Part 28: 20:55-22:46: Racism And Death

Chapter 28: 20:55-22:46: Racism And Death



ARIST: [Trivial: Success] Before you go check on those traps, you should see what Gary has to say. This better be good, Reaction Speed.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] Not very *crypto*, this fascist. Hell of a first impression!

KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant raises his eyebrows slightly and takes out his notebook.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Yellow Man? Interesting. This is something to ask him about, after a little probing first…




GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Dark times will do that to good men.” He nods gravely, then shifts his gaze to the pile of soggy logs at his feet.



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Oh, so *that’s* what the RCM is in Martinaise about? Great.” He nods in sincere approval. “Great to hear someone’s finally taking care of that.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So you *do* know something about it?”
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No, no,” he shakes his head emphatically. Then corrects his tie. “Nothing. He was some kind of mercenary, but everyone here knows that… I’m just glad to hear you’re looking into it, that’s all.”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He’s not feeling very comfy in his clothes, is he? Strange…





ARIST: [Medium: Success] You hear racist jokes all the time? Dig up, stupid.

GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Okay, okay, I admit it. I threw the mug away in the trash container behind the hostel. I know I shouldn’t have, and I am very sorry, officer.” He pauses.



ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] Honestly, you probably would have forgotten if he hadn’t reminded you.

GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: He then accepts the slip of copy paper with a bow. “Okay, I deserve that—and I won’t do it again. You have my word. I don’t know what got *into* me. Stuffing my garbage in another man’s property, it’s… I’ve been having trouble at work lately. The kojkos are price dumping us out of competition.”

ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You’re not sure if you’re more bothered by the sycophancy or the racial slur. But it should probably be the racism.

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “WHAT DID YOU DO, GARY?!”





GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Then I cane out to clean up the rags because *no one else would*. I put them into the Whirling’s trash—along with a broken mug, admittedly…” He changes his mind mid-sentence. “Okay, I was coming to throw the mug away and, well, I threw the mug there and the clothes too.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Right, it was just *civic duty*,” the lieutenant remarks drolly.
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Exactly! That’s exactly what it was—civic duty.”




GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “So I can use the Whirling’s trash compactor to store my own stuff,” he says, bowing shamefully like a fallen knight. “Garbage disposal is expensive as hell, the damn himeans run it like a mob… I’m sorry okay. I thought I could cut costs. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have disgraced myself.”

ARIST: [Easy: Success] Okay, this is just getting pathetic now. What a coward.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Disgraced?” The lieutenant raises his eyebrows and looks up. “No need for the histrionics, sir. It was, after all, just a trash container.”




GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Really?” He fans his arms out slowly, and this time, his motions are soundless. “There’s lots of weird stuff out here in the reeds, though—insects, trash. Could be the wind shifting some garbage nearby.”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Every day, the wind shifts the reeds and whatever was left in them: tambourines and condom wrappers, plastic and glass bottles, the smell of decay.



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Armour? No.” He changes his mind. “I mean—yes, of course. I know he was wearing armour. But I don’t know anything *about* it…”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] An infant could see he’s not telling the truth—but he’s too scared to admit more wrongdoing.





GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No-no… I help Morell with research sometimes and I’ve learned some things along the way. But I don’t usually go in for picnics like this on my own.”



That was a *successful* Reaction Speed check?!

GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Not many Seolites here, or anywhere, other than Seol. I meant no offense, truly.”





GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “No, no problem at all.” He flashes an impenetrable smile at Kim.
RHETORIC: [Challenging: Success] Sounds like some conspiracy topic. You might be able to discuss it with him when the lieutenant isn’t here. *If* you can remember it.






ARIST: [Medium: Success] Well, let’s get to the main event here.

GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Sure do, officer.”





GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “So you work for Evrart Claire!” He realizes what’s going on and changes his tone: “Officer, please tell him we’re good. No, no, tell him I’ll make it up to him… What have I done? He’ll send the muscle after me…” The man looks around, whispering, he makes sure no one hears you talk.



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Whatever it is, tell him I’m silent as the grave.” The man thinks. “I was probably talking too loud in the Whirling the other night, about some theories…”



HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] This scared him proper. He’s positively *melting* from fear. Has to prop himself up with a lot of anger to keep it together.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The weather vane has turned,” the lieutenant remarks with a smike. “He can not be un-turned.”





ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, let’s stop terrorizing this poor racist for now. You see something curious out of the corner of your eye…







SMALL BUOY: The number ‘11’ has been written on the yellow plastic. It hasn’t been in the water for very long, but it’s already discoloured and slimy with silt. A latch holds it close, but only just barely—the brittle metal of the latch has cracked.




