Chapter Text
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: That's right, copain. Warm yourself by the fire. It's dark out there, but the embers are still smoldering here. Savor that time before they burn out forever.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Breathe in the smoke. It fills your lungs, charring what little tissue remains there. You need it. You've always needed it.
YOU:
1. > Where am I? Everything is black.
2. (Lean over the fire and breathe in.) Ah yeah. That's the stuff.
3. Can I make the embers burn faster? I want to be done here.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Don't worry about that, mon pote. You won't be here long. Warm your hands. Maybe even touch the glow. You've been dying for the burn, haven't you? That hot crack of pain across your hands.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Maybe even across some other parts, too. Naughty boy. It's okay. You can indulge here for a moment. Before you have to go.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Even if you don't deserve it. And you don't, of course. You've really fucked up this time.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Not that that's a surprise. You fuck up every time. What's another disappointing tally in your ledger?
YOU:
1. You're right. I'm a disappointment. A fucking embarrassment. I should just walk into the flames.
2. > What are you talking about? What did I do?
3. I don't want to hear this. I'm just warming my hands.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: You hear that? He doesn't even remember!
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Of course he doesn't. He doesn't remember anything, does he?
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Oh, what a treat that will be… Discovering the mess he's made.
YOU: Don't talk about me like I'm not here!
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You're not here for long, mon frère. I wouldn't worry about it.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Yes, yes. Already sensation is starting to return. Your lungs burn and wheeze, gasping for air, while your fingers twitch nervously. Your head pounds and your torso feels tender and hollow.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Don't say we didn't warn you…
YOU:
1. Warn me about what?
2. > I don't like this. I want to stay. Take me back to the embers.
3. Who are you? Why is this happening?
LIMBIC SYSTEM: The embers are already dying. Their heat leaves you, your fingers growing cold. The wind pricks like needles. There's no staying here.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: There's only the question of where to go. Back there or onto the next big thing.
YOU:
1. I want to go back. I am going back.
2. Fuck that place! It never gave me what I deserve! Onto the next.
3. No, I'm staying here. I want to stay here.
4. > Wait, what even is back? And what's the next big thing?
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Sorry, mon pote, but we can't answer that.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: You'll just have to find out for yourself! It's already happening. You feel the burn of your lungs grow stronger, as your fingers twitch against the scratch of carpet. There's a drumming in your head, even louder than the roar of blood flushing in your ears.
PERCEPTION (Hearing) [trivial: success]: The ungodly screech of brake pads in desperate need of replacement brings you back to the world. Overtop of it, you hear a steady beat, syncopated bass, and the screech of horns.
NATURE MORTE [medium: success]: Disco music.
VOLONTÉ: Get up.
YOU: You bat open your eyes.
PERCEPTION (Sight) [challenging: failure]: The world is a blur of colors, murky blue and green resolving into yellow and orange in the distance.
PERCEPTION (Touch) [trivial: success]: You feel the scratch of carpet beneath your hands. As you shift, you feel it beneath your chest, legs, and arms. You are unclothed, except for a pair of boxer briefs clinging to your pelvis. They are a bit damp, but you don't know why. The fluid could have come from yourself or from the world. You shiver a bit, both in disgust and at the cold breeze blowing in from the wind. The embers are nowhere to be found.
PERCEPTION (Smell) [easy: success]: As you breathe in, you smell the pungent mixture of bodily fluids, cigarette ash, and alcohol. Beneath it, faintly, is a whiff of industrial lemon scented cleaner.
YOU: You cradle your head as you pull yourself to standing. The pain at your temples is almost unbearable, thudding along to every beat of your heart. You shuffle forward, exploring this brave new world feet first.
YOU: You brush against something soft and malleable, light against your socked foot. You reach down to pick it up.
ITEM GAINED: MOTOR OIL STAINED JEANS
These are the boot cut jeans of the working man. Faded and worn thin in the knees, the once stiff fabric is now soft to the touch. Flecks of motor oil have stained the cuffs and pockets, lending the wearer the aura of a weathered mechanic. That they hug your hips so well is just an added bonus.
+1 Interfaçage: Ready to work
YOU: You step into the jeans. They were clearly worn to your body, giving you just the right amount of maneuverability.
PERCEPTION (touch) [easy: success]: Shoving your hand in the pocket, you feel the wear pattern of a set of keys, as if you habitually keep them in this spot. But there are no keys to be found.
RÊVERIE: Not here, but keep looking. There are still doors to unlock.
MUSTY HOSTEL ROOM: You shuffle around the room, bumping into the occasional piece of furniture. There is a futon, covered in rumpled sheets, as well as a table and some sort of speaker system. Everything is still blurry, but it seems to resolve at least partially if you squint at it hard enough. Provided that it is an appropriate distance away, at least. Continuing to explore, you find that the floor is littered with empty alcohol bottles and cigarette butts. In a few places, the carpet has been singed, presumably from cigarettes left burning.
YOU: You find a shirt, tossed a few feet from where your pants were laying.
ITEM GAINED: V-NECK MUSCLE TEE
A simple t-shirt, but one with a complicated message. It's deep V, rolled sleeves, and tight fit are definitely suggesting something. What that is, however, is left up to any audience lucky enough to get a look.
+1 Vice Squad: How low can you go neckline
-1 Authority: Indecent exposure
YOU: You pull on the shirt and rub your hands across your arms to try and warm yourself. Fuck, it's cold in here.
BROKEN WINDOW: A brisk wind pours through the broken glass. Light reflects off of the sharp, jagged edges that remain. Whatever caused this damage, it took quite a bit of force.
RÊVERIE: You would have worn a jacket in this cold. Go look for it.
YOU: You walk in halting steps across the room, looking for your jacket. You trip over a shoe along the way, pick it up, and shove your foot into it. Two steps later, you find its mate.
ITEM GAINED: BLACK LEATHER BOOTS
These low cut boots are actually leather, not the plastic look alike. They've been carefully maintained, with the worst scuffs buffed out. Broken in to your feet, they might actually be comfortable if not for the rather precarious heel. They add an inch or two of height and look cool while doing it, but at what cost?
+1 Abîme: Teetering on the edge
-1 Speed Freak: Boots made for walking, not running
YOU: Shoes on, you head into the bathroom.
YOU:
1. > Turn on the light
2. Rummage around in the dark
YOU: Your senses are immediately assaulted by the harsh fluorescent light pouring in from overhead.
DAMAGED HEALTH -1
PAIN THRESHOLD: Oh Dolores, make it stop!
ABÎME: WE ARE DYING.
PERCEPTION (Sight): WE ARE BLIND.
VOLONTÉ: Calm down. Turn off the light and keep going.
YOU:
1. > [INTERFAÇAGE: Medium] Turn the light back off.
- +1 Hand still on the switch
2. ABORT MISSION! ABORT! (Quitte.)
SUCCESS
YOU: You flick the switch back off and step further into the bathroom.
PERCEPTION (hearing): Your heels make a sharp click with every step against the ceramic tile floor.
YOU: You stretch out your arms to feel around the bathroom. Your hand catches on a towel, the shower curtain, and then…
PERCEPTION (touch): Voila! Fabric. Something heavy, almost industrial. As your hand traces the garment, you can make out the feel of a sleeve.
YOU: You pull the jacket down from where it has been tossed over the shower rod.
ITEM GAINED: PILOT'S JACKET OF THE APOCALYPSE
This burnt orange bomber jacket has already survived the end of the world once, and it's ready to do it again. Trimmed with red, it is the color of the sunset, the end of times for you and everyone else. Its aged surface is speckled with battles fought and sometimes won, kept mended and perfectly tailored to your figure. Putting it on feels like stepping into yourself. It is yours and yours alone. Guard it well.
+2 Rêverie: Supplement d'ame
-1 Sang-froid: Heart on your sleeve
YOU: The jacket fits your frame snuggly, barely skirting the waistband of your jeans.
YOU:
1. > Check out what's in the pockets.
2. No time for that. I have the feeling I should get going. (Quitte.)
YOU: You shove your hand into the right outside pocket and find your fingers curl around something hard, flat, and plastic. Dragging it into the dim light, you hold it the requisite forty-five centimeters from your face and squint at it.
