Part 11: 7:30-8:44: Cryptid Chat
BED: It barely covers your toes, stretching over your soft belly. This is your body here, intimate and warm, breathing…
BED: Your breathing steadies. A great silence washes over you… until your eyelids *twitch* in your sleep and images… images start forming…
Light pools at the edge of your vision. You can feel yourself being pulled by it.
You already know what waits for you here, don’t you? But still, you cannot resist…
It’s the only thing it ever could have been.
Of course it’s you. What else?
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: You’re not kidding anyone, Harry. You don’t remember shit. Tell me…
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: You know who I am. I am the bad day. The one where you ask her, and then later in the streets, wandering… It’s the worst day of all time, Harry dear, and it’s coming. She will hear about it on the phone.
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: Oh no, funky-baby, you *stayed*. It was the rest of it that left. While you just stood there. With one hand on the bottle and the other on your dick—watching it go.
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: No. It’s gone. Three times gone and never coming back. You failed. You failed me.
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: Everything. The pale and the isolas—on the surface—the outer magnetosphere… Burning, furious truth, eight thousand years of written history.
BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK: No, Harry. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in your dreams. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You’ll be back in those cold snake skins in no time, sweating up the bed…
I should point out that “Bloated Corpse of a Drunk” has the exact same voice as “Ancient Reptilian Brain.”
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You’re trying to what? I can’t hear you, this is just a word-dream now. Jumbled up garbage. The pictures are gone, the bed rises to meet you. A thin sleep-like state. More glass than velvet, *grinding* in your head.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Oh yes, party boy. And it’s *worse* than the one before! Just think of the shit you saw! Here it comes too, so soon already! A silent alarm goes off in your head, like clockwork, barely let you sleep at all… Time to get those clothes on, Harry!
Chapter 11: 7:30-8:44: Cryptid Chat
why does everything SUCK
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s just that your heart has finally pumped all the *speed* out of your system, buster. Time to get some more.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Speed is a potent central nervous system stimulant. It kept you propped up all day yesterday despite your debilitating hangover. How else did you think you even got up from this floor?
VOLITION: You got up from this floor because of a holy vow you made sixteen years ago. With *me*. To wake up exactly 7:30 every morning until the day you die.
Is that a threat?
A tough-looking crowd has assembled in the private room of the cafeteria. Must be Union.
Over by the counter, you can see Lena and Kim.
Kim looks like he has something to say—beyond pleasantries, anyway.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I mean ungovernable. Martinaise isn’t exactly enthusiastic about the RCM being here. They prefer to be *policed* by the Union—these men here…”
Well if they want to do the policing, maybe these Hardie boys should solve this murder then.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Everything points to the Dockworkers’ Union: the belt used for hanging him, tracks in the mud, the circumstances in Martinasie, my preliminary information…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I completely forgot.” He looks at his notes. “Sorry, I had a rough night’s sleep. It’s them, by the looks of it—loud and nasty, just like the manager said.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “That would just escalate tensions. No captain would sign off on it. Solving one murder isn’t worth a conflict between the RCM and the Débardeurs’ Union.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “One more thing before we do...” He glances at the booth again. “We don’t have to talk to them immediately. We can walk right past them, continue with our business.”
AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] Good. A power move. *Purposefully* concentrate on something else first.
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] Yeah—streetwise. Zoom right past, do it on your own terms.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] But… aren’t you *curious* to know what they have to say about the murder?
We might just take that advice, then.
First, though, let’s put a point into Shivers. We have another point, but I’m not feeling like we strictly need to increase anything else at the moment, so we’ll save that point in case we come across an appealing thought or a check we really want to pass.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “You must be kidding, right?” He stares at the large novelty cheque, baffled. “Yeah, good one, officer. Real funny. But this establishment only takes cash. Now, do you have that cash, Mister Novelty Cheque Man?”
Rude.