SMALL BUOY: It smells like you would expect it to smell: A concentrated version of the coast. Salt, industrial slop and decay.








KIM KITSURAGI: “That may very well be the case. We should keep an eye on her.” He sighs. “Nothing more for us to do here. Let’s go.”




ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Before you leave, you turn back and look at Gary. Something about him is still bothering you. Think. What is his body language suggesting?

We put a point into Composure.



Immediately after putting that point in, Composure contacts us.



COMPOSURE: Mag it sideways? What are you talking about?! You need to Mag it *up*! You’ve probably had two heart attacks and a minor stroke already… and the only prescription is insane amounts of magnesium.






Anyway, let’s talk to Gary again before he leaves.









GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: He freezes, then sighs heavily. “I knew you’d figure it out, officer. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at once. I was…” He unbuttons the shirt. You see gleaming white ceramic shine underneath—a thing layer of interlocking plates covers his gaunt torso. “I was ashamed of what I did. And I didn’t want you to know.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] We’re not detecting falsehoods, sire. He’s gearing up to admit the truth.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This *shame* is surprisingly sincere.
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “GARY! WHAT’S GOING ON?!”
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “LATER, MORELL! I’VE GOT APOLOGIZING TO DO.”



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Everyone was picking those pieces off him and I was watching them do it. And they scattered his clothes all over the yard, everything was smelling…” He looks at his feet. “So I went there to take out my trash and started cleaning up. All those rags on the ground, him swinging up there, and…” He swallows. “I had a lapse of honour, sir. I thought: he’s a foreigner. They all say he wasn’t from here. Only the cuirass was left, so I stripped it off him. It was early in the morning, no one saw me. I took it with me. It was a mistake. Had I known it’d give you guys trouble, I wouldn’t have…” His lips start quivering. “Fuck…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s okay.” The lieutenant jots something down in his notebook. “It was a loose end and you’re tying it up now.”
GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “I’m so fucking sorry I called you *yellow man*.” He says silently. “Seolite officers commanded the Suzerain’s navy. Most of them sided with the King, when…”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] They were thoroughly *conservative* men, he realizes suddenly.



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “Because I was weak.” He says, staring at nothing in particular. “I should have told you the moment I saw you, but…”
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “The HELL, Gary?! You in trouble?”



GARY, THE CRYPTOFASCIST: “I always thought it was the Union, but… I sure as hell won’t go around saying that any more. You have my word. I don’t know—and I won’t be running my mouth on this subject any more.”






ARIST: [Easy: Success] Fucking Gary, huh. What a character.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] From Morell and Gary, you head south, looking for the first trap they set.




ARIST: [Medium: Success] Oooh, happy pills!




ARIST: [Medium: Success] As the light glints off your new sunglasses, you notice the trap nearby.



TRAP: BOATHOUSES: Behind you, the ruins of a residential building loom over the reeds. They whisper amongst themselves confidentially. Snowflakes cling to their shivering stems.



TRAP: BOATHOUSES: Locusts are crawling around in the trap, confused but uneaten. You see no carnivorous *reed-phasmid* gorging on them.














KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmm, correct.” The lieutenant examines the wall closely. “The density of the bullet holes is unusual, even in a general *average bullet hole frequency in Martinaise* sense. Grim affairs.”











VISUAL CALCULUS: A host of men, probably in everyday clothes—ragged from the conflict and covered in dust. They were not sitting (a common practice for executions in some nations), as demonstrated by the height level of the bullet holes. They stand, facing the wall… It’s impossible to discern any details about their personality or background.






KIM KITSURAGI: At first the lieutenant doesn’t say a word… he just stares at the wall. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I don’t know who died here, lined up beside that horrible wall. It could have been any of the parties involved in the Revolution. Perhaps the ones executed here were the loyalist-conservatives—killed by the communists at the start of the civil war. Or it could have been the communists, put to death during the last stretch of the conflict by the Coalition forces. It could even have been the employees of the Feld R&D Center down the coast, as their building was taken over by the revolutionaries.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Yeah… it’s very unlikely the Coalition forces were the ones who died here. They were always the *last* ones against the wall.”





ARIST: [Medium: Success] After that sobering thought, you return north to Morell’s last trap. He and Gary have already left.



TRAP: MORELL: The reeds by the abandoned camp site sway and tremble, while the snow falls all around.



TRAP: MORELL: The trap is also full of panicked locusts. No sign of any cryptozoological beast inside.





ARIST: [Easy: Success] To the east is the boardwalk. You decide to explore it a small bit for a reprieve from trap-hunting.










PERCEPTION (HEARING): Dripping water falls from a high place. All you can see is the shadow of a collapsing staircase.

ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Wait, what do you know? You’re hearing, not sight!



