Part 7: 16:55-19:06: Racists Of All Stripes
When we last left our hero, the game ended. Or maybe it began. Whatever.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Who was what?
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Here in the Paleo-Mammalian Cortex we call it--*the shadow*.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Yes, theyre *pouring* something on yousomething *in* you. And its
PERCEPTION (TASTE): Its DELICIOUS.
COUPRIS KINEEMA In the upholstered cabin of lieutenant Kitsuragis motor carriage, seated in the drivers 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: lotsoracism
KIM KITSURAGI: That does sometimes happen. He hands you the remains of your ledger.
Kim understands.
KIM KITSURAGI: Good.
This is White Mourning, a thought we just picked up.
Were going to internalize Coach Physical Instrument instead, though. Maybe White Mourning later.
We decide to head south from the roundabout this time. Theres not much in this direction at the moment, but ever more reason to knock it out quickly.
The water lock is broken? Interesting.
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. Im keeping him companyand 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.
MAN ON WATER LOCK: I wasnt 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 doesnt know how to drive.
MAN ON WATER LOCK: Well, theres the fishing village. An abandoned fish market. A bizarro church. Not much use to the congregation, thoughthere always seems to be something wrong with it.
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.
Hmm, a pawnshop. Lets keep this in mind for later.
Back up at the roundabout, theres a cool customer chilling right outside the Whirling-In-Rags that weve just been completely ignoring. Lets rectify that!
TOMMY LE HOMME: Its 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.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Yeah, yeahexactly.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Yeah, imagineits been a whole week already. He snickers.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Behind the laugh, however, a touch of sorrow.
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 Ive heard talk theres a company rep in town too Like a strike negotiator type. Theyd know whats up. Precise demands and so on.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Not my thing. Chasin transient pleasures is a drag these days. I prefer the examined life nowthinkin, reflectin, observin. He glances down the road toward the horizon, a glint of something in his eyes.
TOMMY LE HOMME: He aint one of us driversI know that. All accounted for. Otherwise, I havent really asked about that. Been wastin time right here. Keepin busy.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Cant even get a few jokes past you, my man. He grins. Ive got another haul of FALN cargo. Mostly sporting goods. Tracksuits and that kinda thing.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Yeah, must beyoure jobs to know all those *little* things isnt it? While my job he pats the back of the lorry, is to deliver tracksuit trousers.
The check fails.
TOMMY LE HOMME: Cool, cool We all want to know each other, know each others woes and allbut people, man, they have *slippery* souls
Equipping the Ledger will increase our Inland Empire and Empathy by one, and reduce our Authority by 2.
Back in the Whirling, you see a mysterious door in the kitchen.
BLUE DOOR: The cobalt blue surface feels rough to touch. The stainless steel door is flush with its frame on every side.
KIM KITSURAGI: Eccentric. But okay, I suppose we could look into it. As a side-investigation.
You really walked into that one, dumbass.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: The trash Collection Service? CS Municipal. I dont see why they would *put* anything in the trash, though.
KIM KITSURAGI: Ah, the illusive CS Municipal. I doubt well be able to track down who was sent here last and when. This will have to be one of those *little* threads that solves itselfdown the road.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: No, I dont have a keyI dont know how to get there. And I dont *care* either. Its not like Ive been *wondering* about it for ten years. Its 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.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: Fine, okay. A little. He shrugs. But my job doesnt leave me time for wondering about *one* locked door in *one* of the cafeterias I manage So I havent opened it. I *have* cleaned the whole place a hundred times over, thoughafter the *animals*. And I havent found a key. So good luck with that.
Oh, how friendly! Lets talk to this nice man.
Spoiler alert: Racist Lorry Driver is a racist!
KIM KITSURAGI: I know exactly what you meant. You think my *kind* doesnt belong here. That I should *watch myself* and *behave.* But you see, Im an officer of the RCMits 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.
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: You two make a cute couple, you know that? The lorryman spits.
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: Its about biological determinism. Natural law. The sorting of the races. He spits on the ground.