PERCEPTION (Sight) [trivial: success]: Your key to the hostel room.
ITEM GAINED: KEY TO WHIRLING IN RAGS ROOM #1
YOU:
1. > Check out the other pocket.
2. No time for that. I have the feeling I should get going. (Quitte.)
YOU: This time your hand wraps around an oddly familiar piece of metal. Almost shaped like a figure eight. You slowly pull the item out of your pocket.
ITEM GAINED: HORRENDOUS AVIATOR GLASSES
Large framed aviator glasses with only slightly scratched lenses. When you hold them up to the light, the coating over the eyepieces turns iridescent as a petrol slick on the nighttime highway.
+1 Thespian: Who knows what you see?
-1 Volonté: Darkens the world
YOU: At least with the sunglasses on, your headache starts to become ever so slightly more manageable. You try massaging your temples again, this time without the whirling colors of the world attacking your eyes.
HORRENDOUS AVIATOR GLASSES: Salut, cher! Good to be back again!
YOU:
1. > You can talk?
2. Again? We've done this before?
3. I'm not drunk enough for this. (Quitte.)
HORRENDOUS AVIATOR GLASSES: Of course I can! But also, no, that would be ridiculous. This is all in your head, baby. A bit of projection.
YOU: Putain. I'm crazy, then.
HORRENDOUS AVIATOR GLASSES: I wouldn't worry about it! All the best people are!
VOLONTÉ: Enough of this. Get going.
YOU: Why?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He waits for you.
COUP DE FOUDRE: The city waits for you.
NATURE MORTE: This room smells like a morgue.
YOU: You unlock the door with your key to the room and step out into the hall.
HALLWAY: To the right, the hall curves around to what you guess is the door to the balcony. To your left, there is a vague shape approximately the size of an adult woman.
PERCEPTION (Smell) [trivial: success]: Cigarette smoke curls through the air. Someone just lit up.
VICE SQUAD: Oh, yes. We need to get that for ourselves. We need it now. Sooner, if possible.
YOU: Get what?
VICE SQUAD [easy: success]: Nicotine, mec. That sweet elixir is going to cure all of our ills. Your headache, for one. And that twitch in your eye for another.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: Nicotine is a stimulant found in cigarettes. It causes the body to produce adrenaline, which results in elevated focus and pleasant mood. It is also highly addictive. Prolonged smoking is connected to higher rates of lung disease.
VICE SQUAD: You hear that? Killer focus and a nice buzz. We could use that right about now.
VOLONTÉ: Also lung disease. You notice that little wheeze? That hitch your breath? Do you really think a smoke is what you need right now?
VICE SQUAD: Yes!
LOGIC [easy: success]: Even if you want some smokes, you don't have any. You would need to obtain some first.
PERSUASION: We could ask for some?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: We could take some! By force!
SPEED FREAK: We could palm some! Before anyone sees!
SAVOIR FAIRE: Five finger discount! I'm in!
TASK UPDATED: SMOKE SCREEN
Find some cigs and smoke them. Getting them is going to be the hard part, but once you have them, you'll know what to do.
LOGIC [easy: success]: Wait. We don't even know where to find cigarettes, yet.
RHETORIC: Ask the smoker. She'll know.
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: "Howdy, officer."
RHETORIC [medium: success]: Officer? Does she mean us?
YOU:
1. "Officer?"
2. "Good morning, ma'am. Where am I and, also, what exactly is happening?"
3. > "Do we know each other?"
4. "Can I have a smoke?"
5. "Sorry, miss, no time." (Quitte.)
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: "We met last night, officer. You were blasting music and yelling about your job. We spoke in the hall."
EMPATHY [easy: success]: There's concern in her voice. She's uncertain what's happening here.
YOU:
1. "Of course. Just testing to see if you remembered."
2. > "I think I've forgotten… everything. I don't remember anything before this morning."
3. "Can I have a smoke?"
4. "Sorry, miss, no time." (Quitte.)
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: "You don't mean…" She almost chuckles at the end. A nervous uptick in her voice.
SANG-FROID [easy: success]: She doesn't know if this is a joke or not.
YOU: A pause. You could back out, but you say, "Yes, I mean."
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “Wow. I don’t really know what to say.”
YOU:
1. > “Yes.”
2. “So, I'm guessing this isn't normal."
3. “Can I have a smoke?”
4. “Sorry, miss, no time.” (Quitte.)
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “That’s some trip. I’ll give you that.” She pauses, taps her cigarette on the ashtray. “Maybe it was luck.”
YOU:
1. “Of course it was. New life, new me.”
2. > “This doesn’t feel very lucky.”
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: She shakes her head, shoulders moving with the action. “No. No, I don’t suppose it does.”
YOU:
1. > “Can I have a smoke?”
2. “Enjoy your morning.” (Quitte.)
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “Sorry, officer. This was my last one.”
RHETORIC [medium: success]: There’s that word again. Officer. Ask her what she means by that.
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “You actually gave it to me. Last night, that is.”
YOU:
1. > “You keep calling me ‘officer.’ What do you mean by that?”
2. “Enjoy your morning.” (Quitte.)
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “Huh." If you could make out the details of her face, she'd probably be raising her eyebrows right about now. "Maybe you really do mean it.”
THESPIAN [medium: success]: She didn’t believe you before, monseigneur, but she’s coming around to the idea of oblivion.
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: “You’re a police officer. Or, at least you said you were. You had a badge and a gun on that first night, so everyone believed you.”
YOU:
1. “Of course I’m a cop. It all makes sense.”
2. “Non. Impossible. Nique la police.”
3. > “Huh.”
YOU: You turn the idea over in your head. You, a police officer. It feels…
ESPRIT DE CORPS [trivial: success]: Right.
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: She taps her foot in sharp stacatto beat against the floor. “Well, if I’m not under arrest, I think I’ll be turning in for now. You know where to find me.”
LADY-SHAPED SMOKER: With that, she stubs out her cigarette and heads back into her room.
LOGIC: Or, at least that’s what you assume happens. Really, her blurry form just dissolves into the wall.
YOU: You trace your hand along the rail as you walk in the same direction as the woman. In the corner, you find the door to her room. You place your hand on the doorknob, out of curiosity more than anything, but it’s already locked. Turning the other way, a stairway lies directly ahead. You walk forward and, still keeping a hand lightly on the rail, head downstairs.
WHIRLING IN RAGS CAFETERIA: The room in front of you buzzes with sound. From the slight echo, you know that this is a bigger space than upstairs, and that there are more people here, too. Mainly, though, it’s all a blur of color.
YOU:
1. I don’t need to look around! I prefer the surprise. (Lie to yourself.)
2. > [PERCEPTION (Sight): Medium]: Look around the room.
3. Actually, I want to go back to my room. I can’t do this. (Quitte.)
FAILURE
PERCEPTION (Sight): The colors blur together in a never-ending kaleidoscope.
GARTE: “Hey! Don’t think you can just… slip away! We have a bill to discuss!”
YOU:
1. > “Who are you?”
2. “Va te faire foutre! We have nothing to discuss!”
3. “Merde. What did I do?"
4. “Let’s do this later.” (Quitte.)
GARTE: “Don’t play coy with me! You owe me money. Just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you should expect handouts.”
YOU:
1. “I’m not playing coy. I don’t know who you are.”
2. [AUTHORITY: Challenging] Establish dominance. Show him who’s in control around here.
3. > “Let’s do this later.” (Quitte.)
GARTE: “Alright, but you’re not getting out of this…” He grumbles to himself as he returns to his work.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Smooth going, frère. Now we just have to slip out unnoticed. Quick! To the door!
YOU: You jaunt across the room toward what you’re pretty sure is the door, but just when you should be connecting with the door handle, you find your hand instead connecting with something dense and immovable.
PERCEPTION (Touch): Your fingers push against a row of buttons. A man’s dress shirt. The material seems rather nice - something smoother than cotton. Perhaps satin? What lies beneath is warm and solid. Familiar.
