it a minute, she might be busy at the moment… takes a bit to get to the phone.”
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] Just wait. Relax.
ALICE: “… … …”

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SYLVIE: “Oh, right…” She recognizes your voice almost immediately. “Hello, officer, what can I do for you?”

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SYLVIE: “You know whom.”

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SYLVIE: “You know…” she seems to be looking for words. “What the Union says, goes. People listen to them and they take care of their own, which is, like, everyone here.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Legally, no. In reality, yes.” He looks around. Martinaise is *de facto* policed by the Dockworkers’ Union.”

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SYLVIE: “I… I didn’t want to get in trouble with the others…”
AUTHORITY: Push her *further*. Show her the error of her ways.

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SYLVIE: “No, sorry… I don’t.” She clears her throat. Not a lot of people have phones around here. Copper thieves take the wires… People don’t have the money to have the cables put in again. They use the Union’s phone or the one on the coast.”

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You see no reason not to ask her where your badge and gun are.

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SYLVIE: “Oh… no, I haven’t, sorry.”

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COMPOSURE: He’s in plainclothes. Voluntarily. It’s different from not knowing where your uniform is.

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SYLVIE: “Yes, obviously. You were the worst client I’ve ever seen. And I have seen *so many* assholes in this place…”

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SYLVIE: “Well… You were worse than all of them. Honestly, you were getting borderline aggressive.”

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SYLVIE: “Then there was your room. Your *project*, an experiment to see how bad it can get in there. I tried to send the cleaner, but you wouldn’t let me. Threatened to ‘make me understand’. I had no idea what you meant—and I *don’t* want to know.”

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SYLVIE: “And *then* I had to deal with your toilet. The one you clogged with *police documents*, causing water damage downstairs in the kitchen.”

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SYLVIE: “I… dammit, I don’t remember what I did to your damn papers! I don’t remember every little thing I do.” Resentment gives way to concern in her voice. “Especially when there’s a hurricane loose. It’s *your* fault for losing them-- not mine.”

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SYLVIE: “The stuffed bird. The great skua. You threw it against the wall, while screaming ‘fuck that bird’ and laughing like a maniac.”

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SYLVIE: “Yes. That’s the one you liked to sing along to the *most*. The later it got the more *that one* came on.”

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SYLVIE: You hear a sigh of relief on the other end of the radio. Wordless, the call breaks. Then the already familiar voice:

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: “…AS ALWAYS IT’S DJ MESH AND FLACIO AND YOU’RE LISTENING TO S-S-S-SSS-SSSPEE-EED FREAKS FM, BRINGING YOU THE HOTTEST, THE NASTIEST, THE MOST VULGAR…”
KIM KITSURAGI: Right away the lieutenant reaches into the cabin and turns off the radio. He’s not looking at you as he says: “Someone must have been messing with the radio, or maybe it picked up a random frequency… You wanted the primeline, right?”

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ALICE: “57th over and out.” Her voice disappears into void.

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We now have our tools, opening up a world of possibilities. Sort of.

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Also, we got a skill point a while back for getting 100 experience points, so we’re going to spend it on Endurance to give ourselves a nice boost in maximum Health. Maybe we won’t die immediately now that we have 3 instead of 2.

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Chapter 5: 13:38-15:18: Cop Discovers One Weird Trick To Recover From A Hangover In Just Thirty Minutes

Content warning: this update contains more homophobic slurs from the horrible gremlin children.

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We can check on our available White Checks at any time in the journal. Now that we have the ammonia, we can try to approach the Hanged Man again.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Nor does the wind right now…” you feel the lieutenant pat on your back, rhythmically.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] The weight is re-assuring. Like a crenel on solid fortification. Pat pat pat…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ve seen *captains* puke their guts out. It never gets easier, you never get used to the smell. Every Monday is cadaver day—throw up, investigate, throw up, initial autopsy, throw up, bag it...” He pats on your back again.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I think I’ve lost my sense of smell.” There’s a pause.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “No. This is a two-man assignment, because it needs two officers to complete. I need your help.” He withdraws his hand and looks you in the eye:

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Volumetric Shit Compressor offers no research bonus and only takes 30 minutes. Let’s pop that bad boy in our skull.

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Now we can collect tare! What the hell is tare? (It’s empty bottles we can turn in for recycling money)

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Not much. I don’t have a *fresh perspective* on it. Shall we go?”

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Collecting bottles so we don’t die of exposure tonight, doot doot dooooooo~

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Hey, the kitchen is open. It is paramount to the investigation that you check it out.

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GORĄCY KUBEK: As you step in, he nods towards the table and says something in a completely foreign language. The only words you can make out are “goracy” and “kubek”.

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GORĄCY KUBEK: It’s almost like music, especially with the sounds of assorted dishes boiling and simmering on the stove.

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All right, you had better talk to Garte and get those keys.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Mine? No, it belongs to the Whirling-In-Rags.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you for clearing that up. Why do you keep the container locked?
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Why? To keep the hobos and drunks out, that’s why. And the neighbors too. They put their trash there and they don’t pay for the garbage company.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I thought as much—and are you the only party with access to the trash container?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Well, yes, us and the garbage disposal company.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “*Callous*? What are you, Kras Mazov? Almost all establishments in Revachol keep their trash locked. The Whirling-In-Rags is not special in that regard.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What for, Mazov? Are you planning to nationalize my trash container?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It concerns the case.” The lieutenant’s voice is harsh and sudden. “Please cooperate.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He takes the keys from under the counter and hands them to you: “Just bring them back once you’re done, please.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes—not the whole damn Union, thank god. Just the nastiest and *loudest* faction.” He tosses his head in disdain. “They come here in the evenings. Dumb, unruly types. Think they’re Big Shit. But they’re good customers—they place big orders, and always pay *on time*.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What?”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Absolutely out of the question.”
VOLITION: You wait and see, cafeteria manager!

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Back outside, you run into two old men playing some form of ball game.

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GASTON MARTIN: “I’ll be with you in a moment, officer. Let me just finish my sandwich.” He nods to his partner. “Talk to angry old René first.”

All righty then.

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GASTON MARTIN: “René, you’re a man with a fork in a world of soup. Please… let’s just try to enjoy the game, alright?” This one’s still chewing on his sandwich.
RENÉ ARNOUX: “I’m trying to, but you keep breaking my concentration. You’re old, I can see that. We’re both old. Now stop grabbing your ass like it’s a girl.”

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Hmmmmmmmm, no. Let’s not.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “See? Your munching and complaining have ruined my concentration.” The man throws a metal ball toward a smaller, wooden ball in the sand, missing it by a metre.
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] Could the objective of the game be to throw the metal ball so it lands by the wooden ball?
GASTON MARTIN: “Ah, *mon dieu*! The pain in my back is unbearable. I can’t even say if it’s in my back or hip any more. Feels like it’s in *both*!” He tries to measure the throw.
RENÉ ARNOUX: “I hope you pass out from it, you goddamn jellyfish. Men like you are the reason this nation is sinking.” Standing tall and proud he looks at his partner with disgust.

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Fine, just stop yelling at me!

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As you wind up, you trip, releasing the ball.

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GASTON MARTIN: “What are you talking about? You just executed a pretty much perfect pétanque throw!” His tone is full of admiration.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Probably because those rooster pants are squeezing you senseless. What ever happened to practical? Durable? Revachol-made?” He shakes his head. “Now what can I do for you?”
COMPOSURE: Look who’s talking—that cockatoo uniform must give him a real advantage. When fighting in *the circus*.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “If I knew, I would not be *afraid* to tell you. I simply don’t. I am an old man, not a coward. The daily business of the riff-raff no longer concerns me.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Sadly no. It was the foreigners who brought them to their knees. We fought valiantly—too valiantly. So valiantly, we got licked,” he adds, squeezing a *boule* in his fist.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Yes,” he nods, inspecting you with some disdain. “The military-coordinated amphibious landing to take back Revachol.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “This here is blood ground, where Coalition boots first made landfall and cleaned those rabid dogs out. Most likely.” he says, looking down at the soil, “we’re playing pétanque on their mangled corpses.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Damn right, son. They laid out the fire of hell on this city before they stormed it. And it worked, too.” There is a strange gleam in his eyes.

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Sweet, your shit is ready and compressed.

GASTON MARTIN: “Well, it’s your own damn fault,” the jolly man marks. “You, we, the Coalition, Revachol—whoever you wanna blame—never finished the job. Officially the Party never surrendered. Of course they still hold influence.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “You don’t even *begin* to truly understand the players on the table, let alone the specific circumstances surrounding the…” He stops mid-sentence and turns to you. “What do you think?”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Preposterous! Surely you don’t mean it.” He frowns. “I’m just sorry it had to be them. After eight years of fighting those commie hyenas, boiling cats for food and drinking my piss in the mountains… I *would* have preferred if the right honourable kind Guillaume returned to Revachol or even if that damn clown, Frissel, had risen from the grave and led us. Sadly that was not the case.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This *Royal* failure weighs heavily on him.
RENÉ ARNOUX:”Instead, all that is just, holy and beautiful in the world was wiped away and now it’s neon signs with toothpaste ads everywhere. Foreign influence peddling garbage and stupid music on the radio.” He sighs.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Damn Frissel—he was the king we couldn’t protect. The carabineers failed him… and the crown.” The old veteran falls silent and massages his chest. “He died in the hands of the *hoi polloi* in a very public execution.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “The Suzerain is the King. Has everyone forgotten already?” He the slowly nods and says to himself: “They’ve forgotten already.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: He catches your glance and nods. “This is the uniform of the Royal Carabineers in service of Frissel the First, Guillaume *Le Lion* and the valiant king Filippe the Fifth before him.”
GASTON MARTIN: “Don’t you mean Frissel the Fun?”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “*You* do not speak his name, craven! Although he was a clown…” he adds. He turns back to you. “But he was *our* clown. Ours to ridicule—and to mourn.”

