Part 7: 16:55-19:06: Racists Of All Stripes

When we last left our hero, the game ended. Or maybe it began. Whatever.








ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Who was what?



LIMBIC SYSTEM: Here in the Paleo-Mammalian Cortex we call it--*the shadow*.








LIMBIC SYSTEM: Yes, they’re *pouring* something on you—something *in* you. And it’s…
PERCEPTION (TASTE): It’s DELICIOUS.




COUPRIS KINEEMA In the upholstered cabin of lieutenant Kitsuragi’s motor carriage, seated in the driver’s basket. The air is thick with leatherworks and heavy fuel oil. Cold water runs down your chin.

Chapter 7: 16:55-19:06: Racists Of All Stripes

Content warning: lotso’racism









KIM KITSURAGI: “That does sometimes happen.” He hands you the remains of your ledger.

Kim understands.



KIM KITSURAGI: “Good.”



This is White Mourning, a thought we just picked up.



We’re going to internalize Coach Physical Instrument instead, though. Maybe White Mourning later.




We decide to head south from the roundabout this time. There’s not much in this direction at the moment, but ever more reason to knock it out quickly.




The water lock is broken? Interesting.





Somehow a completely destroyed billboard has fallen into the river and blocked the water lock. Bad luck, you suppose.

MAN ON WATER LOCK: “My friend Barry the Butcher is stuck on the other side of the water lock. I’m keeping him company—and eating his salami.”
BARRY THE BUTCHER: From the corner of your eye you see a man in a yellow shirt and grey overalls waving at you from across the canal. He seems disappointed about the wreckage on the water lock--*and* the salami.



MAN ON WATER LOCK: “I wasn’t here to witness it, but those look like tyre tracks on that sign. Weird, huh? Then again, plenty of daredevil drivers in Revachol.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] The words *daredevil driver* sound ominous to you.

We get it, some real idiot doesn’t know how to drive.



MAN ON WATER LOCK: “Well, there’s the fishing village. An abandoned fish market. A bizarro church. Not much use to the congregation, though—there always seems to be something wrong with it.”




MAN ON WATER LOCK: “Want some too, officer?” he turns to the lieutenant.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant ponders the offer for a moment, then decides to go for it. “Why not?” He takes a slice of salami from the man and chews on it.



Hmm, a pawnshop. Let’s keep this in mind for later.



Back up at the roundabout, there’s a cool customer chilling right outside the Whirling-In-Rags that we’ve just been completely ignoring. Let’s rectify that!






TOMMY LE HOMME: “It’s a traffic jam for the ages. Harbour gates up the street are shut tight. No explanation given. Workers on strike. Scabs agitatin’. An all-around clusterfuck.”



TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, yeah—exactly.”




TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, imagine—it’s been a whole week already.” He snickers.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Behind the laugh, however, a touch of sorrow.







TOMMY LE HOMME: “Some pretty wild stuff, I hear. Like a giant new power-crane and half the company? I forget *what* exactly. Good on them, I guess… I’ve heard talk there’s a company rep in town too… Like… a strike negotiator type. They’d know what’s up. Precise demands and so on.”






TOMMY LE HOMME: “Not my thing. Chasin’ transient pleasures is a drag these days. I prefer the examined life now—thinkin’, reflectin’, observin’.” He glances down the road toward the horizon, a glint of… something in his eyes.



TOMMY LE HOMME: “He ain’t one of us drivers—I know that. All accounted for. Otherwise, I haven’t really asked about that. Been wastin’ time right here. Keepin’ busy.”






TOMMY LE HOMME: “Can’t even get a few jokes past you, my man.” He grins. “I’ve got another haul of FALN cargo. Mostly sporting goods. Tracksuits and that kinda thing.”





TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah, must be—you’re job’s to know all those *little* things isn’t it? While my job…” he pats the back of the lorry, “is to deliver tracksuit trousers.”






The check fails.



