Part 20: 21:08-23:34: Roll Playing

Chapter 20: 21:08-23:34: Roll Playing

Content warning: censored homophobic slurs



As you make your way into the yard, you sense someone nearby. You get a sense that what they have for you is much more important than what you’re currently occupying yourself with. No matter. It’s time to resolve the Cuno situation, once and for all.



CUNO: “All right, so you got Cuno’s kilo.” He rubs his hands together. “Here is how we do it. First, you give Cuno Cuno’s kiilo. Then Cuno gives you half back.”



CUNO: “Word on the street is you sent your little friend in dressed as a *hooker*. Distraction-style. That’s some sick shit.” He nods approvingly to Kim.
KIM KITSURAGI: Not a single muscle moves on the man’s face.



CUNO: “Cuno knows what Cuno means.”



You’re not fucking giving the child the drugs. But you already knew that.



CUNOESSE: “Tell him, Cuno!”
CUNO: “Cuno’s got brains. This shit doesn’t surprise Cuno.” He squints at you. “So Cuno’s gonna give you one more chance. Know this, pig—shit is *major*.”
CUNOESSE: “Major fucking choice, pig…”
CUNO: “Cuno won’t take this shit lightly. The pieces are moving, pig. This is fucking domino shit.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] It’s hard to see how *not* giving the boy a bag of amphetamine would cause some catastrophic cascade response.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Hard to see, but easy to feel. Somehow this *will* change things.



And that’s the one thing you absolutely cannot abide.

SUGGESTION: None that you can see.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] No. You *can* see it. This young man has junior officer material in him. In another life, where he trusts you.

Somehow you don’t feel like you’re really missing out too much by throwing away this hypothetical alternate reality where Cuno joins the force. What’s he gonna do? Ethnic slur the culprit into submission?



I told you I was a narc, Cuno!



CUNOESSE: “I told you he can’t be trusted! I told you, I told you…” the little rat repeats it six or seven times. “I told you he’d steal the shit!”
CUNO: “Relax C. We got plenty of kilo—kilo underground, in the tree, this ain’t about that.” He turns to you. “This is about you and Cuno. You mismanaged this shit. Now everything is *fucked* between us. How are you gonna make this up to the Cuno, huh?”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] There is genuine disappointment below the act, sire.



CUNO: “The fuck do you know about Cuno’s life? Cuno’s got plans. Get the fuck out of here.”
CUNOESSE: “Yeah, we got plans.”




CUNO: “What?!” His eyes become large and round.
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] His posture changes, the swaying rooster motion stops for a second. Then he gets it going again. Reorienting himself.
CUNO: “Fuck right Cuno’s dad was sleeping like a bum,” he snaps back. “Cuno told you—Cuno’s dad doesn’t give a shit about *anything*. Fucking breaking-and-entering shit—that’s nothing to Cuno’s dad.”



The snow slowly starts to fall. You can see Cuno try to hide his shivering.

CUNO: “Cuno’s not fuckin’ trying to be tough!” He pushed on bravely. “This shit is real. Cuno’s fucking violent dad’s gonna be a vegetable—Cuno knows that shit. Stroke shit, stomach fucked up, and… Cuno’s gonna go out like that too. Gonna be just like Cuno’s violent dad. Speed shit, crime shit, fucking on the bed—go out West Revachol style.”
CUNOESSE: “Stop saying all this *sad* shit, Cuno.” The whisper comes smaller than usual.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] There is a touch of grief in there.



CUNO: He punches the air again. “Get your fucking nun ass out of here before Cuno fucks it dead.” Another punch. “F****t. You think ‘cause you took Cuno’s speed, Cuno’s gonna sob like a f*g? ‘Turn into…’” He pants from exhaustion. “Cuno ain’t turning into shit! Cuno *is*! CUNO *IS* THAT SHIT.”



Whatever gets him through it, I guess.




CUNOESSE: “He’s tryin’a fuck you again!”
CUNO: “Fuck outta here, Cuno knows it’s fucking lame. That’s why Cuno changed it. Cuno can change his name into anything. Gonna change my name into f****t.”




CUNO: “That’s right, it’s a shit hole. Cuno’s gonna move underground. Le Royaume shit, ancient shit. Cuno’s gonna live in a fucking catacomb.”





CUNO: “Cuno doesn’t fucking care.”

This will probably be the last time you hear him say that, and it’s almost certainly untrue.

Also, now you have this bottle of speed you have no idea what to do with sitting in your pocket. You really don’t need the temptation, but some part of you insists on holding on to it. You literally cannot drop it. Shit.