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Oh.

RHETORIC: Yes! Abject failure. Total, irreversible defeat on all fronts! Absolutely vanquished, beaten, curb-stomped and pissed on—until *you* came along! *You* will reverse the fortune of the workers of the world. You alone, against every living thing, against every human alive: eight hundred trillion reál in the hands of an *impossibly* well organized ruling class; towering city blocks of bank-men who have the ears of prime ministers; million-headed armies of nations and the love of your own mother! You—against the atom, the charm and the spin. Where the whole world failed—matter failed to bend to human will; human will failed to get out of bed and tie its laces—you alone, single-handedly, will rebuild the dreams of the working class. You are The Last Communist.

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I’m gonna be the bestest communist! :buddy:

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Now we can head back to the corpse and hopefully pass that White Check.

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Unfortunately, I don’t think we’re actually going to internalize Mazovian Socio-Economics, because I know what it does from my first run and I don’t think the thought itself is great. We’re still gonna do tons of communism, though.

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We’re not going to equip this one just yet either, but maybe later.

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Back over by the hanged man, we finally decide to investigate these footprints.

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PERCEPTION (SIGHT): Heavy worker’s boots with reinforced toes and hobnails. All over the yard.

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We lose 1 Morale for failing that check. Whatever, back to the corpse.

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THE HANGED MAN: The material appears to be ceramic. Its clean white stands in stark contrast to the decaying flesh above the knee. The man wore thick polymer socks, probably for padding. A fine array of interlocking plates covers them.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Delicate and fragile, they feel alien to the world around you. Out of place somehow.

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KIM KITSURAGI: He nods: “Piece by piece. He’s been out here for seven days—it would be odd if they didn’t.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It is. It’s expensive.” The lieutenant draws a line in the condensation on the ceramic—with his index finger.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Just something I scraped together from my station. An area report on Martinaise. I’m sure you did the same…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s anything but. This material is a kinetic re-distributor. It spreads energy horizontally, from plate to plate. Dissipating it entirely.” He points to the boots. “See?”
THE HANGED MAN: Faint, organic lines cover the plates where they separate into smaller ones. These plates then divide into smaller plates, until there are hundreds of them altogether…

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CONCEPTUALIZATION: The smooth glossy surface fractures into ever more intricate interconnections, peaking on the right sabaton, where you notice…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Industrial strength. The kind used for tying cargo to lorries.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m still approaching this as a lynching, yes. Motivated by the ongoing strike.” He politely raises an eyebrow: “You?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not merely polyester—it’s steel reinforced.” He rises to inspect the noose. “See these lines? This is where the wires run. I see rabbets for more than twenty strands.”

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THE HANGED MAN: An intricate web of blue lines stretches across the torso. From the right shoulder to the solar plexus, each time they intersect a small white star is formed in their crossing. Hundreds of fading asterisks riddle his skin, their concentration is highest around his heart.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “A map of the stars?” He turns around to breathe before inspecting it closer. “I do see some similarity to astronomical charts, Great Century messinian maybe… but this seems more particular. Customized somehow.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “So am I.” A sudden ringing fills the air as the lieutenant pulls down the zipper of his orange jacket.

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CUNOESSE: “Shit, Cuno! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “An instant colour camera.” He produces two metal-capped ampoules and clicks them into place on the side of the apparatus. A thin slot shines there…

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Don’t tell Cuno that, he’s just gonna fuck it up on purpose!

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes…” He slides the camera closed and tucks it away on his belt. “It is pretty *cool*, isn’t it?”

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THE HANGED MAN: His eyes are milky white and blind to the world, protruding comically from their sockets. There is no one home, just sub-aquatic terrors there.

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THE HANGED MAN: It’s the power of your… (Black, frothy liquid starts bubbling on his lips…)
HORRIFIC NECKTIE: Yeah, man, don’t be *crazy.* Inanimate objects and dead people can’t really talk to you, your *wild imagination* is doing this—ask some more of those questions you love so much!

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THE HANGED MAN: The monster comes back into focus: an explosion of colour, coursing with dark marbled veins. His stomach appears pregnant with something—black liquid streams down his thigh and onto his boot.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I do. Most of them are post mortem. Maybe even all of them. The delinquents have made our jobs harder with their little sport.”
CUNO: “Stop talking in riddles, coin slot.”

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THE HANGED MAN: A pool of blood and feces has eaten into the frozen mud below the man’s feet. Purge liquid is dripping into it, drop by drop.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The victim appears to have contained no more than half a kilogram of digestion at the time of death.”
CUNO: “The fuck he sayin?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I think he was upright immediately after death. Blood has gathered in his hands and feet. And his neck.” He points to his fattened chin.

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CUNOESSE: “Yeah!” The enthusiasm is unrestrained. “Bang bang time, pigs! Shoot his head off!”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes…” He corrects his glasses. “The buckle—where it ties the cargo belt to the tree. If the shot hits that then there might be a small chance to release the belt…”
CUNO: “Yeah, now we’re talkin’. Entertain the Cuno with some shit.”

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Seems like you’re out of options. The harbour it is.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “To ask the *suspects* for help with the victim’s body? To be indebted to Evrart Claire? Very much, yes—which is why I would have preferred us to handle this ourselves. Clearly we can’t.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “The leader of the Union. A dangerous and corrupt man, from what I hear—you don’t want to owe him much.”

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And so, we have resolved to get the body down by asking Evrart Claire for help.

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Chapter 6: 15:18-16:48: Copologies For My Misconduct

Content warning: This update contains depictions of racism, homophobic slurs, and mentions of suicide.

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Let’s put a point into Visual Calculus so we can retry the footprints White Check.

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VISUAL CALCULUS: 1) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 46. 2) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44. 3) Hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 43.

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VISUAL CALCULUS: 5) Another standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44.

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VISUAL CALCULUS: 7) The glowing outline of a standard work boot, no 46. But the imprints are *twice* as deep as the others—the weight exceeds 200 kilograms. 8) And yet another standard work boot, no 44. There’s an aberration in the pattern of the sole, however. The right sole is smoother, more worn.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “200?” He thinks for a moment. “Could it be the combined weight of two people, one carrying the other who’s tied up? Let’s say, a heavily built worker carrying a similarly built, soon-to-be-dead man?”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Someone operating a work bench—with a pedal. Like a joiner at the harbour?” He thinks for a second. “Or maybe a drummer…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know why I said that. We’re not looking for a drummer, we’re looking for a group of dockworkers.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t seem to hear you, looking South toward the traffic jam instead. The machines are silent, the engines are all turned off…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “A week maybe? Seven days would fit the time frame provided to us by the caller, who reported the hanging.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I pulled last week’s forecast for coastal Revachol. Seven days below freezing. The day before—the day of his hanging—was the last warm day.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “What do I think? A mob of people brought something heavy to the tree. One of them was carrying the victim. They shuffled around, especially under the tree. Then after hoisting him up, they stood in a semicircle facing his direction. At first glance, this appears to be a lynching.”

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With the footprints checked out, you decide to finally open the trash container.

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If we were to try to open the container, we would suffer a penalty of minus 10 because we don’t have the prybar equipped. Let’s just use the key.

TRASH CONTAINER: With a well-oiled crack the lock pops open. It should now be possible to simply raise the lid…

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TRASH CONTAINER: The smell of rotten food rises to greet you. You see soggy cartons, dirty rags, and organic waste.

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TRASH CONTAINER: You see: milk, an egg-rest with one broken egg in it, some pasta wrappers… Picking up the soggy packages somehow feels familiar.

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TRASH CONTAINER: As the legs of the slime-covered jeans begin to unspool from the garbage, a rank corpse smell fills the air.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The victim’s clothes?” The lieutenant smells them. “Cadaverine odour is faint. If these belonged to the deceased, they were removed when he was still in the early stages of decay.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: Kim quickly searches the jeans. “*Guitar* mark blue jeans. Pockets empty. Or *emptied*? He wore them with a belt, too, a wide belt—the loops appear stretched, but...” He looks into the container: “The belt is missing. That’s it. Do you see anything else in there? I have another bag here…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “This is a military type over-garment. No label or serial number—this is the kind of rib-knit shirt that’s worn over light armour to conceal it in an urban scenario…” He nods to himself. “Anything more?”

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CUNOESSE: “The fuck’s he on about--*kids*?!” The one behind the fence yells. “You hear that, Cuno? He thinks you’re an infant or something.”

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TRASH CONTAINER: It’s just organic waste, cols and slimy on your hands. Apple and potato peels mostly, unidentified sludge, and the occasional chicken bone thrown in for good measure. But hey…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Nothing. It’s nothing. Nothing more to see here.

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This must be what Sylvie did with your paperwork after she unclogged the toilet.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Well…” He doesn’t know what to say.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] His eyes express a rare condolence. Then he picks it up:

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It would also not hurt to start taking notes on the case.” He peers into the trash, where soggy cartons and rags stink, uninvitingly. “Now, tell me what your eagle eyes see. Or are we finished?”

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Oh. Oh dear.

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TRASH CONTAINER: The container sounds a muffled gong.

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SUGGESTION: No, you’re the *sorry cop*. The cop who’s sorriest. Let’s make it official, then, shall we?

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SUGGESTION: What? Jealous of the *sorry cop?* I think they’ll be fine. Don’t worry.

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LOGIC: [Easy: Success:] That won’t happen.

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Let’s internalize that right away, but I’m sorry if you wanted something else.

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*sigh* Let’s talk to Cuno again.

