Part 61: Addendum III: Botchcop Tries Again

Addendum III: Botchcop Tries Again

Content warning: Cuno and Cunoesse are in this one, you know the deal by now

So… I fucked up. I didn’t realize this game deletes autosaves older than the last three, so we lost pretty much all the progress we made in Botchcop 2. But, no matter! We can rebuild him!



Let’s start by putting that first point into Volition.



Then, we talk to Jules.



Okay, we’ve already fucked this up. But, no matter! Let’s press on!



JULES PIDIEU: “He says it’s just a regular gun.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Sounds like he’s being deliberately vague.”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Detective Mullen has done it again! ‘Uh… where’s my gun?’” the speaker crudely mimics your voice.



JULES PIDIEU: “That’s a negative. Not going to say that. Over.”
MACK TORSON: “What’s he saying? Share with the class!”
JULES PIDIEU: “He… He said he sodomized your mother.”
MACK TORSON: “The prick ate momma’s vanilla waffles at the captain’s birthday party! Some nerve he’s got…”
CHESTER MCLAINE: “Sure her vanilla waffles were the only thing he ate?”
MACK TORSON: “Shut up, Chester, this isn’t funny. This is my mom we’re talking about! Tell him to apologize right now!”



JULES PIDIEU: “Mack, he says maybe you shouldn’t have antagonized the Firewalker in the first place.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Who?!” The disbelief in Vicquemare’s voice is overwhelming.



JULES PIDIEU: “I am afraid he might be referring to himself as *Firewater*, sir.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Fire-*water*? He’s lost it… Fuck it, tell him to find his goddamn badge and gun, that’s the only thing that matters!”




Next, we get a thought pop-up we didn’t get last time.







SHIVERS: Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.












SHIVERS: Capeside apartments—tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.






SHIVERS: Revachol is the capital of the world. Jamrock is the capital of Revachol. Droplets form on your eyelashes.






SHIVERS: In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.





Then, we talk to the old men. Once we’re done speaking with René, Gaston will speak to us for the first time.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “Yes, that’s what you need, Gaston. More padding on that fat ass of yours. I hope your heart gives out.”
GASTON MARTIN: “René, tsk-tsk. It’s the little pleasures. Life doesn’t need to be a… *mnjam mnjam*… a struggle.”




GASTON MARTIN: “No, officers, I’m sorry. And I really *would* like to assist,” he adds, smiling apologetically. “You are both good guys. I can see that.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “Then help them, you wimp.” Reproach fills his eyes. “You rub plenty of shoulders with the *gauche caviar* in the Union. *Someone* must know something.”
GASTON MARTIN: “I wish I could, but I just don’t know anything.” His cheeks turn red. “I always keep my nose clean and don’t gossip. Everyone knows and respects that.”



GASTON MARTIN: “I’m *not*,” he assures you. I’m not even anyo--”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “Of course he’s holding back.” The carabineer crosses his arms. “His mouth is so full of Union prick he can’t even speak properly.”



GASTON MARTIN: “Everyone in Martinaise knows the Claire brothers,” he says solemnly. “I taught these boys human studies and history in the gymnasium.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Challenging: Success] *Gymnasium*. I love that word.
RENÉ ARNOUX: “What do *you* know about history?” The carabineer snaps at Gaston. “You never witnessed history. Only heard about it—years later—when it had already moved on. You don’t know history.” The old soldier mumbles something under his breath and turns to face the sea.





GASTON MARTIN: “Not in the technical sense…” His eyes fix on the boules in the crater. “I don’t have a vote or a membership card. But Evrart keeps me on the payroll. Just for the little things.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “Of course he’s not a member! He’s not a member of anything. I knew that.” He frowns. “He’s a weathervane—turns to where the wind blows and tries to look important.”




GASTON MARTIN: “Oh, nothing official, I assure you. Just essays for the newspapers. About Martinaise and how things are and how they *could* be. Evrart and I have these long talks where…”




GASTON MARTIN: “I’m sorry, officer, but I really don’t share food,” he says and quickly adds: “Nothing personal, it’s just a principle.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “The only one you have.”