TOMMY LE HOMME: “Cool, cool… We all want to know each other, know each other’s woes and all—but people, man, they have *slippery* souls…”




Equipping the Ledger will increase our Inland Empire and Empathy by one, and reduce our Authority by 2.




Back in the Whirling, you see a mysterious door in the kitchen.



BLUE DOOR: The cobalt blue surface feels rough to touch. The stainless steel door is flush with its frame on every side.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Eccentric. But okay, I suppose we could look into it. As a… side-investigation.”









You really walked into that one, dumbass.

GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “The trash Collection Service? CS Municipal. I don’t see why they would *put* anything in the trash, though.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, the illusive CS Municipal. I doubt we’ll be able to track down who was sent here last and when. This will have to be one of those *little* threads that solves itself—down the road.”






GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “No, I don’t have a key—I don’t know how to get there. And I don’t *care* either. It’s not like I’ve been *wondering* about it for ten years. It’s just the Frittte warehouse probably. Or some boring storage space with a bunch of old junk… and dust. Junk and dust.” He runs his finger across the counter to check for dirt.



GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Fine, okay. A little.” He shrugs. “But my job doesn’t leave me time for wondering about *one* locked door in *one* of the cafeterias I manage… So I haven’t opened it. I *have* cleaned the whole place a hundred times over, though—after the *animals*. And I haven’t found a key. So good luck with that.”






Oh, how friendly! Let’s talk to this nice man.



Spoiler alert: Racist Lorry Driver is a racist!






KIM KITSURAGI: “I know exactly what you meant. You think my *kind* doesn’t belong here. That I should *watch myself* and *behave.* But you see, I’m an officer of the RCM—it’s actually *my* job to make sure *you* behave. I would advise you to remember that.”
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: Silence. The air between them becomes tense.



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “You two make a cute couple, you know that?” The lorryman spits.






RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “It’s about… biological determinism. Natural law. The sorting of the races.” He spits on the ground.



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “I’m not *just* racist. Look, I’ve read *books*,” he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. “The science of racial theory has all been proved, even if some people don’t want to accept it.”







Well, that guy sucked.



Let’s head into Frittte. Sic.





FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm… I don’t know, let’s see… Nosaphed is a nasal spray Drouamine is a really good painkiller. Magnesium is a dietary supplement. Hypnogamma is…” She stops. “I don’t really know what Hypnogamma is. I guess it makes you feel less shit? It’s recommended to use after lots of partying, studying, or exercising.”



FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm...” She chews her bubblegum absent-mindedly. “No, sorry. I’m not, like, a doctor or anything.”



FRITTTE CLERK: “Saint-Batiste? You know...” She nods slowly at the cabinet. “The pharmaceuticals company? Saint-Batiste Pharmaceuticals? The one that sells meds out of Saint-Batiste?” She points to the cabinet. “That one? There?”

You’ve been a real help, miss.




Now we can fuckin’ Hulk out when we take off our shirt. Nifty.




Hooray! Money!




FRITTTE CLERK: “What is what?” The girl leans over the counter to see what you’re referring to. “Uhm, it’s a raincoat? If you want one then it’s only four réal.” She taps on the glass counter the raincoats patiently await purchase.




Let’s not.






FRITTTE CLERK: “You mean this?” She looks at the cover boating a colourful photo of two girls kissing. “This is Pop-Stars, it’s got, like, famous people in it? It’s not for sale.”




FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm, no. I don’t like it, I hate it.”





FRITTTE CLERK: She looks up from under her brow.







FRITTTE CLERK: “Uhm… I don’t know?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “No need to worry.” The lieutenant’s voice is soothing and professional. “It’s just standard procedure for us to ask around. If you hear anything, let us know. Okay?”




FRITTTE CLERK: “Reality? You mean… what reality? Economic reality? Or…”





FRITTTE CLERK: “As a mankind or… as a nation or…”



FRITTTE CLERK: “In a good place?” She rubs her face, thinking.



