Part 32: 9:14-10:49: The Despair At The End Of The Rainbow
Chapter 32: 9:14-10:49: The Despair At The End Of The RainbowContent warning: Censored homophobic slurs. No, Cuno’s not in this one, it comes from somewhere else. You’ll see.
ARIST: [Medium: Success] You can already tell it’s going to be a busy day, but still you have no real itinerary. You’ll tackle each problem as they present themselves, you suppose. That’s what you always do.
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] You realize you’re now calculating angles the bullet could come from even subconsciously. Pride wells up in your chest—that or your breakfast, anyway. You feel like a real cop. You’re going to solve this thing.
ARIST: [Easy: Success] As you re-enter this oh-so familiar patch of Martinaise, marked unmistakably by this roundabout and its static sprawl of lorries going nowhere, you notice two hooligans, their jackets covered in obscenities, inspecting Kim’s Coupris Kineema.
PISSF****T: “A snazzy shit-ripped SKULL-mobile like this would make a fine trophy. We could, like, hang fucking shrunken heads from the side mirrors! Cops’ heads… Scary tribal shit.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Yeah, tribal shit…” he agrees. “A cop-carriage like this would have proper SKULL value…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ahem.” He steps in. “While I appreciate the interest you take in my *brutal motor carriage*, I have to stop you right there. The RCM takes threats directed at its property seriously.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “I can tell you who we’re not, cop. We’re *not* snitches, f****ts or SKULLS.”
PISSF****T: “Which is not to say that the SKULLS are bitches and f****ts. On the contrary…”
FUCK THE WORLD: “The part of this presentation you wanna take home with you, cop man, is: We’re not part of the SKULLS. Yet.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “You don’t know? What kind of cop are you?”
PISSF****T: “The question was rhetorical,” he replies, raising his open hand. “The SKULLS are *the* most vicious gang of the Besmertyné.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Besmertyné or the Besmertie—the *immortals*—are west-Revacholian crime syndicates.
FUCK THE WORLD: “The nastiest bunch of psychos ever! Jacking carriages and getting into high-speed chases.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “If a SKULL spots you, he will pull out his dagger and stab you without saying a word.”
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] The lieutenant’s voice is as calm as usual—a testament to the violence and death he’s witnessed through the sight of his firearm.
KIM KITSURAGI: “They usually occupy the Burnt-Out Quarter in Jamrock. Or you can find them loitering around in their brightly-painted, bottom-lighted vehicles.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Yeah, sure, we’ll gladly tell you everything we know about it.” He clears his throat. “It was a man.”
PISSF****T: “He was hanged from a tree.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Yeah, I mean… duh.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “These punks don’t know anything. Let’s just move along.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Hey! Stop right there! How does one know anything?”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Exactly! How can one know shit? For example: How can one be sure that there truly is a body hanging behind the hostel?”
ARIST: [Medium: Success] Well, there isn’t right now, so one can’t.
PISSF****T: The young man’s eyes glaze over as he marks in a voice filled with longing: “Oh yeah, Cindy’s a right proper SKULL…”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Yeah,” the other guy lights up too. “A true artist of the future, just like Arno van Eyck.”
PISSF****T: “By the way, if you see Cindy, give her our regards,” he adds, returning from whatever void he was just visiting.
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] For all their nihilistic posturing, these young men are not lacking in youthful idealism.
EMPATHY: [Challenging: Success] Odd. There isn’t a hint of hate in them. It’s like they’re ‘Pissf******t’ and ‘Fuck The World’ out of some kind of moral obligation.
PISSF****T: “Old man, it doesn’t matter. You’ll be long gone before his greatness is recognized.”
PISSF****T: “Yep.” He nods enthusiastically. “Old as fuck.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Yeah, man. It’s like… at death’s door. No wonder you know nothing about the future. You won’t *be* there.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The Union does their share of policing in Martinaise, at least where gangs are concerned,” the lieutenant replies instead. “That’s why there isn’t much organized crime around here.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Apart from the Union themselves of course.
FUCK THE WORLD: “Don’t you worry about that. We’re gonna make up for the deficit.”
ARIST: [Medium: Success] These two seem like complete dipshits.
PISSF****T: “Because we can be just as psycho and vicious. You’ll see.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Oh, you’ll see for sure once we’re in—it’s the last thing you’ll ever see before the void consumes you.”
