Part 35: 13:50-16:00: Ceramic Hornets

Chapter 35: 13:50-16:00: Ceramic Hornets



ARIST: [Easy: Success] You should probably just forget about what just happened to you just like you forgot the rest of your life. People won’t understand. Just go talk to Evrart, okay?




Inside this locked case, we find some nifty gloves.






ARIST: [Medium: Success] For a moment there, *you* almost felt bad for wasting *Leo’s* time. Huh.



ARIST: [Godly: Failure] You’re… not actually sure what you think that is. Perhaps someone will one day explain it to you.




ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Yep, just get right down to business with that first thing.

EVRART CLAIRE: “Ah yes, your side-investigation! Thank you.” He adjusts his glasses. “You’ve got some spirit, clearing up phony drug accusations alongside this murder. I’ll talk to the mayor and see if I can get you the key to the city, Harry. Now let’s talk real business.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] Actually, Revachol doesn’t have a mayor…
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] He refuses to discuss it further. It’s probably just a small nuisance to him.



ARIST: Goddammit, what did I *just* tell you?!




ARIST: [Easy: Success] He’s making fun of you. You know he’s making fun of you, right?



EVRART CLAIRE: “You’re right, Harry. I *am* a socialist.” His face turns serious. “I’m going to catch the mega rich guy inside the container and harvest his energy to power the harbour’s fog lights.” He bursts out laughing. “I shudder to think what you’re going to tell me next, Harry.”



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Just… just do what you came here to do.

EVRART CLAIRE: “The golden boy returns once more! Wonderful—simply wonderful, Harry.” He claps his hands together like a child who’s just been offered cotton candy. “Of course, I already knew this.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “You’re in my inner circle. You too, Mr. Kitsuragi,” he nods to the lieutenant, smiling broadly. “We can talk about anything: the strike, the murder, your lost gun—*nothing* is off the table.”
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] See, forging that signature really paid off.

ARIST: [Medium: Success] Shut *up*, dude! You’re gonna get us caught!



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry…” He shakes his head. “By now you should know I would never do anything tricky like that. However, if the construction noise and limited street access makes *some* people consider moving… Well, let’s just say there’ll be freshly renovated buildings near the roundabout where those poor people can finally enjoy a significant uptick in quality of life. I’m talking real affordable *worker’s palaces*.”
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] He proudly spreads his hands to demonstrate the size of the palaces. They’re very large.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So the village is doomed,” the lieutenant says grimly.
EVRART CLAIRE: “You were there, you saw the place. A waste land—there’s nothing left. But mark my words, officers.” He slams his fist on the table, causing some of the coffee to spill. “We are going to *reset* it.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, imagine a Youth Centre-Supermarket-Church complex! Employing hundreds, no, thousands of people. The coast will be lit up with enterprise—and *life*! All those ruins out there turned into *low-income housing*…”



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Even if it’s true, there’s got to be a better way. A better way, offered by someone other than Evrart fucking Claire.

EVRART CLAIRE: “Yes, I do. I got the centre, I got room for a retail complex, and in four years I’ll get the church too. The wheels are already turning, Harry. The wheels of progress. This post-war limbo—I won’t stand for it. There are kids practically playing with their own *faeces* out there… It cannot go on.”





EVRART CLAIRE: “Why, a war, of course.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “And what do you have to gain from a war?”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, we outnumber them fifteen hundred to one. And that’s just Martinaise. With all the unions in Revachol—and with public opinion on our side—we can hold off two men. Or fifteen men. Or even fifty men.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, there is no strike, only war. Class war. Or, in business terms: a *dawn raid*. Or wait…” He pauses to rub his chin. “Is that when you still *pay* them something? Because we won’t do that. We’re not gonna give nothing. We’re gonna *take* Terminal B away from them: the roads, the gates, the containers, that big crane… even the damn coffee maker. We’re gonna take all of it for the people—and *fuck* Wild Pines.”
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] The word *fuck* rings like a gunshot from his mouth. He doesn’t swear often.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So that’s why you haven’t let Joyce in?”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Because we’re friends, Harry! Besides, it doesn’t matter now. You can go tell her, if you want—it won’t change the course of events. We have a significant head start.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “No idea. Could have been his own mother for all I know. If you ever find the guy, give him a big fat kiss from Evrart Claire. Couldn’t have done it without him.”
DRAMA: [Medium: Success] He really doesn’t know.