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CUNO: “Look at him!” He points to the body. “Fucking growth hormone shit. He’s a giant. The armour’s too big for *any man*.”

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CUNO: “Cuno tried to get the helmet on. It was too big.” He performs a kick-off on the imaginary helmet.

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CUNO: “Yeah, that shit means *nothing* to Cuno,” he repeats. “Cuno doesn’t give a shit about material shit. Cuno’s a fucking monk!”

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CUNO: “Yeah, Cock-in-Boots. You know that jolly Union cow fucker?

You do not, in fact, know who this person is.

CUNO: Came around talking about cows or some shit. Came around pretendin’ like he cares about cows. So yeah, he’s the one you wanna talk to. He’s fucking crazy about that armour shit. Coming here, pretending he likes cows, tryin’a catch a peep at Cuno’s armour… Go to the gates—ask him yourself.”

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CUNO: “Fuck are you talking about? What is this *con-tush-on* shit?” He grabs his head like it’s suddenly hurting.

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CUNO: “Oh, did Cuno make your shit-sniffing harder? Obstruction of shit-sniffing?” He lets go of his head, suddenly feeling better. “This is Cuno’s Kingdom. Cuno fucking rules here.”

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CUNO: “Listen! Listen!” he stops you. “Cuno doesn’t care about this small-time shit. Just listen—Cuno saw what you did there. Dumpster diving. Sad shit.”

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CUNO: “Look, Cuno ain’t seen shit lying around, ‘cept for that f****t up there.” He points to the cadaver. Now you want performance gear or not, grandpa?”

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CUNO: “Pig, these are FALN *Modulars*! Liquid fit, performance crotch, urban survival shit! Made in Mirova… by scientists. *Pants* scientists. Believe it, you *need* this shit...” He unzips his jacket to give you a quick peek at the plastic-wrapped pants. T hey are graphite-black and look brand new.

Hmm… performance crotch… you are a little tight around there in your current pants.

SAVOIR FAIRE: [Trivial: Success] These could drastically improve your chances of survival in the urban wilderness.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Easy: Success] Coach Physical Instrument endorses these pants. They are tartan-ready.

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CUNO: “All right, piggo!” His face lights up. “Shit’s rolling.”
CUNOESSE: “Don’t do business with the pig, Cuno! He’s gonna steal all your money, Cuno!”
CUNO: “As you can see…” Cuno nods towards the fence. “Cuno and C don’t trust you. Can’t do business without trust.”

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CUNO: “Yeah, Cuno see where this is going. Cuno’s got that fast-brain,” he whispers excitedly. “You saying you pigs are after the mug fucker—coz he’s the clothes fucker...”

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CUNO: “Shit, that’s tense…” He thinks for a moment. “Someone’s going to the beatdown-basement, huh? Mug-guy gonna get tied to the radiator.” He nods in approval. “Cuno doesn’t know who put that shit in there. And if he did, he wouldn’t squeal. But if you find out, maybe you can…”
CUNOESSE: “Stop turning into a pig, Cuno! They’re trying to get you hooked on the snitching!” She lets out a hiss, even meaner than before. “Get away from my Cuno, f****ts!”

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CUNO: “Fuck does Cuno know. Cuno’s not a fucking acrobat!”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant takes a quick note in his notebook.

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CUNO: “Look, Cuno doesn’t explain shit—Cuno just *says* shit.” He looks you in the eye and nods, as if agreeing with himself.

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You should head back to the Coupris Kineema and call the precinct about the serial number from the armor.

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INSANE CLOWN POSSE, HELL YEAH

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Now, let’s inspect our new items.

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YELLOW MAN MUG: But it was in the trash. Why not just call it out when you see it? Or do some volunteering work? Just finish your case, detective.

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There’s something onimous about this…

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DAMAGED LEDGER: There’s a piece of toilet paper—or is it cleaning tissue? No, it’s toilet paper--*desperately* sticking to the back of the blue plastic clipboard. It’s a metaphor—for you.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It depends. Aside from an anti-counterfeiting stamp, mine has my Station number and address. The information varies by date of issue.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “All RCM vehicles have headlights designed to reveal halogen watermarks. Mine too.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay.” He returns to his neatly kept notes…

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DAMAGED LEDGER: They’re not *exactly* white. They’re yellowed in patches by sunlight and alcohol, and covered in dense blue handwriting. Ink escapes into watercolour patterns, reaching its tendrils across entire pages. The paper itself is chequered with faint red lines forming short paragraphs.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Work. Strife. Povery. The Jamrock Quarter. These are handwritten logs of investigations dating back to January ‘51, this year. The exact number is hard to estimate due to missing pages—and an *odd* naming convention—but there are at least twenty, maybe thirty cases. Undertaken, not completed, mind you.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s okay.” He nods, then turns back to his own case files. “We all do, sooner or later.”

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Yes. It appears you employ a… shall we say *robust yet literary* system. Each investigation has its case number written on the margins. Yet, still more tellingly, most are accompanied by a *name*.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Others appear more light-hearted. THE GUYS ON A COUCH IN AN UNFAMILIAR LOCATION and THE MURDER AT THE HOOKAH PARLOUR, even the rare article free COLLAPSING TENEMENT. Murder features prominently throughout.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Again in your defence, I seem to have named one…” He peeks into his notes. “THE MAN WITH THE HOLE IN HIS HEAD. That was a real person, his death was real. Still I named it that. To amuse myself.”

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DAMAGED LEDGER: The tasks you’ve completed flow out of the Kind Green Ape pen in a brash freehand similar to the rest of the letters. The wording comes easily, it’s almost robotically simple; a language developed for mental rigour and simplicity: “Inspect victim’s body.” “Get the body down.” “Interview the cafeteria manager.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Furies. Yes. Well.” It’s obvious he doesn’t like it. “I don’t know. I have to be honest—I’m not experiencing the *internal strife* that refers to. And also...” He furrows his brow. “Could we make it less *poetic* somehow? Just a normal case name, you know. Think—what would that be? A good *normal* name?”

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Fine, we’ll go with the boring one for you, Kim.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Great! That’s great. That’s actually what *I* was thinking too—THE HANGED MAN. Good, strong name. We have a very good name for the case now.

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LOGIC: [Medium: Failure] It’s possible: yes. Easy: no. You need to come up with a small archaeological system to re-order the remains of your past works. At the moment all they do is fall apart in your hands. Some dates and the numeric titular system is all you have.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: In the back you see thin translucent copier paper—some neon yellow, some bright red—all covered in boxes., like marching armies. These look like official forms, waiting to be filled out…

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Three. The topmost are MISCONDUCT FINES, the middle ones are STATION CALLS, and the bottommost are FIELD AUTOPSY FORMS. Each is easy enough to make sense of.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Yes—all that remains now is to fill those forms and *hand* them to people: fines for wrongdoers, interview requests for bad guys, and field autopsies to *dead* guys.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Blue.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: What are you waiting for? Just…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] That’s because you know where this leads to.

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Rude!

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DAMAGED LEDGER: It smells of chewing gum—apricot flavoured.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: Familiar handwriting lines the inside of the card—looped, round letters in a woman’s hand.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Easy: Success] A young woman in her twenties. There is care, effort and a *smile*, you think—although that is not something you can read from someone’s handwriting.
DAMAGED LEDGER: “Harry,” it begins—you’re already reading. “I wanted to write you a letter, so you can read it when you wake up. Maybe it will make you happy.”

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ENDURANCE: To what? There’s nothing…

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Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

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Addendum II: Botchcop Is Terrible On Levels Even I Was Heretofore Wholly Unprepared For

Content warning: Homophobic slurs, false sexual assault accusations, child abuse, fucking ridiculous misogyny

It’s another Botchcop! First thing we do is talk to the gardener:

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THE GARDENER: “I don’t know… the abandoned kind? It used to gather every spring, but there’s nothing to do there now. Just drug addicts.”

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THE GARDENER: “I don’t know anything about that either. As I said, I didn’t write it.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Easy: Success] *Pig* is a widely-used term for members of the Police. It’s not loving.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No need to worry,” the lieutenant steps in, “we’re not saying you did.”

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A little defensive, but whatever.

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We didn’t make the passive Inland Empire check, so we can’t ask for her gloves.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: The prybar feels nice and cold in your hand. Heavier than you’d think.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Medium: Success] Cold and heavy—like truth. You feel like you’re reunited with *truth* once more.

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “Firewalker? Yes, yes you are. Just don’t breathe in the general direction of your fire-feet. Actually, wait… do exactly that. Put yourself out of your misery. Take a deep diaphragmatic breath in and…” You hear an exaggerated inhale and a long exhale on the other end of the line.

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “Hard to tell exactly what it was over the phone. Could be a combination of peripheral neuralgia and high blood pressure. Could be that you were having a heart attack… or, actually!” He seems to be positively surprised by the idea. “It could be *both*, given your profile.”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “Cut down on the drinking, pal. In fact, cut *off* the drinking. The drugs too. Anything else?”

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NIX GOTTLIEB: “You want the real, honest-to-god truth? Stop drinking, eat magnesium and vitamin D. Our Station is not a retirement home. We don’t have the funds to deal with *rock stars* past their prime.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Failure] So it’s political! You’re being *neglected* because of political reasons…
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] The money is probably going to some old, oily…

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We put a point into Volition so we can take more hits to Morale before continuing this conversation. Reminder that Volition and Endurance are unique in that their current values are represented by your current Morale and Health, so damage to the respective resource will damage your total value until you refill it. That’s why our Volition is currently 2 instead of 3.

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JULES PIDIEU: “He says it’s important to the case.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “He isn’t getting a red cent, you can tell him that!”
JULES PIDIEU: “Request denied, sir. Over.”