GASTON MARTIN: “Believe me officer, I wish I could help you, but I need this sandwich to keep my blood sugar stable.” He’s squirming, avoiding your gaze. “In my age you need to pay attention to these things.”



GASTON MARTIN: “FUCK OFF, it’s mine!” He jerks away, immediately startled by his own reaction. “Sorry, officer, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he continues cautiously. “But the sandwich is mine, I’m not gonna share it.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “When the dissidents come to *rape* our country, he hides, but try to get a bite of his dear sandwich and he gets claws? You’re a special kind of vermin, Gaston.”






KIM KITSURAGI: “What the hell are you talking about? What *foreign anarchist*?”
RHETORIC: No time to bring him in. Just keep your eyes on the prize and ignore him.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “He won’t care.” The old veteran glances at his partner. “As long as there’s food in his fat belly, he’ll lick any boot that’s kicking it to him…”



RENÉ ARNOUX: “*Now* you are talking sense, son.” His eyes light up. “All four of us, working as a group—we can make a difference.”





RENÉ ARNOUX: “Agreed. What about the whole group?” He quickly adds: “I propose *Épées de la Couronne* – Swords of the Crown, in honour of my old unit.”



GASTON MARTIN: “Oh…” His eyes light up in understanding. “All that for a sandwich. I’m flattered, officer, but you can’t have it. It’s mine.”

What next? Hmm…



Oh right, punch Cuno in the face, gotcha.






We passed?! Wow.

EMPATHY: Cunoesse is by far the worst of the two. Cuno has no problem being near you, but the other hides behind the fence, afraid for her life, like she’s *done* something. Something very bad. She came up with that psychopathic scheme of screaming for help before. Cuno just wanted to talk to you about his name. Cunoesse was the one who wound him up and directed him.



CUNO: “Fuck you whispering about?” he whispers back.
EMPATHY: He’s whispering too. He’s going with it. But watch what happens…
CUNOESSE: “Fuck you *f****ts* whispering about?!”
CUNO: “If Cuno wants to whisper, he’s gonna fucking whisper, okay?!” He turns back to you and hunkers down: “Let’s *whisper,* pig!”



CUNO: “It’s okay!” He straightens his back and turns to Cunoesse. “The pig’s trying to pit us against each other. Not gonna let him do that.”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Medium: Success] Idiot! You bungled it up.

Fuck. This is actually really interesting though, because you can pass this check and still mess up if you pick the wrong options.

EMPATHY: That’s it. You let him off the line, that was a *bad*, manipulative thing to say. You should understand: I got you this far, I couldn’t get you all the way.
CUNOESSE: “Tried to fuck my Cuno!” A giggle, malicious and gleeful. She pulls herself up higher on the fence. “Tried to fuck my Cuno away! Me and Cuno are tight. We ride for life!”





Well, that didn’t work. Let’s just try to approach the corpse.




We pass on the first try this time, nice.



PAIN THRESHOLD: Yes. Bullets will fly, they always do. And the coil is fleshy and mush and permeable. Cast it in ceramic shell. Resist death.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Someone could have cleaned the yard. But that’s a question for… the red-haired thing.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “*They* usually hang them completely naked for that. La Puta Madre, the Mazda, the besmerties, and the like. This one still has his underpants.”
CUNO: “What are you tryin’a ignore me now, fuck face?”










THE HANGED MAN: The stench fills your nostrils. As you push downard, an ominous creaking sound comes from above.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Stop!” the lieutenant’s voice is sharp. He looks at you, with the boot under your arm.
CUNO: “Pig’s gonna pull his head off.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re about to pull his head off.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Stop obsessing about your sexuality officer, you’re about to seriuously compromise the coroner’s case.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “You have a point there, detective. You have a point. But…” The lieutenant taps on the boot. “There’s no way you’re getting them off. All the organic matter in his body has been flowing down into the boots. They’re *fused* to his feet now—why do you think the locals haven’t scavenged them yet?”













Check fails.