EVRART CLAIRE: “I don’t. I told you it could have been his own mother… I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anyone from the Union. Maybe it was the mob… or maybe he killed himself ‘cause he was a closet socialist? Truth is, I simply don’t know.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “2,372,” he replies like a whip. “Plus yours truly, of course.”
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] 2,373 is a sizeable contingent for a labour organization in Revachol.



EVRART CLAIRE: “Oh, you mean what sort of *goods* are gonna be flowing through? How am I gonna replace all the contacts we’ll lose once the poo-poo hits the fan? The clients who’ll ditch us? Harry, we’ve thought of everything.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Sure, some will go, but mark my words: the company will be *unpleasantly* surprised to see how many of them stay loyal to Martinaise. And to the new, competitive contracts we can offer. With renewed zeal sparked by communal ownership, the man will be shipping those containers double time. You’ll be surprised to see how fast things go without parasites latching on. We’ll have our hands free to pursue bold, exotic new revenue streams.”
REACTION SPEED: [Easy: Success] That’s drugs!
KIM KITSURAGI: “Drug trafficking.”
EVRART CLAIRE: “Drug trafficking? Don’t be stupid, Mr. Kitsuragi. There are perfectly legal, 100% ethical chemical factories on the Samaran isola. You don’t need to be *colonialist* about it.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “The company thinks transporting these chemicals in bulk ‘looks bad,’” he makes air quotes, “‘has bad optics,’ ‘may be illegal in some countries.’ The Débardeurs’ Union, however… we’re all about the large volume column. We’re gonna transport the living daylights out of those materials, Harry.” He slams his fist on the desk once more. “So your sick kid can get his *benafed* and your wacky uncle doesn’t have to come off *risperizole*!”
ENCYCLOPDIA: [Medium: Success] *Benafed* is children’s cold medicine, usually apricot flavoured, and *risperizole* is used to treat severe psychosis.
KIM KITSURAGI: “And the kids on the street can get speed and pyrholidon?”
EVRART CLAIRE: “I’m an old-fashioned guy, Mr. Kitsuragi. I sometimes grabs a beer with the boys, but I have no idea about the things you just mentioned.” He smiles. “But if I *were* to supply ingredients for some sort of rainbow party, I would make sure the Union took a fantastic share—and I’d keep that stuff far away from Martinaise.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Harry, if I *was* supplying raw materials to drug manufacturers, I would need an army of Rubies.”



EVRART CLAIRE: He smiles slyly. “It’s also far-removed from my men and the people of Martinaise, who’ve put their trust in me.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Let’s look at the big picture. Martinaise as a whole. There are little girls out there with dreams of making music. Young mothers who want to start businesses. Models who want to walk catwalks and steel welders who want to weld steel. I’m gonna unite them all into one economic body. We’re gonna incorporate this place to kingdom come. Everyone’s gonna be in on the wealth. And *everyone’s* gonna pull their weight.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “No, no, Harry. That’s boring.” He sighs. Alright, it’s gone! The hypothetical raw materials trade is off the table. It’s such a small and insignificant slice of revenue, I’m cutting it.”



ARIST: [Easy: Success] Okay, I know you’re pathologically terrified of appearing *centrist* or whatever nonsense is currently floating through your brain other than myself but for the love of god, do *not* prai—oh christ almighty



EVRART CLAIRE: “We’re way past *specific* Union members now. This is the Big Time.” His eyes are shining. “We’re talking about the future of Revachol here, Harry. You can bother Leonard with that.” He points to the door. “He loves to run his mouth on such matters. But I’m in Big-Time mode, Harry.”




ARIST: [Easy: Success] Motherfucker!

EVRART CLAIRE: “Your gun is with an old woman,” he says, absolutely unperturbed by your outburst. “I hear she’s a character, so watch out.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Yes, the same one—I see you’ve done your research. The pawnshop made the gun easy to track…” He smiles and shakes his head in wonderment. “Crazy stuff, Harry. Selling your gun like that! Wild. Anyway…”
SUGGESTION: [Medium: Success] Union boys are gonna help you *fix* it, he winks at you. Don’t worry, Harry.



EVRART CLAIRE: “As I said, she’s a character. I didn’t have time for details.” He smiles. “It sounds like she’s unstable, but don’t worry. No one got hurt.”



EVRART CLAIRE: “Unfortunately I don’t know any more. You’re gonna have to go in blind, Harry. But she’s an old lady—how dangerous can she possibly be? Oh, and she calls herself the Pigs.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Easy: Success] There is is again—*the pigs*, like Roy said. Not good at all.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I, for one, find it refreshing. Finally someone calls *themselves* a pig.” A smile flickers in the corner of his mouth.





