Part 2: 8:21-10:18: Buddy Cop
Chapter 2: 8:21-10:18: Buddy Cop
All right, the immediate vicinity of your room looks marginally less disastrous than the inside. This is progress. You consider talking to the woman, but you decide to go find your shoe on the balcony first.
You feel an inexplicable attraction to the strange table coins. You know not what they do, but you pick them up anyway.
Mission complete! Your poor toes can finally unclench from the biting cold.
Completing certain tasks or selecting certain dialogue options will restore Health or Morale. However, note that by the same token we can also lose Health or Morale for picking certain options. There are other ways to restore Health and Morale, though, so don’t worry too much.
Back inside, the woman greets you rather familiarly. What does she know?!
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Uh… no.” She seems perplexed by your question.
Do NOT use The Expression on her! You promised yourself! Besides, you don’t know what you’re unleashing!
Also, there’s only a 28 percent chance it’ll work!
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Don’t be so harsh on yourself. They let almost anyone be a police officer.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “We are in Revachol.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh yes, various artists. Ostentatious Orchestrations prime among them.” She raises an eyebrow, waiting for the name to connect with you.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “There was. I think you screamed that you… didn’t want to be ‘this type of animal’ any more. I may have misheard, but it was sort of memorable.”
There is nothing left for you here. You descend the stairs.
From across the cafeteria as you make your way down the staircase, you notice a man in an orange bomber jacket waiting by the doors. He does not move. You sense he is waiting for something, but for what you have little idea. You ignore him for now and tend to more pressing matters...
…like karaoke!
INLAND EMPIRE: Utterly. And it needs to be heard. Through a PA system. By other people.
INLAND EMPIRE: Serves them right! Wipe that smirk off their face with your sad, tragic small church song. Who’s laughing now? No one.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh no,” he says without looking up. “You’re a hero. A real hero cop.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: A competent work of taxidermy, the white and brown seabird lies among piles of coasters and drying mugs, one of its wings broken. The man is trying to mend it. Looks like the bird was ripped off the shield that was used to mount it—most likely on a wall.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Look, your *buddy* is over there.” He looks at the doors, where a man in a bomber jacket is tapping his foot on the floor.
Wait, that dude’s waiting for you? Ah shit.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I’m not the *bartender*. I’m the cafeteria manager.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “She just, you know…” He shrugs.
Okay, you have the important information that the man by the doors is waiting for you. Shit, what did you do? Shut up, idiot, that was rhetorical, look at your room, what *didn’t* you do? Better procrastinate dealing with him until you think of an excuse.
This is a healing item. We can use this Nosaphed to recover Health whenever we want, even mid-conversation, by clicking on the orange plus icon by our Health bar.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: What happened, man? You used to be *cool*. Go get your boring normal person drink then…
Magnesium is another healing item, but it restores Morale instead of Health.
Despite the dismal odds of success, you decide to try waking the man up. You fail miserably.
Yeah, you probably can’t get away with putting this off any further. Trying to chat up the old lady five feet away from the guy you’re avoiding is pretty ballsy though, not gonna lie.
Quick—lie!
“I was drunk.”Perfect!
KIM KITSURAGI: As you approach, he narrows his eyes and extends his hand in greeting.
What!? Oh, that was *poetry*.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Helllo, I’m Kim Kitsuragi.” His grip is firm. “Lieutenant, Precinct 57. You must be from the 41st…” You realize he is waiting for your name.
This is a Red Check, which is like a White Check, but you can’t ever retry it if you fail. Choose them wisely, basically.
Fuck yeah, let’s do it!
The check fails.
SHIT
HORRIFIC NECKTIE: You instinctively run your hand over your multi-patterned orange tie. The sensation of wrinkled silk somehow makes the name sound even cooler.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, well…” He doesn’t even process what you just said, just moves on.
KIM KITSURAGI: “If you don’t mind, we should talk to him again. Ask him for a run-down of the area—now that I’m here as well. I understand the scene is out back, right?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay. We’ll have time for that after we take a look at the coroner’s case.”
The lieutenant’s voice takes an ominous tone as he says this.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So, the body is still in the tree…”
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] This is the first time you detect a weariness in the lieutenant’s voice. It is obvious he would have preferred for the body to no longer be in the tree.
KIM KITSURAGI: He looks at you for a moment, in silence. “I can see you drank last night, and the night before. And that you are still drunk now. But I have seen officers go through much worse. Much worse.”