VICE SQUAD: Oh, I’ve got this one. That’s a man underneath it. One who doesn’t budge even as you hurl your body into his.
HARRIER DU BOIS: He grips your shoulders firmly, large hands pressing into your arms as he pushes you a step backwards. “Woah, there.” His voice is deep and even, with a bit of amusement creeping in around the edges. He brushes something off your jacket before returning one hand to his side. He leaves the other conspicuously in place.
SPEED FREAK: No room to run.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Hope you’re not that eager to start without me.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You don’t know who this man is or who he is to you, but you know right now that if the world were to end here - if the apocalypse rolled in like fog upon the coast - he would face that fate at your side.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “You must be the detective from the 57th. I’m Lieutenant-Yefreitor Harrier du Bois.” He extends his free hand to you. “Pleased to meet you. You can call me Harry.”
YOU:
1. > Take his hand.
2. Don’t take his hand.
YOU: His hand is broad and firm as it wraps around yours, heavy calluses pressing against your palm.
YOU:
1. Finish the handshake like a normal person.
2. [AUTHORITY: Formidable] Establish dominance over the handshake.
3. > [ESPRIT DE CORPS: Challenging] Check him out. Get the low down.
- -1 World is a blur
FAILURE
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He is, um… a police officer. Taller than you but not by much. Is he wearing heels?
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I'm afraid your precinct didn't send over your name. You are…"
YOU:
1. "Jean Dupont."
2. "Dick Mullen."
3. "Jaques Alfred de la Traz."
4. "Nobody. I'm leaving."
5. "I'm actually juggling a few possible names right now."
6. > "I lost my name in a tragic accident. I don't like to talk about it. The wound is still fresh."
7. "I don't remember. I don't remember anything before this morning."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Right." He stretches out the syllable. "Well, if you find a new one, let me know, officer." He lets your hand go, but keeps his grip on your shoulder.
THESPIAN [medium: success]: He does not believe you, monseigneur.
HORRIBLE AVIATOR SUNGLASSES: T'inquiete, mec. He'll come around!
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I'm just glad to have caught you this morning. We've had some, khm, miscommunication the past couple days, but third time's the charm."
RHETORIC [challenging: success]: He's smiling, but you catch what he's really saying. You stood him up the past two days. You were off doing whatever it is you do.
YOU: What is it that I do?
REVERIE [formidable: failure]: Rescuing puppies? Saving orphans? Something above board, for sure.
YOU:
1. "I'm sorry that I didn't show before. And for whatever else I did."
2. "I think you got the wrong guy. I don't think I'm a detective."
3. > "Well, I'm here now!" (Poorly feign enthusiasm.) "Let's get this thing over with."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "That's the spirit! Let's just settle up and then we can go inspect the body." He nudges you back into the room.
RHETORIC: Inspect the body?
ABÎME: Inspect the body?!
VICE SQUAD: Or, you know… Inspect the body?
YOU:
1. > "What's this about a body?"
2. [SANG-FROID: Challenging] Play it cool. You definitely already know about the body.
HARRIER DU BOIS: He tenses, body freezing for a moment before the affable facade returns. "The body, officer. The one just outside? We are here to investigate the murder." He taps anxiously at the clipboard in his hands, drumming out some forgotten rhythm. "Your precinct should have given you the notes, but you can skim mine. Don't worry about it."
YOU:
1. "I think you got the wrong guy. I don't think I'm a detective."
2. "Thank you. I'd appreciate a look at those notes."
3. "I need to level with you. I don't remember anything at all before waking up this morning."
4. > (Say nothing and let him drag you further into the room.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective maneuvers you across the room, steering you by the shoulder as he does. He puts up an inconspicuous front, but there's some solid muscle under here. You couldn't escape, even if you wanted to.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Good morning!" He leans over on the counter as he speaks, intruding as much as he reasonably can into the personal space of the man behind the bar.
GARTE: "Good morning, officers." This man (the barkeep?) certainly doesn't sound like he's having a good morning. "I assume that you-" He points to you, nearly letting his finger touch your chest. "-are here to settle your tab."
YOU:
1. "Of course. How much do I owe you?"
2. > "What do you mean?"
3. [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Formidable] "Let's settle this with our fists! Outside."
4. [PERSUASION: Impossible] Convince the barkeep there is no tab.
5. [SPEED FREAK: Godly] RUN!
GARTE: "I mean that you owe me 130 réal. 60 for the three nights you spent here, 40 for the damage to the window and the carpet, and another 30 for the alcohol and cigarettes and assorted debauchery."
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: Réal is a type of currency, also called money. It is a fungible representation of wealth or power that can be exchanged for goods and services.
VICE SQUAD [easy: success]: You can also use it to gamble! Actually, gambling is a great way to get more money.
LOGIC [medium: success]: No, it's a great way to lose money.
YOU:
1. "I did that? My apologies."
2. > "And what if I don't have any money?"
3. "No, I'm pretty sure that's not what happened."
4. [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Formidable] "Let's settle this with our fists! Outside."
5. [PERSUASION: Impossible] Convince the barkeep there is no tab.
6. [SPEED FREAK: Godly] RUN!
- -1 Already asked a question
GARTE: "Then you get kicked out of your room and, I don't know, permanently banned from the Whirling in Rags."
YOU: What is the Whirling in Rags?
LOGIC [easy: success]: From context, you would guess this building.
TRAJECTOIRE [challenging: failure]: Whirling is right. This whole place is just a swirl of color.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Of course. We'll have the money to you sometime today." He takes a hand to the back of his neck. "And I'll go ahead and rent a room myself. I have a feeling we won't be wrapping this up by nightfall."
GARTE: "Fine. That's twenty for the room. And you better have the money by evening, or I'm serious! Locked out. I don't care where you go, but it won't be here."
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective hands over a crumpled stack of bills, before pulling you away from the counter.
INTERFAÇAGE: He's handsy.
VICE SQUAD: You like it!
AUTHORITY: You do not! Set some boundaries.
YOU: Before you can respond, the detective has already pulled you across the room and out into the street in front of the Whirling in Rags.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Right. So, I'm guessing from our conversation that you haven't gotten the body down."
YOU: "Down from where?"
HARRIER DU BOIS: A pause. Inhale, then exhale. "The tree. The tree behind the Whirling in Rags. Where the body has been for a week. You must have seen it."
PERSUASION [easy: success]: A hint of a whine creeps into his voice. He’s getting a little bit desperate, but he doesn’t want you to know that.
RHETORIC [medium: success]: Wait. Before you say something stupid, let’s think. We have some options now. You can try to keep up the charade that you know what you’re doing, or you can just come clean.
ABÎME [easy: success]: Don’t tell him the truth! He will hate you!
ESPRIT DE CORPS [easy: success]: No, he won’t. You can trust him.
RHETORIC [medium: success]: You’re going to have to tell him eventually. You might as well get it over with now.
YOU:
1. "Oh, right. That body. I forgot which one. I just see so much death on this job. This detective job. Because I’m a detective.”
2. [THESPIAN: Impossible] "Oh, right. That body. I forgot which one. I just see so much death on this job. This detective job. Because I’m a detective.” (But say it convincingly.)
3. “Detective, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t remember anything before I woke up this morning.” (Let yourself panic.)
4. > [SANG-FROID: Legendary] “Detective, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t remember anything before I woke up this morning.” (But keep your cool while you say it.)
FAILURE
YOU: “Detective…” You reach out and fist your hands in the detective’s trench coat. He needs to know that you’re serious. “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t remember anything before I woke up this morning.”
THESPIAN [easy: success]: You've been putting on a good act all morning, pretending to be unbothered by your tabula rasa status, but there's fear there, snaking through your ribcage.
RÊVERIE [legendary: failure]: You know nothing about yourself. Nothing at all. You could be anyone, even someone horrible. Worse, you could be someone forgettable. A boring little nothing of a man destined to be left alone, never missed by anyone. You are so forgettable that there's no one you could even ask about who you were. No one remembers you. No one cares.
ESPRIT DE CORPS [formidable: failure]: If you really are a cop, you won't be one for long. The force will leave you behind when they find out.
