Part 57: 16:53-17:59: The Spectre

Chapter 57: 16:53-17:59: The Spectre



ARIST: [Medium: Success] Holy shit.




THE DESERTER: He looks confused. “There’s nothing there.”
INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The stick insect is over three metres tall. It looks straight at you with its tiny pinprick eyes and its grotesquely small head.




KIM KITSURAGI: “I can see it.”
VOLITION: [Easy: Success] Four simple words—thank god. If he can see, then you’re not insane.
LOGIC: [Easy: Success] But that means…
INSULINDIAN PHASMID: It’s really there. Spinning slowly—in absolute silence—its limbs long and slender.




ARIST: [Easy: Success] Cautiously, you approach. You know it’s stupid, that you probably shoudn’t, but you just feel an irresistible… curiosity. It’s a pure feeling, childlike in its absolute simplicity.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: Reed-like tufts stick out of its joints. As the insect moves its forearms it produces a faint hiss—like a reel-to-reel machine spinning after the tape breaks.



PERCEPTION (HEARING): Tik-tik-tik… hisss… tik-tik-tik… hisss…




KIM KITSURAGI: You glance over your shoulder. The lieutenant holds a piece of milled aluminium. He begins to pull it open, extremely carefully—it’s the camera!



KIM KITSURAGI: “We *need* a photo—no one will believe us.” He continues to pull the lens open…



KIM KITSURAGI: “I won’t be one of those fools who didn’t take a picture…” He has stopped fiddling with the camera, but does not put it down.



KIM KITSURAGI: He comes to, abruptly. “Understood. Of course,” he says with a nod.




INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The creature tilts its tiny head to the side and appears to look at you. It is incredibly light, like the slightest gust of wind should blow it away, but it doesn’t…





EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] Like laughter. A sort of happiness.
ENDURANCE: [Medium: Success] Sweat drips from your brow, soaking your chest… you reek of it, your chemicals.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The tracheal system on the creature’s abdomen expands in front of you, to take in and expel air—it’s *smelling* you.



KIM KITSURAGI: “Maybe it *is* real, the pheromone…” The lieutenant’s mouth is agape.
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] About now he is ready to believe in anything.
INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The insect’s head is crowned with reed-like scales, the shape of seed heads. They rustle as the air moves. The ventricles at its abdomen continue expanding, like lunglets…



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The insect stops its stridulation, seeming to observe you. Below its crown of reeds, little pin-prick eyes detect motion, glittering. The world stands still around you.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: As you do, the invertebrate comes to life, its limbs moving independent of each other. As if each has a mind of its own. They are white like stalks of porcelain, knitting above you.





KIM KITSURAGI: “Careful. It may be poisonous.” The lieutenant watches you apprehensively.




INSULINDIAN PHASMID: There is no change in the insect’s motion while it’s being aimed at by the camera. It remains fixated on you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “In three,” the lieutenant whispers, his voice tense. “If it moves, you jump back, I’ll shoot. Here we go. Three, two, one…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “I got it…” You hear the lieutenant whisper, as the creature’s shape develops onto photo paper in his hand: a polychrome ghost of white streaks against the reeds and the sky. And you, as a shadow before it.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The antennae hang from a great height. With your hand shaking you barely touch the tip of the left whisker. On contact the chitin curls into a spiral, like the tip of a poison ivy. Its touch on your fingertip feels cold, ticklish…
INTERFACING: [Medium: Success] It is suprisingly delicate—the curly end of the whisker, like a young bine. It’s even a bit wet.




INTERFACING: It tastes like… sugar. Very faint. The arthropod towers above you, tufts of reeds pointing from limb and head alike.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: The limb before you is incredibly light, like eggshell. It’s much lighter than a reed. You feel a soft push could tip the creature over, its hollow exoskeleton collapsing…



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: A sudden shiver passes the limb. Looks like the creature is awakening, wave by wave from its stupor.










INSULINDIAN PHASMID: I do not have fire inside me. In me there is not even blood, but lymph—like sap from a wine palm.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: Shapes of plants and animals. And *internal* sensations. A swarm of sounds, tiny vibrations on the inside of my forearms—all speak of complexities totally beyond my understanding.












INSULINDIAN PHASMID: You can also eat it. If it’s a leaf you can put it in your mouth. Yum yum. Or a reed.





INSULINDIAN PHASMID: I am an unknown species of the order Phantasmodea—endemic to the Insulindian isola. For the last three hundred and fifty years I have hidden in plain sight, masquerading as the reeds. Moulding, cloning myself, unfolding at night to play with trash bins and buoys. I went unnoticed by the first settlers and the land surveyors of the suzerain. Also by the soldiers of the revolution and the officials of the occupation. Even the Semenese islanders who came here first, but did not stay, have not seen me.