This guy doesn’t like you, does he?
KIM KITSURAGI: “I was sent here to meet a detective from Precinct 41. You have the insignia of the Citizens Militia on your sleeve and on your back.” He points to your jacket.
KIM KITSURAGI: They’re not *just* white rectangles. They bear a halogen watermark with the letters RCM and a pattern resembling the street grid of Revachol West.”
And now we have a party member, in true RPG fashion! Can’t wait until we recruit the dog.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Mr… Garte, right?” Kim glances into his little notebook. “You run this place?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes,” he responds tersely.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Right… Now, I know it took us a while to arrive at the scene. It also took you a while to call us and report the dead body—it *was* you who placed the call, yes?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I only just got here. It was probably Sylvie who called you. She usually works the bar here. I’m only temporarily taking over her duties.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you have her number?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You said you just got here—from where? Are you a local?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What? Of Martinaise—no. I live in Jamrock. I only *sometimes* come here to keep an eye on the place. This is just one of the many, many cafeterias I manage.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “But you still know your way around, yes? In case we need directions.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes, I know where *some* things are. But, as I said, I don’t live here. I just used to work here. And I’m not going to start working here again, if that’s what you think.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “That’s easy! See that door there?” He points to the west. “First you exit through that. Then to your right you should see a big hole in the fence—a really big one. You can get to the courtyard through there. No need for the keys. The hole is big enough for the Franconigerian cavalry to fit through.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh my god! What is your *obsession* with this Sylvie person? Get over it!”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Not so fast.” He points to you. “You owe me 130 réal.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] No one is saying the multi-patterned necktie you found tied to the ceiling fan can *talk*. No one. It must be merely *imagination*, but…
Twenty-eight percent?! Better take your chances with whatever this réal thing is.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Oh, excuse me. You owe me 130 *reál*.” He pronounces the “r” with a mock aristocratic accent.
Wait, is it “réal” or “reál”? This is getting confusing.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Wow, you’re a genius! Yes, that’s right—money. You owe this establishment 130 reál.” He points to the red ledger on the counter.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant watches you fiddle with your horrific tie, sweat stains forming under your armpits. He puts his hand on your shoulder. “If you don’t have the money, it’s okay. None of us are in this for the wages.”
Kim’s all right.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Let’s see.” He dramatically turns a page in the ledger. Three nights at a tarif of 20 reál comes to 60 reál. Then there’s the window you *annihilated*--the hole in the window was the first thing I saw when I came to work, so don’t try to tell me you didn’t! That will be 40 reál in damages.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “It is.” He stands silently looking at the coppers on the counter.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “It does, doesn’t it.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He turns to the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, but he has to pay, I can’t let him stay here any longer if he doesn’t. If he doesn’t have the money by tonight, then...” He shrugs.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Officer…” A pattern of creases appears on his forehead. “You really need to take this up with your station, I have a shortwave radio in my car. Call them, ask for assistance. We have to get this investigation started now.”
We gained a thought!
Gaining our first thought lets us interact with the Thought Cabinet. Thoughts are things we can focus on internalizing, which confer a bonus during the thought process, as well as a different bonus once it is complete. It should be noted that either bonus can be positive or negative, and there’s no way to know what the final bonus will be other than looking it up on the internet.
Internalizing a thought takes time. It doesn’t spend time on its own, but as time progresses when you talk to people, your active thought will gain experience until it finishes.
Lonesome Long Way Home’s immediate benefit is +1 to Encyclopedia. We won’t internalize it just yet, though. I kind of want to save slots in the earlygame, but we’ll get a taste of thoughts in a short bit. It should also be pointed out that internalized thoughts can also affect dialogue options, which is neat.
Anyway, now that you’re in financial peril, you decide to talk to Kim.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Three days ago the RCM Emergencies Desk received a report about a security guard who was found hanged in Martinaise. An anonymous caller said there was a dead body behind the Whirling-In-Rags hostel-cafeteria. The cadaver had been there for four days—no one had come to investigate...”
We completed a secret, unmarked task. Neat.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, it just so happens there’s a beautiful, blonde nineteen year old woman at the heart of this case. A rich one, in fact. Part of a murder-sex-cult.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Extremely.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] It can still be an otherworldly sex-mystery *in your head*. With a dark twist, even.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m afraid you and I are pawns in a…” He considers the phrasing. “A *pissing* competition.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Have you tried concentrating on something other than your personal affairs?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Not a fan. It’s just the nature of lieutenancy.”