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] She’s agitated, judging from the way she keeps pulling at the frayed edge of her blanket.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “And there’s no public phones nearby?”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “The closest phone booth is down the coast. Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am.” The cafeteria manager appears genuinely apologetic.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s fine, I understand. Thank you anyway.” She turns back to you with a weary smile. “I’m glad to see you again, dear.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Please don’t trouble yourself about me, sweetie. I was just hoping to make a call, but the Whirling’s phone line isn’t working.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The manager was vague about it.” She frowns.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “To let the young woman who’s house-sitting for us know that we may be delayed. Morell, my husband, and Gary were supposed to get back Monday night, but they’re still missing and I haven’t heard from them…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That’s just it! This isn’t like him at all. He always plans his expeditions so carefully…”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] A cold breeze hisses through dense thickets of reeds… Something sweet in it, somnolent. A damp chill goes down your spine. When you look around, you’re still in the Whirling-In-Rags.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Just some field work, sweetie. Morell is a highly trained scientist. He and his assistant, Gary, are studying an *extremely rare* species of insect… But they should have returned by now. They were just going down the coast, across the water lock, to set a few traps. He said they’d be back on Monday…” She sighs. “What could be keeping them?”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: She smiles. “Oh, sweetie. It’s nothing like that…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Well, whatever the cause, I’m thankful…” She turns to Kim. “To *both* of you. You’ve spared me another sleepless night.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: She turns back to you. “I hate to ask, but *if* your investigation takes you to the other side of the coast, please do keep an eye out for my husband…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] This will *surely* lead to a cryptozoological mystery with that *extremely rare insect*…
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] Yes! Some left-field scientific research is exactly what you need right now. Funk up that *vanilla* murder investigation.
KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s a pseudo-science that attempts to legitimize *research* into mythological beasts and urban legends.” The lieutenant sounds unimpressed.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That’s one opinion, yes. And people are entitled to their opinions…”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] She’s used to playing off such insults casually, but they still affect her.
KIM KITSURAGI: “My apologies, ma’am. I did not mean to undermine your hobby.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s not a hobby, dear. It’s a *sub-field* of zoology, one specializing in animal species that are so exceedingly rare that many assume them to be *extinct* or even *fictitious*… Searching for such species—called *cryptids*—is difficult and often thankless, and frankly, many scientists are too lazy to do it. Universities these days are rarely interested in supporting *real* research.”
Kim maybe you should shut up, sorry sorry please forgive me
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Hmmm. Well, his expression is slightly grumpy, but his eyes are always bright and curious, like a small boy’s And his palms are quite coarse from all the field work, but he’s quite gentle…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh! Well, he’s a bit shorter than you but with a larger frame. And he has longish white hair—usually a bit uncombed, you might say *wild* even…”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant pulls out his notebook and begins jotting down the woman’s description.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Via a dating agency, I’m ashamed to say. I was looking to get back into the scene after recovering from my accident, and he’d just divorced… We hit it off and, well, here we are.” She smiles wistfully.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh, sweetie, it’s *fascinating*…” She catches herself. “But I shouldn’t bore you with entomological minutiae.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Well,” she hesitates. “It’s a *phasmid* technically, but…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Oh yeah. Here comes the *interesting*.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “...where other phasmids imitate sticks or leaves, this one’s a living *reed*. It disguises itself among the reeds here on the Insuliandian coast.” She looks you in the eye and nods thoughtfully. “Hence its name: The *Insulindian phasmid* – perhaps you’ll end up co-discovering the phasmid with us, officers?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I knew it.” The lieutenant sighs. “We’re gonna be chasing made-up insects with *cryptozoologists*.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s not made-up, officer, I can *assure* you.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Of course, most phasmid sightings turn out to be *false alarms*, but their description matched the Insulindian phasmid *perfectly*, and they didn’t even know what they were looking at!”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m not explaining this very well. It *is* very special…” The woman’s face flushes with embarassment.
Aww yiss, cryptid time
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh, I’d be delighted! Truth be told, I could really use the company too…”
KIM KITSURAGI: He nods and assumes a waiting posture.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That would be the Giant of Koko Nur!” she says as if it’s common knowledge.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The towering luminosity of Koko Nur is a bad omen in local folklore. Some say it’s a fata morgana, others—a fate unimaginable.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hooey,” the lieutenant interjects. “No animal can be that large. It’s a mirage.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That’s what makes it so peculiar—a species surviving at the very limits of scientific law. The Giant of Koko Nur must be the largest animal the planet can support. There are limits, you see, to how large a metabolism an ecosystem can beget. Some say a gravity anomaly below the Koko Nur desert might allow the creature to grow to these *gargantuan* sizes.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Great. This is great shit. You need more.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant pauses thoughtfully.
