Part 13: 11:12-13:08: Crime, Romance, And Biographies Of Famous People
Chapter 13: 11:12-13:08: Crime, Romance, And Biographies Of Famous PeopleContent warning: Cuno
Let’s talk to Garte about appropriating that fridge.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Yes yes. For the dead body. You want to put a dead *corpse* into my fridge, right?”
Wow, he catches on quick!
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “This is a *culinary* establishment, not a morgue—you don’t have to ask me *why* you can’t store a dead body in my kitchen.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It would only be for a…”
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “Lieutenant—you too?” He can’t believe it. “*You’re* asking too?! No. The answer is no. I will not turn this place into some kind of *macabre* circus.”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] Wow. Turned the lieutenant off like he was a busted old radio. He really is the *lord* of his realm.
Frittte time!
Well, that failed misterably. Looks like we have to try our last resort… the Cuno.
CUNO: “Cuno’s got everything Cuno needs. All civics and shit.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] He doesn’t know what that means. Talking about *civics and shit* didn’t make this any easier.
CUNO: “Cuno’s clock’s not doing shit.” He looks at his wrist. “Cuno’s got a fuckload of time.”
Let’s go for it.
CUNO: “All right. Cuno hears you. See that shit house over there?” He points to the collapsed building with the book store.
CUNO: “Check the fucking basement, pig. Don’t you know anything?” The kid rolls his eyes. “Always check the fucking basement. Recon style.”
CUNO: “Yeah. Book-bitch. Beg her. You stupid or something?”
No!
KIM KITSURAGI: “He means the book store—we have to ask…” He checks his notes. “*Plaisance* is the mother of the little girl peddling books on the plaza. We have to ask Plaisance, in the store.”
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] Impressive note-keeping, lieutenant.
CUNO: “You didn’t hear it from Cuno, pig.” He looks at you seriously. “But don’t forget where you heard it from.”
A new woman stands outside the bookstore, idly browsing.
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Me?” She looks up briefly. “No one, I’m just a working class woman.”
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] She doesn’t really want to be disturbed that much…
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “I don’t know, at home now? Out drinking with friends? Working?”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Of course he’s not. It’s not like he’s a pocket watch. I wouldn’t just lose him.”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Who said anything about shame? Stop talking down to me.” She puts her foot down. “My husband is not missing.”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “They’re not missing, sir.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: [Easy: Success] You know where they are. They’re at home. *Smoking*. Giving the ladder of vices a chance.
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “What? That’s just—my daughters are perfectly *fine*, They’re with their friends down in Jamrock! There’s *nothing* to worry about.”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “I don’t mean to disrespect, sir, but *you* are being a bit of a cockatoo here.”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Nothing. Go read up on them if you’re so interested. There’s a great book in the bookstore.”
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: Her hands move over the book covers. The tips of her fingers look rough, stained with yellow. It seems like she has spent a lot of time at work, smoking.
WORKING CLASS WOMAN: You step in and close your arms around this foreign body. Wandering astray in touch. There’s a small movement beneath your hands, as you shut your eyes. Then a tiny voice breaks out and asks: “What is happening?”
You feel like you did a good thing today, for some reason beyond human comprehension.
Let’s head inside the bookstore now.
MAN FROM HJELMDALL SERIES: Your hand reaches toward a book with glossy cover art of the very muscular Man from Hjelmdall—in *chains*—kneeling in front of a staircase leading to a throne. A woman sits on the throne, leering at the man.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] She’s laughing at him. Belittling him.
Uhhhh, did you really just think that, bucko? It better have been an accident.
MAN FROM HJELMDALL SERIES: Especially those leering types who seem to wear nothing but an armoured bikini. There’s also some sort of snake-lizard beast slithering around her abdomen-chest-shoulder region.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] It’s symbolic of vice and sin.
PLAISANCE: “Oh, crime, robberies, murders…” She lowers her voice. “Even *sexual* crimes. We’re fortunate to have Dick Mullen and his stories to sort all that out.”