For the love of god, do NOT ask him where he’s “from”!
KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s correct.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are they? They’re mostly just cumbersome.”
oh god what are you doing
KIM KITSURAGI: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant’s Conceptualization skills must be rather *rudimentary*.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant is a police officer of the *old school*. His concerns are material and extrinsic.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So, what? That makes *you* the *new school*? Gods spare us… For real detective work, nothing beats a good notebook by your side.” The lieutenant produces his small blue notebook and idly thumbs through a few pages.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] That’s where his conversations with himself take place.
The check passes.
INLAND EMPIRE: Yes, you killed him. And then, as part of the plan, you drowned out the memory…
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] Maybe this is why your chest feels so hollow—you did an awful thing, and you can’t even bring yourself to acknowledge it…
KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know. Containers… contain, I guess. I’m making assumptions. We should move on.”
All right, enough chatting with Kim. Talk to the others and then move on from the Whirling-In-Rags.
Try this one again now that you’ve made some progress in the area.
The check passes.
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: The worker stares at you, his eyes dry from sleep. A web of wrinkles covers his tanned forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, kind sir, but when I’m out, then I’m really *out*. No corpses. No mausoleums. Just *quality-time*.”
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “That’s the name of my employer. I work in logistics.”
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “How’s it going?” The dockworker lets out a big yawn, then stares at the cafeteria’s terrace doors. Some fingerprints glisten on the glass.
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “Good.” He doesn’t dwell on the particulars of your existence. “We’re in the middle of a strike down at the harbour. Trying to force some sense into the executive board of Wild Pines.”
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “You know, people die here every day. Someone’s found in a ditch, another one falls in a manhole, a third one gets eaten by stray dogs.” He respites.
SLEEPING DOCKWORKER: “You heard what I said. Draw your own conclusions. That’s all I know, and I prefer to keep it this way.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant gives you a little nod—then makes a note in his blue notebook.
Finally, let’s talk to this nice lady.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant nods politely.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I see you are still grieving. Well, I won’t pry.” She smiles gently—paying no heed to the inexplicable winking. She slaps herself on the forehead. “You must forgive me! I’m getting so scatterbrained! I completely forgot to introduce myself. I’m Lena. My husband Morell and I are staying with our friend Gary just down the street, but I come here for tea when they’re away.” Her eyes glitter over the rims of her glasses as she looks up, smiling.
Please don’t bring up this nice old lady’s wheelchair or ask her for money, you oaf.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: Her grey eyes widen. “How would I even begin to tell you? Revachol is the most beautiful city in the world. We’re fortunate to be here, you and I. I haven’t seen very many other cities personally, but everyone says so. Revachol is a rare jewel. This city used to rule the world… Though it has seen better days.”
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] Her relief is palpable. She was getting pretty worried about you there, but now she relaxes her shoulders…
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh sweetie…” she smiles a sad smile. “It’s really not. There used to be people who thought that way—other people, who wanted those things—but… they all went extinct. Revachol is a Special Administrative Region, led by an alliance of foreign powers called the Coalition. We have almost no government of our own. And *certainly* no dictatorship of the proletariat.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh dear…” She shakes her head, suddenly very worried. “And you were doing so well. There aren’t any cops in Revachol, not in the traditional sense. The status of law enforcement has been a complicated matter since the Revolution… But we should stop for today, sweetie. You look like you need a break. Besides, I’m not the best person to explain the *big* things to anyone…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “You were doing quite well up until the end there. It *does* look like you’re having trouble remembering things. History and places. Remembering *Reality*, in a word. It’s very odd…”
KIM KITSURAGI: A sigh. The lieutenant buries his nose in his notebook.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But—maybe a *fresh set of eyes* is what this world needs? And—while I’m no doctor—such bouts of amnesia are often temporary. So I wouldn’t worry *too* much.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It has something to do with everything. I really don’t know how to explain it better…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Someone more educated in *sweeping* matters? Maybe you should ask...” She turns to the lieutenant.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” He looks away. “I’m not an encyclopedia. I won’t be a guide either. I’m a detective.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Of course, dear. Good luck with your case!” She gives you a small wave.
And so you just spent two hours scaring people by asking them about basic facets of reality. Good work, detective.
Maybe next time we’ll actually make it outside of the building and see the goddamn body.