COUP DE FOUDRE [easy: success]: A young radio operator is finishing her smoke break, taking shelter from the rain under the awning of a 24-hour diner. She takes an inhale and burns the cigarette down to the filter before dropping it on the sidewalk and smothering it under her heel.
SANG-FROID: You are breathing faster and faster, each inhale becoming shallower than the last. Your hands shake where they are wrapped in the detective’s coat.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [easy: success]: Hyperventilation is an elevated breathing rate, typically caused by anxiety or panic. The shallow nature of the breath means that the body is unable to efficiently process the oxygen being taken in.
SANG-FROID: That’s some serious bino talk to say that you are losing your goddamn shit.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [medium: failure]: WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! ALL SYSTEMS FAILING.
ABÎME [formidable: failure]: M’AIDEZ! M’AIDEZ! WE ARE DYING!
VOLITION [legendary: failure]: He’s raised a false alarm about dying before, but I think this might be it. Prépare-toi à rendre l'âme.
NATURE MORTE: You see the light fading, the final embers burning out. You try to warm your hands before the fire, but it’s all gone. You are too late. You are always too late. And now, look at you. Just as burnt as the flames before you. You’re gone, cher. You burned too fast, too bright. It’s all over now.
PAIN THRESHOLD [legendary: failure]: And you’d deserve it, too. You always deserve it.
REVERIE [medium: success]: They leave. They always leave for the place beyond, and you’re left here all alone. It’s a pattern, mec. And you’re the common link.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Okay, um. This is okay. I definitely know what to do. Just keep breathing. You need it to live. And make them deep breaths. In and out.” A moment of hesitation and then a firm pressure runs up and down your spine. “Let's look around. I am outside of the Whirling in Rags It's a hostel in Martinaise. And I feel gravel under my knee where I am kneeling on the pavement. I like the cut of these pants but they're made of cheap polyester. I see my MC. It’s blue and white and has dents from all the times Jean's horse kicked it when I parked in the wrong spot.”
PERCEPTION (touch) [trivial: success]: You feel the gravel, too, through the faded and worn-thin knees of your jeans.
YOU: You don’t know when, but you've fallen down to your knees. Your hands press into your thighs and you rock slightly back and forth.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “That’s it. There we go. You're alright.” The detective takes his hand from your face and hovers it over your chest. "Um, Trant told about this and I think it's gonna work or you're gonna punch me but I can take those odds, so…" He lays his palm on your sternum and guides you to lean back on your heels as he pulls your right hand over his heart. “Inhale.” He breathes in. “Exhale.” He breathes out.
YOU:
1. > Follow along. (Try to calm down.)
2. Fuck this shit! We don’t need him! (Continue to panic like an individualist.)
YOU: You breathe in and out, matching the airflow to your lungs with the rise and fall of his hand.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Oh, yeah. Crisp, clean oxygen. That’s the stuff.
VOLONTÉ: Savor the sensation. Despite all you’ve done to them, your lungs still give you life.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: Actually, they deliver oxygen to the bloodstream while releasing carbon dioxide through a process of diffusion. The mechanism is-
VOLONTÉ: Feel the world beneath you. Look to the sky above. You are alive in the world, if only for a moment.
SANG-FROID: Get yourself together and stand up.
YOU: You pull yourself to standing and brush the worst of the dust off of your pants.
YOU:
1. > “Thank you.”
2. “I’m sorry for everything.”
3. (Say nothing.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: He shrugs. “You aren’t the first to have a panic attack, and you won’t be the last.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: In an industrial harbor miles away, a young patrol officer opens the door to an abandoned lorry and is hit, for the first time on the job, with the overwhelming smell of decay. She falls to the ground and turns away, her heart hammering in her ears. By the time her partner steps around the corner, she will have drug herself back to standing, hands tucked neatly at the small of her back. “Sir? Do you want me to begin an autopsy?” she asks.
EMPATHY [impossible: failure]: Even if these little breakdowns are common, you could never imagine the man in front of you shattering like that. He is solid, stalwart. The kind of officer with the exact level of professionalism and sympathy the work requires and not a measure more.
HORRENDOUS AVIATOR SUNGLASSES: Professionalism? Am I the only one who noticed he's dressed like the fall of disco?
YOU: "Let's just go deal with this goddamn body."
HARRIER DU BOIS: He nods over his shoulder to the courtyard and waits for you to lead the way.
TRAJECTOIRE: You're lucky he gestures with his whole body. You might not register something more subtle.
PERCEPTION [easy: success]: We haven't always been this way, you know.
NATURE MORTE: Yes, the world was… sharper before. Less abstract.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: There is nothing wrong with us. Details are for the weak and limp wristed.
VICE SQUAD: Yeah, about that…
YOU: About what?
VICE SQUAD: Limp wrists. How do I put this, frère? You are familiar with the underground.
YOU: What?
VICE SQUAD: You know. You're subterranean. Sous terre. Avant-garde, even.
YOU: I don't know what you mean.
VICE SQUAD: You're a fruit, an omi-palone, an artiste. You're bent.
YOU: These aren't words.
VICE SQUAD: Cher, I'm trying to tell you you're a homo-sexual.
YOU: Oh, yes. I knew that.
VICE SQUAD: Oh good, good. Glad there are no objections.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: No, I object to this-
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Ugh." The detective stops in the middle of a courtyard and flinches at the sight of the body in front of you, interrupting your line of thought.
YOU: You turn to look at the display.
THE HANGED MAN: Before you floats the bloated corpse of a man. He sways gently in the breeze, a mottled tapestry of blues, greens, and purples. The coloration is darker at the extremities, as if the ground, angered by his defiance of gravity, lashes out against the flesh closest to its reach.
TRAJECTOIRE [easy: success]: He's not really floating. The cord tying him to the tree is just too thin for you to see.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: “Look, C!” A shrill voice carries across the courtyard. “The pigs have come to admire Cuno’s gimp!” When you turn to see the source, you find a small figure with a shock of red hair. He (it?) is wearing shorts and an ill-fitting shirt. He rocks back and forth, as if unable to still himself. Grime coats his features.
YOU:
1. > “What the fuck is that?” (Point at the figure.)
2. “Why is there a gremlin at our crime scene?”
3. Ask the detective if dwarfism is common.
4. (Quitte.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “He’s just a kid. Ignore him, at least for now. We can always ask if he knows anything after we inspect the body.”
YOU: “Why is he so small?”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Because he’s a child? I don’t know, man. He seems about the right size for twelve.”
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: “Cuno is fucking sixteen, shithead! Cuno’s not some fucking baby.”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Yeah, he’s definitely not sixteen.”
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: “Fucking f*****s don’t even know a teenager when they see one!”
ABÎME: Whatever a “child” is, it’s dangerous. Bad news. Prepare to defend yourself.
SPEED FREAK: Or run!
AUTHORITY: No, we cannot let this thing know that we are scared. He should bow to us.
PERSUASION: Little chance of that. Did you hear what he called us?
RHETORIC: Crude. And insulting in its lack of imagination.
LOGIC: Not inaccurate, though.
AUTHORITY: Accuracy isn’t the point. The point is respect.
YOU:
1. > [AUTHORITY: Godly] Demand respect.
2. [EMPATHY: Legendary] What's this "child's" deal?
- -2 Uncertain of what a child is
3. "And what if I am a faggot, sale gosse?"
4. "Ta gueule!" (Fais bras d'honneur.)
5. "Please stop yelling slurs at my crime scene."
6. (Don't dignify it with a response.)
FAILURE
AUTHORITY: Time to show him who's boss around here. Say it with your chest.
YOU: "That's Mister Faggot to you!"
PERSUASION: Mon dieu.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: "Oh, so sorry Mister F*****! Cuno didn't know he was talking to the king of cocksuckers. A real card-carrying queer."
RHETORIC [medium: success]: The consonance is a nice touch.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [trivial: success]: Despite often using the language of exclusive clubs and memberships, there is no "gay card."
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: "You know, Cuno would normally fight any pigs on his territory. This is the Kingdom of Cuno! But Cuno doesn't fight women or f***. It's beneath him."
YOU:
1. > [PERSUASION: Formidable] Think of a witty come back.