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JULES PIDIEU: “Uh, listen...” He seems to lower his voice a bit, carefully choosing his words. “It’s okay… you can do it, sir. Over.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “What is he saying?”
JULES PIDIEU: “The operator chooses to ignore the voice in the background. “Did you want anything else, sir?” he asks you. “*Many* of your colleagues are also here. Over.”

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ALICE: She sighs. “Right… please hold.”

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I made a mistake here and didn’t choose the “personal details” option, but if you do that before reporting your badge missing Oldboy will just ask you why you don’t use that to confirm them and it leads straight into reporting it missing. I didn’t think it was worth another rerecord for like two lines of dialogue, basically.

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MACK TORSON: The man is laughing too hard to form coherent sentences. The only words you can make out are ‘lost’ and ‘badge’.

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Ah shit.

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Woohoo!

JULES PIDIEU: “He says he didn’t.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Thank god for that! That would have been a nightmare. I don’t even want to imagine the poor prick who has to relay that kind of news to the captain. Losing his badge is bad enough. Tell him to find it and *fast*! We can’t have some gangbanger running around with it.”

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Well, this is gonna be a disaster. Let’s get to it, I guess.

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ALICE: “What do you mean, officer? I’m not Sylvie.”

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ALICE: “Sir, you’re already connected to the 57th Precinct.” Her voice is sharp and noticeably less friendly.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Odd… she didn’t sound menopausal. Must be frigid or something. Oh well.

WHOA, NOT OKAY ELECTROCHEMISTRY! You apologize right fucking now!

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SYLVIE: “*Please* don’t bring Garte into this, it’s none of your business!”

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SYLVIE: “I… I didn’t know I had to report it… I… I thought someone would take him down eventually…” Her voice breaks.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Fine.” The lieutenant clenches his jaw. “But know that I don’t approve of such gratuitous volatility.”

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SYLVIE: “No…” You can hear her regaining control in the background. “I honestly don’t know.”

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SYLVIE: “You were waving it around in everyone’s face, begging them to describe it. You said it ‘calms you’. And then you started making suicide jokes. It got pretty *graphic*.”

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SYLVIE: There is silence on the other end of the line.

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SYLVIE: “No idea. All I know is, next you were waving around money instead. Saying things like ‘Big bucks cannot lie’ and ‘Guns can’t buy money, but money can always buy guns’.”

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Our Morale bottomed out! We have to use a healing item from our character portrait to quickly regain some Morale or the game will end.

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EMPATHY: You know women and their constant *problems*. Yack yack nag nag. How’s one supposed to get *the love* going like that?

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EMPATHY: What misogyny? I’m just telling things the way they are. Can’t a man be honest in his *own head* anymore? You have to *act*, Lieutenant Love. You have to calm that hysteric down, tell it you’ve got everything under control—then go and have a little boys’ talk with Garte himself.

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Oh, I hate this!

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ELECTROCHEMISTRY: [Medium: Success] Big Big Poppa is happening.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “God...” He does not look too pleased.

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Fucking god dammit! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck this!

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What the FUCK Botchcop?!

KIM KITSURAGI: “Wonderful.”
EMPATHY: It is! It’s wonder-full!

Starting to doubt that whatever that one really represents is actually ‘Empathy’.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “God... does it mean you talked to her? What else did she say about me?”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER The man leans his hands on the corner and sighs. His head drops between the shoulders, heavy and defeated. “She broke the bird, you know. The Great Skua. I found it on the ground with a broken wing. On the morning she left. I should have known—it was her way of telling me to piss off. I should stuff it up my ass.” He stops and stares at the counter.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] *Or* you broke the bird. It can also be that. I think Sylvie even…

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Heh...” A mirthless laugh. Cock carousel—I think I understand now. It’s what they ride. Until, like, 39.”

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Wow, we really broke this dude if he’s giving us alchohol.

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Congratulations Lieutenant Love, you successfully redpilled someone.

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NOT A COMPLIMENT

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Let’s come back to this prybar issue later. First, we question the children.

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ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I mean drugs. The kid’s on drugs.

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CUNO: “That’s it?! That’s all you’ve got--*Noooooo*? Got your ass handed to you by The Cuno?!” He’s swaying from side to side like a vicious rooster. “Who’s the man now, huh? Cuno’s the man!” The kid is working himself up. “You wouldn’t believe the pussy Cuno tears up.”
CUNOESSE: “What was that, Cuno?”

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CUNO: “Fuck no! Cuno doesn’t buy that shit. Fucking entrapment shit.”

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CUNO: “Yeah!” His eyes light up. “Think about it. Think about that rabid Cuno shit.”

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CUNOESSE: “Yeah, we’re all in this together!” The little one hisses with glee. “The *banaanipoika* is losing it.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim doesn’t even shrug.

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Please don’t--

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Ah, shit

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CHRIST, BOTCHCOP

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PAIN THRESHOLD: [Easy: Success] Cuno *feels* it; this was no light tap.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer, *you* need to calm down,” the lieutenant breaks his silence. “Get a hold of yourself.”
CUNO: “Okay, pig…” He’s no longer wearing his demonic grin. Something happened. The punch made him calmer. “Cuno knows to respect that violent shit. You should see Cuno’s dad—Cuno’s dad doesn’t give a shit about *anything*,” he declares with pride.

You just hit an abused child, you psychopath.

CUNOESSE: The creature behind the fence has fallen ominously silent. Only her eyes are alive, jumping from actor to actor.

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CUNO: “You’re dreamin’ pig. That’s not how this shit *works*.”
EMPATHY: A *little*. But don’t expect anything to *change*.
CUNOESSE: “Don’t let him dominate you, Cuno! Fuck his fat ass!”

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We fail that check once again.

Over by the corpse:

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Even with 6 Endurance, we have only a 42 percent chance of not puking our guts out.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not *pity*. You should wipe your mouth after vomiting.” He pockets the handkerchief. “The hangover is clearly making this worse for you. You could use some ammonia—to clear your head.”

After we get the ammonia, we come back:

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Get a hold of yourself.” You feel the lieutenant pat on your back, rhythmically. “I’ve seen strong men turn themselves inside out for hours. You’re facing tough odds here. Alcohol withdrawal makes it considerably harder.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Medium: Success] WHAT IS HAPPENING TO YOU?!?! Are you going to CRY now, son?

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay. You’ve said it. You needed to say it, and now that you have…” He withdraws his hand from your back and looks you in the eye: “You need to get your shit together.”

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CUNO: “Bitch-fight, C. Bitches are at it.”
CUNOESSE: “Mhm. Bitches about to kill each other I think.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant pays no heed: “We should go and do something else. Give it half an hour. Then come back, when you’ve gotten your act together.”

I should mention that at this exact point is where the achievement for having the worst relationship possible with Kim popped. And I’m not even doing any of the racism!

(I’m in a very select club in that regard, by the way. As of this writing, 0.9% of Steam players have that achievement, because why would you tank your relationship with Kim, you monster?)

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Internalize that thought.

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ANNETTE: “I know, sir.” She stomps her feet to feel warmer.

Hello, little girl!

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ANNETTE: “Sir? Are you okay?” Her voice suddenly reaches your mind. “You’ve been standing here silently for a while now...”

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ANNETTE: She looks at Dick Mullen, frowning.

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ANNETTE: “You look all wrinkly and hairy, like an old person!”
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] You also *feel* old: tired, hardly able to catch your breath, your joints aching constantly.

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ANNETTE: “Yes! I stand in this spot all the time.” She sways back and forth on her feet.

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ANNETTE: “Yeah, but you don’t have party eyes anymore.”

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ANNETTE: “You know… like a cat in the dark! All big-and-wide-eyed.” She giggles at the thought. “It certainly looks odd on a man.”
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] The swiveling eyes of a loony drug addict. That is what she meant. You were probably gurning too.

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ANNETTE: “I’m glad I could help you, sir.” She smiles a wide, helpful smile.

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SAVOIR FAIRE: Look at yourself, you’re a human pedometer! You must have walked 200,000 steps down cracked asphalt, mosaic, sand, and linoleum after you re-emerged.

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SAVOIR FAIRE: That’s just what it’s like—life and death. But you got *gills* on your side, baby, got those black papers with the faces of the Innocents on them—you bring in the Franconegros and the Solas.

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SAVOIR FAIRE: Sure, sure. And has it been easy? Is life easy? Have you *not* gone into cardiac arrest? Are you *not* about to have an anxiety attack or shoot yourself in the mouth? But you still hustle 24/7, ride or die. Now, ask yourself…

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SAVOIR FAIRE: Every time you wipe your ass! They got their direct and their *indirect modes of taxation*: sales tax, excise duty, extraction tax, alimony, one tax that doesn’t even have a name! Plus there’s the stuff *people in other countries* pay for, that makes them ask for more money from *you* here. Total tax duties add up to…

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I’m so disappointed in you, Botchcop. Let’s just go over to the old guys.

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PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: That’s the spirit! Don’t even waste your breath asking about the game. They wouldn’t know anyway. They’re *way* past their prime.

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HAND-EYE COORDINATION: The cold metal ball is surprisingly smooth against your neck. It has a pattern on it. (Probably a sponsored ball.) Yours would only be covered with bumps of learning and scars of victory.

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HAND-EYE-COORDINATION: A chilly breeze ruffles your hair as you stand there, feet firmly planted. All sounds, smells, even the wind—everything fades until the only thing left is the union of Man and Ball.

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HAND-EYE-COORDINATION: An embodiment of pure motion. A fine-tuned *locomotor* running at maximum efficiency.

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The ball splashes in the nearby water.

