Part 23: 11:43-13:56: Sign My Petition To Save The Rec Center!

Chapter 23: 11:43-13:56: Sign My Petition To Save The Rec Center!

Content warning: mentions of rape



ARIST: You should probably get started on that whole drug running thing Joyce is holding over your head. Talk to Tommy. He seems chill.





ARIST: [Challenging: Success] In the darkness, a moment of perfect emotional clarity shines through.

TOMMY LE HOMME: It’s hard to say. His gaze wanders south-west—down the street that goes beyond the horizon…






TOMMY LE HOMME: “Excuse me?” He emerges from the reverie.



TOMMY LE HOMME: “Man.” He sighs. “I don’t know what to say. Not much anyone can do… there’s no helping an absence, you know?”




TOMMY LE HOMME: “What’s it *like*? Good. And bad. A ache that brings you joy.” He smiles warmly. “I think of them a lot. I dream up these silly scenarios, in great detail. Of living with them… it comforts me.” There’s a pause and a sigh. Then he turns his eyes to you. “What about you, cop man? You missing someone?”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Is that what it is—this feeling?



TOMMY LE HOMME: “I feel for you, my friend. It’s bad enough to *know* who you miss… missing like that doesn’t feel like it has much of an upside.”



TOMMY LE HOMME: “Ah, man, me and narcotics go way back.” He folds his hands behind his head and leans back. “Had some good times surfin’ the psychic waves of my own consciousness, you know?”



KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant steps in: “We have a credible lead, sir. Someone on this roundabout is waiting for a bulk shipment from the harbour—to load it on their lorry and drive it to Jamrock.”




TOMMY LE HOMME: “Look, man, I try to stay away from the criminal underbelly of Revachol. I’m a guest here. You really need to find another man to probe with these questions.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] We wouldn’t say he’s lying, sire.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] Poetry’s writing, isn’t it? Piece of cake. Drop some cold fire on this fool.




ARIST: Shit.

TOMMY LE HOMME: “That’s brutal, man. But, you know… Time will…”





ARIST: [Medium: Success] Who are you fooling with this?



TOMMY LE HOMME: “Yeah…” He doesn’t know what to say, so he just repeats: “Yeah-yeah. I get it. These are *your* rhymes, they’re from your life. Doesn’t matter if they’re robust, they’re honest. So… thanks man.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] He’s not lying. He liked the end.




ARIST: [Medium: Success] You take some prescription medication to recover from whatever the fuck that was and continue north. Your destination this time is Evrart, who you haven’t checked in with about the weasel door yet.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] This must be where Fat Angus intercepts radio transmissions.





ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] You have no idea what you’re doing or why. Sometimes you just gotta do shit, though.



PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE: Calling… Calling… Still calling… then…
VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H: …a crackle, someone picks up! They say: “Video Revachol, 24 hour video rental. We rent eight- and ten-millimetre film for home use. This is Lemmy, how may I help you?”







VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H: “Raphael *what*? Listen, I can’t help you over the phone.” He sounds annoyed now. “If you need further assistance you can visit us on the corner of Voyager and Main. Are we done?”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He thinks you’re pulling a prank on him.



SHIVERS: Tiny heels, tip-toeing down the road. Beautiful steps, light-footed, with a lifetime ahead of them. You look up and the air seems to grow darker.





ARIST: What the fuck?






ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] You’re probably never gonna get this damn thing open.




ARIST: [Medium: Success] “Now”!? Baby, you’ve always been like this! For as long as you can remember!

EVRART CLAIRE: “What?!” He smacks his forehead, completely flabbergasted. “Harry… how could you say that to me? You know I appreciate a joke as much as any jolly fat guy, but I can’t take *slander*. Are you actually investigating this?”



EVRART CLAIRE: The man rubs his temple and closes his eyes, in pain. “You’ve hurt me, Harry—me! A friend! But you know what?” He perks up. “I trust you, like I trust all my friends. And I know you’ll never talk to me about this again, because you don’t want to *wound* me. So do what you want—and let’s change the subject.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] He’s hiding his real reaction beneath courtesy.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you for understanding,” the lieutenant looks him in the eye. “We will continue to do what we must.”
EVRART CLAIRE: “You too, lieutenant—heh!” He chuckles, suddenly. “You know, I like you, but you were never my favourite. I’m a Harry-guy. I’m Team Harry.”