2. "I just think you're scared!"
SUCCESS
YOU: "Just like your dad was beneath me last night."
HARRIER DU BOIS: Beside you, the detective sighs. His eyebrows pinch together as he tries to will away a growing migraine.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: "Nobody talks that shit about Cuno's dad! F** or not Cuno's gonna kick your ass!"
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: Cuno launches himself across the small distance between you and him. He raises his leg, preparing to kick.
TRAJECTOIRE [medium: success]: He's going for the shin! When you lean over to grab the wound, your face will be exactly at punching height for him.
YOU:
1. > [SPEED FREAK: Challenging] Dodge!
2. [PAIN THRESHOLD: Formidable] Take it like a man.
3. [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Medium] Punch a child.
4. I don't want to do this.
SUCCESS
YOU: You jump out of the way before his foot can connect with your shin.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: He swings at the air, disappointed that he didn't get to feel the swift bruising of your tibia under his boot.
YOU: You jog another step back and square your shoulders. He's not going to give up that easy.
YOU:
1. > [SPEED FREAK: challenging] Dodge! Again!
- +1 On a roll
2. [PAIN THRESHOLD: formidable] Take it like a man.
3. [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: medium] Punch a child.
4. I don't want to do this.
FAILURE
YOU: You try to jump out of the way, but you're too slow. His tiny fist collides with your stomach and you double over.
DAMAGED HEALTH -1
PAIN THRESHOLD [formidable: failure]: Putain! You've already got enough internal damage without this.
SANG-FROID [legendary: failure]: You fold like a lawn chair. Like a cheap suit. Like a wet newspaper. You collapse in on yourself and moan into the spot where your forehead nearly touches your thighs.
AUTHORITY: Pull yourself together. There's only one thing to do.
VOLONTÉ: No.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Yes.
YOU: You pull yourself unevenly back to standing.
YOU:
1. [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: medium] Punch a child.
2. > I don't want to do this.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Too bad. It's happening.
YOU:
1. > [PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: medium] Punch a child.
FAILURE
YOU: You raise your fist, you aim at the red-tinted smear, and-
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: You miss by a full seven centimeters, punching where he was instead of where he is.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: He chuckles to himself as he sweeps under your fist and ducks away.
DAMAGED MORALE -1
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: I've failed you.
CUNO, THE GREMLIN: He retreats a few steps back, still grinning as he returns to place. "Hah! You get a look at that, C? Cuno totally wrecked that f** pig's shit."
CUNOESSE: "Yeah, Cuno! You got him good!"
THESPIAN [challenging: success]: Perhaps not a total failure, monseigneur. See how he's backing away from you? He didn't expect you to put up a fight, and he's not sure if he wants to risk it again.
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective steps between you and the gremlin, angling himself so that you're barely visible behind his broad shoulders.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Now this is a guy who could punch a child.
TRAJECTOIRE: He could absolutely level him. One hit and this kid would be down for the count. Assuming a slightly above average punching force, the detective could easily strike with enough power to displace the gremlin by a full meter.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And the detective has much more than a slightly above average punching force. He has a long wingspan, and he's built. You feel the way he's manhandled you.
VICE SQUAD: Oh, you've felt it alright.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Okay, kid. That's enough assaulting an officer for one day." He looks over his shoulder to you. "Officer Toulemonde? A word?"
EMPATHY [easy: success]: You’re in trouble.
AUTHORITY [challenging: failure]: You should do what he says.
YOU: You take a step away from the cretin and cross your arms as you wait for the detective to collect his thoughts.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “What was that?”
YOU:
1. “He started it!”
2. > “Like you said, it was assault on an officer.”
3. “Am I supposed to go easy on him because he’s short?”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “By a child! He’s not really a threat.”
YOU:
1. > “Just so we’re on the same page, what exactly is a child?”
2. “No mercy, no regrets. Except that I didn’t land that punch.”
3. (Say nothing and take the lecture.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “A child?” He echoes back to you. His worry, which has been gathering all morning, manages to creep even higher. “You know. A young person. A kid, a youth, un gosse?” He spins a hand in the air, trying to think of more synonyms. “He’s, you know? Juvie?”
REVERIE [medium: success]: Ah, juvie. You see burning couches, abandoned tenements, graffiti, and so, so many stab wounds.
RHETORIC [medium: success]: Some of them are shiv wounds, actually. The distinction matters among juvies.
YOU: “Ah, yes.”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “You’re clearly in a bad way, Toulemonde.” The detective rummages through his many pockets lining the inside of his coat before settling on a small foil packet. “Here, a magnesium tablet should help with the headache.”
ITEM GAINED: MAGNESIUM TABLET
HEALED MORALE +1
YOU: “Thanks.”
HARRIER DU BOIS: He nods. "On y va."
YOU: Both you and the detective turn your attention back toward the body hovering in the courtyard. You step forward along with him and let your eyes take in the dismal scene in front of you.
REVERIE [legendary: failure]: Are you really sure that you’re a cop? This seems horrible. You’re not cut out for it.
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective seems to agree with you, if his curled lip is any indication.
EMPATHY [easy: success]: There is something going on with the detective, between him and the corpse. Some kind of connection exists there. He sees himself in that sad, bloated pile of meat.
ESPRIT DE CORPS [legendary: failure]: You cannot relate to this experience at all. You cannot think of anything, in fact, because your entire connection to the world is now dominated by The Smell.
PERCEPTION (Smell) [trivial: success]: The Smell is the pungent bouquet of death and decay coming from the body. It is revolting and overwhelming, crawling and burrowing into every surface like a putrid army of locusts devouring everything in its path.
ABIME [challenging: failure]: You will never get The Smell out. It is part of you now. You have been permanently, fundamentally altered by this putrefaction.
SANG-FROID: Keep it together. Breathe through your mouth. Maybe cover your nose with your sleeve. You can do this.
VOLONTE: You will do this.
HARRIER DU BOIS: He shakes his head, ending his seance. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
YOU: And so you do. You describe the body together, making notes about its form and sorry state. The detective jots all of them down for you in his ledger, while your hand sits at your side, feeling oddly forlorn. He adds in little asides as you work, remarking on coloration and scars and going on tangents about art and boxing and the best curry shop in Jamrock.
MEMENTO MORI COURTYARD: The childs-
RHETORIC [medium: success]: Children, actually.
MEMENTO MORI COURTYARD: Fine. The children keep taunting you, yelling insults at each other between their running commentary. At the detective’s insistence, you ignore them and turn your focus to the task at hand.
YOU: You finish inspecting the body in decent time, though it feels like a small eternity with The Smell still invading your every pore.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Now, we just need to get it down.”
YOU: “How do we do that?”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Ain’t that just the million réal question?” He taps his pen on his chin.
TRAJECTOIRE: If you had a gun, you'd be able to shoot down the body. At least in theory.
ESPRIT DE CORPS [trivial: success]: The detective has a gun.
YOU: Could I shoot down the body?
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: The world is a blur, your hands still have the shakes, and you'd be using an unfamiliar sidearm.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION [easy: success]: In short, no, you could not.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Maybe with some bolt cutters… I could lift you on my shoulders?"
YOU: The look you send him ends that particular line of thought, and you move on to other less acrobatic solutions.
MEMENTO MORI COURTYARD: You lean against the fence and scuff your boot against the dirt as you brainstorm options with the detective. After vetoing a few of his more creative ideas, it becomes clear that your best chance is asking the dock workers for help.
YOU: "If they got it up there," you argue, squinting to make out what the detective assures you is a reinforced cargo strap. "They can get it down."
HARRIER DU BOIS: That reasoning is good enough for him, and so he adds the task to your growing list of to-dos, alongside looking for the body's missing clothes and calling your precinct for money.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: Just like that, the rest of the morning becomes a blur of little side tasks as you and the detective trail along the coast, searching through garbage and arguing with Garte. The detective, to your unending annoyance, seems to be some sort of cardio fanatic and he defaults to setting the pace at a jog unless you actively intervene. You are just slowing him down to a more reasonable speed, muttering something about twisting an ankle in those heels, when a new voice carries across the way.