EVRART CLAIRE: “Great, Harry, great! I think we have truly built a bridge between Martinaise and Jamrock today. We have united the RCM and the Débardeurs’ Union…” Suddenly there’s sadness in his tone.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] Evrart mentioned that Leo might have some information on Union members. Go talk to him.





EASY LEO: “All kinds of places he visits. Him and his brother both do when they’re on a vacation. Right now it’s Mr. Evrart’s turn to look after the Union, but last year he spent a whole winter in South Safre.” He chuckles. “Left with the first autumn rains and didn’t come back before the trees were green again.” The little guy chuckles again.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] South Safre? A lot of *bulk* chemical manufacturing going on there. A lot of cargo shipments being made too.



EASY LEO: “He’s a Union man through and through. Good guy.” He falls silent, hesitating. “He’s very calm… laid back. Doesn’t do much. Talks to Evrart sometimes. Honestly, I don’t know *what* he does for us, but it must be important because everybody likes him. Yes, they do. I think that’s what he does, he makes everyone feel a little better.”



EASY LEO: “Ohh, he’s really something…” The little man starts laughing. “He doesn’t talk much to me usually, but when he does… I don’t really understand most of what he’s saying…” He suddenly falls quiet. “Actually, I don’t think he would like me running my mouth about him like that.”



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Fucking cut it out!

EASY LEO: “Who do you mean, mister?” He’s rubbing his nape and looking at you with childlike innocence.



EASY LEO: “I don’t know anyone like this, mister—maybe he’s one of mister Evrart’s fancy friends. He knows all kinds of fancy people with suits and perdy carriages.” Leo falls silent.





“The night guard? Oh, he’s a peculiar fellow,” Leo looks at the guard booth on the wall. “He’s the strong silent type you could say. We talk all the time, but I don’t really know much about him… He pays pétanque with my old human studies teacher, Mr. Martin down at the plaza. I think he’s the only fellow who actually knows old René.”






Bye, Leo.



We have an abundance of skill points right now, so we put a point into Empathy and another into Drama. We still have two left over after this.





Looks like Gary is busy. We’ll have to terrorize him another time (in my fanfiction, because we will never see him again in this game).

ARIST: [Medium: Success] You’ve resolved the Jam Mystery, you should probably go see Joyce about your findings and get the information she promised.



ARIST: Uhhhhhhhhh



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] The village? Well, that’s a bit pointless and inconvenient, but whatever.



We need to put a point into Volition for one of Joyce’s checks anyway, but before we leave the area there’s something else we can use it for, so we put in that point.



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] The clarion call of the doorbell rings out to you once more. Go, discover the secrets it yet withholds from you.





ELECTRONIC DOORBELL: There’s a light buzz as you press the doorbell, waiting for her to answer the call. It’s cold outside, and you can hear the wind blowing into the speaker.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Medium: Success] There’s the static again, whispering like a seashell pressed against the ear.



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “My god…”



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: Before you can finish your sentence the voice continues speaking: “It’s you… My god, I didn’t think I would hear your voice again.”



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “Michel, just please…” Even her breathing, the way her voice drops when she finishes the sentence sounds exactly the same. “Why did you even call? I don’t understand… You’ve been gone for months,” she continues. “I thought you didn’t care.”




TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “Ever since I came to work here it’s been different…”



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: “It’s so nice. It’s so nice to finally forget about you.”



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: She tries again not to cry. And *still* doesn’t succeed completely. Her quiet sobs sound old and distant, as if her voice is being played off a wax cylinder.



TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: Her sound melts into the static from a long-distance phone call. From time to time you can hear people talking in the distance, but can’t make out any words.




TRICENTENNIAL ELECTRICS: No one replies, but the static grows stronger like rainfall. Then a female voice speaks out, completely different from the one before. Glorious and *total* somehow. Crawling inside your head.
SHIVERS: [Trivial: Success] Her words are too cold to comprehend. She smells of sodium lights and rain streaks on car windows. Eyes like pilot lights watch your shape in dark hallways, guttering.
KIM KITSURAGI: “So…” The strange, alien thought pattern ends. The lieutenant cuts in, inspecting the intercom.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—during our short stint working together—*something weird* is almost always happening to you.”





Can we get the low-down on René yet?




Nope!