We put one point into unlocking a new Thought Cabinet slot and slot in Jamais Vu (Derealization).



You push the other urgent matters out of your mind for now. There’s a few loose ends you never followed up on from earlier today you need to address before Kim takes the body.



As it happens, all of them involve the Doomed Commercial District.



You never actually visited the chimney after it was opened up for you, so that might be a good place to start.



There is a woman working fastidiously over by the window. You almost feel bad disturbing her.



Okay, I’m going to link a video of the music that plays here, because it’s honestly one of my favorite tracks in the game.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “So, what kind of die are you looking for?”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Could this be the malicious Entity? Perhaps it’s wise to go along with this *masquerade* for now…



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Yes, a milieu is like a call-in station. You need a two-way radio to access one. That’s why I have these.” She pats the headphones on the table.





NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “How strange,” she says. “Well, if you’re interested, my rate is 10 reál per set, unless you want something really unusual… Take a look around and see if there’s any particular stone you want to use.” The walls around her are covered with rows of precious stones and minerals.
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] This person means you—or anyone else—absolutely no harm. She will answer freely and honestly.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “How did I *become* one? It was a business decision. I was a regular jeweler at first, but that’s an unfocused field—with too much competition.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Not especially. I like working with rare materials and a steady pay. And role players as customers—they’re nice people.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Some of those nice people have big bucks to spend on novelty items.










NOVELTY DICEMAKER: The dicemaker laughs. “Who told you that amber was cheap? It’s beautiful, really, and has been treasured since the ancient times.”




You are the world’s most non-committal dice enthusiast. Actually, it’s probably just that you’re poor.




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Polyhedral dice. Dice that have more than six sides. Octahedrons, trapezohedrons, dodecahedrons… But also barrel dice and teetotum balls.”

(She actually says “dice that have more than four sides,” but I think that’s a typo)



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “I think I have just the right one for you.” She opens the top drawer of her work desk and takes something out—two polyhedrons, red and blue, are cradled in her palm.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Not the most original, I know,” she smiles, almost apologizing,” but sometimes the obvious choice is obvious because it’s best. Here, catch!” She tosses you the dice. “They’re a gift from me.”






Smooth.

We got some health back (or we would have, if we had been missing any) for failing that check, courtesy of Rigorous Self-Critique.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “That one is made of bloodstone with a lapis lazuli inlay. The other one was the inverse. They were a set, you see. But now the set is broken. It’s a shame. They might’ve brought you luck, and you’ll definitely need luck in Martinaise.” She closes her desk drawer.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Is she pitying you? Good god, she’s pitying you.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Nothing, really. I didn’t know him.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Who cares about the dead body? We might be dealing with a *malignant entity* here!
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks at his notebook, then the woman under the large window… “Your window looks directly onto the courtyard. You’re saying you didn’t see or hear *anything* unusual last Sunday evening?”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Well, there’s always something going on in the Whirling’s backyard…” She stops to try and come up with an example. “During daytime there are usually those kids… And lately I’ve been seeing a lot of drunk workers hanging about. Must be because of the strike.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] She’s heard of the murder, but did not see it, sire.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “I might have,” she admits, “ but in this case all I could have seen would have been my own reflection staring back from the darkness. It’s really hard to make anything out in the yard when it’s dark outside. Besides… I rarely get up to look out the window when I’m in the zone.”




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: She nods.




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “But when I arrived here, all the other rooms were taken, so I had to build myself a makeshift home. Besides, I don’t really have to pay any rent here, so that’s a plus.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Plaisance was right… There’s an entity living in the chimney! You should ask her about the curse.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Creative.” The lieutenant looks around in the spacious room, its ceiling fading into shadows above.







*whistling innocently*

NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “And then there’s me…” She sighs, looking at her messy work table. All kinds of tools lie there scattered, from knives to carving files to wire cutters. “I’ve been here for 14 years, selling novelty dice to role-playing enthusiasts. Not exactly a million reál business idea, yet somehow I’ve survived despite the talk of malicious energies. Strange, isn’t it?”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: The dicemaker erupts in laughter. “What, so the curse only affects people with poor work ethics?” What you’re describing isn’t a *curse*, it’s *capitalism*.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Exactly.” She pinches the root of her nose. “Truth is always so disappointingly mundane and boring. But I’m glad we got this sorted out. Anything else I can help you with today?”



SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Plaisance is not going to like what you have to tell her.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “More or less.” She adjusts the yellow scarf that covers her hair. “Are you interested in anyone specific?”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Yes, I think it was called Androgynous Orlando or something similar. They weren’t a big hit around here—turns out that working class men don’t like genderless haircuts. They’re scared of that word.”







NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Oh, you mean the kid with the sailor’s mouth. Yes, I’ve heard him yelling profanities in the backyard…” She looks out of the window, her face reflecting back in the dark.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “It didn’t. If anything, it made the youth situation in Martinaise even worse. At some point someone started a rumour that the punching bag downstairs was full of *amphetamines*.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] It’s not really full of that. No one would store their drugs like that.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Oh, this one’s a mess.” She sighs. “There used to be a company that promised to repair windows 24 hours a day. What could go wrong with this one, right? Turns out the business was actually set up as a front for an illicit group that was producing *snuff milieus*--who would have guessed…”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Hm, what’s a snuff milieu?

Aren’t you supposed to *know*? You passed that check!



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: It’s a sub rosa radio station that broadcasts real murders, with real victims. Some people pay good money to get off on it.”

Good lord!

DRAMA: [Medium: Success] Nothing changes in her tone as she says that—as if it’s just another piece of information to lay out for the world.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Don’t worry, the ICP has a separate division that deals exclusively with unlicensed sub rosas,” the lieutenant turns to you. “This isn’t our problem.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “You mean Mr. Fabron, the taxidermist? No, he mostly just did drugs.”




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Yeah, the atelier didn’t know it either. They produced a certain collection that used chitin among the materials. Apparently chitin is made in the Occident, where it’s extracted from beetle winds. And you know how all kinds of political movements are *big* in the Occident. The activists shut down the biggest chitin suppliers, which of course caused the price to skyrocket.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Hm. Really?” She looks at the windowsill, where a dead fly is lying on its back, legs curled up in a bowtie. “Anyway…”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “They were made by a company called Slipstream. After they ‘pivoted’ from making rotor blades to skis, their chief executive took off on a ‘vacation’… with all their money.” She rests her chin on her hand with an impish smile.

Huh, so they started with rotor blades, not skis. Interesting.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “The usual, I imagine—that he’s been thinking up all kinds of new business plans and can’t *wait* to get *started* on them just as soon as he returns…” Her smile widens, before she sees the lieutenant’s face behind you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Men like that are a curse.” The man is stern.
NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Sure. But Slipstream is history now. All their remaining assets got seized by the bailiffs in ‘47. I have no idea why those skis and blades are still lying around in the house… Not much use now, I guess.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] They were just props. Why return to them?



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Oh boy, the fabled Revachol Ice City—you’re in for a treat here!” She smiles and leans closer, hands on her knees, like a stand-up comedian ready to tell a story.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “There was really just one, and it involved picking out the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood and paying them 20 cents per hour to man the booth.” And by ‘man the booth’ I mean ‘slump behind the counter with a face that could maim you if you ever dared to distrub their bored magazine-browsing.’” She leans back, disapproving.
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Sounds like she really didn’t like those girls.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Employing sulky teenage girls is a widespread practice, yes. Unfortunately they always come in packs—I’m talking about acne-ridden *girlfriends* and gorilla-like *boyfriends* loitering near the shop. At least that’s what happened with Revachol Ice City.”




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Of course not. The bear was terrifying. No one wants ice-cream *guarded* by a hostile apex predator. To make matters worse, the fridge didn’t work too well either, and half the ice cream came out malformed and partially melted.”

Wait, it doesn’t work? We have a body stashed in there!




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “He said that the bear was his *vision beast*. He said he met his *vision beast* while high on desiccants. He called it ‘Megatherion.’”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “It’s an imaginary beast that guides you through life… by telling you to do more drugs, mostly.”




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “No, officer. I don’t have a vision beast.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Right,” says the dicemaker. She doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Anyway, now you know the story of the fallen ice cream empire.” She seems almost sad, finishing the story.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] The temperature has dropped in the cover of the night; you see frost on the windows.



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Oh, right!” She rubs her forehead; her scarf has left a faint line on her dusty skin. “I hope you didn’t try to ring me. I think none of those doorbells work, including mine. I’m still in the middle of connecting the wires—sorry about the confusion.”

If she hasn’t gotten around to it after *fourteen years* you doubt she ever will.




NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “You could say so. Both houses were built at the same time and under the East Delta Commerce Centre project. That explains why you can call the Whirling from the intercom, albeit I doubt that anyone responds.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Right, it used to be a gaming arcade. This is an *ancient* failure-- before my time. I’m not surprised, however. My advice…” she raises her finger. “Don’t base your business on a fad—hypnotism, floriography, triktrak, especially *pinball*.”
KIM KITSURAGI:”Agreed, the lieutenant chips in, “pinball is the worst.”