SHELF OF CRIME NOVELS: Crime fiction… is a disgrace. An asinine misrepresentation of the physical attributes and the arduous everyday work of everyday police officers. These books *greatly* overstate the excitement of police work, glossing over how long it takes to actually follow up on leads and eliminate dead-ends. What’s more, they completely ignore the psychological hardships of, year after year, coming into contact with people during the worst days of their lives.
SHELF OF CRIME NOVELS: You see: “Dick Mullen on the Job”, “Get Me Mullen!”, “The Stalwart Adventures of Richard P. Mullen”, “Dick Mullen and the Murder in the Orchard”, “The Sordid Affair of Dick Mullen”…
SHELF OF CRIME NOVELS: Yes. There’s also: “The Dame Who Did It”, “Farewell, My Mullen” (faking death seems to be a common trope in the Mullen series), “The Morbid Tales of Dick Mullen”, “A Dark Tide Turns”… “Tragedy calls for Dick Mullen” (another one with fake death), and, of course, “Dick Mullen: The Murderer” (in order to catch a murderer, Dick Mullen must *become* the murderer).
Dammit.
PLAISANCE: “A very influential historical figure, but surely I don’t have to tell you that.” She waves her hand, as if casting aside the thought. “You’re a law officer and law officers have at least *some* education.”
PLAISANCE: “Perhaps for a layman!” She scoffs. “Deep analysis is necessary to peel back the multi-layered meanings.”
PLAISANCE: “Certainly. It’s prudent for a person to have at least an elementary understanding of history and society. Imagine the chaos we’d be in otherwise.”
SHELF OF BIOGRAPHIES: Browsing through all the books with all their names makes your head spin. None of these seem important or relevant. It’s all just vapid egoism!
SHELF OF BIOGRAPHIES: “High Speed Love” chronicles the romance between two of the finest TipTop Tournée drivers in history. One of them is the madcap driver Jacob Irw. His blonde mane graces the cover. Next to Irw’s life sotry, you see a slim biography of an Occidental rock star called “The Antistar”. He’s famous for shooting morphine into one of his eyeballs, and cocaine into the other! Next to that, Revacholian radio-personality Guillaume Bevy stands in front of a run down drug den. He’s a permanent fixture on Channel 8, reporting on real life crime and ruining cops’ days…
PLAISANCE: “I really *must* insist you buy one of the books.” You’re interrupted by the shopkeeper. “Reading them is not for free. Do still browse though. But not too *long*.”
Well, now you don’t want any of these!
Oooh, cockatoos!
FROM A TO ZRIEEK! A GUIDE TO A WELL-BEHAVED COCKATOO: Turns out there are so many different cockatoo species, and they all have behavioural problems.
Let’s not steal anything *just* yet.
MAP WALL: Ozonne, Laurentide, Face-a-la-Mer, Archipelagos, North Arcade Islands… all just specks of dust on the vastness of the Insulindic. On the edges of the map, the colour fades into a blur of dotted lines. Black and white.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] Disintegrating into mathematics.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] In the north-east a dust mite stands on the north coast of Caillou. In a book store. It’s you.
MAP WALL: You can. On Caillou—Revachol, a single black star; on Ozonne—Fond de l’Air and Virmandeux; on Archipelagos—Croyant-Morain, Villiers; on Semenine—Olduvai. And on Laurentide—Deora Of The Seven Seas…
MAP WALL: The ocean breaks apart into a tangle of cosigns and azimuths, all pointing into pale nothingness. *Mundi* is the north azimuth; *Graad* is the north-east azimuth; *Samara* is the east azimuth; *Seol* is the west azimuth. *Isolas*, they’re called.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Connections to other worlds. Worlds past the Insulindian, unknown to you. You only know you’ve never been there.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Impossible: Failure] You have little idea what they are—distant stars? Gods—but looking at them makes you feel almost non-existent. Whatever they are, the *isolas* are immeasurably large compared to you. And very, very far away.