But do we have a chance to get Gaston to give us his sandwich?




Fuck yeah.

GASTON MARTIN: “Like what, officer?” His eyes rest on the sandwich. “This is as good as they come in Revachol, I assure you.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] An array of delicious recipes flashes through your mind. Salads… Salmon… Sandwiches. Bingo!






ARIST: [Legendary: Failure] You flew too close to the sun, became too absorbed in the majesty of your own creation, and paid the sandwich price.





ARIST: [Medium: Success] Those locusts, abandoned in the cold, left out to attract a creature that may well not exist. You feel like kindred spirits in a sense—or not. It’s not actually that deep, really.



Before looking for Joyce now that we’re in the village, we see if Lilienne has anything to say.




LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “What is it with waves and fishermen?” She tilts her head and looks at the sea. “We need to be out there, with them. Fishing, making a living. So I ask them to accommodate me.”






LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Yes, that’s the optimal time. Got to make the most of the calm. I’ve been sleeping like a corpse after. The sea really takes its toll. Now I’m just waiting for the wind to settle to get out there again…”








LILIENNE, THE NET PICKER: “Oh yeah,” she says with a chuckle. “You won’t even be able to get it out of the water before early June and where are you gonna bury it? Who to invite? What music to play at the wake? Take it from someone who’s been through a few funerals: it’s easiest to just leave them there and let nature take care of it.”



KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant looks at you almost gently. “Yes. That is a pity. But for now let’s focus on the things we *do* get to do. Like the murder investigation for example.”




ARIST: [Trivial: Success] DO NOT!!!!!




Oh hey, there’s Joyce’s sloop!






JOYCE MESSIER: “Oh jetty, oh jetty…” she responds mournfully… then secures the mooring line. It’s good to see you here detectives. I only just arrived myself.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What brings you here, madam?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Nothing, really… I’ve had my eye on this jetty for weeks now. So I decided to investigate it personally. This cluster of buildings isn’t on any of the official maps, as far as I can tell.”



JOYCE MESSIER: “‘Spying’ has such a negative connotation. I did track your progress along the coast, however, and decided I would be better able to assist you from here… Then there’s the matter of that little scamp in old-lady clothes. She threatened to paint the Cor-de-Leite red. Like blood, you see. Well, I like it the way it is—white.”




JOYCE MESSIER: “Hmh… How *do* I like it?” She casts her gaze toward the village—slush melting on the cinder blocks, construction work left half-finished ten years ago…
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Easy: Success] Water drips down eaves of eternite. The jetty below her feet creaks to the tune.
PERCEPTION (SMELL): [Medium: Success] The smell of salt and dog shit in the background.
JOYCE MESSIER: “It’s pornographically poor. The street has no name, all the men are dead or missing… and is that the carcass of a motor carriage over there?” She squints her eyes.

ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Play it cool.

JOYCE MESSIER: “I’m surprised that woman hasn’t put me to the sword yet. Maybe she will? You should ask your questions while you can.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Fortunately for you, madam, the RCM is on the scene.”
RHETORIC: [Medium: Success] All right. Politics time. Let’s *react*.



JOYCE MESSIER: “Maybe…” She leans against the railing, looking up at the grey sky.
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] Above you there forms a quilt of altocumulus clouds, twisting into each other. The wind tugs and stretches them over the bay. Their cloud shadows slide over the ruins of Revachol West—wherever they pass, the temperature drops slightly but perceptibly.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] It’s early spring and the rains are coming. An officer enters a low hut of stone and wood. Inside, weapons are piled against the walls. Rifles with splintering stocks… and swords. Tens if not hundreds. “They’re antiques,” says Lieutenant John ‘The Archetype’ McCoy to his partner. “They’re digging them up from the catacombs now, fixing them. Old caches from the Revolution. The children carry them up. Come May, the streets will be flooded…” Outside the wind rattles the loose hatches. “*Flooded* with cheap weapons. In angry hands.”






JOYCE MESSIER: “I knew you would sympathize.” She nods. “Most Revacholians will never know what this place means, our home—this island of matter. Or why they were ferried over in the first place…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Do we?” He glances at his watch. It doesn’t look like he does.
JOYCE MESSIER: “I hear you have singled out a *suspect* and are in pursuit. This is cause for cautious optimism—I would not want to delay you…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] This story—she will tell it only before she *leaves* Martinaise. At the very end of her stay.