EVRART CLAIRE: “Did I? Well done then, Harry. I like not knowing about it and I’m sure you made the right call. I spend the whole day delegating tasks, and it’s a great relief to see people taking initiative.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, that’s very nice. I haven’t gotten around to her yet—I’m very, very busy, you see.” He adjusts a button on his sleeve. “I hope you’re getting along.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “We’re all trying to do what’s best for Martinaise.” His smile widens. “Don’t feel like you can’t cooperate with her, because you and I are such good friends and I helped you get the body down… *and* I’m helping you find your gun. I’m not a jealous guy.”




EVRART CLAIRE: “It’s *perfectly* okay. Even if you’ve told her everything we’ve talked about, it’s *absolutely* fine.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “No no, Harry. I’m perfectly neutral *and* one hundred percent for transparency. I know people say a lot of bad things about the Débardeurs’ Union, but we are actually.” – he squeaks his chair – “squeaky clean.”
EMPATHY: Yes, he really doesn’t seem to mind.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmh…” the lieutenant seems incredulous.





EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry!” he exclaims, indignant. “I have *little people* in my organization. I would never call someone a midget. What is this?”



EVRART CLAIRE: “*Vanished*?! Harry, the woman left her casserole in the oven and couldn’t make it here in time for the voting. ‘Oh, did I leave my casserole on? Better go home and check. The election can wait!” The man frowns, disapprovingly. “When she got back the whole thing was over.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, Harry, Harry!” He flicks his fingers. “Do not fixate on this little matter. Maybe it was a rabbit stew… or a hair dryer, or an iron. The point is, her heart wasn’t in it. Mine *was*.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Challenging: Success] That much is true. His heart *truly* is in it. Though you wouldn’t think so by looking at him.



EVRART CLAIRE: “Yes, yes—*low-balling*. Of course…” He’s suddenly very serious. “This isn’t a casino, Harry. Real people, real livelihoods are at stake here. But everything’s a casino for those rich types…”



EVRART CLAIRE: “*If* she actually wants to see me, she will find a way. Any good negotiator would. And I just don’t have anything to discuss with a bad negotiator.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Of course, Harry. Let me just assure you one more time—it’s perfectly okay to share anything we discuss here with this… *Joyce*. This is a completely transparent organization. I have no interest in what she is doing, but I myself have *nothing* to hide. Your business is your business and I respect your privacy. Just remember, none of this…” He makes an all-encompassing gesture. “…is secret.”



ARIST: Way ahead of you on that last bit!





EVRART CLAIRE: “Just as I thought. Culturally antiquated mug collection. What a weasel…” he shakes his head. “*Pissing* on Evrart’s Rainbow Coalition.”
DRAMA: He *was* testing you. And you succeeded.



EVRART CLAIRE: “Racist mugs in the trash AND in the apartment?!” He grabs his head with both hands. “You guys are just light-years ahead of me. I have *so much* confidence in the ability of your organization. I’m relieved you’re doing this and leaving me to do what *I* do best—helping people. With the power of *politics*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes-yes… Do you think this ‘weasel’ is somehow connected to the murder?”
EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, no, no, no no. I don’t cross paths like that.” He shakes his head, laughing. “All I want is for you to succeed in your investigation. I would never *complicate* things for you.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Believe me, Harry, he’s a nobody. Just your basement-variety nobody… Can’t imagine him being connected to a high-calibre case like this.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Would he? I’m not so sure about it.”
EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, you’re too kind, Harry! Way too kind.” He chuckles. “I know I’m not a real police officer. *You* are!”




EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, this strike is the culmination of many, *many* mistakes made by the Wild Pines group. They tried to shut the strike down by sending in armed mercenaries.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You mean our victim?”
EVRART CLAIRE: He nods gravely. “A security contractor. Can you imagine that? Workers standing in peaceful protest—united in the spirit of fellowship!—and they send hired killers to *mow* us down with machine gun fire.”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He performs a motion, as if spraying bullets from a machine gun.
EVRART CLAIRE: “I’m talking *beasts*, hardened killers from proxy wars in Yeesut, Semenine, Saramiriza—you name it, they’ve done it. Raping, killing, burning villages—killing little children for the Señorita Pineapple company, Harry…”





EVRART CLAIRE: “Yes! I’m an old man, Harry. My legs aren’t what they used to be. They lift my office with that big crane. It’s actually very fun, you should try it. But enough about me and my fun container.” His face turns serious. “The killers the company hired… I think there were three of them. All hardened commando-types. One of them got downright suicidal. Getting drunk, violent, a little rapey…” He shakes his head. “Even their own negotiator couldn’t control him. That’s your boy, the one who likes *hanging out* and trees.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “By *negotiator* you mean Joyce?”
EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry,” he says, ignoring the lieutenant, “what you need to realize is—we dockworkers are not pushovers.”