MAP WALL: The north coast of a verdant island is shattered by the delta of a river. It is the river Esperant. Countless bridges put the shards back together, connecting city blocks to river islands. *La Delta*, says a great, artificial heart in the centre, teeming with lifeforms and construction.
MAP WALL: It’s so mall you can’t even see it on the map. No… wait. There it is! North of Jamrock, the strip of coast next to the Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour. It looks downright despondent. It’s almost Coal City, to be honest.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] No. Coal City is worse. A charred limb. Rain falls on its slick black streets. And then there’s the Burnt-Out Quarter in the heart of Jamrock… is it cold in this bookstore, or is it just *you*?
MAP WALL: It’s not really a map. It’s a tourist thing-- a picture postcard with buildings on it, drawn from an isometric perspective. A date in the upper right corner says: ‘48.
PLAISANCE: “I’m sorry, officer, the map of Martinaise is the only one available. The other two are not for sale any more… and besides, you could scarcely afford them.”
PLAISANCE: “That old thing? It’s an out-of-date map of a tourist location that never was nor came to be… From when some *design-studio people* tried to spruce the place up, four or five years ago. They also renovated the horse-statue, set up those coin-operated viewers and designed the new street lamps.”
Again, no theft.
PLAISANCE: “Be welcome—and *please* take responsibility for the energy you bring into this space.”
PLAISANCE: “Sir! Don’t be ridiculous. I certainly will not give you money.” She gives you a disapproving look. “I would be doing you a grave psychic disfavour… One has to earn one’s success, even if one is a police officer. Handouts are nothing but manipulation, all they do is make you dependent.”
PLAISANCE: “Now hey there.” She raises her finger. “Sounds like someone isn’t taking responsibility for the energy they bring into this space…”
Oh boy! Neoliberalism! My favorite!
PLAISANCE: “Everything is on the shelves, take a look yourself.” She nudges her glasses. “The shelves compel you, don’t they?”
PLAISANCE: She scoffs. “Truth be told, not really. My sister brings in most of the goods. I’m sure it’s all very literary stuff, with *well-written prose*…”
PLAISANCE: “*Cursed*? Who said that, Annette?” She blinks. “I will have a word with her… This place is not cursed, it has a robustly *magnetic* energy. Good for commercial activity. My business is *thriving*, sir!”
PLAISANCE: “Great! On a scale of one to ten, how compelled were you to buy books after talking with her?”
PLAISANCE: “Good sir, what does a young child do with money anyway? No, I save it for her, as a fund. She’s securing her financial future out there.”
PLAISANCE: “Those countries will realize they’ve raised a lazy and spoiled generation.” Her tone is decisive, not at all angry at the insinuation. “Are we done with the jokes now?”
PLAISANCE: “God, ugh, I’ve told her not to do that. It’s such a disgusting habit.” Her voice is firm. “She’ll get over it. Anxiety is a part of life.”
PLAISANCE: “She can, if she has enough *willpower*. This is what’s called *growing pains*. Life isn’t easy, life doesn’t give breaks.”
PLAISANCE: She stands stiff and severe, silently fuming. Ten or so seconds pass without change.
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] This is a person coming to terms with a new reality. One where they are *wrong*. It’s not easy.
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] She’s looking for one—but there simply aren’t any good arguments for being an asshole.
PLAISANCE: All of a sudden she exhales sharply. Her shoulders slump down. “Oh no…” she mutters. “Hold on, I need to invite her inside and apologize. She must be freezing out there…”
Good work, team.
Annette is now sitting quietly in the corner, focused intensely on something. You should talk to her when you’re done here.
PLAISANCE: “There,” she returns with a nod. “I don’t know what to say to you. My husband, he tries to teach me business lessons. I have… what my mother called a *dull mind*. All this stress…” She stops, but her mouth keeps moving.