PISSF****T: “Uh…” He looks confused. “Well… yeah I mean, we’re only saying *practice* things for now, so… We don’t mean no harm to the SKULLS brand. Or to you.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “We think of it more like two franchises merging, you know—us two and the SKULLS. I really feel like we would add more to the table. Spice things up here in Martinaise, you know. Get the old machine of pain and suffering oiled up real good.”
PISSF****T: “Hey, we can be just as hard! Like pavement on top of pavement, or a brick on top of another brick.”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Or a grave on top of a grave.”
RHETORIC: [Easy: Success] These kids have the vocabulary but might be missing a brain.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Wouldn’t a grave on top of a grave just be a big hole? What’s hard about holes?
PISSF****T: “Well, first off, it’s a statement and not *necessarily* something that characterizes me as a person, even though the statement has character. And I *do* like piss… The word PISSF****T epitomizes the struggle taking place in the world, things being defined as they seem, not as they are. And—I guess—it’s also about communal spirit, the future, and *truly* appreciating our differences.”
PISSF****T: “What I mean by this is—we are *all* Pissf****ts. And that the world is inherently meaningless.”
ARIST: [Easy: Success] Sounds like some bullshit.
FUCK THE WORLD: “Like I said before, many men keep searching for *the one*. For so-called true love, which is actually just obsession masquerading as a kinship. The thrill of the chase, the hollowness that fills your chest cavity after catching it.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] I’m wondering if the poetics come with the jacket or are they derived from something else entirely?
FUCK THE WORLD: “…you get more fish in a shorter time. And, for time is of the essence and fleeting ever so quickly, one must think of a way to fuck the whole world—and not get caught up in fucking some *one*. Because when one fucks everything, he fucks nothing. And that, to me, feels glorious—sticking your dick into the void.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] Hate to admit it, but in a weird way he’s got a point.
ARIST: [Medium: Success] Shut up, no he doesn’t!
KIM KITSURAGI: “Seems about right,” the lieutenant marks. “Especially considering your… heroic exit attempts.”
ARIST: Oh fuck no.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh fuck yes.
FUCK THE WORLD: “What… no!” He quickly looks around. “SKULLS don’t have kings,” he pauses. “I think, and we’re not even *in* yet…”
PISSF****T: “Yeah, man, keep your voice down. SKULLS don’t take it lightly, when folks pretend to be them. We’re not even *prospects* yet.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Wow, you boys are ambitious,” the lieutenant’s voice rings over the plaza. “Only *prospects* and already planning a coup in the SKULLS? You’re destined to go far!”
HALF LIGHT: He gets it. Passive-aggressive flattery.
FUCK THE WORLD: “Shut the fuck up,” the youth presses through his clenched teeth, there’s panic in his eyes. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
PISSF****T: “Please be quiet!” Not much is left of the nihilistic rebel at this point. The young man before you is scared out of his mind. “What… WHAT do you want?!! T-t-the jackets?”
FUCK THE WORLD: “Oh man…” His shoulders slump under the weight of sadness. “Okay,” he says finally. “I get it. SKULLS don’t really wear slogans anyway, this was stupid.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “This case doesn’t require us to go undercover. Or raise hell… In fact I don’t think the jackets will be useful at all. I just wanted *them* to not have them anymore.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The need will not arise.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Easy: Success] Pity. The jackets are meant to complete each other. If a man were standing alone on a street corner with ‘PISSF******T’ written on his back, it’d just be an individual that has taken a liking to urine. And ‘FUCK THE WORLD’ all on its own is, frankly, generic.
FUCK THE WORLD: The dark-haired young man just stands there, defeated. The wind blows. “I don’t know, Eric. It’s cold out…” he finally says to his friend.
ARIST: [Medium: Success] You’ve successfully intimidated those youths and acquired their jackets, and you didn’t even have to piss off Kim to do it! Go you!
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] About a week’s worth of mail has collected in there. They’ll empty this very soon.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] Probably did the right thing. You can’t trust that slug Evrart—you *know* he’s going to play you somehow.
ARIST: [Easy: Success] You re-enter the Whirling to take care of a few loose ends before reporting back to Evrart, not least of which is informing Morell and Lena of Cuno’s assorted hooliganism. Then, suddenly, you notice—
ARIST: SMOKER ON THE BALCONY! MINUS THE BALCONY!!!
SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “Oh, let me think…” He turns his eyes upward in recollection. “He had an accent. He sounded like one of those mercenaries.”
SMOKER ON THE BALCONY: “To his opportunities in Occident, Sur-la-Clef. Still…” He breathes in and keeps his lungs filled for a moment, before letting it out. “His coming and going brings some life to the village.”
ARIST: [Medium: Success] Fuck. Looks like his mysteries will continue to elude you for a while yet.
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Poor Morell is going senile, talking to Garys that aren’t there.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “…that really *sucked*.”
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Has he been holding that in since *last night*? You must have left without talking to him, leaving him *stewing* there for hours, trying to come up with the perfect line for when you came back.
GARTE, THE CAFETERIA MANAGER: “What—the interior-decorating kind?” He inspects the bird, somewhat suspiciously—then mellows. “You know—I’m sorry. This is actually a nice bird. A competent piece of taxidermy.”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] People just don’t know how to accept gifts, especially taxidermy. He likes it. He likes the bird. It solves his broken bird problem.
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] This was mostly about the fucking *cardio*. Massive cardio here. You’ll live ‘til 90! *Or* you’ll get a heart attack from running.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I feel good about our work here today.” The lieutenant nods. “It’s all about the little things—like bringing people random stuffed animals.”
ARIST: [Medium: Success] Hooray! Garte likes you now! Well, maybe “likes” is going overboard a bit. How about “despises you slightly less”?
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: The cryptozoologist purses his lips. “So it *was* just a child…” He looks crestfallen.
VOLITION: [Medium: Success] Something is secretly gnawing at her confidence. It’s not this Cuno kid, or the missing locusts, it’s something else.
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “Yes, you’re right. We just need to restock the empty trap. Then we’ll need to inspect the traps one more time, and then *maybe*… we can…” The aging cryptozoologist breaks into a hideous coughing fit.
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He has a 38 degree fever. His resilience has given way.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: She looks at him with tender concern. “Darling, I told you to take it easy. You’re getting sick. Maybe it’s time to go home?”
MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST: “You’re right, you’re right…” He breathes carefully, trying not to start coughing again. “We can come back next season… when it’s warmer…”
ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Part of you—a large part, in fact—winces as this dream dies before you. You know it’s probably for the best that they stop, that they don’t sacrifice their health on this absurd nonsense. Morell seems like he’s faced more than his share of disappointments, surely he can take one more…
INLAND EMPIRE: The world contracts and cries out in pain. This man looks at everything on the planet with wonder and awe, with belief that we still have beauty and joy and *hope* left to find beyond our horizons. Can you take that away? Can you bear to make the world smaller? Can you dream not the past, broken and squandered, but the future?
ARIST: …
INLAND EMPIRE: Do it for the phasmid.
ARIST: …fuck it. All in on cryptids. You’ve come this far, might as well see it through.
KIM KITSURAGI: “We’re getting *really* carried away with this, aren’t we?” He makes a show of suppressing a sigh. “Fine, it’s better than having these people get pneumonia on the coast. But after this…”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] He wants to see this tale through as much as *you*. Otherwise he’d have stopped this already. But he can *not* let it drag out after this.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “What Morell means is, we’re grateful for your help.” She nods to her husband.
We have three points to spend, so we put one into Empathy and another into Hand/Eye Coordination, saving the last for if we need it later.
ARIST: [Medium: Success] You’ve been so preoccupied that you didn’t even realize you were dreading it, but you should follow up on the library card.
ALICE: “Hold on, officer. … … … I’ve got Central Jamrock Public Library on the line and I’ve already introduced you to their librarian. Connecting the call in 2… 1…”
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Yes, this is Central Jamrock Public Library here.” A male librarian answers the call. “How can I help you, officer?”
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Billie, Billie *Méjean*, you said? Give me a moment, I’ll have to check our database.” He puts down the receiver. “… … …”
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] On Meroe Drive in Central Jamrock—in a darkened hall lit by orange desk lamps—far away from the noise outside—a middle-aged man taps commands into an old radiocomputer. A printout falls on the desk. Behind him, a lonely reader scours some dusty bookshelves, looking for a paperback…
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Yes, hello, are you still there?” You can hear him fiddle with the printout. “I found Billie Méjean’s home address, is that alright? No phone number unfortunately.”