Whoa, huge slam on pinball outta nowhere!



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: She looks like she doesn’t really believe you. “It can’t be true. They don’t work here anymore, they’ve been gone for *years*.”



NOVELTY DICEMAKER: “Tricentennial Electrics?” There’s a moment before she recognizes the name. “It used to be a major electric company one hundred years ago. Are you sure it wasn’t just some kids playing a prank on you?”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] No, it was something else… It was *eerie*.
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] It was too real to be just a prank. Either we’re dealing with a professional actress, or…









What a nice lady.



It’s a shame that you lost this die’s twin. Oh, well.



Going by the description, getting this die has opened up some of our White Checks. Neat.




You remember that you ignored this room in favor of the fridge last time you were here. Time to rectify that.






FREQUENCY FIREPLACE: You think so? The web is comprised of radio stations. All lead back to one red heart, titled: The Game Master Frequency. A note says: “This one can listen in on any station it wants?!”



FREQUENCY FIREPLACE: Someone very important.



FREQUENCY FIREPLACE: Whoever decides to call in to a call-in station, it looks like.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] A list of names under the stations suggests people across *six isolas* would be playing: Mundi, Insulinde, Katla, Graad, Samara, and even Iilmaraa.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] All of this gone, left unrealized.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] There’s no way a little basement studio working *here* could pull anything like this off.







PROJECT DREAD BOARD: These lithe, pointy-eared creatures appear to be different types of *welkins*. You make out autumnal *candle-welkins* casting wax-based magic… *Translucent welkins* with organs shining under their skin, and even aether welkins—hailing from the vast emptiness of sidereal space.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Who are all those creatures? Fantasies of a tortured, feverish mind?
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] You should adopt one of those welkins as your *persona*. No longer a mere man—but a welkin…

Okay, this is probably going to only make sense to me and my diseased brain, but I need one of you guys to draw Welkin Gunther from Valkyria Chronicles as Raphaël’s Stand. On that note, I bet you guys were hoping there wouldn’t be anime in this LP, huh? Well, too bad! I promised nothing!



PROJECT DREAD BOARD: It’s Vaarahamira, a *high welkin* – his face white and scarred like cracked marble. This is clearly a welkin supremacist. The note says: “All non-welkin races will be purged.” The huldur, the dweorg, the humans, and even the headless men… all of them. Purged. Imagine a world filled *only* with welkin! Green welkin, dread welkin… and the high welkin to rule them all.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Just look at those details. So much effort…”



PROJECT DREAD BOARD: The photo collage depicts barren, icy landscapes wrapped in perpetual night. You see permafrost and glacial landforms, dead trees groaning under the snow. Entire oceans have been frozen from shore to shore. There are pictures of settlements on dried up riverbeds, abandoned in a storm. Animal corpses in the dark, carcasses and bones.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Easy: Success] You see primitive oil rigs built into glaciers—by *boreal dweorg*—yurts under the snow, great mammoth-like beasts of burden…



PROJECT DREAD BOARD: This is a monthly calendar from the year ‘50. Cryptic words like “sprint,” “daily minime,” and “GPI” span the marker-drawn grid—the grand scheme of production and money.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] It looks a bit like an academic calendar. Only much more *brutal*.



PROJECT DREAD BOARD: As time goes on, the numbers in the boxes grow rarer and rarer. The board becomes an empty snowfield in the final days… Only failure and regret dwell in this region.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks at the frigid ice field of nothingness and concludes: “Looks like they didn’t make it.”



PROJECT DREAD BOARD: The handwriting is only partly legible, but you can still make out three slogans: “Call in, tune out!” “WIRRÂL UNTETHERED”, and “Heat death of the Universe…”
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] The full text reads: Heat death of the Universe is the new black”. “Another note says: “The biggest advancement in role playing systems since the ‘30s.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “A radiocomputer…” says the lieutenant, watching you circle around the machine. “Just sitting here without anyone in sight.” He sounds surprised and a bit cautious.
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] What he means is that these things cost *money*. Why would anyone just leave it behind?





MAINFRAME: It’s empty like a beehive without its brood. Some cables have been left tangling, disconnected…



MAINFRAME: Nothing happens.





