Disco Elysium Part #60 - Addendum II: Botchcop Is Terrible On Levels Even I Was Heretofore Wholly Unprepared For

Part 60: Addendum II: Botchcop Is Terrible On Levels Even I Was Heretofore Wholly Unprepared For

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:

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.”

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.”

A little defensive, but whatever.

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

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.

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.

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.”

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

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…

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.

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.”

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.”

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

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.

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

Ah shit.

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.”

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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*.”

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

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’.”

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.

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

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.

Oh, I hate this!

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

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

Fucking god dammit! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck this!

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’.

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

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…

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

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

Congratulations Lieutenant Love, you successfully redpilled someone.

Tha--

NOT A COMPLIMENT

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

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

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?”

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

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

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.

Please don’t--

Ah, shit

CHRIST, BOTCHCOP

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

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.

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!”

We fail that check once again.

Over by the corpse:

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

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:

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?

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.”

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?)

Internalize that thought.

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

Hello, little girl!

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

ANNETTE: She looks at Dick Mullen, frowning.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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…

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…

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

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.

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.

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.

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

The ball splashes in the nearby water.

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

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.”

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.”