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Marie?” He covers the phone with his hand and yells out into the room behind him: “Marie! Do you remember a reader named Billie Méjean? They returned a Thibault book the other day…” You hear someone answer from afar.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Challenging: Success] *Maurice, what?!* a woman yells. Then: *Yes-yes, okay, if it was the police…* She starts explaining something.
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Yes, it was my colleague Marie,” the librarian is speaking into the phone again. “She said that it was Billie’s *husband* who returned the book. He also asked for this new sci-fi release ‘Loos, Radio City ‘87’, but we don’t have it yet.”
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Marie knows Billie, she’s been working here longer than me. Sometimes her husband returns some books for her.”
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Marie…” A moment passes.
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Uh, one second…” The librarian turns away from the phone again and relays the question.
JAMROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY: “Happy we could help. Goodbye, officer.” The librarian hangs up and the call gets redirected back to the station with a soft click…
ARIST: [Medium: Success] You file away the address into your memory and walk down south, to the empty trap in the reeds. This cryptid diversion probably won’t end happily either, you know already, but at least here you can try to fill the void with reckless enthusiasm and stave off the worst of it until you’re already long gone. You’ll have no such luck with this Méjean case. You’re caught, being pulled every which way by people at their lowest, by stories of crisis, trying not to drown under the awful weight of it all.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] That’s what being a police officer is.
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] They’re not really going to get the chance to get comfortable here.
KIM KITSURAGI: He stops you. “Don’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question.”
ARIST: [Easy: Success] When you return to the Whirling, Morell is gone. Was Lena waiting here alone for you to get back? She’s unusually downcast and you feel uneasy just looking at her.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Her smile is weary. Her earlier ebullience has left her.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I’m sorry, dear—you’ve had to drudge through them so many times. Such is field work—a young person’s game as they say.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Morell will eventually. Or we’ll talk Gary into going back out, perhaps…”
ARIST: [Medium: Success] Sorry, Kim.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “That *really* is too much, sweetie. Thank you for your dedication, but I can see you’re coming down with a cough yourself.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Different—how?” The half-moons of her glasses reflect you as she looks up at you.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “It’s… a strange feeling.” She looks down, biting her lower lip. “I haven’t really told this to anyone, but… you *are* a police officer.”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] And when a police officer asks—you must answer.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Do you ever wonder if some lovely story from your childhood is just that… a story? Or a dream?”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] Hunching her shoulders now, she seems even smaller than she is. Like a sad young girl.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Morell’s so proud of it. He always tells everyone…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “No, sweetie,” she shakes her head, “there’s more to it than that. Morell was so eager to believe my story was *evidence* of the phasmid’s existence… That I’m some Queen of the Cryptozoologists… That… And for years his belief made *me* believe, too.”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] That I’m a queen. An extraordinary witness to grace.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But now we’re both getting old, and he’s still working himself sick out in those reeds, looking for it…” She shakes her head, still unable to meet your eyes. “But what if I was just *wrong*? I think I was…”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant opens his notebook but doesn’t write anything.
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But it *is*. We’ve spent years searching for the phasmid, hunting it together. Without it, what are we? Just another pathetic old couple…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “But if the dream comes to naught, what good is it? No, the thing is…” She looks down at her legs… “I was a paraplegic before we met. He didn’t know before I arrived… on our first date. If I weren’t the Queen of the Cryptozoologists… If I didn’t tell him that story…”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Maybe. But then why do I not dare tell him?” She sighs. “I’ve wasted enough of your time with this drama. I really must stop talking about it, lest I start crying and waste *more* of your time.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “I’m not sure of anything.” She looks out the window. “Sometimes I still see it, you know. The real memory. Not the memory of the memory, but it’s so hard to tell the two apart…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Rising, unfolding from the reeds on a hot summer’s day… like a benevolent god.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Really?”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Oh sweetie…” She looks at you, worried. “Please don’t get stuck on a dream. Take it from me and Morell.”
LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE: “Okay, it’s 1113 Tabernacle Road, Jamrock, but…”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] A waste of time?
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] A dream?
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] A lie?
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] A *fool’s hope*—say her lips moving in silence.
ARIST: [Trivial: Success] He’s right.