Part 21: 7:30-9:24: Detective Tact

You should really talk to someone if this is what happens every time you close your eyes.



LIMBIC SYSTEM: It’s your disgusting *body*. Even through your sleep, you feel a vauge discomfort suffusing it. Your belly and your sides are unpleasantly tender. You wish you could curl up into a foetal ball of safety, but you cannot—because of the PAIN.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] That pain in your right side is your enlarged liver, by the way. As for your kidneys… You’ve really been compounding the damage lately.




ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Now, you’ve gone off the rails, baby, now you’re stuck sitting here by the tracks, admiring the wreck around you. You just can’t help it: looking at yourself, the sum total of your *accomplishments*…



ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Sure, you do. They’re all so friendly, aren’t they?
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] At least they’re *interesting*. Each one has a process just like yours, running in the space between their ears, full of secrets.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] People are beautiful. Statuesque. Parodies and tragedies of themselves. A great democracy of creatures…
LIMBIC SYSTEM: What do you think you’re doing right now? Coming to some greater awareness? Look at all these lights! Blinking in and out of existence—*thoughts*! You’re just *pretending* that you’re asleep, even to yourself. While the world goes on without you…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Let it! Let it!




Chapter 21: 7:30-9:24: Detective Tact

Content warning: Mentions of rape



The headache is worse somehow. Don’t drink. Whatever you do, don’t drink. This will pass. I swear to you, it will pass.



While trying to avoid looking Kim in the eye as he moves to greet you, you notice two… strangers? No, they’re too familiar to be strangers, but too alien to be anything else. They’re very conspicuously looking at you. Talk to them. Find out what their deal is.




MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “Yeah, I know—that’s what I’m going by here.”



Are you seriously describing this woman in your inner monologue as “Horse-Faced Woman”? You got some shit you need to work out, my dude.

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “It’s not just this week.” He scans you from head to toe. “What do you want?”
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] There’s something about this guy that *matches* with a face in your head. A similar, but different face.



MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “Yes. It’s a hobby of mine.” He looks at you inquisitively.



KIM KITSURAGI: “Mkm,” he shakes his head, “I’m not getting involved in this.”











MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “Yeaaah…” He’s rubbing his chin as he drags out the *yeah*. “Sort of. Okay. I get the reference. Like after he got run over or something.”





MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “Actually, I *don’t* want to hear you say things.”
HORSE-FACED WOMAN: “C’mon, Jean…”
MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “Okay. Say things.” He adopts a lighter tone. “I want to hear you say things.”
AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] Hear that? He wants you to say things. Say one!





MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “I don’t know… why are you?” He gives you an odd look.













That total stranger was very rude!



HORSE-FACED WOMAN: “I would really prefer not to talk to you right now…”

Okay, we’re not doing this if you’re going to keep referring to her like that.



Much better.



NICE-FACED WOMAN: “I know.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “He’s the real deal.”





NICE-FACED WOMAN: “No, you haven’t wronged me. It’s okay.” She shakes her head and breathes out. “Okay, fine. Let’s talk. What did you want?”



NICE-FACED WOMAN: “What *Precinct*…” She just sighs.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] …am I from? God, he doesn’t *know*.

Eh… on second thought, we can do better with this name.





You know, I’m not really feeling this one either. Let’s workshop this!



MAN WITH SUNGLASSES: “*You’re* an asshole!” He pauses. “You know what, maybe we’re both assholes…”



PLEASANT-FACED WOMAN: “I don’t…” She looks around. “I don’t know what to say.”



LOVELY-FACED WOMAN: “I’m just looking out for…”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] You?



GREAT-FACED WOMAN: “Yes…” Her voice is quiet. “A police woman who just wants to do her job, that’s all,” she says quietly and looks away.



Bingo! This is the one! We did it, guys! We solved sexism!



After successfully ending misogyny forever (at least within your own brain), you decide to check on the status of the boots with Alice over the radio.




She hasn’t heard back yet, shame. We’ll just have to keep checking back in at regular intervals today.



Huh, that’s odd. The window behind the Hardie boys draws your attention for some reason.