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “I don’t care if you are a cop—you *do not* just ruin someone’s game. It’s so goddamn disrespectful!”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “Well, it damn well isn’t, it’s pétanque,” the man snaps, raising his voice again. “You ruined a pétanque game. We want our *boule* back!”
GASTON MARTIN: “Take it easy, Réne.” The jolly one tries to defuse the situation. This is just a misunderstanding, isn’t it, officer? No harm done.”

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RENÉ ARNOUX: “No, they don’t. But I’m sorry it had to be the Coalition. After eight years of fighting rabid commies, boiling cats for food and drinking piss in the mountains…” He takes a deep breath. “I *would* have preferred if the right honourable king Guillaume returned to Revachol or even if that damn clown, Frissel, had risen from the grave and led us. Sadly that was not the case. Instead, all that is just, holy and beautiful in the world was wiped away and now it’s neon signs with toothpaste ads everywhere. Foreign influence peddling garbage and stupid music on the radio.” He sighs. “This is just what the commies wanted. This was their plan all along. *This* is what they wanted to replace the rule of Suzerain with.”

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We’re not making this check.

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Fuck it, let’s put a point into Hand/Eye Coordination! Why not, right?!\

Let’s go talk to Garte about the garbage:

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Uh oh. That’s the last of our Morale, and we’re out of heals.

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Huh.

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When we last left our hero, the game ended. Or maybe it began. Whatever.

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ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Who was what?

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LIMBIC SYSTEM: Here in the Paleo-Mammalian Cortex we call it--*the shadow*.

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LIMBIC SYSTEM: Yes, they’re *pouring* something on you—something *in* you. And it’s…
PERCEPTION (TASTE): It’s DELICIOUS.

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COUPRIS KINEEMA In the upholstered cabin of lieutenant Kitsuragi’s motor carriage, seated in the driver’s basket. The air is thick with leatherworks and heavy fuel oil. Cold water runs down your chin.

Chapter 7: 16:55-19:06: Racists Of All Stripes

Content warning: lotso’racism

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KIM KITSURAGI: “That does sometimes happen.” He hands you the remains of your ledger.

Kim understands.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Good.”

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This is White Mourning, a thought we just picked up.

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We’re going to internalize Coach Physical Instrument instead, though. Maybe White Mourning later.

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We decide to head south from the roundabout this time. There’s not much in this direction at the moment, but ever more reason to knock it out quickly.

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The water lock is broken? Interesting.

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Somehow a completely destroyed billboard has fallen into the river and blocked the water lock. Bad luck, you suppose.

MAN ON WATER LOCK: “My friend Barry the Butcher is stuck on the other side of the water lock. I’m keeping him company—and eating his salami.”
BARRY THE BUTCHER: From the corner of your eye you see a man in a yellow shirt and grey overalls waving at you from across the canal. He seems disappointed about the wreckage on the water lock--*and* the salami.

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MAN ON WATER LOCK: “I wasn’t here to witness it, but those look like tyre tracks on that sign. Weird, huh? Then again, plenty of daredevil drivers in Revachol.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] The words *daredevil driver* sound ominous to you.

We get it, some real idiot doesn’t know how to drive.

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MAN ON WATER LOCK: “Well, there’s the fishing village. An abandoned fish market. A bizarro church. Not much use to the congregation, though—there always seems to be something wrong with it.”

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MAN ON WATER LOCK: “Want some too, officer?” he turns to the lieutenant.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant ponders the offer for a moment, then decides to go for it. “Why not?” He takes a slice of salami from the man and chews on it.

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Hmm, a pawnshop. Let’s keep this in mind for later.

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Back up at the roundabout, there’s a cool customer chilling right outside the Whirling-In-Rags that we’ve just been completely ignoring. Let’s rectify that!

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “It’s a traffic jam for the ages. Harbour gates up the street are shut tight. No explanation given. Workers on strike. Scabs agitatin’. An all-around clusterfuck.”

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, yeah—exactly.”

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, imagine—it’s been a whole week already.” He snickers.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Behind the laugh, however, a touch of sorrow.

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Some pretty wild stuff, I hear. Like a giant new power-crane and half the company? I forget *what* exactly. Good on them, I guess… I’ve heard talk there’s a company rep in town too… Like… a strike negotiator type. They’d know what’s up. Precise demands and so on.”

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Not my thing. Chasin’ transient pleasures is a drag these days. I prefer the examined life now—thinkin’, reflectin’, observin’.” He glances down the road toward the horizon, a glint of… something in his eyes.

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “He ain’t one of us drivers—I know that. All accounted for. Otherwise, I haven’t really asked about that. Been wastin’ time right here. Keepin’ busy.”

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Can’t even get a few jokes past you, my man.” He grins. “I’ve got another haul of FALN cargo. Mostly sporting goods. Tracksuits and that kinda thing.”

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, must be—you’re job’s to know all those *little* things isn’t it? While my job…” he pats the back of the lorry, “is to deliver tracksuit trousers.”

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The check fails.

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TOMMY LE HOMME: “Cool, cool… We all want to know each other, know each other’s woes and all—but people, man, they have *slippery* souls…”

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Equipping the Ledger will increase our Inland Empire and Empathy by one, and reduce our Authority by 2.

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Back in the Whirling, you see a mysterious door in the kitchen.

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BLUE DOOR: The cobalt blue surface feels rough to touch. The stainless steel door is flush with its frame on every side.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Eccentric. But okay, I suppose we could look into it. As a… side-investigation.”

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You really walked into that one, dumbass.

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “The trash Collection Service? CS Municipal. I don’t see why they would *put* anything in the trash, though.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, the illusive CS Municipal. I doubt we’ll be able to track down who was sent here last and when. This will have to be one of those *little* threads that solves itself—down the road.”

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I don’t have a key—I don’t know how to get there. And I don’t *care* either. It’s not like I’ve been *wondering* about it for ten years. It’s just the Frittte warehouse probably. Or some boring storage space with a bunch of old junk… and dust. Junk and dust.” He runs his finger across the counter to check for dirt.

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GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Fine, okay. A little.” He shrugs. “But my job doesn’t leave me time for wondering about *one* locked door in *one* of the cafeterias I manage… So I haven’t opened it. I *have* cleaned the whole place a hundred times over, though—after the *animals*. And I haven’t found a key. So good luck with that.”

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Oh, how friendly! Let’s talk to this nice man.

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Spoiler alert: Racist Lorry Driver is a racist!

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I know exactly what you meant. You think my *kind* doesn’t belong here. That I should *watch myself* and *behave.* But you see, I’m an officer of the RCM—it’s actually *my* job to make sure *you* behave. I would advise you to remember that.”
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: Silence. The air between them becomes tense.

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RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “You two make a cute couple, you know that?” The lorryman spits.

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RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “It’s about… biological determinism. Natural law. The sorting of the races.” He spits on the ground.

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RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “I’m not *just* racist. Look, I’ve read *books*,” he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. “The science of racial theory has all been proved, even if some people don’t want to accept it.”

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Well, that guy sucked.

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Let’s head into Frittte. Sic.

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm… I don’t know, let’s see… Nosaphed is a nasal spray Drouamine is a really good painkiller. Magnesium is a dietary supplement. Hypnogamma is…” She stops. “I don’t really know what Hypnogamma is. I guess it makes you feel less shit? It’s recommended to use after lots of partying, studying, or exercising.”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm...” She chews her bubblegum absent-mindedly. “No, sorry. I’m not, like, a doctor or anything.”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Saint-Batiste? You know...” She nods slowly at the cabinet. “The pharmaceuticals company? Saint-Batiste Pharmaceuticals? The one that sells meds out of Saint-Batiste?” She points to the cabinet. “That one? There?”

You’ve been a real help, miss.

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Now we can fuckin’ Hulk out when we take off our shirt. Nifty.

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Hooray! Money!

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FRITTTE CLERK: “What is what?” The girl leans over the counter to see what you’re referring to. “Uhm, it’s a raincoat? If you want one then it’s only four réal.” She taps on the glass counter the raincoats patiently await purchase.

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Let’s not.

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FRITTTE CLERK: “You mean this?” She looks at the cover boating a colourful photo of two girls kissing. “This is Pop-Stars, it’s got, like, famous people in it? It’s not for sale.”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm, no. I don’t like it, I hate it.”

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FRITTTE CLERK: She looks up from under her brow.

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm… I don’t know?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No need to worry.” The lieutenant’s voice is soothing and professional. “It’s just standard procedure for us to ask around. If you hear anything, let us know. Okay?”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Reality? You mean… what reality? Economic reality? Or…”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “As a mankind or… as a nation or…”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “In a good place?” She rubs her face, thinking.

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FRITTTE CLERK: “I don’t know, look at the clock. It’s right behind you on the wall.”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Our government?”

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FRITTTE CLERK: “Cool.” She seems happy to return to her reading.

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We’re going to put a point into Encyclopedia to offset the negative bonus from Coach Physical Instrument.

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FRITTTE CLERK: The clerk looks at the wall of good behind her. “Um… Guess not, no.” She adjusts her hat. “I’m obliged to inform you that both alcohol and cigarettes damage your health. But I guess you already know that.”

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Get the fuck out of here before you make some mistakes.

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Back outside, we come across some rabblerousing.

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SCAB LEADER: “Hold up and stay frosty, everyone! Cops are here.” The broad-shouldered alpha male turns to you. He’s a full head taller than everybody else here.

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SCAB LEADER: “Hah! Couldn’t handle us. A cause gives the workers strength. Gives them power.” He bellows at the gates: “We have—A RIGHT TO WORK!”

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SCAB LEADER: “Might be time. Don’t let the fat bastards tread on you. Cops tend to side with the higher-ups, but you’re essentially still *workers*.”