KIM KITSURAGI: “No.” He shakes his head. The windows rattle in their frames. “I won’t even try. You know…” he takes his glasses off. “I had a partner once. They called him Eyes, because he had to show me things. It’s that bad.”




ARIST: 7 out of 10’s a C. Not terrible. Let’s just hope we never need your skills.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] You pass the phone from earlier as you make your way along the boardwalk.







RAILING: It’s streaked with dried seagull s hit and tangled with pieces of seaweed. A dangling arm suggests that there might be a jacket beneath the crust of filth.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] It seems likely that it was left in the surf until someone laid it out on this bench to dry out. Unfortunately that just seems to have stiffened it into a shapeless mass.




KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant sighs.






FILTHY JACKET: It’s a sordid and filthy tale, not for the weak. Are you sure you can stomach it?



FILTHY JACKET: It occurs to you that you’re not even *holding* the jacket itself, but rather the thick crust of jetsam and seagull shit that ensconces it.






ARIST: [Medium: Success] Just take your pills and forget this ever happened.










ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You’ve seen many a locked container around, but until now it’s never occurred to you that you actually have a *tool* to open them. Whip that prybar out, baby!









PERCEPTION (SMELL): It doesn’t help. You can still smell it.



PERCEPTION (SMELL): Don’t you recognize it? That hideous pungency, that faintly cloying sweetness? Only death smells like that.
HALF LIGHT: [Easy: Success] Something cold wakes in the pit of your stomach: fear.





ARIST: [Medium: Success] You crawl forward, dreading whatever awaits you at the end of the boardwalk…



ARIST: But it was the only thing it could be. Tragedy.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] You ignore the body for now in favor of the trash next to it.. You can’t bear to look at it.

TRASH CAN: Two empty bottles of ‘Touloula’ vodka and a can of black ‘Potent Porter’ is all you find.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] No. There’s more in there. “Livis” strawberry liquor, plus some pilsner bottles too. Better not pick them up, they seem unhygienic.
KIM KITSURAGI: “A tragedy…” The lieutenant looks in the can, eyes watering from the smell.



TRASH CAN: Whoever tossed it here was a heavy smoker: the brand name reads “Red Astra”.



TRASH CAN: You see traces of mayonnaise and ketchup on it, as well as a tomato wedge. The wrapper reads: “SHISH KEBAB REVACHOL.”
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Medium: Success] It’s no older than a day, or two. No mold yet.



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] All right. You need to look at the body now. No getting around it.



PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Easy: Success] Half of his body has slipped between the cracked boardwalk, starting with the left leg. The fall has left him broken, contorted like a sad puppet.
PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Medium: Success] The smell is… not as bad as a two weeks old corpse, but it’s definitely heading there.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hold on…” The lieutenant squats next to the corpse and examines his face. Two bulging eyes stare back at him, void of any signs of life. “Lividity is fairly pronounced. Whoever this is, he’s been dead for two days, no longer.” He stands up and shivers as a gust of wind blows through his bomber jacket. “We need to investigate.”

ARIST: [Easy: Success] Yes. You suppose you do, don’t you. Take a deep breath. This isn’t supposed to be easy.

AUTHORITY: [Easy: Success] Another dead body. This is your job. Steel yourself.



WORKING CLASS CORPSE: He’s wearing mud-caked boots, beige trousers, and an old brown leather jacket with a bright blue lining. There are traces of kebab sauce on his chest.
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] The leather jacket suits him well. It must be custom-made.





WORKING CLASS CORPSE: The man has fallen through a crack in the boardwalk and hit his head against the metal bench. Coagulated blood covers his black hair. One of his feet is still tangling through the hole.



WORKING CLASS CORPSE: His expression is dull like the sea behind him, drops of water shining on his moustache. His eyes, empty and wide, look frightening in their frozen gaze.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Easy: Success] Height 170-175 cm, curly hair, stout build. Age approximately 50-60 years.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He was confused when he died. Confused and alone, most likely. Overcome with the awful surprise of it all.




WORKING CLASS CORPSE: A dried chunk of blood covers the hair at the back of his head—an open wound. It’s sticky and cold to your touch.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] This is what killed him.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Challenging: Success] This is where he came out of himself. Drop by drop when he was unconscious. It took three, maybe four minutes.




WORKING CLASS CORPSE: They screech under your feet, ominously. It’s hard to say whether the dead man’s weight was what caused the boardwalk to break… It definitely looks fragile.
PERCEPTION: [Medium: Success] You see waves churning below… Something cracks beneath your feet.