EVRART CLAIRE: “There’s a militant wing inside the Union. A group of people whose duties don’t involve manual labour, but peacekeeping in the neighbourhood. Making sure everything runs smoothly.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] That sounds a bit like organized crime.
EVRART CLAIRE: “They’re like you guys,” he nods to you and the lieutenant. “Idealistic people who want to make sure bad things don’t happen. And if they already have… well, punishment must follow.”
LOGIC: Again: that sounds like organized crime.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So these *idealists* killed our victim?”
EVRART CLAIRE: “Mhmh. One day Titus Hardie—leader of this peacekeeping faction—comes up to me and says: ‘Boss, socialist-democratic fervour drove us to take it upon ourselves to kill this beast that was burdening the land.’ He probably worded it differently, but that was the idea. Sure sounded to me like they killed him.” He chuckles. “I gave them two weeks paid leave and told them to lay low to avoid retaliation.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Aren’t you worried we might arrest them for this?
EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, I’m not *at all* worried about that. These are not the kind of men who get arrested. They’re Martinaise boys, tough and gritty. I’d like to see the man who takes them in.” He chuckles. “Besides, I sent my lawyergirl to look after them.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] If he’s just boasting then it sure doesn’t feel like that to you. He’s not worried.



EVRART CLAIRE: “So they shot him?” He looks pleasantly surprised.
KIM KITSURAGI: “He was shot in the head *before* he was hanged.”
EVRART CLAIRE: “How odd.” The man shrugs. “I don’t know what to say, lieutenant. They told me they hanged him. A hanged man is what I saw when I took a look into that yard…”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] It’s impossible to say if he’s telling the truth, sire.

ARIST: Oh, what a great help you are.



EVRART CLAIRE: “How do I know? Let me tell you about these people.” He slams his fist on the desk. “That’s their MO. It’s what they do. Last winter some poor workers in Terminal E went on a little strike. The company sent in *Sediment*—a security contractor. The strike was over the workers’ right to wear protective footwear, Harry. These guys turn up and start beating people. Tell you what, Harry, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got the same mercenary company—after a little *rebranding*. And I’m sure as hell not surprised to see an army of scabs under my gates.”

ARIST: You don’t remember “Sediment” from the namechanges Alice told you about, but she might have just omitted it.

KIM KITSURAGI: “So you believe the scabs were organized by the security contractor?”





EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, they are simply fine young men—all seven of them! Exemplary Union members. Always working to advance their position in the local socialist-democratic movement. Core members.”

ARIST: Wait, run that back. He said seven, all male. You already know there’s a female eighth member. You don’t need to be told Evrart’s hiding things from you, but it’s nice to have more solid confirmation.

EVRART CLAIRE: “Old Theo used to run them, but things really *kicked into gear* when Titus took the reins and named the group after himself.” He starts laughing. “Gotta love his initiative.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Interesting. Who’s second in command?”
EVRART CLAIRE: “They’re almost all of them *great* guys, born leaders. Whatever happened, I’m sure they only had the best interests of Martinaise and Revachol in mind.”

ARIST: Stop ignoring Kim, asshole!



EVRART CLAIRE: “But of course! It’s the least I can do for my good friend, Harry. I’ll do it right after we’ve concluded this talk.”
AUTHORITY: [Trivial: Success] You can now go and tell Titus about this. See what he has to say.





EVRART CLAIRE: “*Was* it a good talk?” He leans back, suddenly worried. “I’m not sure we made much headway here. I was hoping we’d bust the case wide open, heck, I even wanted to tell you what I *really* want to achieve with the strike…”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Yes, Harry. It’s like I can’t *fully* trust you if you’re not a man of the left,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “I *want* to, but I just can’t…”
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] A man of the left? So you have to be a social democrat?



EVRART CLAIRE: “You’re saying it, but I don’t believe you. You know how it is—company snitches, *agent provocateurs* everywhere… I’m barricaded in this fortress of mine, and I need to get a message out. Will you help me?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And what would this entail?”