INSULINDIAN PHASMID: No. *You* are. The moral of our encounter is: I am a relatively median lifeform—while it is you who are total, extreme madness. A volatile system, ominously new to the planet.















INSULINDIAN PHASMID: As you’re turning away, the phasmid mirrors your movements, stepping on the water—the long limbs carry its feather weight without breaking the surface.






PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Easy: Success] …and something under it! In the place it stood, bobbing there, among the reeds. A collection of items.





THE DESERTER: “What now…” the old man behind you repeats suddenly. He’s put his hand into the ash—it’s dirty and black.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] In some kind of strange, semi-catatonic state.





ARIST: [Challenging: Success] Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t expect that to pop up here.





ORANJESE PASSPORT: It’s Klaasje. With short, black hair and glasses. She looks boyish, younger somehow.





KIM KITSURAGI: He opens his notes. “She said it would be for *Annouk Meijer-Smit*. Annouk – Meijer – Smit.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know. But it’s not Katarzine Alasije. Or Klaasje. Or Annouk Meijer-Smit. We didn’t even scratch the surface with her, detective.”









ARIST: Now that you’ve examined the various trinkets, go investigate the deserter’s mysterious stupor.




THE DESERTER: “S-s-s-see…” He stares at the reeds and falls silent.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Mr. Dros?”
THE DESERTER: The man does not respond—he keeps staring, black eyes glazed over and bulging from their sockets, his gap toothed mouth shaking.



THE DESERTER: A light shiver passes over him—followed by nothing. His hands are trembling and he breathes slowly.
KIM KITSURAGI: “He’s going into some kind of… psycho-motor immobility.” The lieutenant inspects him gently. The good news is—this solves our transportation problem. Doesn’t it, Mr. Dros?”
THE DESERTER: The trembling mouth appears to sigh.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. The arrest and the appearance of the phasmid—the combined stress…” He looks at you. “But you think it’s something more than that, don’t you?”
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] There’s *much* more. Remember what it said, when it spoke.



KIM KITSURAGI: “That could be part of the shock. But you’re right—something is off here. Mr. Dros…” He touches the man’s shoulder.




KIM KITSURAGI: “Mhm.” The lieutenant inspects the man. “Mr. Dros—have you *ever* seen a stick insect, pretending to be the reeds?”
THE DESERTER: “Th-the…” The old man stutters.




KIM KITSURAGI: “He does not seem to be *animated* now that it’s left…” He looks to the sea. “Honestly, I’m ready to believe anything at this point. Maybe it *is* psychoactive.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “He did seem distressed when it finally came to arresting him. Like he didn’t want to leave this place. And the insect maybe…” He looks at his notebook. “I have absolutely forgotten to take note. I hope I remember all of this.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “This will be one hell of a report—thank *god* we have the photo.”




THE DESERTER: Nothing. Just dull staring—not even rage left wherever he is.



THE DESERTER: No reaction. His breathing is slow and he appears very old all of a sudden. Around eighty.
COMPOSURE: [Challenging: Success] This is an old man—at least. No longer a tin soldier, but the broken down remains of a man.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Did you take this passport and other papers from a buoy on the coast?”
THE DESERTER: He blinks and continues to stare at the reeds. “The… spirit.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “He hears us… The spirit?”
THE DESERTER: No reply. He’s gone again.




THE DESERTER: He turns his eyes to the reeds again—as he’s done so many times. Beige and white stripes…
KIM KITSURAGI: “He lost the scope. Then it somehow made its way over there. With the help of a magpie phasmid?” The lieutenant observes the lens sparkle in your hand. “This sight is a T-9, Mr. Dros. Was it attached to the rifle, when you made the shot?”
THE DESERTER: Silence. Not even a sigh.



THE DESERTER: The plastic cape flaps around his face, in a gust of wind. His back is slouched and his mouth open.
PERCEPTION (SIGHT): [Challenging: Success] The blacks of his eyes are receding, his pupils are returning to normal.




All right then, let’s head back to the skiff.





ROO A72 MOTOR SKIFF: The skiff rocks gently under your weight as you get in. The ride back is uneventful and quiet.
PERCEPTION (HEARING): [Easy: Success] But for the sound of conversation on the water. There is someone inland, waiting for you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Medium: Success] Two men and a woman stand on the concrete square of a nameless village, looking at a small yellow boat as it draws closer. The sea is calm.





ARIST: [Formidable: Success] Well… shit. You’re in for it now.