Part 15: 14:14-15:31: Missing Persons

Chapter 15: 14:14-15:31: Missing Persons



Let’s not send Kim, our best friend and the sole pure ray of light in this hellblasted land of decay, away just yet. We need him! To investigate furnaces!




KIM KITSURAGI: “Looks like it. Looks like an old central furnace used to heat the building. It’s connected to the chimney…” He opens the door and gingerly peeks inside.



CENTRAL FURNACE: It’s dark and grimy here. In the darkness, you can hear *chatter*. It’s coming from above. A voice—or several voices—talking to each other, near the smoke chamber upstairs.



KIM KITSURAGI: “Wait, really?” The lieutenant sounds concerned. “Take your head out of the chimney, please. It’s not safe.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] It feels safe to know that the lieutenant’s got your back, now and always.



CENTRAL FURNACE: A lush layer of coal now covers your skin, sinking into the wrinkles. Your hands look ancient.



INLAND EMPIRE: Yes, how grown-up. The furnace agrees.



KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re right, the rooms do look like they’re connected. But *malignant Entities* don’t exist—at least not the *supra-natural* kind.”




If you’re wondering why we have 5 Physical Instrument here, it’s because I accidentally took our shirt off when I picked up the Insane Mesh Tank Top. I will rectify this shortly.



CENTRAL FURNACE: “Hello?” you hear a woman’s voice answer.



CENTRAL FURNACE: “Hello! Did you say anything?” There’s a pause. “I can’t hear you, please come upstairs! There’s a safety curtain on the second floor, I’ll open it!”
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Easy: Success] You hear a low rumble upstairs—the sound of a curtain being pulled aside.



Cool, just head back upstairs and—wait where are you going

We’re actually not going to investigate The Entity at the moment, because we’re very, very busy right now.




INTERFACING: …do something important? Something murder-related? There’s always *something* important. Doesn’t mean you can’t take a moment to admire this piece of machinery.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] This is a Coupris Kineema, the Coupris MotorCorps’ follow-up to their highly successful workhorse, Coupris 40 and their answer to the LUM’s racing-bred ‘Fevre’ series.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Hundred and thirty.”





KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes.” There’s gentleness in the lieutenant’s voice as his eyes run over the vehicle’s contours. “An extraordinary machine.”
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] Helium headlights would improve the range and quality of the visual field a lot.




KIM KITSURAGI: “You want to help?” He glances at you and smiles. “Thank you for the offer. That might be fun. Let’s do the case first though, alright?”








SHIVERS: Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.



SHIVERS: The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.











SHIVERS: A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.



SHIVERS: Capeside apartments—tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls. Hallways collapse from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.









SHIVERS: In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.







ALICE: “Yes. The armour was produced by…” She looks at her notes. “Fairweather in their facilities in Betancourt, Sur-la-Clef, in ‘42. It was part of a special order for Corps de Pharmacie, a security firm contracted to protect the interests of Oranjese pharmaceutical companies in the Seminine conflict.”



ALICE: “The most recently registered firm that the ICP has been able to connect to the CdP is a military contractor called *Krenel*. And the one before it was Downwell. I think they might be the same contractor.”




ALICE: “Yes, but the ICP tends to be reluctant to share private sector records. I could try to talk them into it, though.”






Let’s examine some of these new items we got.



SHIVERS: Your finger moves through the various streets, across Rue de Saint-Ghislaine and Rue de Saint-Cispare, over Saint-Brune and Martinaise North… finally coming to a halt on the spot where you are currently standing, although the map gives no such indication itself.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Does it say anything interesting?” The lieutenant leans closer to read the crumpled note over your shoulder.



A NOTE FROM THE FRIDGE: Someone has scribbled: “S, I can’t believe the off-site copy is still here! The illiterate ginger kid keeps stealing stuff from the studio, so I had to hide it somewhere safe.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Someone who owns a radiocomputer? My guess is as good as yours, officer.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “It belongs inside a radiocomputer, storing its memory. It’s like a tape—You listen to disco tapes, right? It’s like one of your disco tapes, only for a computer.”





KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know… I assume it’s somewhere close to the ice bear fridge.”








KIM KITSURAGI: “If we find who owns it, we will have likely found who *used* it—possibly to kill our victim.”



FRACTURED BULLET: The squashed bullet has some sharp edges where the jacket has split open. It feels cold, even through the bag.





FRACTURED BULLET: It’s quite destroyed. Some of the fragments are still lodged in the wound.



KIM KITSURAGI: “A jacketed bullet. Okay… It would have been shot from a military-grade breech-loading rifle, not from a muzzleloader like those typically found on the streets of Martinaise.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Highly unusual. The people of Revachol haven’t carried breech-loading weapons like this for nearly half a century.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Even the RCM uses ordinary unjacketed conical bullets. This is… strange. Very strange. I like this, officer. Strange means unique. Unique means incriminating. We need to find the gun that shot it.”