KIM KITSURAGI: “It depends. I don’t think what we just got from Mr. Claire was very useful.” He studies Evrart.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] But, he thinks, it’s your call.
EVRART CLAIRE: “As I said, it weighs on me heavily…” He bows his head in shame, then looks up and smiles: “But once we get *really* talking… well, I’m gonna hand you the keys to Martinaise! And maybe even help you figure out who’s behind this killing.”

ARIST: It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit. You know it’s bullshit. He’s already explicitly told you who he thinks did it, and that he has no worry you’ll even arrest them. He’s just gonna keep giving you the runaround while you do his fucking errands until you leave because you’re desperate to be a *good communist* or whatever.



EVRART CLAIRE: “I’m glad you asked, Harry—the Union is going to build a modern youth centre in Martinaise!” He grins broadly. “It will be *righteous*. We’re gonna get those teenagers off drugs—and *on* roller skates!”



ARIST: On the other hand, this sounds fun!

EVRART CLAIRE: “On the coast, Harry. Across the canal. There’s a cul-de-sac there—a little *village* they’re calling it. A gloomy place. You’ll find it. I trust your detective skills, Harry.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “They’re just gonna have to deal with the construction noise for six months and then they’ll be living like kings—right next to a fancy new youth centre, designed by the best architects from Stella Maris.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Am I…?” The big man shakes his head in disbelief. “Harry, these people… Martinaise is the most important thing in my life. I would never let anything bad happen to them. We’re gonna build a youth centre there. The value of their properties goes up and kids have a place to play in. I’m looking out for these people, not pulling the rug from under them, Harry. I’m looking out for all of Martinaise, not just the harbour.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “You bring joy to my heart, Harry—such a pleasure to be working with you. Here…” He hands you an open white envelope. “You need to get signatures from Isobel Sadie and Lilienne Carter. The cul-de-sac is right past the pawnshop and across the canal. I heard there was some trouble with the water lock, but it should be fixed now.”





We’re gonna put a point into Rhetoric and then leave Evrart’s office.




ARIST: You already notice that Evrart vastly understated the construction time. That bodes poorly.

WHITE ENVELOPE: The youth centre cuts into the ocean like the bow of some great modern ship. Apparently it’s going to cover most—if not all—of the street and the square between the existing houses. It’s three stories tall.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] It’s going to be awfully close to the existing buildings. Almost wall to wall, practically integrating them into the youth centre.



KIM KITSURAGI: “I’m no property lawyer, but it looks fine,” the lieutenant replies, flipping through the documents. “I like the print size. They’re not selling or leasing anything. It’s not a perfect solution, but…” He shrugs.







KIM KITSURAGI: “I should have seen it.” The lieutenant frowns as he reads over the document again.





ARIST: Hey, this guy’s the racist here. Surely he’s used to such treatment. Also, you never told him to fuck off. You told him to go fuck himself.





RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Apples.”



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Look, ace detective, I come from a long line of lorrymen. We got ancient rights and privileges…” He loses his patience for explaining it. “I’m here to pick up a load of fuckin’ apples, man. Just regular, kojko-picked apples.”



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Yup, it’s one of their main exports. They grow ‘em down south Yekokataa. A beautiful place, got scenic vistas.”





KIM KITSURAGI: “He means the people living in Graad.”




RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Did you miss the part where I said they aren’t here yet? Besides, even if I did have some I wouldn’t go putting my nose in them…” He looks at you with a strange glint in his eyes.






RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “God damn right. They’ve been trying to fuck us out of our heritage in the name of profits. But when they try to replace us they’ll regret it.”




RACIST LORRY DRIVER: On the bottom of the man’s boots you see an intricate tangle of treads with no immediately discernible pattern.





RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “You’ll see when the time comes, officer,” he grins and caresses the side of his boot. “*True* patriots carry Revachol in their very soles.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Technically, you’re *stomping* on Revachol with every step you take.”




ARIST: Best not to bring up the contradiction.

RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “You know where that shit comes from? Saramiriza, Safre, Iilmaraa. They take the money from our local junkies here and then use it to out-compete us in the manufacturing sector.”




RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Not in, not out. I’ll never betray the purity of my tribe.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So you’re telling us that you don’t know *anything* about drug smuggling through Terminal B?”



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “What do you think? I can’t leave the lorry unguarded. Stuff’s been getting looted lately. It’s those little kipts sneaking around at night… If they touch my stuff, the bosses will be on my ass like ass cancer.”

