Part 24: 13:56-15:19: Bullying Works
Chapter 24: 13:56-15:19: Bullying WorksContent warning: mentions of rape
ARIST: Third time’s the charm!
ARIST: God DAMMIT
ARIST: Time to talk to Klaasje about the, uh, the, you know, the ah jeez, the rape thing
PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] With a soft ring, as the porcelain meets the metal table.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This does not surprise her.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Did he?” A smile flits across her face. “I never said he was a good man. Or that he had good intentions—only that he was never bad to me.”
ARIST: This woman is getting some sick thrill from wasting your time, isn’t she?
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Mmm. Where did they get this recording exactly?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s intercepted radio chatter of the deceased—recorded via a de-encryption station. It’s authentic enough.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yeah… That was practically his pick-up line.” She picks the cup back up.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes—was he bragging?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Running joke. I was gonna say running joke—and it sounds like you didn’t even get the good bits. Lely’s punchlines got way, way funkier than that. He was like the Semenese conflict, the Co Hoi massacre, and the ‘36 famine in Yeesut all rolled into one person, then cast in Oranjese ceramic armour. Which he wore in bed *and* in the shower…”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “We’re all scraping up any happiness we can find, officer. Going around with our little scouring sticks—you, your first love, Mr. Co Hoi here…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did he tell you he had actually *done* any of those things—here in Martinaise, I mean?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “No. We were too busy laying waste to our own nervous systems to direct any of the *fury* outward. He seemed…” She thinks. “He seemed happy, I guess. At ease. As much as a man like him could be.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] There is a small measure of pride in her. That she could quell the rage in such a being.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] What kind of man *was* he? Before you go, ask for details. She seems okay to talk about it.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Like—for example—his name?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Actually, officer, I didn’t know his name. I just called him Lely.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A nickname?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “I guess. He came from Lelystad—it’s short for that. And it was his *army name* apparently. He said his real name wasn’t *his*. I tried to pry it out of him, but it was no use.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Lelystad. That’s a good start…” The lieutenant writes it down in his notebook… then tears out a page and hands it to you. We have a few questions you can help us with. A few things a field autopsy alone can’t answer.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): The young woman cranes her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the page the lieutenant passed to you. On it is a list of autopsy observations, recorded neatly in blue ink.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “In Oranje, officer. It’s a… I think *municipality* is the term? A nowhere-town there.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] The Lelystad municipality has few boroughs and even fewer cities—it’s made of agricultural plots near the border of Gottwald. Executive summary: cows, silos, and wheat.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yes. We were compatriots.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did that bring you together?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “No. He was too old for that—and from another part of Oranjenrijk. I didn’t even understand his accent. What brought us together wasn’t Oranje—it was bad habits.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “No, he left the National Service after they taught him to do what he did on Semenine. He wasn’t the flag-waving kind. He was the *making money killing people* kind.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Mhm,” she hums. “There is nothing on Mundi. The Old Old World is dead and we both knew it. Maybe Oranje *did* bring us together—in loathing.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “He was forty-two.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Forty-two? Are you sure? I would have had him above fifty…”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “He had many scars that made him appear older. But no.” The memory makes her smile. “We even celebrated his birthday, like, some weeks ago… it was a funny two days. He had little reason to lie to me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Looks like you were right, officer.” The lieutenant taps on his notebook once. As though assigning some kind of *point*…
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Blue, light blue. They were like…” She stops, her eyes half closed, then continues: “Like little blue galaxies, you know. It was strange, seeing those eyes in his fucked up face… Pardon the swearing.” She takes a drag. “I do him an injustice—he wasn’t ugly. And he had a beautiful, soft voice. Very surprising, what with all the scarring. It was quite something, watching him speak.”
ARIST: *Ma’am*, the question was about his eyes
KIM KITSURAGI: “He had a combat wound—on his chin and mouth?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Yes. *Severe*.” She seems to enjoy the word. “It made him look like half his face was cracking away in some strange smile. That and those eyes…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh yes,” the lieutenant suddenly remembers. “His hair—if you can remember?”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “Oh.” She smiles. “*That*.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “How?” She leans back. “Imagine him lying in bed, *freakish* musculature laid out on the sheets. Scarred, of course. Tattooed. The sheets are dirty for some reason. He’s smoking and drinking of course. And his chest and shoulders and arms are studded with stars, Tens, hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands. And the woman goes like…” She points at the air with her sharp-nailed finger, picking out an imaginary tattoo-star. “‘What was *this*, baby?’ And he says…” She lowers her voice, comically. “‘That was *too* hardcore. Don’t ask me about that.’ So she goes: ‘Okay. But what’s this, baby?’ And he’s like: ‘Saw some bad shit there, killed some loincloths.’”