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] Something in him breaks.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The bacterial colony Mijanou found had remained alive while frozen in ice for longer than anyone could reliably estimate—certainly from before recorded history. Mijanou disappeared shortly after injecting herself with the bacteria she had brought back to study—no doubt, in hopes of prolonging her *own* life.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Yes. The bacteria had survived in the ice since times immemorial. It is not hard to see where she could have gotten the idea.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Yes, and she’s quite mad, too—after she treated herself with the bacteria, she stopped aging, but also became increasingly eccentric and irascible, so that even her oldest friends were forced to pull away…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It *was* reportedly a small creature—with webbed fingers and a protruding forehead. An ungainly little thing. Quite scary to look at. A couple of campers found it wailing in the woods and followed the sound. They were scared and wrapped it in tarpaulin to suffocate it.” She looks at you, voice grave suddenly. “It still took the Gnome of Geroma an entire *day* to die.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “If the body of the creature was found…” the lieutenant can’t help himself, “…why aren’t there detailed illustrations of it in science textbooks? Confirming the existence of this very lethal species?”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Alas, the first scientist who got his hands on the creature’s corpse put it in a jar of formaldehyde, thinking that would detoxify the Gnome’s venom. Instead, all the venom leaded out of the creature’s teeth and into the surrounding liquid, dissolving the creature itself. A poetic end, perhaps, but a real loss for science…” she says, mostly to herself.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Indeed there is! It’s our closest relative among the cryptids. Same taxonomic family, different genus.”
OH NO SHE’S RACIST
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks at you, pleasantly surprised.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply that Seolites are inferior to us. In many ways,” she turns to Kim, “You are superior. For example, your earwax doesn’t have a foul odour like ours does.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “What an interesting question! And the answer is: yes, there are!”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Like nothing. It’s such a high-pitched sound that us humans can’t hear it—nor can other animals. It could be ringing right outside your window—and you wouldn’t even know it! It could be anywhere—everywhere, even…”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks at her skeptically. “Fine, I’ll bite. How can an animal be a sound?”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Plenty. It’s the evidence that lead to its discovery. In the Twenties, a group of Areopagite ornithologists—that is scientists who study birds—were trying out a new recording technology for capturing sounds outside the range of human hearing.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “The scientists soon discovered they could track and even *predict* what appeared to be feeding, mating and migration patterns based on sound waves in a *strictly delimited* range of ultrasonic frequencies—even higher than those of the highest-pitched bat calls.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Exactly… And these tests were performed so recklessly that when they happened upon the right frequency… well, they wiped out most of the population.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Great regret washes over her. A wending cloth.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “After that, the corpsucles appear to have migrated elsewhere. There have been recordings of anomalies similar to those spotted in Ea—but they’ve been few and far between. It’s impossible to confirm the presence of any stable Col Do Ma Ma Daqua population anywhere.”
I fuckin’ love cryptids!!!! Lena’s no Jamieson Price, but I’ll take these hot Cryptid Facts wherever I can get ‘em!
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Fine, yeah, it looked like someone had messed with the wiring. It was shortly after the hanging, but I don’t know if it’s at all related… Plenty of assholes around here who aren’t murderers.”
GORĄCY KUBEK: He looks up at you, then looks away quickly, shrugging and muttering something to himself.
GORĄCY KUBEK: The mention of “Mañana” gets his attention. He smiles and delivers a whole slew of unfamiliar words and lively gestures. Then he falls silent again.
GORĄCY KUBEK: The man looks at you, then at the soup. His face lightens up. He picks up a bottle from the shelf. “*Barszcz* need… more *wódka*?”
KIM KITSURAGI: Okay, so it’s vodka that keeps the men happy and in good spirits.” He nods. “Clever move by the Union.”
HORRIFIC NECKTIE: Vodka-borscht! I love it, *bratan*! Turn it the fuck up and then ask for some yourself.
I have no idea what this is going to do, but having those Union guys be even drunker when I confront them seems like a bad idea.
We’re going to talk to them later, though. First, let’s get that corpse out of that tree.
INLAND EMPIRE: There seems to be. An *extremely* high pitched ring. Ultrasonic. Lena said it was very high-pitched, right? It’s like something *tickles* your ear.
KIM KITSURAGI: “No. I don’t hear the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua—and neither do you.”
INLAND EMPIRE: It must be very close… maybe, just maybe it will come toward you…
INLAND EMPIRE: Oh no! The sound—it’s moving away, somewhere over there—go after it!…
To internalize this thought, we need another Thought Cabinet slot. We’ll spend our extra skill point on it.
Now, let’s go take care of that corpse.