Part 5: 13:38-15:18: Cop Discovers One Weird Trick To Recover From A Hangover In Just Thirty Minutes

Chapter 5: 13:38-15:18: Cop Discovers One Weird Trick To Recover From A Hangover In Just Thirty Minutes

Content warning: this update contains more homophobic slurs from the horrible gremlin children.



We can check on our available White Checks at any time in the journal. Now that we have the ammonia, we can try to approach the Hanged Man again.







KIM KITSURAGI: “Nor does the wind right now…” you feel the lieutenant pat on your back, rhythmically.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] The weight is re-assuring. Like a crenel on solid fortification. Pat pat pat…



KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ve seen *captains* puke their guts out. It never gets easier, you never get used to the smell. Every Monday is cadaver day—throw up, investigate, throw up, initial autopsy, throw up, bag it...” He pats on your back again.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I think I’ve lost my sense of smell.” There’s a pause.



KIM KITSURAGI: “No. This is a two-man assignment, because it needs two officers to complete. I need your help.” He withdraws his hand and looks you in the eye:






Volumetric Shit Compressor offers no research bonus and only takes 30 minutes. Let’s pop that bad boy in our skull.






Now we can collect tare! What the hell is tare? (It’s empty bottles we can turn in for recycling money)








KIM KITSURAGI: “Not much. I don’t have a *fresh perspective* on it. Shall we go?”



Collecting bottles so we don’t die of exposure tonight, doot doot dooooooo~



Hey, the kitchen is open. It is paramount to the investigation that you check it out.





GORĄCY KUBEK: As you step in, he nods towards the table and says something in a completely foreign language. The only words you can make out are “goracy” and “kubek”.




GORĄCY KUBEK: It’s almost like music, especially with the sounds of assorted dishes boiling and simmering on the stove.



All right, you had better talk to Garte and get those keys.



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Mine? No, it belongs to the Whirling-In-Rags.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you for clearing that up. Why do you keep the container locked?
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Why? To keep the hobos and drunks out, that’s why. And the neighbors too. They put their trash there and they don’t pay for the garbage company.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I thought as much—and are you the only party with access to the trash container?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Well, yes, us and the garbage disposal company.”




GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “*Callous*? What are you, Kras Mazov? Almost all establishments in Revachol keep their trash locked. The Whirling-In-Rags is not special in that regard.”





GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What for, Mazov? Are you planning to nationalize my trash container?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It concerns the case.” The lieutenant’s voice is harsh and sudden. “Please cooperate.”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: He takes the keys from under the counter and hands them to you: “Just bring them back once you’re done, please.”




GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes—not the whole damn Union, thank god. Just the nastiest and *loudest* faction.” He tosses his head in disdain. “They come here in the evenings. Dumb, unruly types. Think they’re Big Shit. But they’re good customers—they place big orders, and always pay *on time*.”





GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What?”



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Absolutely out of the question.”
VOLITION: You wait and see, cafeteria manager!




Back outside, you run into two old men playing some form of ball game.



GASTON MARTIN: “I’ll be with you in a moment, officer. Let me just finish my sandwich.” He nods to his partner. “Talk to angry old René first.”

All righty then.



GASTON MARTIN: “René, you’re a man with a fork in a world of soup. Please… let’s just try to enjoy the game, alright?” This one’s still chewing on his sandwich.
RENÉ ARNOUX: “I’m trying to, but you keep breaking my concentration. You’re old, I can see that. We’re both old. Now stop grabbing your ass like it’s a girl.”





Hmmmmmmmm, no. Let’s not.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “See? Your munching and complaining have ruined my concentration.” The man throws a metal ball toward a smaller, wooden ball in the sand, missing it by a metre.
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] Could the objective of the game be to throw the metal ball so it lands by the wooden ball?
GASTON MARTIN: “Ah, *mon dieu*! The pain in my back is unbearable. I can’t even say if it’s in my back or hip any more. Feels like it’s in *both*!” He tries to measure the throw.
RENÉ ARNOUX: “I hope you pass out from it, you goddamn jellyfish. Men like you are the reason this nation is sinking.” Standing tall and proud he looks at his partner with disgust.






Fine, just stop yelling at me!