How gauche.
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “No thank you.” She does not take it. “I’ve seen enough of him dead. I can tell you what they *meant* without looking at them.” She pours herself some more coffee.
Does coffee really go that well with cigarettes? That’s a legitimate question, I’m an incredibly lame person who doesn’t partake in either vice.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Go on.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “He was a blue-eyed boy with thick arms. From a small town. He was also *poor*, and the government of Oranje needed some people killed, so they turned him into a grotesque killer—for money.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “That’s not funny, officer.”
KLAASJE (MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER): “A real rainbow splattering of pharmaceuticals, I bet.” She grins. “Barbiturates, amphetamine, sildenaphil… How much does that toxicology report cost the Police of Revachol? I can do it for *half* of that. Save you some money, make some myself.”
ARIST: Well, that was productive. You should head back down to Titus and see how he’ll react to this. Poorly. It’ll be poorly.
VISUAL CALCULUS: How old are *you*? That’s where this is going. 45,000 litres of raw alcohol has left its disfigurements. What lies beneath, you wonder.
KIM KITSURAGI: There’s silence. Then a little more.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Here it comes—mercy.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Sure—you’re 42.” He squints. “Let’s go?”
ARIST: Just remember: when he punches you, dodge to the right.
TITUS HARDIE: “Oh, so you went and talked to my mommy—and now she’s making me play with you?” He spits. “Is that it, lawman?”
TITUS HARDIE: “Yeah yeah, I heard him. The fuck do you think I’m doing here? You’d have your ass handed to you if it wasn’t for the bossman’s word. Let me state this very clearly, coppo.” He clears his throat and declares: “Hello, officer! I’m Titus Hardie and these are my boys. Hardie Boys. How may we assist you?”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] Explosive laughter follows. To his men, Titus Hardie is a golden god. They want to laught at his jokes even before they leave his lips. This guy is a born leader.
TITUS HARDIE: “That fucking fucker…” He stares at his beer for two seconds—intently--then turns to you. “You’re the worst cops in Revachol! I gave you *gold* on that tape.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Dark?! Dark is when you start a goddamn death-rock band! He said he’d rape her!” He shakes his head in disbelief.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. In fact…” The lieutenant looks at you, then him. “I think she thought it was a little funny.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Funny?” Titus mumbles, his lips barely moving: “No good goddamn psycho whore…”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Seems like they wanted to give Klaasje a second chance to play along—she *still* didn’t.
TITUS HARDIE: “Alright!” He slams his giant fist on the door frame. “All-fucking-righty then! I guess it’s good then! That fucking…”
ELIZABETH: “Please try to control yourself in the presence of *visitors*, Titus.” Her voice is a bit softer than earlier.
KIM KITSURAGI: “But she didn’t. She knows she can’t lie to us. Unlike you.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Fantastic. So *now* you remember how to do your job…” He despondently glances at his beer. “I’m so sick of this piss—we should get something harder in here.”
SHANKY: “Yeah, guys, we should get a party going tonight!”
THEO: “Why?”
SHANKY: “Uh…” He looks at the old man in the corner. “Maybe not then.”
TITUS HARDIE: “*Handled* him?” He balks. “She got into some stupid shit with that guy. Shit *we* had to take care of.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Yeah… maybe. That is a possibility.”
TITUS HARDIE: “I already told you.” He puts his giant face in his hands and sighs. “We fucking hanged him.”
EMPATHY: [Easy: Success] There’s less gusto in his voice now. His men too are growing increasingly silent.
REACTION SPEED: [Medium: Success] The man is slowing down. Looks like a bad bloog sugar crash. He can’t keep track of all the variables any more.
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] Who could? It’s getting harder and harder to perform one’s part in this sordid play. All it takes is a nudge…
KIM KITSURAGI: “C’mon, Titus. We know you didn’t hang him. He was *shot*. He taps on his notebook. “I know you’re tired; so am I—why don’t you just…”
TITUS HARDIE: “You know what?” He gets closer. “I *am* tired. I’m tired of you *and* the whore upstairs. Next time you see her—tell her Titus said “FUCK OFF!” He throws his beer can down. “That lying, scamming… We’re done! This is over, you understand? Your little investigation—is OVER.”
ALAIN: “Yeah…” There is a silence in the room. Alain starts saying something—then thinks best not to.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] On the floor, beer drips out of the can, into a small puddle. No one does anything about it.
TITUS HARDIE: “What is this quiet funeral shit? What we need is some *beers* in us!” He looks around. “BARTENDER! Twenty beers for the Dockworkers’ Union!”
ARIST: Should’ve known, Garte hates being called a bartender. Learned that the hard way.