JOYCE MESSIER: “It doesn’t really matter—and I do apologize for the surveillance. Wild Pines can’t afford to be blind at a time like this. In any case, it’s a relief to know someone has looked into it. If I may ask—will there be an official investigation? I assume you discovered there *is* an operation…”
EMPATHY: [Challenging: Success] She’s trying to conceal her excitement, but the slight glimmer in her green eyes tells you otherwise.





JOYCE MESSIER: “I don’t believe that for one moment, officer.” There is a pause, then her stern expression clears. “I’m just going to assume that departmental regulations prevent you from saying anything more… In any case, you’ve held up your end of our arrangement. Now it’s my turn…”



JOYCE MESSIER: “Yes. I’m afraid this strike may descend into a small scale civil war. With possible consequences for all of Revachol West.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Since you’re sharing, ma’am—this is also the RCM’s worst case scenario.”




JOYCE MESSIER: “They were dispatched after I relayed the Union’s initial offer.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “*Every worker*…”



JOYCE MESSIER: “Absolutely not. These mercenaries are muscle, pure and simple. They are meant to intimidate the Union into surrendering.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Who are they, exactly?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Krenel—an Oranjese miltiary company. As far as I know three arrived in Martinaise. They report to me sporadically, but they do not answer to me. To be frank, our relationship is deteriorating. They wear ceramic armour, have semi-automatic weapons and years of combat experience. They also have Trauma-and Stressor Disorder and no idea how to conduct themselves in an urban civilian environment.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So what happened?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “The story is, one of them, the colonel—I don’t know his real name—sexually assaulted a local woman. While he was drunk and separated from his unit. This allowed some of the more militant Union members to subdue him.”




JOYCE MESSIER: “It’s a smokescreen. In secret, they are conducting an independent military tribunal into the lynching. Once this *investigation* is concluded, executions will follow.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What is the nature of this so-called investigation?”



JOYCE MESSIER: “It is very far from *disco*.” A wave crashes over the side of her boat. “My only hope is that you provide a single, concrete suspect before the mercenaries indiscriminately pick theirs. Simply put…” She leans against the wooden planks: “If you don’t pin this on someone *good*—and do it *fast*—they will identify and execute everyone present at the lynching. This, in turn, will force the Union to respond.”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] They would have to. To project strength and power.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The Débardeurs have over two thousand men. It will be a thousand to one.”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Have you ever seen a hornet invade a beehive, lieutenant?” She leans back. “It’s not pretty.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: [Medium: Success] The Seraise Giant Hornet, the world’s second largest insect, can kill forty honey bees a minute while a group of 30 can decimate an entire hive of 20,000 bees in less than four hours.
JOYCE MESSIER: “These men work in tandem using semi-and fully automatic firearms. Their armour is virtually impenetrable to muzzle-loaded weapons—even *yours*. Most Union workers don’t have guns at all…”
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: [Medium: Success] The muzzle-loaders need to be reloaded after every one or two shots—the automatics every one or two *minutes.*



JOYCE MESSIER: “*Many* bleak scenarios have already come true.” She looks at you, eyes damp from the wind. “Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois…”




JOYCE MESSIER: “Not much. Their public resume is relatively good—as far as private military contractors go. I believe they were once called… Downwell.”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Challenging: Success] Down a deep, black well.
JOYCE MESSIER: “They boast a long list of clients: Saint-Batiste, Welchman-Lorentz, Eendract… A warning sign, however—the operations concerned all take place in third- or fourth-world countries. Guarding facilities, escort missions, and such.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Meaning they’re used to operating in war zones.”



JOYCE MESSIER: “Sadly—no. Before this happened I had little interest in them. Now that I do—I don’t have the resources.” She thinks. “If you still have access to the ICP’s database, you could run a better background check than I ever could. It may take some time, though…” She thinks.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you know a lot about the inner workings of the RCM and the ICP, ma’am?”



JOYCE MESSIER: “I have. And they *will*. However, these orders take time to reach what is basically a rogue unit out in the field, here. Until they do—it’s all on us.”





JOYCE MESSIER: “That the man was killed because he assaulted a local woman. I’ve asked around a bit—this seems to be the accepted story around Martinaise.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “This does not come as news to us, but still…” He exchanges a glance with you. “To *your* knowledge, where did this assault take place? If you know.”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Last Sunday night, at the Whirling-in-Rags—the hostel by the gates. Supposedly the colonel was drunk, maybe on narcotics too.”



ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Best not to mention it. Who knows how Joyce will react to this information and whether you’ll still be able to protect Klaasje.