As you wind up, you trip, releasing the ball.





GASTON MARTIN: “What are you talking about? You just executed a pretty much perfect pétanque throw!” His tone is full of admiration.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “Probably because those rooster pants are squeezing you senseless. What ever happened to practical? Durable? Revachol-made?” He shakes his head. “Now what can I do for you?”
COMPOSURE: Look who’s talking—that cockatoo uniform must give him a real advantage. When fighting in *the circus*.






RENÉ ARNOUX: “If I knew, I would not be *afraid* to tell you. I simply don’t. I am an old man, not a coward. The daily business of the riff-raff no longer concerns me.”









RENÉ ARNOUX: “Sadly no. It was the foreigners who brought them to their knees. We fought valiantly—too valiantly. So valiantly, we got licked,” he adds, squeezing a *boule* in his fist.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “Yes,” he nods, inspecting you with some disdain. “The military-coordinated amphibious landing to take back Revachol.”



RENÉ ARNOUX: “This here is blood ground, where Coalition boots first made landfall and cleaned those rabid dogs out. Most likely.” he says, looking down at the soil, “we’re playing pétanque on their mangled corpses.”




RENÉ ARNOUX: “Damn right, son. They laid out the fire of hell on this city before they stormed it. And it worked, too.” There is a strange gleam in his eyes.



Sweet, your shit is ready and compressed.

GASTON MARTIN: “Well, it’s your own damn fault,” the jolly man marks. “You, we, the Coalition, Revachol—whoever you wanna blame—never finished the job. Officially the Party never surrendered. Of course they still hold influence.”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “You don’t even *begin* to truly understand the players on the table, let alone the specific circumstances surrounding the…” He stops mid-sentence and turns to you. “What do you think?”



RENÉ ARNOUX: “Preposterous! Surely you don’t mean it.” He frowns. “I’m just sorry it had to be them. After eight years of fighting those commie hyenas, boiling cats for food and drinking my piss in the mountains… I *would* have preferred if the right honourable kind 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.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This *Royal* failure weighs heavily on him.
RENÉ ARNOUX:”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.



RENÉ ARNOUX: “Damn Frissel—he was the king we couldn’t protect. The carabineers failed him… and the crown.” The old veteran falls silent and massages his chest. “He died in the hands of the *hoi polloi* in a very public execution.”




RENÉ ARNOUX: “The Suzerain is the King. Has everyone forgotten already?” He the slowly nods and says to himself: “They’ve forgotten already.”





RENÉ ARNOUX: He catches your glance and nods. “This is the uniform of the Royal Carabineers in service of Frissel the First, Guillaume *Le Lion* and the valiant king Filippe the Fifth before him.”
GASTON MARTIN: “Don’t you mean Frissel the Fun?”
RENÉ ARNOUX: “*You* do not speak his name, craven! Although he was a clown…” he adds. He turns back to you. “But he was *our* clown. Ours to ridicule—and to mourn.”












Oh.

RHETORIC: Yes! Abject failure. Total, irreversible defeat on all fronts! Absolutely vanquished, beaten, curb-stomped and pissed on—until *you* came along! *You* will reverse the fortune of the workers of the world. You alone, against every living thing, against every human alive: eight hundred trillion reál in the hands of an *impossibly* well organized ruling class; towering city blocks of bank-men who have the ears of prime ministers; million-headed armies of nations and the love of your own mother! You—against the atom, the charm and the spin. Where the whole world failed—matter failed to bend to human will; human will failed to get out of bed and tie its laces—you alone, single-handedly, will rebuild the dreams of the working class. You are The Last Communist.






I’m gonna be the bestest communist!





Now we can head back to the corpse and hopefully pass that White Check.



Unfortunately, I don’t think we’re actually going to internalize Mazovian Socio-Economics, because I know what it does from my first run and I don’t think the thought itself is great. We’re still gonna do tons of communism, though.



We’re not going to equip this one just yet either, but maybe later.









Back over by the hanged man, we finally decide to investigate these footprints.



PERCEPTION (SIGHT): Heavy worker’s boots with reinforced toes and hobnails. All over the yard.






We lose 1 Morale for failing that check. Whatever, back to the corpse.