HAND/EYE COORDINATION: The 4.46 calibre was widely used with the *Belle-Margrave* rifle, a Revacholian manufacturer. The B-M dominated the battlefields of the Insulindian theatre of the Antecentennial Revolution, 50 years ago.




HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Antiques enthusiasts, guerilla fighters in distant countries, a few lucky Jamrock bangers. You’re looking for the same thing you found in that hidden weapons cache—only in working order.





KIM KITSURAGI: He nods. “I have to hand it to the monarchs—it’s quite admirable that they took the advice of criminologists last century and banned the use of breechloaders in peacetime. Some new RCM recruits get impatient with their muzzleloaders once they’ve trained with military-grade weapons, but they realize it’s worth it, in the end.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Imagine if everyone—cops, citizens—had access to firearms that could shoot multiple rounds without pausing to reload. After the first shot, the second, third, and so on—come much easier.”

DUNNO MAN, SEEMS PRETTY FAR-FETCHED









AUTHORITY: Yes. And you found him. Now go and tell the working class woman. Protect and serve, recruit!
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Didn’t she repeatedly tell you her husband isn’t missing though?





Well, let’s further embarrass ourselves with this husband shit, I guess.





WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Excuse me?!” She blinks. “I don’t follow.”



WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Right, ‘cause working class women come with alcoholic husbands.” She glances over your shoulder towards the drunk. “You know what?”



WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “You were right. I do have an alcoholic husband. Although not that one.”




WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “No, he’s not. Or maybe he is, I don’t know. He’s probably in the park, or in Jamrock or somewhere. Drinking with his *friends*.” She looks away. “I haven’t seen him for… Well, to hell with him!” She has completely forgotten about her books, staring blank into the distance instead.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he replies, before turning to face the working class woman. “Ma’am, just to be absolutely clear—do you want to report it to the police?”





KIM KITSURAGI: “I’d say there’s nothing mysterious about incompleteness. It’s in fact rather unpleasant.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “All right then…” He sighs. “He has *questions* now.”





WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “What else… He was wearing a dark brown leather jacket witrh a bright blue inner lining. The lining is hand-sewn, I made it myself.” She sighs, her voice slightly quivering when she adds: “It’s his *cool jacket*. God knows it’s too cold to run around in this, but he refuses to change.”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] Who cares about the cold when you have your *cool jacket* to wear? You can completely sympathize.



WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Well, what can you do… I hope at least that extra lining helps him keep warm at night. I wouldn’t like him to catch cold.”



WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Yesterday morning. He went to the library.” Her eyes become cold with recollection. “He went to retrieve my book and he promised, he *promised* he’d walk straight back home. Because we talked about this. We talked about not wandering off again!” She scoffs. “I don’t know what to do! I honestly don’t know what to do with his addiction… It just makes me feel weak.”
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Gone for around 36 hours then? Damn, this *is* a missing persons case.




WORKING CLASS WOMAN: “Thank you!” You sense gratitude in her voice. “Please, do… Even though I’m sure he will return home by himself. I’m still sure of that.”
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] She tries to maintain a brave front, even though her eyes reveal the opposite.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m sure he will too. When he does, would you let Precinct 57—Kim Kitsuragi—know.” He gives her a slip of paper.



Are you done bothering Working Class Woman yet? Good.



Let’s make our way north for the first time.








KIM KITSURAGI: “The streets will not flow red with anything. Who are you?”





COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] Hatred? Disgust? It’s difficult to tell which of the two is more present in her girlish features.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Probably the Wild Pines rep. We should talk to her.” He nods in her direction. “She’s a professional negotiator, though. I have the feeling she will be very cooperative—while telling us nothing. You should take the lead, ask her unexpected questions—you know, do your thing. Don’t be afraid to get a bit *wacky*. Throwing her off is our best bet.”



CINDY THE SKULL: “Can’t you tell? I’m painting a beautiful mural. An aero-graffito visible from low orbit…”



CINDY THE SKULL: “This place is severely lacking in havoc. Not even the occasional trash can fire to break up the tedium.”




CINDY THE SKULL: “Thanks. I’m sure the inspiration will come to me now that I have an official RCM stamp of approval.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] She means the opposite.



CINDY THE SKULL: “She wrinkles her nose. “I ain’t no snitch, pigstein. Go forth and forage in someone else’s shit. No shortage of squealers in these parts.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Actually, there is a shortage of people who talk to us in a normal, calm, informative manner.”




CINDY THE SKULL: “Ugh, alright, sad piggy. I’ll give you this one—I saw a little girl in the fishing village running around with military-grade hand-wear. Looked cute as hell.”



CINDY THE SKULL: “No-no. That’s all the snitching Cindy the Skull does for today. Actually, I don’t even know why I told you what I just told you…” She looks at you, a little sad suddenly. “I have a weakness for animals. It’s the animal-thing again. Damn it.”




Charming. Well, looks like the next order of business is talking to the Wild Pines rep.