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: Im not *just* racist. Look, Ive read *books*, he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. The science of racial theory has all been proved, even if some people dont want to accept it.
Well, that guy sucked.
Lets head into Frittte. Sic.
FRITTTE CLERK: Uhm I dont know, lets see Nosaphed is a nasal spray Drouamine is a really good painkiller. Magnesium is a dietary supplement. Hypnogamma is She stops. I dont really know what Hypnogamma is. I guess it makes you feel less shit? Its recommended to use after lots of partying, studying, or exercising.
FRITTTE CLERK: Uhm... She chews her bubblegum absent-mindedly. No, sorry. Im not, like, a doctor or anything.
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?
Youve been a real help, miss.
Now we can fuckin Hulk out when we take off our shirt. Nifty.
Hooray! Money!
FRITTTE CLERK: What is what? The girl leans over the counter to see what youre referring to. Uhm, its a raincoat? If you want one then its only four réal. She taps on the glass counter the raincoats patiently await purchase.
Lets not.
FRITTTE CLERK: You mean this? She looks at the cover boating a colourful photo of two girls kissing. This is Pop-Stars, its got, like, famous people in it? Its not for sale.
FRITTTE CLERK: Uhm, no. I dont like it, I hate it.
FRITTTE CLERK: She looks up from under her brow.
FRITTTE CLERK: Uhm I dont know?
KIM KITSURAGI: No need to worry. The lieutenants voice is soothing and professional. Its just standard procedure for us to ask around. If you hear anything, let us know. Okay?
FRITTTE CLERK: Reality? You mean what reality? Economic reality? Or
FRITTTE CLERK: As a mankind or as a nation or
FRITTTE CLERK: In a good place? She rubs her face, thinking.
FRITTTE CLERK: I dont know, look at the clock. Its right behind you on the wall.
FRITTTE CLERK: Our government?
FRITTTE CLERK: Cool. She seems happy to return to her reading.
Were going to put a point into Encyclopedia to offset the negative bonus from Coach Physical Instrument.
FRITTTE CLERK: The clerk looks at the wall of good behind her. Um Guess not, no. She adjusts her hat. Im obliged to inform you that both alcohol and cigarettes damage your health. But I guess you already know that.
Get the fuck out of here before you make some mistakes.
Back outside, we come across some rabblerousing.
SCAB LEADER: Hold up and stay frosty, everyone! Cops are here. The broad-shouldered alpha male turns to you. Hes a full head taller than everybody else here.
SCAB LEADER: Hah! Couldnt handle us. A cause gives the workers strength. Gives them power. He bellows at the gates: We haveA RIGHT TO WORK!
SCAB LEADER: Might be time. Dont let the fat bastards tread on you. Cops tend to side with the higher-ups, but youre essentially still *workers*.
SCAB LEADER: Maybe you should ask *them* the questions, like why were 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.
SCAB LEADER: I know nothing about a murder. His reply is snappy and terse.
SCAB LEADER: Wouldnt put it past these harbour bugs. Theyd do *anything* to stay alive.
KIM KITSURAGI: Were not picking a side in this just yet, sir.
SCAB LEADER: Beats me. They mumble nonsense about *board rooms* and *workers rights*. While we-- he raises his fist and starts shouting again, --HAVE THE RIGHT TO WORK!
SCAB LEADER: He ignores your question, choosing instead to turn to the emaciated workersraising both fists in the air. The clothes are obviously not his.
SCAB LEADER: Honest men and women. With rightsto 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 dont 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 Im 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.
All technically true, the best kind of true.
I still had questions, bucko!
SCAB LEADER: Main gates lockedwould take *heavy ordnance* to bust it open. Could try to get in through the secretarys office. He points up the stairs. Doors locked. The guards blocking the way to the access panel.
SCAB LEADER: Bad. The man glares at you. Standing on a narrow bridge, hes got a strategically advantageous position. And hes trained.
SCAB LEADER: Why dont *you* go arrest them instead? Im sure theyve done plenty of criminal shit, they have *that look*.