THE HANGED MAN: The material appears to be ceramic. Its clean white stands in stark contrast to the decaying flesh above the knee. The man wore thick polymer socks, probably for padding. A fine array of interlocking plates covers them.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Delicate and fragile, they feel alien to the world around you. Out of place somehow.






KIM KITSURAGI: He nods: “Piece by piece. He’s been out here for seven days—it would be odd if they didn’t.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “It is. It’s expensive.” The lieutenant draws a line in the condensation on the ceramic—with his index finger.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Just something I scraped together from my station. An area report on Martinaise. I’m sure you did the same…”





KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s anything but. This material is a kinetic re-distributor. It spreads energy horizontally, from plate to plate. Dissipating it entirely.” He points to the boots. “See?”
THE HANGED MAN: Faint, organic lines cover the plates where they separate into smaller ones. These plates then divide into smaller plates, until there are hundreds of them altogether…




CONCEPTUALIZATION: The smooth glossy surface fractures into ever more intricate interconnections, peaking on the right sabaton, where you notice…









KIM KITSURAGI: “Industrial strength. The kind used for tying cargo to lorries.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m still approaching this as a lynching, yes. Motivated by the ongoing strike.” He politely raises an eyebrow: “You?”




KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not merely polyester—it’s steel reinforced.” He rises to inspect the noose. “See these lines? This is where the wires run. I see rabbets for more than twenty strands.”






THE HANGED MAN: An intricate web of blue lines stretches across the torso. From the right shoulder to the solar plexus, each time they intersect a small white star is formed in their crossing. Hundreds of fading asterisks riddle his skin, their concentration is highest around his heart.




KIM KITSURAGI: “A map of the stars?” He turns around to breathe before inspecting it closer. “I do see some similarity to astronomical charts, Great Century messinian maybe… but this seems more particular. Customized somehow.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “So am I.” A sudden ringing fills the air as the lieutenant pulls down the zipper of his orange jacket.



CUNOESSE: “Shit, Cuno! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “An instant colour camera.” He produces two metal-capped ampoules and clicks them into place on the side of the apparatus. A thin slot shines there…



Don’t tell Cuno that, he’s just gonna fuck it up on purpose!




KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes…” He slides the camera closed and tucks it away on his belt. “It is pretty *cool*, isn’t it?”






THE HANGED MAN: His eyes are milky white and blind to the world, protruding comically from their sockets. There is no one home, just sub-aquatic terrors there.











THE HANGED MAN: It’s the power of your… (Black, frothy liquid starts bubbling on his lips…)
HORRIFIC NECKTIE: Yeah, man, don’t be *crazy.* Inanimate objects and dead people can’t really talk to you, your *wild imagination* is doing this—ask some more of those questions you love so much!




















THE HANGED MAN: The monster comes back into focus: an explosion of colour, coursing with dark marbled veins. His stomach appears pregnant with something—black liquid streams down his thigh and onto his boot.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I do. Most of them are post mortem. Maybe even all of them. The delinquents have made our jobs harder with their little sport.”
CUNO: “Stop talking in riddles, coin slot.”



THE HANGED MAN: A pool of blood and feces has eaten into the frozen mud below the man’s feet. Purge liquid is dripping into it, drop by drop.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The victim appears to have contained no more than half a kilogram of digestion at the time of death.”
CUNO: “The fuck he sayin?”




KIM KITSURAGI: “I think he was upright immediately after death. Blood has gathered in his hands and feet. And his neck.” He points to his fattened chin.













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



KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes…” He corrects his glasses. “The buckle—where it ties the cargo belt to the tree. If the shot hits that then there might be a small chance to release the belt…”
CUNO: “Yeah, now we’re talkin’. Entertain the Cuno with some shit.”







Seems like you’re out of options. The harbour it is.




KIM KITSURAGI: “To ask the *suspects* for help with the victim’s body? To be indebted to Evrart Claire? Very much, yes—which is why I would have preferred us to handle this ourselves. Clearly we can’t.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “The leader of the Union. A dangerous and corrupt man, from what I hear—you don’t want to owe him much.”




And so, we have resolved to get the body down by asking Evrart Claire for help.