MAINFRAME: A bar of fabric right above the keyboard starts producing a soft hum. The sound of static seeps through the machine’s planar magnetic driver.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Have you stirred the ghost of the Doomed Commercial Area from its rest? Could this be its dismembered heart, beginning to flutter?
MAINFRAME: The static gets louder, slowly filling up the abandoned hall. Until a voice speaks out, crackling and old, cutting into the air…
EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Good evening, Fortress Accident on Rue de Saint-Ghislaiine, this is East-Insulindian Repeater Station 1.”





EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Good. Please repeat the password.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Password. Of course it would have a password. That’s why there’s a human administrator involved.



EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “No.”




EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: The voice recites: “I am contractually obligated to protect the privacy of the filament holder Fortress Accident. Without filing a warrant with Lintel I cannot give you access to this filament.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m afraid we’re not doing that. Unless we want to wait for a month.”



EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Received. I will *register* this log-in attempt.”
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Don’t worry. Passwords have a way of *turning up* sooner or later.




EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “One moment…” You hear her flip through a catalogue, before she reads out with studious care:




EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Yes, I am alive. I am 74 years old and my name is Yvonne.”



EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “I work as a repeater at the East-Insulindian Repeater Station. It’s my job to know where you are, Fortress Accident. As for me, well…” Some static. Then…”I am sitting in my cubicle surrounded by a wall of radios.”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] On an island on the river Esperance, a small woman, all skin and bones, sits in a room filled with audio equipment. Thousands of tiny lights are reflected back from her prescription lenses, like stars in the dark.



EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Lonely?” For the first time you hear her chuckle through the rustle of static. “Why would it get lonely, I get to talk to people all day.”
EMPATHY: That’s why she does this.



EAST-INSULINDIAN REPEATER STATION: “Thank you and goodbye,” the old lady’s voice disappears along with the static.0



Eh, might as well take it with you.




Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kim move to grab your attention.



KIM KITSURAGI: “No, that’s not it. *I* think…” The lieutenant takes a step back, steepling his hands.
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] Like he’s ready to lay out a fine theory, crafted together like a puzzle box.
KIM KITSURAGI: “It looks like one of those popular pen-and-paper roleplaying games—only these people were trying to *automate* it. Make it work on *radiocomputers*.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Through call-in stations.” He nods at the fireplace. “None of the players have to be physically present… Anyone in the world can participate in the game, as long as they have a two-way radio. Then there’s the Game Master Frequency that listens in on the smaller call-in stations. I think that was supposed to coordinate the stories. Functioning as a master of ceremonies of sorts.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Not to my knowledge. They make automated games in Graad, Messina, Königstein… You know, places with industry.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] *Not* in Revachol West, among the ruins.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes—especially in here.” Kim looks around in the derelict room. The pipes howl and a rat crosses the floor in front of your feet.



Yet another sad tale of reach exceeding grasp. You’ve seen this time and again, though perhaps not quite on this *scale*.



All right, back to the ice bear fridge. We’re sending Kim away, finally.








THE HANGED MAN: There go those beautiful enamel boots. May they rest in Processing…
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] Oh well—in another lifetime.




Carrying it earlier must have counted for some practice, because you manage to carry it to the motor carriage and say goodbye to Kim in about one minute. You somehow manage to smell even worse than before, however. You should probably go take that bath.




One thing we can do only when Kim is gone is sit on a bench to pass time. Kim doesn’t appreciate sitting down and wasting his time, I guess. There’s other ways to kill time while Kim is in the party, though.



FUCK

Welp, gotta go talk to Garte again!




You can’t resist the urge to get a drink now that Kim is gone.

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Do I have a shaker in my hand? Is this…” He points to his empty hand. “Is this a shaker?”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He sounds irritated.



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Am I wearing a little bow tie? Am I wearing a bow tie and doing this?” he shakes the imaginary shaker, furiously.



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “That’s right—I’m THE CAFETERIA MANAGER.” He calms his breath. “I’m glad we cleared that. Was there anything else?”



Fine, whatever. You don’t want a drink that bad anyway (actually, you do, that was a lie).




GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Good. You got the room for the night, but remember—you’ll need *another* 20 reál tomorrow.”

Fucking landlords.




Anyway, now that that’s dealt with, we can bathe and rest up.






Man, these checks are really mocking us, huh?





BATHTUB: The water is only lukewarm, but still comforting, like amniotic fluid. A few beer cans are bobbing up and down along your flanks like sad duckies.

Quite the mental image, there.





BATHTUB: You see the corpse. You can still smell the cadaver on you. It’s going to take more than one bath to get rid of that stench.







Time to rest…