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SCAB LEADER: “Maybe you should ask *them* the questions, like why we’re not allowed to make a living here?” He bellows to the gates: “SHAME ON YOU! We have families to feed, you piece of shit!” He points his finger at the man sitting on the railing.

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SCAB LEADER: “I know nothing about a murder.” His reply is snappy and terse.

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SCAB LEADER: “Wouldn’t put it past these harbour bugs. They’d do *anything* to stay alive.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re not picking a side in this just yet, sir.”

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SCAB LEADER: “Beats me. They mumble nonsense about *board rooms* and *worker’s rights*. While we--” he raises his fist and starts shouting again, “--HAVE THE RIGHT TO WORK!”

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SCAB LEADER: He ignores your question, choosing instead to turn to the emaciated workers—raising both fists in the air. The clothes are obviously not his.

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SCAB LEADER: “Honest men and women. With rights—to work. To be useful. Not toys for corporate interests.” The man runs a hand through his steadily graying military haircut. “We came here to help the harbour run smoothly in times of crisis. If Union fucks don’t want work, they ought to let in those *WHO DO WANT WORK*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I have a question.” The lieutenant looks him in the eye. “Why do all these men follow your leadership?”
SCAB LEADER: “You think they follow me because I’m big and loud? No, they follow the rules of the market. The rules of the economy. Because they were--” he starts bellowing, “--GIVEN AN JOB TO DO.”

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All technically true, the best kind of true.

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I still had questions, bucko!

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SCAB LEADER: “Main gate’s locked—would take *heavy ordnance* to bust it open. Could try to get in through the secretary’s office.” He points up the stairs. “Door’s locked. The guard’s blocking the way to the access panel.”

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SCAB LEADER: “Bad.” The man glares at you. “Standing on a narrow bridge, he’s got a strategically advantageous position. And he’s trained.”

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SCAB LEADER: “Why don’t *you* go arrest them instead? I’m sure they’ve done plenty of criminal shit, they have *that look*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It would be better—for the neighbourhood—if you went home. At least for now. If you can’t get in anyway.”

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PERCEPTION (SIGHT): The back end of the cabin has a small perch to sleep. Large ashtrays. There are several suns and wheels sown into the curtains.

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HORSEBACK MONUMENT: A silver plaque on the statue’s pedestal reads: “I am Filippe III, the Squanderer, the Greatest of the Filippian Kings of Revachol; Son of Filippe II, the Opulent; Father of Filippe IV, the Insane.”

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ENCYCLOPEDIA: Well, he blew through the whole national treasury, starting the decline of one of the penultimate century’s greatest superpowers: the Suzerain of Revachol…

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ENCYCLOPEDIA: Stories have it that he had his bedroom converted into a treasure chamber where he stored unfathomable wealth: *krugerrands*, bars of gold, ornate weaponry, armour, and various chalices. He called it the *Sol Aurum*. It was obscene. There were whispers he slept on a huge pile of gold-dipped feathers like some obese dragon, instead of a bed like a normal person.

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Shut up, necktie.

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This shirt is useless considering we have Coach Physical Instrument.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Wait…” The lieutenant stops you before you can snap.

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Let’s finally make our way up to the gate.

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Gotta be bloody stupid or freakin’ evil to scab. Or, I guess… scared, maybe. But scared of what, of who?” He looks at the mass, squinting his eyes as if trying to ascertain what they’re scared of.

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Ah, I was just messing with you.” His smile deepens his wrinkles even more. “No one’s ever seen a cop scab. Imagine—you cops going on a strike, but then another cop comes in and says: ‘Let us cop! For less money.’” He chuckles, then realizes:

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “To get me into trouble. To *sic the pigs* on me—pardon the choice of words. Not mine.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What happened?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I was asked to look into that armour situation. Official Union probe, you know—track it down, see who took it.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did you?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “At first I thought—why not, maybe the pieces can feed the strike? Buy us a few more days under the sun, you know. So I went to this boy. He said he’ll make me his *prison bitch*. He’s got *eyes everywhere*, the cops in his pocket and he’s the king of Jamrock.”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “I learned that people don’t want to talk to a drunk Union man about some armour.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What else?”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “I did some research into this *armadura*. Let’s say I have friends at the library,” he explains with a wry smile. “I didn’t get into the material science, just how it comes off.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “How *does* it come off?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “In parts. Four in total. The helmet was the first to go, the kid says he tore it off and kicked it into the sea. I believe him. The boots were still on the guy last I saw. Too hard to remove.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Nice and balanced,” the lieutenant nods. “Some junior officers can take care of the rest.”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “Smart choice,” the moustached man agrees. “It’s only that *one* spot you need armoured too—the one the bullet hits.”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “No problem,” he finally takes a swig from the flask. “If you see that id, thank him from Call me Mañana. Thank him for showing me the *way*.”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Body still hangin’ in the tree?” He rubs his chin as if pondering his core beliefs. “Aye, that’s a rough pickle… can’t help you with that, sorry.”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s not *completely* impossible. For example, you could best Measurehead in a physical confrontation.”

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Always glad to help out the RCM. Shame I can’t do more—things are meagre at the moment, due to…” He nods toward the protesters.

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “You know… serious business.” He smiles. I’m sure the big boss would be glad to tell you. You’ll have to ask him first.”

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Guess we’ll have to come back to this guy once we’ve met with Evrart. If that ever indeed happens. Let’s see about this Measurehead problem first.

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MEASUREHEAD: “THAT IS PRECISELY THE NEGLIGENCE THAT HAS LED YOU TO SUCCUMB TO *AL GUL*.” His face contorts in disgust, as if he were smelling a dead rat.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not good.”

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MEASUREHEAD: “BEGGING FOR HELP. ATTEMPTING TO PASS FEAR FOR COOPERATION. HOW FAR THE OCCIDENTAL HAPLOGROUP HAS FALLEN…” He pauses in melancholy reflection. “YOU WERE ONCE A NOBLE AND POWERFUL RACE. YOU GAVE THE WORLD *EUGENICS*, ELECTRICITY, AND POWERFUL WEAPONS OF WAR LIKE MISSILES AND AEROSTATIC AIRCRAFT. YOU MADE GREAT GAINS IN METALLURGY, RACE THEORY AND STATECRAFT. YOU DOMINATED LESSER CULTURES—LIKE THE DEFORMED HIMEANS AND THE INEXPLICABLY POTATO-OBSESSED KOJKOS—BUT NOW YOUR ASCENT TO THE GENETIC SUMMIT HAS HALTED. YOU ARE OBSESSED WITH SADNESS AND WITH FRIVOLOUS POP CULTURE.”

Christ this guy can talk

MEASUREHEAD: “YOU WILL BE SUPERSEDED—ISN’T THAT RIGHT, BABE?”
MEASUREHEAD’S BABE: “It is, baby, yeah. You know it!”
INTERFACING: [Easy: Success] There is a button right behind him, just out of reach… it must be the one that opens the door to the harbour.

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MEASUREHEAD: “ENOUGH OF THIS BEGGING. YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE STAGE OF HISTORY WITH DIGNITY—BY INVITING THE OTHER RACES TO A *GREAT WORLD WAR*. BRING YOUR TROOPS TO THE SEMENINE ISLANDS AND TO BOOGIE STREET AND WE WILL PULVERIZE YOU. WHEN YOU ARE GONE WE WILL BUILD A MUSEUM FOR YOU."

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For some reason, I don’t want to subscribe to this man’s newsletter!

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And knocking him out doesn’t seem like much of an option, hmm.

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MEASUREHEAD: “MR. CLAIRE IS A MAN OF VISION AND MEANS. HE HAS THE WILL TO CONFRONT POLYCULTURAL CAPITAL—SOMETHING *YOUR* RACE’S NAIVISTIC COMMUNISTS NEVER DID.”

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MEASUREHEAD: “IDIOTIC COMMUNISM IS THE SINGLE GREATEST CONTRIBUTOR TO YOUR RACE DESCENT. EVERYWHERE AROUND YOU, THE FRUITS OF ITS FAILURE TO CHALLENGE THE WORLD ORDER: INDIVIDUALISM, ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC, SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES…”

It’s suddenly occurred to me that I’m in my mid-20s and I’m spending my Christmas Eve transcribing a bunch of the racial essentialist rantings of a fictional character. Don't end up like me, kids.

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MEASUREHEAD: “OFFSHOOTS OF THE SEMENESE PEOPLE INVENTED DISCO WHILE HAVING SEX UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF COCAINE. IT IS A SHAME UPON MY RACE—BUT WHAT IS DONE IS DONE.”

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MEASUREHEAD: “I CAN SEE THAT. THE SEMENESE ARE THE SOUTH ISLAND RACE. HAPLOGROUP A4A, THE RIGHTFUL MASTERS OF THE INSULIDIAN ARCHIPELAGO. WE DESCEND FROM THE AEROPAGITES OF ANCIENT PERIKARNASSIS—AND ARRIVED HERE 4000 YEARS AGO.”

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MEASUREHEAD: “I’M FROM COURON...” He changes tactics: “AND NO, IT IS NOT *JUST* IN REVACHOL. THIS CITY IS CENTRAL TO THE SEMENESE STRATEGY. SPREADING THROUGH ITS TRADE NETWORKS OUR CULTURE WILL DOMINATE THE WORLD.”

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Okay, Kim kind of rules????

MEASUREHEAD: “YOUR PAEDOMORPHIC FRIEND HAS QUICK WITS.” He leans in to inspect: “A PROTRUDING OCCIPUT AND AN INDENTED ZYGOMATIC BONE...”

Oh boy, phrenology!

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant does not flinch.