KIM KITSURAGI: “There’s a…” his eye twitches for a moment, “a strong build-up of gases, yes. Rigor mortis becoming livor mortis. He’ll be fully limp by tomorrow. I don’t think he’ll explode… I *hope* not.”









Put that point back into Hand-Eye Coordination like we did before.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Someone already did. You know who came? We did. Because we have made bad life decisions.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t doubt your physical prowess, officer, but that’s aircraft strength material. And we do not have a secure platform to perform the procedure on. The risk of… acrobatic failure is one we cannot take we must not become *comedy* for the locals.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re *not* getting him down already. Not getting him down is a task that’s already accomplished. Sadly, it’s not our job to *keep* him up there, but to get him down.”




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




KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ll blow his head off.”
CUNOESSE: “Take it! TAKE THE SHOT!”
CUNO: “Yeah, take the shot, Cuno wants some of that shit.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Silence. With his elbows sharp, the lieutenant unzips his jacket…





CUNOESSE: “He’s gonna fucking mi…”






PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Challenging: Success] OH MY GOD, that was so many types of wrong—who taught four-eyes to shoot?! Whip up a gruelling training course for him RIGHT NOW. Beat THE MAN into him, go go go!
CUNOESSE: “FUCKING IDIOT! Mulkkupää asshole!”



KIM KITSURAGI: “No, we’re lucky as it is. We didn’t break anything—and the victim looks uncompromised.” He looks around, at the windows overlooking the yard.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I think you have your sports mixed up there, officer, squaring my shoulders has nothing to do with this.”



CUNO: “Cuno’s sorry too. Cuno feels sorry for the binoclard.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “I have to say, it’s beginning to look unlikely we can get him down without *assistance*.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s bad as it is—us shooting firearms like punks…” He pauses, then shurgs and proceeds to load the pistolette… “Go ahead, I’m not stopping you. Just don’t lose it.” The piece shines in his outstretched hand.
CUNOESSE: “They only have ONE GUN!”




THE HANGED MAN: The cold piece of bakelite and gunmetal is suprisingly light. Your finger fits right through the guard, instinctively resting on the trigger.
CUNOESSE: “The fuck are you waiting for, Cuno?! Tell him to shoot himself in the mouth!”






THE HANGED MAN: Your field of view narrows. The branch slowly moves, becoming entirely two-dimensional. The metal buckle glimmers, slick with the falling rain. The corpse slowly rotates…








THE HANGED MAN: You missed the belt, but hit the corpse straight in the chest. Bits of ribcage protrude from the skin. No blood, only a murky sludge dripping down his belly. The sudden stink makes your eyes water.



KIM KITSURAGI: “The *Armistice* is sufficiently precise, officer. Especially at close range.” He takes his sidearm from you and holsters it.
CUNO: “It’s not the gun’s fault you can’t shoot. It’s your pig-hands.”
CUNOESSE: “Pigs don’t have hands. They have, like, fucking hoofs or something.”



KIM KITSURAGI: The man does not dignify that with an answer. He snaps the button on his holster and says…




Finally, we’re going to go back to the Coupris Kineema and talk to Sylvie. Hopefully with less misogyny this time!



We pass the Empathy check, so we’re not gonna be railroaded into the cock-carousel line, thank christ.




SYLVIE: “God, I… I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just… try not to call me again and let’s pretend it never happened.”




SYLVIE: “No, I was actually flattered, I’ve always liked him. It was just bad timing… with the corpse and all that.” There’s a pause. You can almost see her on the other side, the telephone cord coiled around her index.





HOBOCOP





GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “*You* broke the skua?!” His face is flushed with emotions. A rash covers his neck.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I assure you, it was him.”



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Alright.” He calms himself. Did she say anything else? About me, you know.” He repeats. “Did she say anything about *me*?”



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Really?” The man doesn’t know what to say. He wipes his brow and stares at the counter. “I should… I should give her a call then.”



Aww, Botchcop actually brought people together.



We put a point into Reaction Speed to end this edition of the Chronicles of Botchcop.