FRITTTE CLERK: “I don’t know, look at the clock. It’s right behind you on the wall.”





FRITTTE CLERK: “Our government?”



FRITTTE CLERK: “Cool.” She seems happy to return to her reading.



We’re going to put a point into Encyclopedia to offset the negative bonus from Coach Physical Instrument.




FRITTTE CLERK: The clerk looks at the wall of good behind her. “Um… Guess not, no.” She adjusts her hat. “I’m obliged to inform you that both alcohol and cigarettes damage your health. But I guess you already know that.”



Get the fuck out of here before you make some mistakes.



Back outside, we come across some rabblerousing.







SCAB LEADER: “Hold up and stay frosty, everyone! Cops are here.” The broad-shouldered alpha male turns to you. He’s a full head taller than everybody else here.




SCAB LEADER: “Hah! Couldn’t handle us. A cause gives the workers strength. Gives them power.” He bellows at the gates: “We have—A RIGHT TO WORK!”




SCAB LEADER: “Might be time. Don’t let the fat bastards tread on you. Cops tend to side with the higher-ups, but you’re essentially still *workers*.”



SCAB LEADER: “Maybe you should ask *them* the questions, like why we’re not allowed to make a living here?” He bellows to the gates: “SHAME ON YOU! We have families to feed, you piece of shit!” He points his finger at the man sitting on the railing.




SCAB LEADER: “I know nothing about a murder.” His reply is snappy and terse.



SCAB LEADER: “Wouldn’t put it past these harbour bugs. They’d do *anything* to stay alive.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re not picking a side in this just yet, sir.”




SCAB LEADER: “Beats me. They mumble nonsense about *board rooms* and *worker’s rights*. While we--” he raises his fist and starts shouting again, “--HAVE THE RIGHT TO WORK!”




SCAB LEADER: He ignores your question, choosing instead to turn to the emaciated workers—raising both fists in the air. The clothes are obviously not his.



SCAB LEADER: “Honest men and women. With rights—to work. To be useful. Not toys for corporate interests.” The man runs a hand through his steadily graying military haircut. “We came here to help the harbour run smoothly in times of crisis. If Union fucks don’t want work, they ought to let in those *WHO DO WANT WORK*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I have a question.” The lieutenant looks him in the eye. “Why do all these men follow your leadership?”
SCAB LEADER: “You think they follow me because I’m big and loud? No, they follow the rules of the market. The rules of the economy. Because they were--” he starts bellowing, “--GIVEN AN JOB TO DO.”







All technically true, the best kind of true.




I still had questions, bucko!






SCAB LEADER: “Main gate’s locked—would take *heavy ordnance* to bust it open. Could try to get in through the secretary’s office.” He points up the stairs. “Door’s locked. The guard’s blocking the way to the access panel.”




SCAB LEADER: “Bad.” The man glares at you. “Standing on a narrow bridge, he’s got a strategically advantageous position. And he’s trained.”



SCAB LEADER: “Why don’t *you* go arrest them instead? I’m sure they’ve done plenty of criminal shit, they have *that look*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It would be better—for the neighbourhood—if you went home. At least for now. If you can’t get in anyway.”








PERCEPTION (SIGHT): The back end of the cabin has a small perch to sleep. Large ashtrays. There are several suns and wheels sown into the curtains.






HORSEBACK MONUMENT: A silver plaque on the statue’s pedestal reads: “I am Filippe III, the Squanderer, the Greatest of the Filippian Kings of Revachol; Son of Filippe II, the Opulent; Father of Filippe IV, the Insane.”



\

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Well, he blew through the whole national treasury, starting the decline of one of the penultimate century’s greatest superpowers: the Suzerain of Revachol…



ENCYCLOPEDIA: Stories have it that he had his bedroom converted into a treasure chamber where he stored unfathomable wealth: *krugerrands*, bars of gold, ornate weaponry, armour, and various chalices. He called it the *Sol Aurum*. It was obscene. There were whispers he slept on a huge pile of gold-dipped feathers like some obese dragon, instead of a bed like a normal person.