ARIST: How… poetic.



RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “Yeah, I knew that guy. He was an honest driver who loved his country. We were having a good debate about genetics at the Whirling-in-Rags when some kipt-boys smashed his lock and took damn near everything. Lost his fucking job over it.” He takes a long suck on his cigarette, appearing to savor the taste. “Since he left I haven’t had anyone to talk to…”





RACIST LORRY DRIVER: “That’s the one. His tribe are natural liars. It’s in their blood…” The lorryman takes a slow, satisfied drag and blows a smoke ring. “He’s your man, alright. One-hundred percent. He’s a lorryman selling his employer’s stuff—broke the seals on his Humanox lorry. No doubt he’s selling drugs too.”




ARIST: Cool, now you’re hassling minorities on the vague, unsubstantiated claims of actual racists! Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not a real cop!




SIILENG: “Drugs?” For a moment he’s unsure how to respond. “I don’t go in for that, officer. Drugs ruin lives.”



SIILENG: “That’s *so* cool—you investigating the local drug trade like some cool Narc. But—“ he points to the goods. “I am not a lorry driver, I’m just a street vendor. I don’t know anything about that.”



SIILENG: “*Who* said that? It’s the fat racist, right? I bet it’s him. He has an agenda against me, because I’m an immigrant who works harder than he does. He’s a hater.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So you admit you’re a lorry driver?”
SIILENG: “No! I just said I work harder and he’s an asshole. I’m…” He stops to think.
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] Realizing he can’t get out of it. Smart man.




SIILENG: “Nothing, I told you. I’m not a dumb guy—I don’t get involved with that crowd.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And what *crowd* is that?”
SIILENG: “Crowd—you know. The drug crowd.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] No. He wasn’t talking about an abstract crowd. It was *that crowd*.

’

SIILENG: “Look…” he looks around and lowers his voice. “There’s bad people doing *bad* things here—that’s all I know. Please don’t get me into this mess, I’ve spent fifteen years working my way up…”





SIILENG: “All of them, I don’t know. I told you all I know. Are we cool now? I really want us to be cool now.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Who *exactly* is talking about this lady-driver of yours? The racist? Or the other one, with the tattoos?” He points north.



SIILENG: “I don’t know… maybe? If she is, I haven’t gone near her. I don’t get *involved*, I told you.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] It could be. She was strange.





ARIST: Bye, Siileng! What a guy. You put him in your rear-view and make for the pawn shop. It’s past time you played that tape.





RACK OF SECOND-HAND UNIFORMS: *Oh* yeah. The print depicts a muscled man striding toward you, a giant sword in each hand, encircled by burning embers. Behind him is a cluster of cabins engulfed in flames. Beneath him are the words: “HJELMDALL BURNING.”



RACK OF SECOND-HAND UNIFORMS: Smells like worn cotton. And a little old sweat there?
PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Medium: Success] Worn cotton with a side of flea market or trash bin.
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Sniffing is okay,” says the shopkeep, “but please don’t try anything on. Can’t have you leaving your photon emissions in the fabric of things you’re not going to buy.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s the Man from Hjelmdall.”
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Walking away from his burning village, yes.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Their matter-of-fact tone belies their surprise at the fact that you didn’t recognize the figure in the print.



BIRD’S NEST ROY: “That’s very sad, man. Then you missed out on some pretty well executed, albeit repetitive adventure literature. The Man from Hjelmdall is the hero of a series of popular books based on a fictional version of Katla, mostly what is nowadays Arda NFD. In fact…” He leans in. “Most people don’t think that the Man from Hjelmdall ever really existed, but they are *wrong*.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant raises a brow. “*Hjelmdall* isn’t a real place.”
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Neither is the Man a real man, of course, but both the Man and Hjelmdall are an ontological necessity…” He stops abruptly. “But, hey, it’s not worth getting into an argument about.”



BIRD’S NEST ROY: “I mean—even if the Man from Hjelmdall didn’t exist before the adventure novels, the stories have made it so that he has. It’s simple really.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay…” He sounds incredulous.
BIRD’S NEST ROY: “You sound skeptical. It’s not that complicated. All that’s required is a more robust understanding of cause and effect. Besides, I’ve been to Katla, though not quite as far north as the Hjelmdall, and watched the northern lights travel across the sky. Very unique energetic tides there.”



BIRD’S NEST ROY: “2 reál.”






ARIST: You don’t want the shirt anyway.