WORKING CLASS CORPSE: A 0.75 litre ‘Touloula’ vodka with its cap missing. There’s hardly anything left inside.
KIM KITSURAGI: ‘Tare, all around us…” He looks at two other bottles near the coin-operated viewer, then at your yellow plastic bag. “I’d prefer if you didn’t collect them this time. It’s not… proper.”




WORKING CLASS CORPSE: The blackness of death. Stench. You think you see white chewing gum too.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Medium: Success] Confirmed. Nearly the whole pack is there, solidified on his lower rear teeth.
KIM KITSURAGI: “He ate the whole pack, right? It’s to cover the smell of alcohol before going home. The worst this is…” The man shudders from the cold. “I’ve seen if before: almost the same scenario. Even the chewing gum. It’s always the same…”




KIM KITSURAGI: “Looks like one of the locals—he’d have to know this spot to come here. You don’t *just* walk over here.” He looks south, the way you came. “But that’s just a lazy assumption. What do you think?”







KIM KITSURAGI: “No, I don’t see anything that points in that direction. For now let’s treat this case as a simple—albeit sad—accident, unrelated to the murder case.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “Some symptoms of acute alcohol poisoning could have definitely played a role here: severe confusion, respiratory depression, unpredictable behaviour…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “What about it? The deceased ate some kebab.” He shrugs. “It’s probably from a nearby place, maybe in the Pox…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “They’ll seal this place off after the news reaches the Coalition officials. I doubt that they have enough resources to actually repair the boardwalk.”





KIM KITSURAGI: “A field autopsy isn’t necessary if the cause of death doesn’t appear to be criminal—and this looks like a simple accident to me.”







ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You turn from the body and make your way back down the boardwalk. All you see in that corpse is yourself, yet again.



To deal with this tragedy, we put a point into Volition and another into Composure for good measure.





ARIST: [Easy: Success] You leave the boardwalk and head east, then north when you reach the church. Your objective is the next trap Morell set, a welcome distraction.
















KIM KITSURAGI: “Frankly, you’re just going to have to accept the fact that you can’t get in through every single door.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Yeah, I understand you, I like opening doors as much as the next guy, but this one is simply beyond repair and we don’t have the resources needed to open it.”



ARIST: [Medium: Success] A little bitter from the mysterious door, you continue heading forward.





ARIST: [Medium: Success] It suddenly occurs to you that you haven’t actually looked at that library card yet. Were you putting it off, or did you legitimately just forget with everything that was happening? No matter. It’s time to open it.




A FOLDED LIBRARY CARD: Whoever owns this card is an avid reader: you find a list of books written in blue pencil: “Radiothriller”, “Stand A Little Less Between Me And The Sun.” The last one in the list is “The Glinting Curve” by M. Thibault. A library stamp indicates that the book has been returned.



A FOLDED LIBRARY CARD: “If lost, please return the card to the library. Dial 005-02-55-211 or visit us at Meroe Street 78, Jamrock. Business hours: 09 to 18.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Good.” He takes a note. “We should give them a call from my Kineema, see if we can learn anything about Billie Méjean.”





TRAP: LAND’S END: The reeds shake sadly in the coastal breeze. Snow specks the stalks. Most of it melts quickly, relinquishing form to darkness.









ARIST: [Medium: Success] The rotating lights from the tower in front of you are a welcome help in the thick snow. You feel a little warmer inside every time one shines on you.






PERCEPTION: [Challenging: Success] In the distance you can hear the breakers roar.



KIM KITSURAGI: “To warm his hands before pulling the trigger? Perhaps. But anyone could have made this. The coast is specked with fires this time of year.” He looks around.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Those?” He points to them. “A smoking assailant who favours Tioumoutiri to Astra or Drouin? Cigarette butts are everywhere. This is a common brand for old men.”



VISUAL CALCULUS: There, 1.2 kilometres over the cold water of the bay, through a thick snowstorm melting flake by flake in the waves you see the smallest rectangle, barely visible.



ARIST: [Easy: Success] Well, we’ve ruled out one option.






ARIST: [Easy: Success] From there, it’s just a long journey back, past the church, past the fishing village, past the motor carriage, to the last trap by the water lock.



ARIST: It’s barely even visible through the snowstorm.



TRAP: CANAL: The reeds bend forlornly toward the sand. Snow covers the broken stalks like a shroud, and they shimmer, ghostly, in the darkness. In the east, the city centre hums to you.





ARIST: [Godly: Failure] CRYPTIDS ARE REAL!!!!!!!




KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant studies the trap with you. “Well, the bait worked on *something*. This doesn’t mean it was a reed-monster, though. Unless you see one in there? I just see an empty trap…”

ARIST: It’s the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua!






ARIST: [Easy: Success] And so, you head back to the Whirling to notify Morell.