Shut up, necktie.





This shirt is useless considering we have Coach Physical Instrument.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Wait…” The lieutenant stops you before you can snap.





Let’s finally make our way up to the gate.





CALL ME MAÑANA: “Gotta be bloody stupid or freakin’ evil to scab. Or, I guess… scared, maybe. But scared of what, of who?” He looks at the mass, squinting his eyes as if trying to ascertain what they’re scared of.




CALL ME MAÑANA: “Ah, I was just messing with you.” His smile deepens his wrinkles even more. “No one’s ever seen a cop scab. Imagine—you cops going on a strike, but then another cop comes in and says: ‘Let us cop! For less money.’” He chuckles, then realizes:






CALL ME MAÑANA: “To get me into trouble. To *sic the pigs* on me—pardon the choice of words. Not mine.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What happened?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I was asked to look into that armour situation. Official Union probe, you know—track it down, see who took it.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did you?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “At first I thought—why not, maybe the pieces can feed the strike? Buy us a few more days under the sun, you know. So I went to this boy. He said he’ll make me his *prison bitch*. He’s got *eyes everywhere*, the cops in his pocket and he’s the king of Jamrock.”




CALL ME MAÑANA: “I learned that people don’t want to talk to a drunk Union man about some armour.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What else?”



CALL ME MAÑANA: “I did some research into this *armadura*. Let’s say I have friends at the library,” he explains with a wry smile. “I didn’t get into the material science, just how it comes off.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “How *does* it come off?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “In parts. Four in total. The helmet was the first to go, the kid says he tore it off and kicked it into the sea. I believe him. The boots were still on the guy last I saw. Too hard to remove.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “Nice and balanced,” the lieutenant nods. “Some junior officers can take care of the rest.”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “Smart choice,” the moustached man agrees. “It’s only that *one* spot you need armoured too—the one the bullet hits.”



CALL ME MAÑANA: “No problem,” he finally takes a swig from the flask. “If you see that id, thank him from Call me Mañana. Thank him for showing me the *way*.”



CALL ME MAÑANA: “Body still hangin’ in the tree?” He rubs his chin as if pondering his core beliefs. “Aye, that’s a rough pickle… can’t help you with that, sorry.”









CALL ME MAÑANA: “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s not *completely* impossible. For example, you could best Measurehead in a physical confrontation.”









CALL ME MAÑANA: “Always glad to help out the RCM. Shame I can’t do more—things are meagre at the moment, due to…” He nods toward the protesters.





CALL ME MAÑANA: “You know… serious business.” He smiles. I’m sure the big boss would be glad to tell you. You’ll have to ask him first.”



Guess we’ll have to come back to this guy once we’ve met with Evrart. If that ever indeed happens. Let’s see about this Measurehead problem first.











MEASUREHEAD: “THAT IS PRECISELY THE NEGLIGENCE THAT HAS LED YOU TO SUCCUMB TO *AL GUL*.” His face contorts in disgust, as if he were smelling a dead rat.






KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s not good.”




MEASUREHEAD: “BEGGING FOR HELP. ATTEMPTING TO PASS FEAR FOR COOPERATION. HOW FAR THE OCCIDENTAL HAPLOGROUP HAS FALLEN…” He pauses in melancholy reflection. “YOU WERE ONCE A NOBLE AND POWERFUL RACE. YOU GAVE THE WORLD *EUGENICS*, ELECTRICITY, AND POWERFUL WEAPONS OF WAR LIKE MISSILES AND AEROSTATIC AIRCRAFT. YOU MADE GREAT GAINS IN METALLURGY, RACE THEORY AND STATECRAFT. YOU DOMINATED LESSER CULTURES—LIKE THE DEFORMED HIMEANS AND THE INEXPLICABLY POTATO-OBSESSED KOJKOS—BUT NOW YOUR ASCENT TO THE GENETIC SUMMIT HAS HALTED. YOU ARE OBSESSED WITH SADNESS AND WITH FRIVOLOUS POP CULTURE.”