BIRD’S NEST ROY: “How interesting! Well, it’s been a while since I’ve gone hunting for the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua… Once knew a group of young musicians who decided they didn’t want to play music any more and started looking for all kinds of interesting sounds instead…”





BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Unfortunately, I don’t have any recordings from my… old life. None at all! But I do have a tape with some ultrasonic sounds that *might* be what you’re looking for.” He starts rummaging through some tapes behind the counter.



BIRD’S NEST ROY: He dusts off a case, then takes out the tape and places it on a tape player. “This recording comes from down the coast… Wasn’t looking to record anything specific—just left a recording device there one morning. Keep in mind, I have to slow this one down enough to make sounds well over 200 kHZ audible to the human ear… It will be… strange.” He switches on the tape player. The speakers begin to emit a low hum… As the hum grows louder, modulating, but always unnaturally, uncomfortably low, like it’s coming not from the speakers, but also from inside your chest. Breathing is becoming difficult…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] There’s a growing sense of dread: the sound is coming from inside you but also surrounding you. It feels as though someone is standing just outside your range of vision and watching you, doing this to you…
BIRD’S NEST ROY: He nods to you reassuringly just as more diverse, higher-pitched sounds, some random, some appearing to form patterns, hit your eardrums.



BIRD’S NEST ROY: “And skuas. But shhhh.” He raises a pointer finger and inclines his head toward the speakers. A new-high-pitched, shivering sound.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] That’s it! The signal in the noise! The “thin whisper”…
BIRD’S NEST ROY: The low range of sounds is easier to handle with a focal point, but still troubling. You are mesmerized by the sounds, but also feel nausea welling up as the motif continues, then begins to recede, dissolving in what must be the sound of water lapping at the bank… He switches off the tape player. “You know, now that I’ve listened to it on these new speakers—it’s *not* the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua. Wrong patterns, wrong… photons. Probably some insect trying to sing higher than its predators can hear. Still—fascinating, aren’t they, early morning sounds?”

ARIST: What!? Laaaaaaaaaame!




BIRD’S NEST ROY: “Maybe. Shady looking guys came in here yesterday, looking like they’d just taken off their Wild Pines overalls. They asked if I had a police weapon to sell. I told them I already sold it. They went their way. It was a trip, but you know. All sorts of people come here, asking for all sorts of things.”
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] Wait, then it might be true—Evrart’s claims.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Maybe Claire really is tracking down your gun.” The lieutenant’s eyebrows rise slightly. "Hm…”







BIRD’S NEST ROY: “A discount? I do have to keep the lights on, man. It’s twelve reál.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Just don’t ask him for the smallest amount. You’ll insult him. The others will work.





ARIST: Boombox get!





ARIST: Time to walk around Martinaise all cool-like, blasting lo-fi hip-hop beats to study and relax to.




ARIST: You briefly consider going somewhere private or at least *indoors* to play the recording of a man talking about rape, but nah. Annette’s inside anyway, you won’t be traumatizing her.

THE GREAT DOORGUNNER MEGAMIX: You push “Commencer” and the tape starts spinning. Violent static and machine sounds fill the air… “…this isn’t Revachol,” a man’s voice says. “This is a fucking village, I can almost see the elephants.” Another loud screech. Some kind of machinery.

ARIST: Evrart lied! He said there wasn’t an elephant!

KIM KITSURAGI: “The harbour,” Kim takes out his notebook. That’s the sound of a Kvalsund crane.”
THE GREAT DOORGUNNER MEGAMIX: More static. “When this shit is done I’m gonna tear that place up, Soldier of the Apocalypse style—kill shit, dogs and chickens too… Gonna rent a room, Korty, a real nice one…” This part is unintelligible. “I don’t give a shit, I’m fucking done. I’m done mentally. I’ll fucking do them all in, rape that disco cunt on the counter. You know, the dancer whore upstairs. Do it Co Hoi style. Never did get that taste out of my mouth…”A click—then silence. The rest of the tape is empty.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Indeed, but…” The lieutenant looks at the tape. You are familiar with this look now—it’s his *look of suspicion*.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Who knows. Maybe the tattoos would have an answer. Or maybe Co Hoi is just merc talk for atrocity. Slaughter.”




THE GREAT DOORGUNNER MEGAMIX: As you take out the tape, the boombox tunes itself back to the cheery radio again, spewing out beats like it’s a Friday night.