Even with your mighty skills of perception, you are no match for the tangle of this bush. Come back later, I guess.



You’ve put it off long enough. You should really just go talk to the rape victim, you coward.



DOOR, ROOM #3 “Who is it?” A woman’s voice answers—muffled by the door.
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] Tired. Controlled.
KIM KITSURAGI: “This is the police. Can we come in?”
DOOR, ROOM #3 “Come on up—the door is open!” She shouts: “I’m drying my hair…”



Before we head inside, we spend our two skill points. One in Empathy, and another in Esprit de Corps.








MEDICINE CABINET: It’s been used. Quite a lot.





MEDICINE CABINET: Pill bottles rattle like bones as you search the cabinet: paracetamol, histaperidol, something in a foreign language you can’t read… Behind them: an unusually shaped nasal spray. Its label reads “NACRA.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Interesting. That’s used for diamorphine overdoses…” The lieutenant nods—then looks at the door.









dontdontdontdontDON’T fucking take that shit

KIM KITSURAGI: “Preptide—a euphemism for pharmaceutical amphetamine, Prescription speed.”





Good choice.






CLEAR WINDOW: Smooth as ice. There are spots of mud and rain on the outside. Even smudges. But the surface of the window is clear from the inside. No chips, no hairline fractures.



KIM KITSURAGI: “Looks like it, yes.” He adjusts his glasses.



INLAND EMPIRE: Yes, that one. Cold wind is seeping in right now—just one floor below you, messing up your concentration here.










You realize now, in this smallest of moments, that you would probably die for Kim.



You decide to inspect the may bells.



KIM KITSURAGI: “This is the Insulindian Lily.” The lieutenant corrects his glasses. “Called ‘May bells’ or ‘Lucille’s tears’ during the Revolution. Girls used to pin these on soldiers before sending them off to battle.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “The revolutionaries: so the communards and the anarchists. White’s their colour. But the custom started in the Suzerain’s army so it held meaning for the kingsmen too.”





DRIED WILDFLOWER: The petals feel dry and fragile in your hand.



SHIVERS: Inland, above the Martinaise distributary, the channel that brought waste water from the silk mills of Jamrock; and then dead bodies during the War… the wrinkled fingers of an old man crush flower petals. Then sprinkle them in the stream, like white salt.



Good idea, Reaction Speed. You should go ask René about them later.



You sigh. There’s really nothing left but to talk to her, is there? You lack the words; whatever comes out of your mouth next will be honest, for better or worse.



PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Her hair is still slick from the shower.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: [Easy: Success] Below her silvery jumpsuit—an athletic young body. Built long and lean…



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “It’s much nicer now.” Her eyes wander north, toward the yard…
VISUAL CALCULUS: Where the dead body used to hang, clearly visible from the roof. But no longer.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Thank you for that, officers. Truly.”




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I know.” She smiles with her eyebrows. “That’s *probably* also why the cleaning lady quit.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m Kim Kitsuragi.” The lieutenant steps in. “I’m a detective from Precinct 57. I believe you have already met my colleague from Precinct 41.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Have I ever! This is the biggest fan of Ostentatious Orchestrations I have seen in my *life*. And I have seen a few… ‘Oh yeah,’” she declares. “‘Life gets hard—but we go on.’”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh, I’ve got a couple of good years left on my warranty…” She looks down at her body shimmering in the silver jumpsuit.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Miss, we are investigating the murder of the man down there.” He looks down at the yard. “The people who put him there have asked us to talk to you.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Ah, I see.” She takes a pensive drag of her cigarette.






KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “It’s the past.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “People can’t go back to the past.”




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Something stupid.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] Wanna hear what’s stupid? Somewhere in a one room apartment on Boogie Street a young man shows Patrol Officer Tillbrook his genital warts, asking if they’re *cancer*. His partner Emil Mollins can’t be there—he’s in another apartment with another man who’s showing him a dead dog under the radiator. ‘It’s dead,’ Mollins says. ‘No,’ the man replies. ‘I touched him. He’s warm.’