KIM KITSURAGI: It would be betterfor the neighbourhoodif you went home. At least for now. If you cant get in anyway.
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.
HORSEBACK MONUMENT: A silver plaque on the statues 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.
\
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Well, he blew through the whole national treasury, starting the decline of one of the penultimate centurys greatest superpowers: the Suzerain of Revachol
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.
Shut up, necktie.
This shirt is useless considering we have Coach Physical Instrument.
KIM KITSURAGI: Wait The lieutenant stops you before you can snap.
Lets finally make our way up to the gate.
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 theyre scared of.
CALL ME MAÑANA: Ah, I was just messing with you. His smile deepens his wrinkles even more. No ones ever seen a cop scab. Imagineyou cops going on a strike, but then another cop comes in and says: Let us cop! For less money. He chuckles, then realizes:
CALL ME MAÑANA: To get me into trouble. To *sic the pigs* on mepardon 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 knowtrack it down, see who took it.
KIM KITSURAGI: Did you?
CALL ME MAÑANA: At first I thoughtwhy 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 hell make me his *prison bitch*. Hes got *eyes everywhere*, the cops in his pocket and hes the king of Jamrock.
CALL ME MAÑANA: I learned that people dont want to talk to a drunk Union man about some armour.
KIM KITSURAGI: What else?
CALL ME MAÑANA: I did some research into this *armadura*. Lets say I have friends at the library, he explains with a wry smile. I didnt 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.
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. Its only that *one* spot you need armoured toothe one the bullet hits.
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*.
CALL ME MAÑANA: Body still hangin in the tree? He rubs his chin as if pondering his core beliefs. Aye, thats a rough pickle cant help you with that, sorry.
CALL ME MAÑANA: Dont worry, Im sure its not *completely* impossible. For example, you could best Measurehead in a physical confrontation.
CALL ME MAÑANA: Always glad to help out the RCM. Shame I cant do morethings are meagre at the moment, due to He nods toward the protesters.
CALL ME MAÑANA: You know serious business. He smiles. Im sure the big boss would be glad to tell you. Youll have to ask him first.
Guess well have to come back to this guy once weve met with Evrart. If that ever indeed happens. Lets see about this Measurehead problem first.
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.
KIM KITSURAGI: Its not good.
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 CULTURESLIKE THE DEFORMED HIMEANS AND THE INEXPLICABLY POTATO-OBSESSED KOJKOSBUT 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 SUPERSEDEDISNT THAT RIGHT, BABE?
MEASUREHEADS 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.
MEASUREHEAD: ENOUGH OF THIS BEGGING. YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE STAGE OF HISTORY WITH DIGNITYBY 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."
For some reason, I dont want to subscribe to this mans newsletter!
And knocking him out doesnt seem like much of an option, hmm.
MEASUREHEAD: MR. CLAIRE IS A MAN OF VISION AND MEANS. HE HAS THE WILL TO CONFRONT POLYCULTURAL CAPITALSOMETHING *YOUR* RACES NAIVISTIC COMMUNISTS NEVER DID.
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
Its suddenly occurred to me that Im in my mid-20s and Im spending my Christmas Eve transcribing a bunch of the racial essentialist rantings of a fictional character. Don't end up like me, kids.
MEASUREHEAD: OFFSHOOTS OF THE SEMENESE PEOPLE INVENTED DISCO WHILE HAVING SEX UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF COCAINE. IT IS A SHAME UPON MY RACEBUT WHAT IS DONE IS DONE.
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 PERIKARNASSISAND ARRIVED HERE 4000 YEARS AGO.
MEASUREHEAD: IM 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.
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.
MEASUREHEAD: RACISTS ARE GENERALLY NOT VERY GOOD EXAMPLES OF THEIR RACE. He gestures toward the lorryman down the street
MEASUREHEAD: IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE ANY MORE OF YOUR BONE STRUCTUREIT 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.
Well, this got us nowhere.
Looks like well be investigating further to see if theres another route to Evrart Claire.