Christ this guy can talk

MEASUREHEAD: “YOU WILL BE SUPERSEDED—ISN’T THAT RIGHT, BABE?”
MEASUREHEAD’S BABE: “It is, baby, yeah. You know it!”
INTERFACING: [Easy: Success] There is a button right behind him, just out of reach… it must be the one that opens the door to the harbour.




MEASUREHEAD: “ENOUGH OF THIS BEGGING. YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE STAGE OF HISTORY WITH DIGNITY—BY INVITING THE OTHER RACES TO A *GREAT WORLD WAR*. BRING YOUR TROOPS TO THE SEMENINE ISLANDS AND TO BOOGIE STREET AND WE WILL PULVERIZE YOU. WHEN YOU ARE GONE WE WILL BUILD A MUSEUM FOR YOU."




For some reason, I don’t want to subscribe to this man’s newsletter!




And knocking him out doesn’t seem like much of an option, hmm.




MEASUREHEAD: “MR. CLAIRE IS A MAN OF VISION AND MEANS. HE HAS THE WILL TO CONFRONT POLYCULTURAL CAPITAL—SOMETHING *YOUR* RACE’S NAIVISTIC COMMUNISTS NEVER DID.”



MEASUREHEAD: “IDIOTIC COMMUNISM IS THE SINGLE GREATEST CONTRIBUTOR TO YOUR RACE DESCENT. EVERYWHERE AROUND YOU, THE FRUITS OF ITS FAILURE TO CHALLENGE THE WORLD ORDER: INDIVIDUALISM, ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC, SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES…”

It’s suddenly occurred to me that I’m in my mid-20s and I’m spending my Christmas Eve transcribing a bunch of the racial essentialist rantings of a fictional character. Don't end up like me, kids.



MEASUREHEAD: “OFFSHOOTS OF THE SEMENESE PEOPLE INVENTED DISCO WHILE HAVING SEX UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF COCAINE. IT IS A SHAME UPON MY RACE—BUT WHAT IS DONE IS DONE.”



MEASUREHEAD: “I CAN SEE THAT. THE SEMENESE ARE THE SOUTH ISLAND RACE. HAPLOGROUP A4A, THE RIGHTFUL MASTERS OF THE INSULIDIAN ARCHIPELAGO. WE DESCEND FROM THE AEROPAGITES OF ANCIENT PERIKARNASSIS—AND ARRIVED HERE 4000 YEARS AGO.”





MEASUREHEAD: “I’M FROM COURON...” He changes tactics: “AND NO, IT IS NOT *JUST* IN REVACHOL. THIS CITY IS CENTRAL TO THE SEMENESE STRATEGY. SPREADING THROUGH ITS TRADE NETWORKS OUR CULTURE WILL DOMINATE THE WORLD.”






Okay, Kim kind of rules????

MEASUREHEAD: “YOUR PAEDOMORPHIC FRIEND HAS QUICK WITS.” He leans in to inspect: “A PROTRUDING OCCIPUT AND AN INDENTED ZYGOMATIC BONE...”

Oh boy, phrenology!

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant does not flinch.





MEASUREHEAD: “RACISTS ARE GENERALLY NOT VERY GOOD EXAMPLES OF THEIR RACE.” He gestures toward the lorryman down the street…




MEASUREHEAD: “IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE ANY MORE OF YOUR BONE STRUCTURE—IT IS COVERED IN THE RAVAGES OF AL GUL. FROM WHAT REMAINS OF YOUR FEATURES, I CAN SEE *FLESHY LIPS*, *BALDNESS OF THE HEAD*, AND LONG ARMS RELATIVE TO LOWER LIMBS.”




Well, this got us nowhere.



Looks like we’ll be investigating further to see if there’s another route to Evrart Claire.