RACIST LORRY DRIVER: "Welcome to Revachol!" An older man with sparse hair and a sallow complexion grins broadly at you. His eyes are narrowed, his stained teeth a dull contrast to his pale skin.
YOU: You freeze in your tracks.
RHETORIC [medium: success]: You don’t know precisely how this is an insult, but you know that it’s an insult all the same.
AUTHORITY [easy: success]: You cannot abide this attack on your character. Put him in his place.
YOU: Wait, what is Revachol?
ENCYCLOPEDIA [easy: success]: The geopolitical entity in which you are currently standing.
YOU: So why is he saying welcome? Am I not from Revachol? How could he know that?
REVERIE: No, you are definitely from Revechol. You’ve never known anywhere else. It is your home.
COUP DE FOUDRE: YOU ARE MINE.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Ignore him. He’s just some racist asshole.”
YOU: “Why does it feel like he isn't the first I've met?"
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective chuckles nervously to cover an eye twitch. Despite his better instinct, he is starting to believe you that you really have forgotten the world.
ESPRIT DE CORPS [easy: success]: Perhaps his instincts are not that much better. He is inclined to believe in the fantastic, unlike many cops.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Unfortunately, officer, I doubt he's the first or the last."
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: The lorry man's comment -
RHETORIC: - though inane -
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: - raises a problem. He obviously sees something about you. But you have no idea what you look like.
RHETORIC: Let's put a finer point on things. You don't know what your face looks like.
NATURE MORTE: A study in long nights, caffeine abuse, and grit.
TRAJECTOIRE: A genetic line winding back to the beginning of time, the details disappearing into a pale haze as the generations retreat.
LOGIC: Cut the flowery bullshit. I want details.
TASK UPDATED: TA GUEULE
You're reasonably certain that you have a face. Now you just need to get a look at it.
YOU:
1. "Detective, I appear to have forgotten what my face looks like."
2. "Detective, we have a new case to investigate. The case of THE MISSING MONEYMAKER."
3. > "Where can I find a mirror?"
4. (Just feel your face. That's good enough.)
5. True beauty is inner beauty. (Quitte.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I suppose in your room at the Whirling."
YOU: You sprint away before he can pry any further, but you think you hear the detective laugh as he has to truly run to catch up.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: Your excellent plan stays the course exactly long enough for you to walk into your room and realize that someone - probably you - has completely fucked up the bathroom so that steam is pouring onto the mirror.
THESPIAN: Unacceptable, seigneur. We simply must know what's behind the mask.
YOU: Which is how, after some not at all desperate pleading at the detective, you've come to be standing in front of his MC. Parked precisely along the road, he promises that the pitiful thing has all the tools you will need "somewhere in here."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "And there's a radio! If you want to call your station about expenses." He leans on the side of the MC and pats it fondly.
'27 V2 TACOT TRAUM, WORKERS' EDITION: The MC in front of you is small and box-shaped. Its narrow wheels barely elevate the machine off of the ground, and the metal surface has been littered with dents. The original paint was a shock of red and white, still visible through the cracks in the shoddily added blue patch job.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: The Traum was only in production for three years before the communard commune where they were manufactured collapsed due to infighting amongst its founders, all of whom were simultaneously involved in a complicated, role-play based polyamorous relationship. Lack of sales and the poor road performance were also issues. The Traum is notable for its continual service requirements, lack of fuel gauge, and incredibly cramped interior.
TRAJECTOIRE [challenging: failure]: Incredibly cramped. Looking between the detective and the car, you're not sure how exactly he manages to fold himself into the thing.
SAVOIR FAIRE: He must be very flexible.
THE VICE SQUAD: Mmm… Flexible. Let's linger on this thought.
VOLONTE: Let's not. You have a job to do. Get to it.
YOU: "This is the worst MC of all time."
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: No. The worst MC of all time is the Volant Vertigo. Produced for only three months to make a grand total of seven vehicles, each and every one of these cars self-immolated within the first twenty minutes of driving. This is the second worst MC.
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective sighs and runs a hand over his face.
EMPATHY: He's had this conversation before.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "She's a good car! She's just before her time." He runs a loving hand across the MC. "She was made with an infra-materialist design. The problem is that there isn't enough revolutionary plasm to support her. But, already she's doing better. The last guy couldn't even get her to turn over, but I've been driving her for years now with no problem."
THESPIAN [easy: success]: Not true. There have been problems, but not ones he's willing to admit to.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "That alone should be proof of Nilson's theories."
YOU:
1. [LOGIC: Legendary] Try to make sense of what he just said.
2. > [THESPIAN: Medium] Nod as if you understood what he just said.
3. (Say nothing.)
SUCCESS
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Yep. I'm the only man on the force communist enough to drive this car. Also, the only one disco enough. The radio is stuck on DISCO FM, but I don't see how that's a problem."
PAIN THRESHOLD: Make him stop talking about this MC or it will start to cause you physical damage.
YOU: "About those tools…"
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Right, right. They're somewhere back here."
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective steps around to the back of the car and opens the trunk to reveal a small empire of detritus.
TRUNK OF '27 V2 TACOT TRAUM, WORKERS' EDITION: For better or for worse, the trunk is at the exact distance for you to best see what is inside. There are all sorts of knick-knacks, tchotchkes, tools, clothes (laundered and unlaundered), books, and tapes.
YOU:
1. > Examine the contents of the trunk.
2. Look only for the tools.
3. (Quitte.)
TRUNK OF '27 V2 TACOT TRAUM, WORKERS' EDITION: Inside the trunk, you find a pair of turquoise roller skates, a collection of small communard figurines, a rumpled suit jacket, a fuchsia necktie, a mesh shirt, an unlabeled cassette tape-
YOU:
1. Inspect turquoise roller skates.
2. Inspect collection of small communard figurines.
3. Inspect rumpled suit jacket.
4. Inspect fuchsia necktie.
5. Inspect mesh shirt.
6. Inspect unlabeled cassette tape.
TRUNK OF '27 V2 TACOT TRAUM, WORKERS' EDITION: -scattered pens with myriad animal designs, a copy of Dick Mullen and the Devil's Gamble, red lace women's underwear, red lace men's underwear, a colander, a bong-
YOU:
7. Inspect the pens.
8. Inspect Dick Mullen and the Devil's Gamble.
9. Inspect the red lace women's underwear.
10. Inspect the red lace men's underwear.
11. Inspect the colander.
12. Inspect the bong.
TRUNK OF '27 V2 TACOT TRAUM, WORKERS' EDITION: -a leaflet advertising various communard events, a plastic bag full of tare, assorted crumpled receipts, a lighter with a portrait of a man with full sideburns, a can opener, an unused condom, and half of a pair of scissors.
YOU:
13. Inspect communard leaflet.
14. Inspect bag of tare.
15. Inspect the lighter.
16. Inspect the can opener.
17. Inspect the condom.
18. Inspect the scissor.
19. > Wait, where are the tools?
PERCEPTION (Sight) [easy: success]: The only things you see that could be rightfully named "tools" are the colander, the lighter, the can opener, and the one scissor half.
INTERFAÇAGE [trivial: success]: None of these will fix the sink.
YOU:
1. > "Detective, why do you have all of these things in your MC?"
2. "Where are the tools?"
3. Inspect the trunk again.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Oh, that's some stuff I've found. Buying things is a scam when there's so much you can just pick up off the street."
YOU: You raise an eyebrow at the more intimate items in the collection, but the detective just barrels on.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Besides, there's something comforting about giving new life to old things." He picks up the lighter, flicks it on for a moment, and then tosses it back in the trunk.
YOU: "That's actually…"
1. "Really stupid. You're just a hoarder."
2. "Really unsanitary. I'm not touching any of this."
3. > "Kind of nice."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I think so, too."
YOU: "So…"
1. > "Where are the tools?"
2. Inspect the trunk again
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Ah, let me show you." The detective moves aside a handful of the items in the trunk and then pulls at an obscured handle to reveal that his "toolbox" is actually the compartment where a spare tire would go. "Here, you can take these for the investigation."