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MEASUREHEAD: “RACISTS ARE GENERALLY NOT VERY GOOD EXAMPLES OF THEIR RACE.” He gestures toward the lorryman down the street…

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MEASUREHEAD: “IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE ANY MORE OF YOUR BONE STRUCTURE—IT IS COVERED IN THE RAVAGES OF AL GUL. FROM WHAT REMAINS OF YOUR FEATURES, I CAN SEE *FLESHY LIPS*, *BALDNESS OF THE HEAD*, AND LONG ARMS RELATIVE TO LOWER LIMBS.”

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Well, this got us nowhere.

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Looks like we’ll be investigating further to see if there’s another route to Evrart Claire.

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Chapter 8: 19:07-20:36: These Pants Are A Burden

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Well, let’s go see if we can find another way past Measurehead.

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “Sorry. Busy surveying the situation.” He takes a swig from his flask. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You guys gave all sorts of gadgets these days. Wire tapping. Telescopic batons. Futuristic circuit-bending to infiltrate harbour machinery. Maybe you could even knock that Kvalsund crane over using some remote controls…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Because we don’t. We don’t have air support—or any of those other things.”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I get it, hush-hush about the secret technology.” He pats the side of his nose with his index finger.

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CALL ME MAÑANA: “First—don’t fight him. Obviously. Second, get him to share his theory by being *subordinate*. Admit your lack of expertise. Basically grovel. That’s how I’d do it,” he tips his beret and concludes: “You’re welcome.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Easy: Success] Hmm… maybe that *would* work? We’ll have to see.

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We never checked out the watermarks under the headlights, so let’s get on that.

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KIM KITSURAGI: He turns the pre-heater on, waits, takes out his keys and says: “All right. Ready. I turn, you press START—it’s next to the pre-heater.”

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COUPRIS KINEEMA: The lights unfold with a little click, casting electrical light onto the ground before the vehicle.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “There she is: Revachol West.” There’s a note of pride in the lieutenant’s voice.

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DAMAGED LEDGER: You catch a faint glimmer from a broken beer bottle. In the distance—sounds. Two men engaged in a drunken argument, followed by the closing of some distant window.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Let me see.” He takes the ledger for a moment and inspects it.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Those are *perforations*. They represent your record as an officer of the RCM. They’re your statistics, as it were. I should have guessed you keep a record, officers often do. Let’s take a look…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, that *does* seem quite likely. Your youth coincided with some heady days for Revachol. But let’s move on, shall we? This next row—the one that wraps all the way around—is your number of closed cases. *Closed* is good. It means finished. You’ve got, let’s see…”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “For an RCM officer—especially Precinct 41, which is in the Jamrock Quarter—it’s rather… tame. I mean that in a good way. There are certain officers who treat their kills like some kind of ghoulish game. If they do happen to *solve* a case it’s usually by accident.” It’s obvious the lieutenant doesn’t think very highly of these officers…

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes,” he says, declining to elaborate.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Everyone has their own method of coping, some more effective, or self-destructive, than others…” He gives you a meaningful look.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Why not gardening? You’ve already got the gloves…” He points at your yellow gardening gloves.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Right. I’ll go turn off the lights…” He presses a remote control on the key.

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We put a point into Logic.

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Here’s that tank top we found last update, by the way.

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And here’s our Officer Profile, showing our statistics.

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Let’s go check our ledger again.

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Dammit.

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CUNOESSE: “I’m going away for a long long time, Cuno. Going away for life!”

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CUNOESSE: Stay away from me, pig—you don’t wanna see what happens when you corner me.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Probably some kids...” The lieutenant inspects the rigged slot.

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COIN-OPERATED VIEWER: A thick layer of graffito covers the lenses—you spell out the word “ONUC” written on the other side—with N and C scribbled backwards.

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COIN-OPERATED VIEWER: Under the graffito a sea of blues and greys appears—behind the water lies a coast studded with concrete and reeds. On it—a church on stilts, lanky weather-worn wooden planks, an x-shaped cross topping its tower.
INLAND EMPIRE: The church looks old and weather-worn. There are no lights in the windows.

Let’s inspect the other viewer now.

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Probably not the best idea when I’m about to die on the street, but what the hey.

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COIN-OPERATED VIEWER: The lenses shift, the ghost sharpens into an islet in the bay. In the runs a man-made structure is visible: a half-sunken sea-fort, its concrete almost reconquered by nature. It looks as if it was abandoned quite some time ago, nothing but a rotten tooth remains of the anti-aircraft tower. A lonely birch tree grows out of it.

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This late in the day, the Whirling-In-Rags is busier. We’re not here to talk, though.

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There’s plenty of bottles we can pick up in our room, if you recall.

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KIM KITSURAGI: He takes a step toward the door. Like he’d like to leave.

After picking up all those bottles, we head back over to the suspicious Scab Leader for more tips on Measurehead.

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SCAB LEADER: He smirks. “Not before you get in there and get your ass whooped. Learn by failure, I always say.”

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Well, that didn’t help much.

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INLAND EMPIRE: Yes! Buy something nice! A figurine.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Franconigerian knights.” He looks at the dusty figurines in the dim light. “I used to be very serious about these guys.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “You’re probably talking about the revolutionaries, yes?” the man behind the glass answers. “Yes—they are soldiers. Revolutionary soldiers.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Maybe.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “The Headless FALN Rider. It’s an urban legend—about a man who rides the streets of Revachol sporting a FALN tracksuit. As you can see, he’s missing his head.” He points at the decapitated figurine.

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Neat.

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SHELF OF BOOMBOXES: One especially catches your eye. Deep gold and amber plastic with a big old handle on top. A classic boombox that says: “STEREO 8 approved.”
INLAND EMPIRE: This is you. Gold and orange. A sunset suite.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “If police work means playing tapes, sure. You can use it for that. Or any other time you’d need to play a tape.”

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Damn, can’t afford it at the moment. Something to remember for later, you suppose.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “What can I do for you?” he asks.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Oh, no, not at all.” He flashes a smile. “I guess I haven’t had many customers lately, RCM or otherwise.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Who are your customers usually?”
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “All kinds of people come through here… Locals, travellers. People looking for a deal. People looking for a keepsake. People who are terminally bored.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Why on earth?” He staggers away from the glass, but quickly recomposes himself. “These are prescription. I can’t really see without them.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] There’s a note of indignation in his voice. Interesting.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: He hesitates. “I was… I was with the Emergency Relief Brigade. You know, after the People’s Pile disaster.” He coughs, as if to mark his words. “Had to take Pyrholidon for radiation sickness. That’s what you were hinting at just now, wasn’t it?”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: He points at the white triangle on his orange safety jacket. “We were an all-volunteer force, self-organized. Tried to help fire brigades contain the spill. I lived by the river since I was a small boy. The Esperance… didn’t have the heart to let it all go to shit without trying to *do* something, to help out.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: He hesitates. “There’s a reason why everyone’s tried to forget any of it ever happened, and why no one has tried to repair or replace the Pile.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “No one’s, everyone’s… He sighs and shakes his head.
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] So much bitterness.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: The clean-up happened fifteen years ago. I was young then. Later my second aunt died, left me this shack and the assorted junk in it. So I came to Martinaise. People told me don’t go there, it’s a *shit-hole*. I said: people, we just had a *nuclear pile meltdown*. I’m gonna get as far from Fauborg as I can. Still in the same city, but…” He shrugs.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “I like theory more than story. Outward movement, not vortices.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “The corpse behind the hostel, I assume…” He looks into the swirling lights, then to you: “I don’t have a truck with a mounted platform or anything of that sort myself...”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Someone else came here earlier today asking the same question—I promptly sold her the gun you pawned a couple days back.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] This is a pawn shop… And it *did* feel as if you’ve met before. Oh god…

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “You, uhh…”
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] With Kim here too?! That just sounded really, really bad.
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “You were adamant about getting rid of it, officer.” He hesitates. “Said you were *undeserving* of a service weapon of the Revachol Citizen’s Militia. And I don’t like keeping guns around the shop for long. Off-the-charts photon emissions. The unhealthy kind.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “You were very distraught. You said the gun was a threat to your life, and… that you can’t *trust* yourself with it tonight. And you need the money. When I said that I don’t normally buy firearms, you put the gun barrel in your mouth and sort of… sucked on it. Then I agreed to take it.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “15 reál.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks from you to Roy and then back to you. It’s clear that he hopes this tableau might still turn out to be a bad dream—it’s not, though.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] This has got to be the most… wow…

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “She didn’t seem like a policeman, although she kept referring to herself as a *Pig*. Which was odd. I found her interest in the gun a bit.. obsessive. But I was just happy to get rid of it. And of her. Truth be told, she was terrifying.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Right, so let me get this right,” the lieutenant turns to you, “you sold your sidearm, issued by the Citizens Militia, and now a civilian is running around the streets of Martinaise with it.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “My apologies, officer, but I have no idea where she was coming from or where she went.”

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That went about as poorly as it could have.

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SAWED-OFF STREET LIGHT: The light pole has been carefully cut, and the wiring has been redone and attached to a standard indoor plug. The light buzzes faintly but persistently.

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Yes, officer. As you can see, it’s in perfect working order.”

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BIRD’S NEST ROY: “It was brought to me to be altered.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans in so the pawnbroker wouldn’t hear him. “We’re not here to investigate the theft of city property.”

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You know instantly that you will not find enough money to purchase this street light even if you actually wanted to.

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Let’s talk to Kim.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Well, sort of. It’s less a matter of who *gets* to police Martinaise than who *has* to. It’s an orphan district, in other words… I think the dispatch desk just told both our stations about the hanging. There was quite the brouhaha at the 57th, I can tell you that. Time to *settle it*, they said, *Cop Off*. But…” He leans in: “I assure you, I am not their *finest* or *toughest*, with *one-hundred-and-two cases solved*. What I am is *least interested in a pissing competition*.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I agree. Too dark.”