PLAISANCE: “Oh…” She nudges her glasses nervously. “Well. My mother was horrible, of course, absolutely *perverse* energies around that person, but my husband…” She shakes her head.
PLAISANCE: “It’s a *proper* place to live—one of the most peaceful neighbourhoods east of Jamrock. You may know it for its massive housing projects…”
PLAISANCE: “He made the initial investment. Since then he’s been what you might call a *silent partner*.”
PLAISANCE: “Yes, I’m afraid so. A real treat she is. It would be nice if she had…” She pauses for a second. “No, we couldn’t have afforded more children really. Not in this economy.”
PLAISANCE: Plaisance nods. “She’s been too busy, helping me here, so she’s studied at home this trimester. This is a temporary solution, of course. I assure you, I of all people understand the importance of *education*. She will be back in school the moment the store takes off.”
PLAISANCE: “A fridge?” She fidgets with her pendant. “No, I don’t know anything about a fridge. Aren’t you interested in books?” She nods at the bookshelves.
Let’s go talk to Annette now.
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] You just can’t win.
ANNETTE: “Math…” She looks into her notebook with trepidation. “It’s really difficult. Like—really. They say you need it to get rich. Better than standing outside in the cold, I guess.”
ANNETTE: “Yes, just like the one Dick Mullen wears all the time…” She grins. “You’ll look way more serious with that.”
ANNETTE: “Yes! I used to stand out there all the time, before my mother told me to focus on my homework.”
ANNETTE: “Yeah, I can see. You don’t have party eyes anymore.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant slowly—ever so slowly—realizes something. “Party eyes. Yes, of course. That makes sense.”
ANNETTE: “You know… like a cat in the dark! All big-and-wide-eyed.” She giggles at the thought. “It certainly looks odd on a man.”
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] The swiveling eyes of a loony drug addict. That is what she meant. You were probably gurning too.
SAVOIR FAIRE: [Easy: Success] Good thing she didn’t say PARTY EYES loud, her mother’s nearby…
We’re going to put on Dick Mullen’s Hat and get back to searching for this fridge.
PLAISANCE: “Nothing! Now please go back to browsing books.” She fiddles with her pendant. “Don’t you feel *compelled* too look at the books? The books are all you care about!”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] She speaks almost as if she’s trying to put a *spell* on you, urging you to buy more books…
CLOSED CURTAINS: You see some kind of charm—an irregular polyhedron, assembled from bones, sticks and straws. Inside, a disturbing fish-head with empty eye sockets stares at you.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Inhabitants of Ile de Fantôme, the Seminine Islands down south…
CLOSED CURTAINS: Just as you’re about to pull apart the curtains, the petrified voice of the shop owner cries out once more:
PLAISANCE: “Sir, please don’t touch that! I told you it’s off-limits for the customers!” Her hand has closed around her pendant, her fingers nervously playing with the talisman. “Para-psychologically speaking—we’re *done* if you decide to open them. I won’t be held responsible for the consequences! It’s too dangerous!”
PLAISANCE: “Why? It’s not like anyone was *killed* there!”
Awful suspicious…
PLAISANCE: She stops abruptly as her hand flies over her mouth baffled by her own bluntness. “I am sorry, I don’t mean to be so impolite, just please don’t go there! I can’t allow that. You’ll only make things worse and unleash *the powers*.”
PLAISANCE: “No!” She raises her hand to try and stop you. “Please just talk to me, officer… Come here and let’s talk this through before you decide to do anything *extreme*…”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Talking is always good. Go see what she has to say.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] There *is* something mysterious about the curtains… be careful!
PLAISANCE: “I already told you, it’s just a storage room for employees! I don’t understand why it’s so important to you…”
PLAISANCE: “It’s just for decoration!” She wavers under your gaze, mouth pressed into a tight-lipped smile… then something breaks: “Okay… fine! It’s because this place is *cursed*, just like Annette said! They don’t call it the Doomed Commercial Area for nothing!”