ITEM GAINED: DETECTIVE'S TOOL SET
YOU: With the toolset in hand, you head back upstairs at the detective's unceasing jogging pace.
ENDURANCE [medium: failure]: Forget juvies and lung cancer. This pace is going to kill you.
YOU: You open the door to your room and shuffle past the minor disaster adorning the floor. If the detective has thoughts on the surrounding mess, he keeps them to himself.
MUSTY HOSTEL BATHROOM: The room is dark without the light on. Emboldened by your sunglasses and the magnesium, you reach out to flip on the light switch.
MUSTY HOSTEL BATHROOM: Bright fluorescence illuminates the room, revealing that your destruction had not been constrained to the main room. The detective steps in beside you, wedging himself next to the bathtub and nudging an empty bottle with his toe.
YOU: You shuffle through the tool box, looking for the right implement for the job. You settle on the wrench. Its heft feels right in your hand.
REVERIE: Maybe you were a mechanic, in that past life of yours.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: No, you weren’t. But you thought about it, once upon a time.
YOU: You take the wrench to the loose joint and, with one decisive stroke, you stop the steam from pouring into the room.
ABÎME: Last chance to turn back. No one will judge you for giving up now.
THESPIAN: A lie, monseigneur. We will judge ourselves, to speak nothing of the detective.
YOU: You steel yourself as you turn to face the mirror, slipping the aviator glasses off your face as you do.
HORRENDOUS AVIATOR GLASSES: Terrible move, con! You look much better with us on!
MIRROR: As you squint to bring the image into focus, the mirror reveals the face of a middle aged man. Dark hair long enough to brush your collar is pushed away from your face, held in place and rendered somewhat stringy by a combination of cheap product and sweat. Your hairline is not what it once was, slowly receding to show the lines on your forehead.
NATURE MORTE: You'd like to think it was laughter that put them there.
ENDURANCE: But it was probably the same thing that has you going grey. Stress, long nights.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Grief.
MIRROR: You have almond eyes, underscored by heavy bags, and a prominent nose that's been broken and reset more than once. The whites of your eyes are shot red and you have obvious crow's feet at the corners. Your lips are thin, more so than normal as they press together from the pinched expression you are making to better see yourself. You have a slight mustache, lightly waxed, and a weak chin. Your teeth, you find when you grimace, are stained yellow from coffee and nicotine.
MIRROR: Overall, you give the impression of someone who is very desperate to be cool and who was maybe succeeding a decade ago.
NATURE MORTE: It could be worse.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It could be better.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Ready, Toulemonde?"
YOU: You take one last look in the mirror and trace the weather-worn lines of your face. "Let's go." And you're off again.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: You keep trudging up and down the coastline the rest of the day, stopping to talk to anyone who will have you. You talk to Joyce Messier and find that your badge is missing and your gun along with it. You call your precinct and learn that your name may or may not be “Kimball,” a possibility that makes you contemplate walking into the sea. You learn about the RCM and about the murder you’re here to investigate and about the complicated geo-politics of immigration.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: But mostly you jog and jog and jog until you think your feet might fall off.
LOGIC: Along the way, you pick up every coin or piece of tare on the street, but you still only have 17 réal and 37 centimes. At this rate, it will take just over 52 hours to collect enough money to pay back Garte.
ENDURANCE: By which point you will have collapsed and died either from the cold, the jogging, or - most likely - a combination of the two.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: You try twice to ask Joyce Messier for money, because apparently that is something you can do as a police officer. You can just ask for money, and there's a good chance that citizens - especially rich citizens - will just give it to you. A voice in the back of your head says you should offer her a wager for it, but given that you have nothing to gamble, you settle for just asking. Or, you think that's what you've done until some horrible and unearned sense of pride stops you from uttering the words aloud.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: You've mainly accepted your fate by the time you go to fess up to Garte. Maybe you could just lean into the hobo lifestyle, if you really can't convince him to either forgive or delay your debt payments. That same small voice says maybe you could pay him back in, ahem, discreet favors, but then you remember your bloodshot eyes and shaking hands and think better of it.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: You are just contemplating whether you could break into one of the abandoned lorries when the detective sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Come on, Toulemonde. I think there's a pawn shop over this way." He nods over his shoulder and then he's off. You follow him to his MC, where he pops the trunk and collects up all of the communard figurines.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I know they don't look like much, but they should cover the bill. They're a set and someone told me they're collectable? I think there's a pawn shop around the corner where we could sell them."
YOU:
1. "Are you sure this junk is worth anything?"
2. "I don't need this. I'll go it alone."
3. > "You don't have to do this."
4. "Thanks."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Maybe not, but I don't recommend sleeping in the streets. Especially not in this weather." He huffs, perhaps at a memory. "Besides, figurines were always her thing more than mine. It'll be good to be rid of them."
RHETORIC: Her thing? Who is this her?
PERSUASION: Ask later. Right now, don't say anything that could change his mind about saving us from street-urchan-dom.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: The detective sells the figurines while you try and fail to figure out the pawn broker's deal. The figurines sell for 10 réal less than the fees, and so the detective adds a wrinkled bill from his own wallet to the stack. He watches on approvingly as you settle your tab with Garte and less approvingly as you run down to the Frittte to spend your tare money on a pack of Astras.
MARTINAISE COAST LINE: You take your new pack of cigarettes out to the balcony and pluck one out with unsteady hands as the detective leans on the railing beside you. There's something in his eyes - not quite judgment - as he reaches over to give you a light.
EMPATHY [easy: success]: He would also like a cigarette.
SANG-FROID [easy: success]: But he won't ask for one.
VOLONTÉ [trivial: success]: He has self-control, unlike some people.
VICE SQUAD: Don't listen to them. Feel your headache start to wash away as you breathe in. That's the good stuff. You can feel yourself getting smarter already.
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective looks out across the courtyard for a moment, savoring the nighttime sounds.
COUP DE FOUDRE: Motor carriages wind along the 8/81, speeding through the night. The rumble of engines carries down into the pavement, shaking the concrete shacks below where the poorest in Revachol carve out a home.
NATURE MORTE: Like flowers through the sidewalk cracks.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "We did good today, all things considered." He loosens his already precarious tie. "We still need to get the body, down, but…" He shrugs. "We have a lead with the union, we did the initial inspection, found stuff in the garbage. And we got to look for a business hating ghost, so that's something."
HARRIER DU BOIS: He stretches his arms in front of him, arching his back a bit as he braces himself against the handrail.
YOU:
1. "We're just doing our jobs."
2. "You're right. Tomorrow will be good!" (Try to believe it.)
3. > "How do you stay so… optimistic?"
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective lets out a single bark of laughter.
AUTHORITY [medium: failure]: He mocks us. This cannot stand.
YOU: You huff and roll your eyes as you take a drag from your cigarette, pretending to be unaffected. “Maybe you can consider lividity and color theory in the same breath, but we are not all so carefree, detective.”
SANG-FROID [legendary: failure]: You are not pretending particularly well.
THESPIAN: True, seigneur. We have given better performances.
HARRIER DU BOIS: He bites his lip in a doomed attempt to abstain from further laughter. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He wipes a tear from his eye. "It's just… optimistic. That’s not how most people see me. Or, at least. They haven’t in a long time.”
YOU:
1. > “Oh, yes, detective. You are so hardboiled. I’m sure you have a dark and troubled past.” (Raise an eyebrow.)
2. “So how do people see you?”
3. "I wonder how people see me…”
4. (Smoke in silence.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “The darkest and most troubled of all.” A knowing glint dances across his eyes. “Dick Mullen is practically a candy striper compared to me."
ENCYCLOPEDIA [medium: success]: A candy striper is an informal term for a youthful and naive volunteer. The phrase originates from the post-Revolutionary period, when middle class families sent their children to volunteer at infirmaries. The volunteers were largely relegated to handing out popsicles to the least depressing patients, but became widely recognized for their uniforms, which featured multicolor stripes like ten centime candy.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "That's why you'll have to work for my tragic backstory. A true noir detective would never just give it away."
YOU: "No, he would just give away figurines and tools and magnesium."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I'm glad you understand."