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Fuckin’ snake eyes, goddammit!

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Well, let’s head back to Measurehead for now.

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*sigh* Let’s give it a shot, I guess.

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I like how Kim reaches for his gun. He’s got our back.

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Looks like Kim’s got something to say to us.

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You already said that.

KIM KITSURAGI: He nods. “Let’s think of something else.”

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Well, I don’t want to subscribe to Measurehead’s ideology, so we should probably see if we can’t find that other route.

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Behind the Whirling-In-Rags, we find whatever this is. Also, if you look closely, you’ll notice that we appear to have fused with Kim into one, unstoppable Hypercop.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Perhaps not?” He looks at you. “This is below our pay grade, detective. However…” He points to the ladder in the corner. “See that *ladder* there? It’s probably another way into the industrial harbour, no? A secret path the local kids use.”

You’re so smart, Kim.

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We end up on the roof of the office next to Mañana.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. It’s probably yours. It bares the RCM insignia and you have a bad habit of being careless with your equipment…” He judges the drop.

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EMPATHY: The look in his eyes is a mix of the engineer-like interest and the wonder of a six-year-old seeing a horse for the first time.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Is it?” He looks at you, impressed. “Kvalsund makes a lot of heavy equipment, but this is phenomenal even for them.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “I was under the impression we could ask the leader of the union to help us get this body down. This is why we’re here, right?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He looks around, wind rustling his hair. “Or it could be that we’re just *exploring*.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “The cloak? I *do* think it’s yours, yes. As to whether you should go for it...” He looks over the ledge, at the cold pavement below. “Well, it doesn’t seem too dangerous—two metres tops. Whenever you’re ready to do it, I’ll be right behind you.”

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Ugh, not liking these odds. What to do?

If we want to make this jump, we could always…

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...take our pants and shoes off!

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Much better chance of success now.

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SAVOIR FAIRE: As the concrete floor welcomes you, you realize it’s been a while since you felt so alive, alert, capable. Must be the adrenaline.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I knew you could do it!” The lieutenant exclaims. “My climbing down might not have been as disco as your jump, but at least we can explore the harbour now.”

Thanks, Kim! Wait, you climbed down? Laaaaaaame.

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And we've finally entered the harbour.

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Chapter 9: 20:36-21:45: Crane Games

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First thing we do is put our goddamn pants and shoes back on.

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Then, we pick up our cloak.

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It’s straight-up better than what we were wearing before, so we put it on.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes,” the lieutenant agrees. “This scene isn’t exactly ripping with joy. Let’s just move on.”

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Before we move on, we pick up all these damn bottles. Past me was a litterbug, but hey, more tare for now me!

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KIM KITSURAGI: “If you must.” The lieutenant looks around. “But please hurry—we’re pretty easy to spot up here.”

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KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s *unfortunate* for the Union to just leave their paperwork lying around like this…”

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FILE CABINET: Hundreds of documents containing logistical data. Two kinds of transactions stand out: materials coming into Revachol from the outside world—from Mundi, Graad, and even Iilmaraa…

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FILE CABINET: It appears to be a to-do list written in large, uneven capital letters: REMEMBER, LEO! * EVRART’S SHOES * SPECIAL WHIRLING BORSCHT * WATER EVRART’S PLANTS * SWEEP OFFICE FLOOR * MORE BANNERS

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Evrart Claire, probably—the head of the Débardeurs Union.” He inspects the note. “One of his aides must have left it. Nothing incriminating here.”

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Ooh, nice shades.

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You cannot return to the streets without a passcard. Your only option, it seems, is to forge further ahead into the harbour.

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It’s so fucking LOUD why did you DO this everyone knows you’re here now IDIOT

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INLAND EMPIRE: Who can say? All you know is—it’s special.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “You just picked one out, because you wanted to interact with a cargo container.”

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CARGO CONTAINER DOOR: You attempt to turn the handle, to no avail. The doors seem to be mechanically locked.

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Well, we already alerted the entire damn Union, what’s the harm in talking to this gentleman?

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CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] The lyrics to this container-song are being made up as he goes along.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Easy: Success] The accent is so thick it’s impossible not to notice he’s Ubi. From the vanishing peninsula of Ubi Sunt? (sic) on Mundi.

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EASY LEO: “Evrart, Evrart, Evrart, he looks after everyone. Huh… well, hey there!” He smiles. “How can I help you, mister?”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] The look in his deep blue eyes is as sincere as you’ve ever seen. Kind of makes you feel like an asshole for no apparent reason.

Eh, that’s pretty normal.

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EASY LEO: “I mean, I don’t personally mind, folks is just folks, you know—and folks gotta eat…” He doesn’t seem to be waiting for you to answer.

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EASY LEO: “Oh yes, born and raised in Iraesh, mister. Mum had to leave my dad after he got a bitviolent, took us here to the New New World. I was about ten then, too old to lose my accent then… People say us Ubis are up to all sorts of trouble with sheep and other animals and what not—I just want you to know there was *never* any of that where I come from. No sir. Those are just nasty rumours.”

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EASY LEO: “Oh, most of the guys are down at the gates, keeping the scabs from coming in...” He leans in with a confidential look… “We’re on a *strike*--the whole union is! You don’t have to work when you’re on strike. Ha—we haven’t worked for two months now.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So *no one* is working?”
EASY LEO: “Not everyone is down there of course,” he chuckles,” Mr. Evrart is in his office, where he always is, and Jean-Luc is guarding the gate…” He pauses to think.

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EASY LEO: “Oh… I’m not really supposed to talk about that. That’s Union business.” He smiles and leans closer.

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EASY LEO: “I guess the boys got a bit too rowdy and had to let out some steam. I don’t really know the details. That’s just how boys are you know…” Another chuckle. “I haven’t been in a fight since I was in middle-school…”

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Sorry, Kim. Gotta know about this sweet middle school fight.

EASY LEO: “I remember I was the runt of the class.” He laughs merrily. “The bigger boys always used to pick on me. You see, I had a bit of a temper back in the day, flew off the handle like nobody’s business… But Mr. Evrart and his brother always came to help. Once they beat old Noel Becker so bad he needed stitches on his head…” He chuckles again. “Noel never started another fight with anyone after this. Mr. Evrart and Mr. Edgar are real nice guys, mister. You should go talk to Mr. Evrart—I’m sure you’ll be good friends. He’s friends with everyone around here.” The little guy starts coughing.

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EASY LEO: “Yes-yes, everybody needs a job and this is mine. I’m Leonard, by the way, Leonard Bellec, but everyone calls me Leo.” The little man raises his hand in a welcoming gesture. I’m like Mr. Evrart’s right-hand man, when Mr. Edgar is out of town—and Mr. *Edgar’s* right hand man when Mr. Evrart is away!” He chuckles. Actually, Miss Beaufort is the right-hand man, but she’s a lay-dee,” a goodhearted chuckle again.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Who is this Miss Beaufort?” The lieutenant looks up at Leo.
EASY LEO: “A real pretty lady with a skin like those ‘Doux & Sucre’ candy bars my missus likes so much. Them are real nice to suckle on once the dinner is done and me and the missus sit down besides the radio. But I can’t listen to the radio all the time There’s so much to do around here and I’m always busy keeping things running here. Yes I am, yes I am.”

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EASY LEO: “Oh, Lizzy? She is a real sharp tool. Mr. Evrart put her through some fancy school and everything, east of the river. Four years she was gone and when she came back she was all fancy and *law-yerly*. But she’s a real nice girl, grew up in this here neighbourhood, knows everybody and gets along with everyone, real pillar of the community one day, I’m sure.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] For a fraction of a second there’s sadness in his eyes.
EASY LEO: He goes on: “If me missus and me was to have a child I’d be real happy if she turned out like her… But she can’t have kids. Doctor Lemaitre said so, and she knows about such things. Been a doctor for almost fifty years, she has…” He sighs and falls silent, watching you meekly with his blue blue eyes.

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KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, this place really seems to run like clockwork. Keep it up, Leo.” The lieutenant smiles at the little man.
EASY LEO: “Well thanks a lot, coming from you it means a lot, really.” You didn’t think it was possible, but the smile becomes even wider. “Sometimes I feel some of the guys don’t really get how much I bust my ass for them here, but you guys are all right.”

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EASY LEO: “Oh yes, I’ve been taking special Whirling borscht to the men every day since the strike started.” The little guy chuckles merrily.

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EASY LEO: “Oh sure, mister… sure.” The little guy nods. “You do that, yes sir.”

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EASY LEO: “Oh that one…” He looks at the container. “That should be empty as far as I know. Lots of containers her have nothing in them. They’re just waiting to be loaded up.”

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EASY LEO: “Oh, you want Mr. Evrart, then. He’s an awfully nice fellow, he is. Him and his brother are both nice fellows—they’ve lived their entire lives in this here neighbourhood.” He coughs, then continues immediately…

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Well, that guy could certainly talk.

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Evrart leaves at 22? It’s 21:45 right now, so we better hustle. Next time, we’re finally, finally seeing Evrart Claire.

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Chapter 10: 21:45-23:17: Big Boss Man

Just gonna start using testposter links from here on out.

I like how jumping down from the roof is a check against Looking Cool instead of something boring like Agility.









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double post, lmao
Last edited by Arist on Mon Jul 20, 2020 11:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.











Arist wrote:
Fri Jul 31, 2020 10:20 pm
Especially one who understands my—our—plight? The bottomless, pathetic sadness she expressed—does it mean nothing?
She's at least a sociopath and a pathological liar. Or she's just not as retired as she claims. So, no, nothing she expressed does mean anything.
Although, I made the same mistake in my first playthrough. This is why you should always listen to Half Light.






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