Part 27: 19:38-20:55: Accidentally Doing A Centrism

Chapter 27: 19:38-20:55: Accidentally Doing A Centrism

ARIST: [Medium: Success] Now that you’ve discovered this rather apt metaphor for the destruction of the decaying wreck of your old life, you decide to continue making your way up the coast for no real reason besides my bidding. It’s almost like I know the future or something!





ARIST: [Easy: Success] “Either” seems less likely than “both.”





KIM KITSURAGI: “In someone’s abandoned shack. On the coast. In Martinaise…” He looks at you. “In Revachol.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Nothing. It’s just a piece of furniture.” He looks at the chair gathering dust.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] Looks like this mystery will remain unanswered. Actually, it wasn’t much of a mystery. It’s just kind of boring. Whatever.









ARIST: [Easy: Success] You come across a tiny little fishing village a short ways from the motor carriage.










ARIST: [Medium: Success] You sense that this old woman will bring you good fortune. Talk to her, rub her head or something, and make a wish.



ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Uhhh, Kim? Standing a little close there, dude.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] You’re not sure about the melody, but it might be South Samaran, possibly Siigayan (also known as the Apricot Suzerainty).

ARIST: [Easy: Success] Hey! That’s a slur!

WASHERWOMAN: “Welcome to the fishing village.” She opens her eyes. “Please lean in closer. I have cataracts.”




WASHERWOMAN: “Oh.” A shadow passes over her face. “Welcome, police officer. We don’t cause any trouble around here—and we don’t *want* any trouble either.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re not here to cause any trouble, madam.”




WASHERWOMAN: “Oh, the usual. Dark tidings. Black hound.”




WASHERWOMAN: “Because you’re am *ill omen*. But you’re still welcome here as long as men with guns aren’t chasing you. And maybe even then, because that’s the kind of fishing village we’ve built. I’m sorry there’s not a lot of room to park your motor carriage. And not a lot of houses. Or a lot of people. My kids are long gone… searching for treasure. So are others’.”

ARIST: [Easy: Success] Oh, don’t worry about the motor carriage. It’s thoroughly parked.



WASHERWOMAN: “*Stay*? Most people here are trying to *leave*…”




ARIST: [Medium: Success] How uncharacteristically generous of a Martinaise-er! She’s probably going to steal your organs, but hey, you spent the money you needed to pay Garte tonight on that game of Suzerainty, so you don’t really have a choice. Besides, turning her down would be impolite.





WASHERWOMAN: “Aye.” She nods and looks at the shack. “The room is pretty bare-bones, but it’s got a bed and roof over it. That’s more than some folks have around here.”





ARIST: [Easy: Success] Psh. When have you ever made anyone regret anything? Wait, that time doesn’t count. Anyway, you now have a (free) place to sleep! Eat shit, Garte!

KIM KITSURAGI: “Well, if you’re not in the hostel in the morning, I’ll know where to find you.” He looks around and adds: “Here. In a shack.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He’s a little relieved you’re no longer in that room.





WASHERWOMAN: She waves her hand south-west. “Over there you can find… more of the same. Shacks and trees growing wild. That’s the Pox.”



WASHERWOMAN: “An old military hospital and its surroundings.” She looks toward the buildings to the south. “Or it used to be, during the time of the Suzerain. After the war it was turned into a goodwill hospital for shell-shocked veterans and folks looking for some quiet in the old sanatorium gardens.”




WASHERWOMAN: “Well, there’s Lilienne and her kids. A few new folks live in the house to the east.” She nods her head across the courtyard. “But they’re away right now.”




WASHERWOMAN: “Here? For you?” She lets out a dry chortle. “No, officer. The only money we have here is some coins the drunks tried hiding from their women—and then forgot about.”





WASHERWOMAN: “Some things just don’t *fly*, officer.” She smiles a gap-toothed smile and smells the air. “Look around. Who’d go to church here? They built it three hundred years ago, must have been nicer then…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So they don’t hold services there anymore? The Ecclesiastes?”
WASHERWOMAN: “No. They’ve tried, but things just keep happening. Crime. *Accidents*. Other things. The place never stays open.” She frowns. “It’s a pity. It used to be such a nice church.”



WASHERWOMAN: “Well, there’s that music. Music from across the sea.” She scoffs. “It started a few days ago and now it’s blasting, even through the nights. And now *suspicious*-looking people are sneaking around the church. I don’t like that.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Interesting. You could look into this *ruckus*, if you have the time.






WASHERWOMAN: “No one, that’s why it closed.” After a long pause, she adds, “It was once a bustling place, back when I was young and so was everyone else…”



WASHERWOMAN: “What, you’re one of those real-estate people with big plans? If you want a development opportunity, you can check out the abandoned building over at land’s end. Used to be a supply depot… we think. Sending goods and ammo across the bay. It’s jammed shut, though. We tried to get in, see if there was anything to sell or scavenge, but it’s impossible.”