COMPOSURE: Fat Angus. The powerful guy. Mr. All Muscle. The time has come—put him in the pressure cooker.
RHETORIC: Just remember it’s about more than Klaasje. It’s about these men and Martinaise: their district, their *responsibility*.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Huh?” The lieutenant raises his brow.
SHANKY: “Yeah, we liked it. It was fun, wasn’t it guys?” He looks around. “We had a great time.”
EUGENE: “It wasn’t for your fucking entertainment, Dennis. She…” He gets a hold of himself.
FAT ANGUS: “It wasn’t that, it wasn’t…” the fat man says with a wheeze. “We didn’t shoot him.”
RHETORIC: That’s it, that’s the weak one—you flushed him out. Now go in for the…
THEO: “Officer, you *will* be next if you don’t shut up.” The old man reaches for his belt, but his voice is strangely calm.
FAT ANGUS: “We didn’t kill him! We didn’t even *hang him*, he was dead when…” He takes a breath, wheezing.
ARIST: Jackpot.
SHANKY: “Fatty!” The little guy hits Angus on the back of the head. A loud slap. “Say one more thing to the cops and I’ll…”
TITUS HARDIE: “DENNIS!” Titus roars. “Stand down or I’ll beat your head in. Theo—” he points to the old man. “Take your hand off the belt—this isn’t ‘31. I’ve got this under control.”
FAT ANGUS: The room falls quiet. So quiet you can hear Angus wheeze.
TITUS HARDIE: “Angie, where’s your goddamn inhaler? You sound like you’re dying.”
FAT ANGUS: “I left it at home. I can’t get it, I’m too fucked…” He grabs his chest. “I’m sorry.”
ELIZABETH: “Why are you so fucking FAT, Angus?!” Lizzie snaps at him. “Now it’s all pointless, because of *you*. You wasted my time. I told you, Titus—” she turns to him. “I told you just give her up.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Lizzie.” He turns to the fixer. “Your help is no longer needed here. Go tell Evrart.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success]
TITUS HARDIE: He nods.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You hanged the corpse to cover up the real cause of death—the bullet in his head.”
TITUS HARDIE: “Cause the girls asked up to. They were in some shit.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Girls plural? There’s another girl? Two of them? Take note of this. They’ll probably say more about her later.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did *she* kill him?”
TITUS HARDIE: “Cop, I have no idea—the girl says she didn’t…”
TITUS HARDIE: “Klaasje came down.” He points to the stairs. “She seemed really out of it. Drugged up—even more than usual. Bug-eyed and gurning, you know? Not in a *fun* way.”
TITUS HARDIE: “I’ve done this job for ten years. I’ve seen it before. It’s the politician in the motel room with the dead hooker scenario—only in reverse.”
SHANKY: “Good analogy, boss.” The rat-faced man snickers.
ARIST: Given that Klaasje’s not a prostitute and the victim was absolutely not a politician or anything like one, it’s actually kind of a shitty analogy. But don’t say that.
TITUS HARDIE: “We went upstairs. Sure as day the merc was dead. And there was a bullet hole through the window.”
ARIST: Was the bullet hole square?????
TITUS HARDIE: “Fucking…” He scratches his chin. “Dirty sheets and bottles everywhere.”
RHETORIC: He means they’d been fucking?
TITUS HARDIE: “Nah, he’s my brother. He’s in the window replacement business.”
TITUS HARDIE: “They’re powerful.” He looks out the window. “Connected to the Moralintern. She’s clearly afraid for her life—says if she showed up in your systems, she’d be ghosted away.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] That’s all he knows—that’s all she’s told him.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And why would you help someone like that? By taking on a murder?”
TITUS HARDIE: “I’m thinking—someone’s past caught up with them. Either hers or his.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hers—you mean…”
TITUS HARDIE: “I mean the people after Klaasje. Maybe the shot missed. Maybe it was mean for *her*?”
TITUS HARDIE: “I do—one of those mercenary buddies of his could’ve done it. They got guns. Training. Years of bad blood, probably. Or it could’ve been someone else from Krenel…” He pauses to think.
TITUS HARDIE: “In a manner of speaking.”
TITUS HARDIE: The big guy turns to Glen who’s about to say something.
GLEN: The blonde shuts his mouth before a word escapes.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Suddenly the wind picks up outside. You hear it rattling the large windows in their frames. It carries newspapers, circles the Whirling-In-Rags in a warm column…
TITUS HARDIE: “That’s right. If we didn’t take care of the people who end up here, this place would just be a couple of ruins and some cargo containers.”
ARIST: All right. Enough of this runaround bullshit. Time to confront Klaasje—for real.