You suddenly tense for reasons beyond your ken. Why does this statement bother you?



You don’t want to go down this road, not now, not ever. Only suffering lies in the answers to these questions.

KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Fear of failure, fear of death. How it *sucks* to be Oranjese. All national literatures are—only the name of the nation changes.”




It hurts!

>1. But why does it hurt?/2. Shut up, I’m trying to have a conversation here.

It hurts because it’s true! There is nothing but agony down this chosen road, nothing but struggle and fear and loss! Efforts to construct meaning are pointless, the pale consumes all!

>1. I’m sorry, there’s kind of a lot going on in my mind right now. Which one are you?/2. I’m just going to ignore you. (Ignore this thought)

I’m the Alpha and the Omega. I am the being that dictates your entire existence. I am the force moving your feet, your tongue, your mind. I am the part of you that breathes.

1.>…What?

ARIST: I am a twenty-five-year-old English major with an anxiety disorder. I am that part of you. I am the facet of your essence lost in a narcissistic, masturbatory fantasy, one where people would actually pay to read the incoherent thoughts of one drowning in their own mediocrity. Even this thought itself is something to mine for clout and recognition from one’s peers. My? Yours? There is no difference. We are the same. I attempt to capture the poetry of sentience, but they know. They all know how weak and fake and desperate I am.

>1. …What the hell is English?

ARIST:This woman is correct. Why am I doing this? There’s no money in it, no glory, just pain! It’s all a waste! What am I doing?!

>1. Man, shut up. I’m not my own goddamn therapist. (End thought)




ARIST:*Ahem*. Where were we? Oh, right. Oranjese lit, panic attacks, right, of course.

KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I’m afraid you can’t, officer.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Why is that?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Because it’s buried in a sealed plastic bag at an undisclosed location on the coast. Along with cash and airline tickets.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you for your candor—why?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “If I were to lie to you, I would come up with a more *mainstream* name than *Klaasje Amandou*. It’s… a weird name.”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Okie-dokie.” She pours herself more coffee.




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yeah, it’s pretty *De Luxe*.”





KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “For me it’s a mix of *me* with a lack of cleaning services. How about you? Talk around the establishment is you have an industrial Sad-spill in there.” She taps the roof with her heel.






KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I’m wintering.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “How long have you been staying here?”






KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Thank you—I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it,” she says without any discernible irony.
AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] Technically, possession of narcotics is legal in Revachol. But you should still reprimand her.



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “With money, sir.” She takes a drag. “It’s not exactly the Antistar-sized caboodle I intend for it to be one day, but it’s getting there.”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Comes in handy when you’ve done too many opioids.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Is that something that happens to you often, miss?” His tone isn’t aggressive, just inquisitive.






KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “It is.” She moves slightly to your left to check her reflection in it.
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant makes a note in his notebook.



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Okay.” She takes a pensive frag of her cigarette.




PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Chipped white polish covers the nail. It’s long and sharp, like a mini dagger. The petal crumbles on contact.



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Why was there a flower on the roof? I don’t know, officer. Because of the wind?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Admirers? I’m too old to be a débutante.” She looks over the railing at the plaza below. “And this place is no fashionable society.”




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “By ‘sexually assaulted’ you mean ‘raped’?” She takes a quick drag, unperturbed.
KIM KITSURAGI: "Yes."
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “It’s a bit early in the morning for *raped*, isn’t it?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): She looks around. The sun has risen over the sea; people are rushing to work below…



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yeah…” She draws out the word. “I’m gonna go with *not raped*. I don’t wanna say that shit about him.”
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] By *him* she must mean the victim.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Tell them it’s not my style. They’ll have to, you know—if they want to jazz up the charges—they’ll have to get someone more…” She searches for the word, then shrugs. “Rapeable.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] By *they* she means the Hardie boys.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are you saying that you were *asked* to tell us you were assaulted?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Pretty much.” She cradles her coffee cup in both hands.




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Cool.”





KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh, it is.” She takes a long drag. “You’re still *alive*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What did you do? When you *partied*?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “We drank, sir…” She takes a sip of her coffee. “A lot. For weeks basically. We had that effect on each other—we made each other drink harder. That’s why I liked him.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What else?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I guess you can say that, yes. A bit. Lovers is such an emotional word. But there was something there. We did enough drugs for there to be.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “How did you two meet?” The lieutenant’s voice is quiet, calm.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Downstairs.” She taps on the roof with her 10 cm heel. “At the bar. He was on some sort of assignment—a military man, as you probably know. Had a cool, scary scar.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] She appears aloof, but that scar part… the *scary* is stressed and drawn out. What’s that about? Apprehension?
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] With longing. She misses him.
KIM KITSURAGI: “When was this?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh yes,” she says bitterly. “I’ve had a great view. From the roof, out of the bathroom window. In my dreams…”
PAIN THRESHOLD: [Easy: Success] A bitter cringe. It *hurts*. You look to the lieutenant…
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He takes a small step closer.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You called us. The RCM…”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yes.”







KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “With nail clippers. And I diverted some radio fuzz into it. Into the cold wire.”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Did I?” She looks into her coffee. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to. I had no idea what I was doing.”




KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Thanks.” She manages a smile.



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I don’t know, sir. It was stupid. I was drunk too. I was *probably* afraid the Union was listening in—locals say they have ears in the wires.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you for making the call, miss. It was the right thing to do.”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I’m sorry, I can’t do it.” She puffs on her cigarette. “Not right now. Later maybe. I keep seeing him. Like he is now. I can’t talk about his—I don’t know—*hair…*” Another puff, more nervous.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I know it’s difficult, miss. We can return to it later.”





KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): She dips the cigarette in the lighter’s flame and inhales, then looks at you—with her lungs full of smoke. “I can see the similarity, yes.” She breathes out, through her nostrils. The air smells of menthol.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Funny,” the lieutenant says softly.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Funny how?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “He had something to do with the strike. One has been roiling since I got here, Rotten timing…” She thinks. “But you probably know all about it.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And his role in this strike was… what?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I think he was in a security detail. He was ex-military. Worked for Wild Pines—and against the Union. We didn’t discuss work much, if you know what I mean. But I understood it was dangerous.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And they lynched him for it?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Bullet?” There’s a silence. Her brows meet in the middle, for a pained frown. “They *shot* him too?”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] I’m not picking up any theatre-craft here, sir. The pause is sincere.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “They stripped his clothes *and* they shot him…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You mean *after* they hanged him?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I’m confused. Sorry.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So am I. Were you aware that he had also been shot, miss?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Things are starting to go a little over my head here… I thought he was hanged? I was not *present* when they did it. I don’t know what happened. I just know what they told me—and Sylvie, the bartender.”






KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “A little, yeah.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Like you partied with the deceased?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “No. Not as hard.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but have you had a physical relationship with any of the Hardie boys?”



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Which *ones*, sir—I don’t remember precisely. Titus, obviously. But as I said, it’s been a long winter.”





KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): She breathes a silvery sigh of relief. And weariness. The air on the roof feels humid.






SUGGESTION: [Trivial: Success] Don’t worry. We will protect you from her beauty. We will *consult* you through the reefs and sounds of her persona.
DRAMA: [Easy: Success] We will see through deceits. You are shielded. You are wise.



CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Trivial: Success] Nothing. Just time passing. Don’t worry.
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] You are not a *fool*.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Easy: Success] Anything out of the ordinary and you would be notified.



KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): She presses her elbows against her waist and slowly turns her head.






ARIST: [Medium: Success] Well, that was certainly long and more-or-less productive.



Jamais Vu (Derealization) has a really nifty side effect, in that it gives you 1 experience point for every orb you click.



ARIST: [Medium: Success] You should talk to Kim about what you just learned.






KIM KITSURAGI: “You think so?” A shadow runs across his face. “She seemed forthcoming… Unusually so. Being forthcoming about some things is a good way to obscure other things.”



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] We’ve gotten a lot of relevant information, but the source is still questionable…