WASHERWOMAN: “Me? No one. Just an old washerwoman. Mother called me Isobel, if that’s what you’re asking. And my married name is Sadie.”











ARIST: [Easy: Success] You ignore the small children for now and continue heading northwest. That cryptozoologist has to be around here somewhere.







RHETORIC: This is more important than you. That’s the blood of industry you see before you. The run off from Coal City, further down the coast.







ARIST: [Easy: Success] What!? No! I’m the *most* unreasonable!



EMPATHY: Of course, a *radical centrist*. In these bright and loud times where a thousand frequencies drown one another out sober thinking is a radical act…



EMPATHY: *Incrementally*. History’s greatest catastrophes have been brought about by people trying to make the world a better place *too quickly*…



EMPATHY: *Tsk, tsk*. Just because you live in the *present* doesn’t mean you have the right to place your needs above the needs of the *future*… You may never live to see the Kingdom of Conscience. Your children may not. Even your *grandchildren* might not. But that’s no excuse not to keep working…
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] What rationality…




ARIST: [Impossible: Failure] Ah, well, you see… fuck. Uhhhhhhh…. I don’t like the way this question is framed, can’t I pick another option? Like, maybe? Actually, define “chaos and bloodshed”. Hell, I dunno much about the status quo either. Oh man, this is hard.
EMPATHY: …
ARIST: Oh man, I’m sweating. It’s really hot in—turn on the A/C, it’s *sweltering*. No one else feels this heat? Wow.
EMPATHY: CHOOSE.
ARIST: Fine! Sure! I guess! Oh man, I really am a centrist, FUCK. I regret this already!



EMPATHY: The Kingdom is difficult to comprehend and even more difficult to describe… Partly because humanity will need to discard many of the categories that define and limit it today. The Kingdom of Conscience is post-capitalist, post-national…

ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Really? Because I feel like in practice centrism is actually very capitalist.
EMPATHY: Silence, you have made your choice.



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Man, fuck this.



[ARIST: [Medium: Success] Really don’t know how to feel about your *Empathy* being the centrist here. Oh well, at least you rejected it.



We follow that conversation up by putting a point into… Endurance!? The fascist one?! Jeez, maybe we are centrist, even if we’re only doing it because the health might be useful.



ARIST: [Godly: Failure] Further north, you come across a decaying boardwalk. Still no sign of any cryptid freaks. Wait, I didn’t mean to call them freaks, I just mean they really love cryptids. You get that, right? I’m not a bad person.






ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You use your psionic cop powers to lift the handset with your mind. Kim does not pay attention, because this is nothing new to him.



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Last time you dialed a random number you fucked it up like some kind of… botch… cop? Anyway, you resolve to never do that again. This time, you’re prepared.



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Okay, now you’re just showing off.



PAYPHONE: Still calling…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] This feels wrong. Should you be doing this?

ARIST: [Easy: Success] Settle down, you’re supposed to be cool. You’re not Volition, my dad, or *me*. He’s got this.

PAYPHONE: End of tone. Someone picks up.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] Strong opener. I like where this is going.



PAYPHONE: “Are you sure you’re Pierre? Your voice, it’s different… I… there… chrysanthemum…” Her voice is drowned in white noise. Sounds like waves washing a beach, growing in volume until the call suddenly disconnects.








ARIST: [Easy: Success] Could this be our missing cryptid *gentleman*? I’m overcorrecting now, dammit.







MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: There’s a cylinder on the ground in which the man is arranging some netting. It looks like some kind of trap. He notices you. “Who’s there? Oh, the police. Hello, officers.”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] His self-conscious enthusiasm renders his movements ungainly. He looks like your understanding of a scientist.

ARIST: [Medium: Success] Judging by your general understanding of things, let’s assume that means he’s not a scientist.




MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “To what do I owe the pleasure?”





GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “DID HE SAY WE CAN GO BACK NOW?”
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “YES, GARY! WE CAN GO SOON!” He turns to you. “If you see Lena, tell her I won’t be long.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Sir, your wife is waiting for you.”




MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Good question. Being a phasmid, of the order *phantasmodea*—a ghost insect—it disguises itself as plant-matter. In this case the reeds…” He looks around. “Awful lot of reeds around, aren’t there?”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “It’s my hypothesis that it has evolved certain electro-chemical defences that allow it to interfere with animal perception—impeding pattern recognition, confusing the visual cortex. But I cannot describe how these defences work—much less how they evolved—without studying a live specimen.”




ARIST: [Medium: Success] So by “giant” he means “about the size of a small dog”?

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: He flashes you a sideways smile. “Typical rookie assumption. Insects are much more sophisticated creatures than those unversed in zoology give them credit for.”




MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Not *yet*.” He holds up an index finger. “That’s what makes it a *cryptid*.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm…” The lieutenant interjects. “Just out of curiosity—if there’s no proof of its existence, how do you know it’s real?”
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I *know* it’s real,” the cryptozoologist says, brusquely enough that even he seems taken aback by it…
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] It’s clear that his obsession with the phasmid is driven by something more than the pure pursuit of scientific advancement.



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Yes, the most *recent* sighting was by a couple of teenagers along the coast here. That’s what brought us to Martinaise specifically.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: The cryptozoologist shakes his head vigorously. “I have to resist the thought. Such an extraordinary creature is doubtlessly *highly resilient*. After all, it’s generally thought to be capable of parthenogenesis.”







MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Simple—attracted by the locusts, the phasmid crawls down the funnel, and, having eaten its fill, can’t get back out.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Locusts.” He gestures toward the trap. “Nearly all *known* phasmids are herbivores, of course, but we’ve hypothesized that the Insulindian phasmid might occasionally prey on other insects.”
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Easy: Success] Inside the traps, a number of locusts crawl and tumble over one another in a tiny, chittering swarm.



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Thank you for your opinion. We have also included plant material in the traps—to satiate your *skepticism*.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “They’ll *work*, I assure you. The predatory hypothesis—using locusts as bait—accounts for the failure of previous efforts by other teams which used plants. We have given this some thought.”

ARIST:[Medium: Success] He seems kind of uptight, just let him have this, no matter how flawed his methodology.




MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “And I’m eager to return to her, I assure you—but I can’t leave before we’ve finished with these traps.” He looks south—where Lena would be. “My wife understands that just as well as anyone.”
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “COME ON, MORELL. WE’VE BEEN SOAKING OUT HERE FOR DAYS. IT’S TIME TO GO BACK.”
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “AND LEAVE THE TRAPS? ABSOLUTELY NOT!” he yells in response. “I won’t let Lena down…”
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “COME ON, SHE WANTS US BACK. I’M SOAKED UP TO MY NUTS OVER HERE. WE’LL BOTH CATCH REED CRABS IF WE DON’T DRY OUT SOON.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Of course it’s important to her, she’s *seen* it. A verified sighting, on record, one of only four this century and it’s hers.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Yes. That’s… how we first came to know one another, in fact. But that’s *her* story to tell, not mine.” He coughs, then continues…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Needless to say, you *must* ask her about the mysterious phasmidoid.



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “No, no. The traps need to be monitored on a regular schedule. What would we do if the phasmid were to *starve* while we were sipping tea at the hostel?”
VOLITION: [Easy: Success] He’s dead set on this.





ARIST: [Easy: Success] No, we *haven’t* caught the bug. That’s why we’re doing this.

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “There are four in total. One is to the south, on this little peninsula—by the boat houses there.” He points south. “It’s very near. Another we set in Land’s End, to the north-east. It’s behind a small sand dune there, on your way to the old radio tower. After the church. The third is set near the canal, where you crossed. By a concrete slab. A big thicket of reeds going up the slope, and among them…” he gestures to the trap in front of him.



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Bring it to me at once. Just make sure the trap is closed tight.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “That’s *highly* unlikely, officer. But, in the event you do…” He takes out a small white spray can. “I’ll spray you with a pheromone mixture I developed.”




SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] This is the smell of dying reeds, of longing crumbling into the water.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant wrinkles his nose. “I hope you’re not buying this. He dispenses it without letting you touch the canister, so it would be precious, like holy water…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Right. Which means you two can pack up and go back to the Whirling.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Whatever he thinks about this detour, it’s clear that these men are exhausted and in need of assistance.
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “FINALLY! Someone’s talking sense!”



RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] If it’s more cryptid-related business you want to discuss, you’ll have time for that later too.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] But what if the information is vital—on *the hunt*…



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I’ve just always liked animals, and puzzles. Searching for cryptids is a bit of both.”






MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “I have yet to *catch* a cryptid, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I have come close.”





MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Of the list of cryptids kept by the Cryptozoolocal Society of Chemnie, which is four thousand and eighty-two items long, about two thousand have been confirmed as hoaxes.”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Yes—the Shautauquan forest pygmy who turned out to be an extinct species of primate; and a cave salamander from Yugo-Graad, who is… honestly quite unremarkable. It’s in a zoo somewhere…”



MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Indeed.” He does not smile, just looks you in the eye. It’s a forceful gaze. “If our expedition is successful, every paper in the world will report on it. From Revachol to Doushantou—it will be a zoological miracle.”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] The hair on your arms stands up… electricity. Sounds like reeds hissing.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] You finally found Morell and got a side hustle as a gofer for cryptozoologists.