JOYCE MESSIER: “If you mean did I see him alive—yes. But I did not *know* him.”





JOYCE MESSIER: “One is a man, *Korty* they call him. A nickname as well. The other a woman, Phillis de Paule. Korty is… *the gunner*, I believe. De Paule is a radio operator.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant cuts in: “What would you say was his eye colour—the deceased’s?”
JOYCE MESSIER: She closes her eyes, trying to picture the man’s face… then shakes her head… “I can’t remember.” There’s a pang of regret to her voice.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] The lieutenant was testing her—asking a small detail first to see if she knew him better than she let on. She passed.
KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s alright, ma’am. Anything else—nationality? What would you say was his age?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “He was forty. Or fifty. It’s hard to say which, he had a combat injury on his lower jaw. It made it difficult to estimate his age, or gauge his facial expressions.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “This matches the dental reconstruction we saw on the body; and Klaasje also mentioned it I believe…” he says to you, then turns back to Joyce. “What else? Nationality? Accent?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “He was Occidental I think. Light brown hair, a mixed accent. Oranjese, or Messinian maybe? His injury gave him an accent all his own…”



JOYCE MESSIER: “They’ve gone to ground, as it were. I don’t recommend seeking them out.” She raises a cautionary finger. “For one—they’re likely to be armed to the teeth… They don’t have the same respect for the Revachol Citizens Militia as I do. To put it bluntly they think you’re vigilantes, *ghetto savages*. It will not be a fruitful meeting.”





ARIST: [Medium: Success] C’mon, let’s just work this out. As a thought experiment or what-have-you.





JOYCE MESSIER: “That may be so.” She is poised and unperturbed. “I still hope you heed my advice—there’s no need to kick the hornet’s nest.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “For all your talk of averting this catastrophe the situation at the gates is a powder keg. Does this not bother you?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Of course it bothers me, lieutenant, but my hands are tied. How would my employer react if it appeared I were intervening on behalf of the *Union*?”



JOYCE MESSIER: “That *would* afford a good vantage point,” she says. “In any case, it’s practically inaccessible.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Where is your radio, for contacting them—if I may ask? Do you have an ear piece?”




JOYCE MESSIER: “Until the executions start? Truthfully—I don’t know. It depends on their progress identifying the members of the lynch mob. And their impatience.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “They don’t report their progress to you?”
JOYCE MESSIER: “Not on this matter. I’m afraid they consider this a personal initiative.” There is a brief silence. Seagulls squawk over the bay…”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Challenging: Success] Five days. Not more. Maybe sooner.




JOYCE MESSIER: “Of course—excuse my hesitation before.” She reaches over the guardwire and takes the photo; holds it in her hand… for about half a minute—in silence.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Challenging: Success] She wears fingerless gloves, her fingernails are cut short and fractured. Like those of a working woman.



JOYCE MESSIER: Her mouth is relaxed, the accordion lines near her mouth vanish. The pearls of her eyes move slowly on the photo’s surface.



JOYCE MESSIER: “Sorry,” she breaks her concentration. “I was trying to see if I can read the web of interdependencies between these points—the stars.” She points to one on the photo paper.




JOYCE MESSIER: “The sailor’s soul would use it to fly back home if they should die abroad. This is a sort of… contraption. To be reeled back in by. The *silver cord*, they would call it.”




JOYCE MESSIER: “Quite a few. Vredefort—the Oranjese capital—traditionally stands on the right shoulder.” She points to it on the photo. “He started somewhere near here, I think.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What next?”



JOYCE MESSIER: “Revachol,” she says. “Those are the two constants: Vredefort on the shoulder and Revachol in the heart. They started the tradition of these maps right after the discovery of Insulinde, at the dawn of the Interisolary Age.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You said you can’t read it.”



ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Challenging: Success] Somewhere in an office lit by a single green desk lamp captain Ptolemaios Pryce—58, bald and bespectacled—is writing in a ledger on his desk. Rows and rows of days and weeks, laconic remarks in a single column: *patrol*, *case*, *vacation*, *injured*…




JOYCE MESSIER: “His platoon members? The other contractors—though I do *not* suggest you go and show them that picture. This man was their friend and comrade.”



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Worth a shot. Just be careful.





ARIST: [Medium: Success] Oh boy, it’s *reality* time! Let’s learn about the pale!




All right, next time, we’ll (hopefully) actually get to learn what the hell the pale is.