PLAISANCE: A shive runs through the woman, as she looks around in the dimly lit store. “The curse… is so much worse than you could imagine. It’s a *disease*, eating at the very foundation.” Her voice drops to a whisper: “It’s the curse of *financial distress*. Of *ruin* and *bankruptcy.*” She peers at the curtains again…
PLAISANCE: It’s not just that, officer, we’re dealing with something *supra-natural* here. It’s the *caco-daemons* feeding off bad business practices and disappointing income statements! There’s something *wrong* with this building, I can tell you. Ever since I arrived, I’ve sensed an eerie lingering presence—as if I was *unwanted* here.”
PLAISANCE: “It’s not good to talk about the curse, not in detail. The negativism…” She shivers. “It’s dangerous. Talking about the void wraiths angers them!”
PLAISANCE: “Yes, I’ve contacted numerous parapsychologists and even a pair of Semenese mediators—they provided me with the wards.” She nods at the strange cage-like trinket on the curtains.
PLAISANCE: “Oh, this?” She holds the pendant in her palm. Its ochre heart glistens under the lights. “No. It’s a special *Himean amulet* blessed by desert pygmy shamans with a *spell of compulsion*. It’s to compel people to buy books… There are numerous spells cast throughout the store. I had the books anointed with a different inducement spell, for example.” She nods. “It’s guaranteed to boost sales *fifteen percent*!”
PLAISANCE: “Most certainly not! I don’t want anyone who’s not familiar with the psychic arts to get involved in this mess. Stay away. Leave the spirits be, so they can return to their slumber.”
PLAISANCE: “You’re right…” She is mortified. “It’s worse than I imagined. We definitely have to contain it now!”
DRAMA: [Easy: Success] Yessss, this is your chance! This is your chance! Only a *para-detective* can solve this case.
Let’s go for it.
PLAISANCE: “You’re no para-detective. You look nothing like one—and you’re clearly a drinker. Pardon me for being so blunt, but…”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] ...you look like one.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant keeps his usual stony calm. He silently picks out his notebook.
PLAISANCE: “How do you… *know* all this?”
PLAISANCE: “I should have realized… a pattern lies within the fabric. The hand of fate guides us, our meeting couldn’t have been mere chance.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Perhaps you truly *are* the one to deliver this woman from the doom…
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant has not been listening closely enough. “Oh, um…” he mumbles in minor confusion. You’ve put him on the spot. “Certainly so, ma’am. I can assure you my partner is eminent in this *particular* field.”
Sorry, Kim!
PLAISANCE: “Thank you, sir.” A timid sigh of relief, followed by a cautious smile. “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you about yet… *the Entity*.”
PLAISANCE: “Yes, that chimney is part of the building’s central furnace and it’s enormous. She has barricaded herself behind some metal security curtains… God knows what she’s doing back there. Some unnatural magic, I assume.” She shivers. “You should go find *the Entity* and ask what happened to all the companies in the building. What is the source of this curse? Here’s the key to the warded door behind the curtains, take it. Oh and… please, do return to me after you’ve looked around. I’m quite *anxious* to know what she has to say about the curse. What you *discover* in there…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] Unbelievable darkness and ruin.
CLOSED CURTAINS: You see a dimly lit room full of dusty furniture and trash. A doorway stands in the back, covered in dozens of scary little Semenese wards, you shadow looming over it like an omen.
We’re not getting through that door with violence.
Let’s just use the key, then.
WARDED DOOR: After extering some force you manage to turn the key. It’s eerily silent. The door slides slightly open, letting a draft of cold air into the room.
SHIVERS: Outside, the wind howls in from across the bay. The building at Rue de Saint-Ghislaine stands like a matchbox on its side, with men inside like little wooden sticks ready to catch fire.
Well, let’s get to that fridge.