YOU: "Must have been something for you to turn to the bottle of diabolo."
PERCEPTION (Sight) [easy: success]: When calling your precinct, you saw that empty bottles of Frittte brand mint lemonade - also known as diabolo - litter the floor of the detective's MC.
LOGIC: Because they are on the floor of the MC and not with the tare in the trunk, you assume the detective left them there himself.
HARRIER DU BOIS: A smile pulls at the corners of his lips. "Toulemonde, you have no idea."
EMPATHY: He looks…
REVERIE: Wistful.
YOU:
1. > "But seriously, how do you do it?"
2. "So how do people see you?”
3. "I wonder how people see me…”
4. (Smoke in silence.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: "It's going to sound stupid."
YOU:
1. (Say nothing, but look on expectantly.)
2. > "I wouldn't know. I have no frame of reference."
3. "Yeah, it probably will."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."
YOU: "Consider me advised of my rights, detective."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Alright, alright." He turns and leans his back against the rail, resting his elbows up to brace himself. "I guess you just take it one day at a time, look at the little things. I won't lie to you, Toulemonde. This world you've woken up to is a mess. But it's the only mess we've got. Nothing to do but revel in the chaos a bit. And so if a lividity pattern displays a particularly striking juxtaposition of orange and green… Why not notice it? Just to feel alive, for a moment?"
NATURE MORTE [medium: success]: The detective is right - the body had a shockingly vibrant array of colors. Thinking about it any more, however, will not make you feel more alive.
ABÎME [easy: success]: It will bring back only memories of The Smell.
YOU: You shudder at the thought. "I think I might stick to Astras, for now."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I guess we can't all be as cool as you."
YOU: "Are you admitting that you aren't cool?"
HARRIER DU BOIS: "No, never. Though I would maybe admit that society and I have some difference of opinion about what qualifies as cool." He shrugs. "I'm just recognizing your superior coolness." He winks and shoots you a finger gun.
REVERIE: Oh, you like that don't you? You like that he thinks we're cool.
SAVOIR FAIRE: He's right. We are.
VICE SQUAD: Get him to say it again.
PERSUASION: No, keep asking about him. He's more closed off than he seems. You may not get another shot.
YOU:
1. > "So, if you're not cool or optimistic, how do people see you?”
2. "I wonder how people see me…”
3. (Smoke in silence.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: "The death of disco? A cautionary tale? My partner calls me shitkid, if that gives you any idea."
YOU:
1. "Yes, you seem like a shitkid to me."
2. > "You should get a better partner."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "No, no. Jean's a good guy. He's my best friend, really. He saved my life."
RHETORIC: There's a "but" there, hanging unsaid.
YOU:
1. > “But…”
2. (Laisse tomber.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “But he can be a bit stuck in the past. Caught up on mistakes we’ve both made. Me more than him, but he’s had his share of fuck-ups.”
YOU:
1. (Roll your eyes.) “I’m sure you are exaggerating.”
2. > “And here I thought I had used up the RCM’s fuck-up quota.”
3. (Nod.) (Laisse tomber.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Don’t be selfish, officer. You have to leave some fuck-ups for the rest of us.”
YOU: “And those fuck-ups would be…”
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Confidential information. At least for now. You’re going to have to work harder if you want to crack that case.”
YOU:
1. > "I wonder how people see me…”
2. (Smoke in silence.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: "I've already told you. You're very cool." He adds, almost as an afterthought. "Except for trying to punch that kid."
YOU:
1. "This doesn't feel cool." (Knock ash from your cigarette.)
2. "Punching kids is very cool, thank you."
3. > "I mean other people. People who knew me before."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "They probably thought you were cool, too. Unless you were, like, a huge bino in the past. You could have been a huge nerd, and just forgotten about it. But I doubt that."
PERCEPTION: What’s this about binoclards? You know, have we considered that-
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: No. That’s not us. You don’t need to worry about it.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: I don’t know, mec. Maybe the observant one has a point.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: No, it’s already decided.
YOU:
1. "I could never be a bino. Of course everyone thinks I'm cool."
2. "The past is dead to me. All that matters is that I'm cool now."
3. > "Would being a bino really be that bad?"
HARRIER DU BOIS: "No, of course not. Some of my best friends are binoclards."
RHETORIC: A joke, though not a particularly good one. Even for him.
YOU: But you smile all the same and snort, the closest you seem to come to actually laughing.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "If you're really worried about it, we could call your precinct and ask. Your station should know."
YOU: You grimace at the thought of having to deal with your station again.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Or not. But don't take anything they say too personally. Most cops are just…"
RHETORIC: Dicks?
SAVOIR FAIRE: Posturing?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Fraternal.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Dicks."
YOU: "I don't know, detective. You don't seem too bad."
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Haven't you been listening? I'm not most cops."
YOU: You nudge the detective with your elbow and grin as he leans back into the touch before returning to his spot on the rail.
WHIRLING IN RAGS BALCONY: The quiet of the night settles between you. For a moment, stillness descends, as if time herself has joined the smoke break.
WHIRLING IN RAGS BALCONY: But stillness does not suit the detective. He seems almost pathologically incapable of it, and so all too soon, his eyes start to roam across the balcony.
HARRIER DU BOIS: His feet are soon to follow, leading him a few meters away. He cocks his head to the side and then bends down to pick something up.
PERCEPTION (Sight) [challenging: failure]: The object is small, rectangular. Another novel, perhaps.
REVERIE [medium: success]: A notebook.
HARRIER DU BOIS: The detective brushes glass off the front of the notebook. It falls to the ground with a light ringing. He looks between the book and the broken window and back again.
TRAJECTOIRE [medium: success]: If thrown with adequate velocity, the notebook could have come from your room, through the glass, and fallen onto the balcony.
HARRIER DU BOIS: Having freed the notebook from its most obvious hazard, he opens it and flips through the pages.
HARRIER DU BOIS: “Huh.” He pauses, unfolds something, then slips it back away. “I think this is your notebook, officer.”
RÊVERIE [easy: success]: Yes!
ABÎME [easy: success]: No!
HARRIER DU BOIS: He holds the notebook out to you.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION [trivial: success]: You should reach out and take it.
ITEM GAINED: RAIN LOGGED NOTEBOOK
This notebook feels familiar in your hand, as if it has spent a lifetime by your side. Further inspection reveals that maybe it did - the small, leather bound book fits almost perfectly into the inside pocket of your jacket. The exterior is coated in small nicks and scratches, and the inside is filled with shorthand notes in nearly illegible handwriting, made all the worse by water damage. At the very back, tucked between the pages, are a handful of RCM official forms. Many of them are completed, but a few are left untouched.
HARRIER DU BOIS: Never having grasped the concept of personal space, the detective leans over your shoulder to peak at the notes. "Hmm. Can't make out too much but, there. KK. Those must be your initials."
YOU:
1. [SANG-FROID: Heroic] Keep cool. You don't care about your initials.
2. > [NATURE MORTE: Formidable] Think of names with KK initials.
- +1 Ruminating on Kimball
3. "Huh." (Trace the notebook with your finger.)
SUCCESS
NATURE MORTE: There are many names that could have the initials "KK," but a few of them are: Kendall Klitz, Kieren Kossow, Kenji Kincaid, Kobi Kwon, Kim Kitsuragi, Kenny Kampe, Kendrix Kon, Kinsey Keady, and Kaily Kaase.
YOU:
1. > [RÊVERIE: Legendary] Do any of these names sound familiar?
2. (Laisse tomber.)
SUCCESS
RÊVERIE: Yes. Focus. You can do this.
YOU: Can I?
RÊVERIE: Of course you can. Just dig deep. Trust your gut.
YOU: Is my name…
YOU:
1. Kendall Klitz?
2. Kieren Kossow?
3. Kenji Kincaid?
4. Kobi Kwon?
5. Kim Kitsuragi?
6. Kenny Kampe?
7. Kendri Kon?
8. Kinsey Keady?
9. > Kaily Kaase?
REVERIE: Kaily? That’s really your guess?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: We’re not a middle school girl!
SAVOIR FAIRE: Okay, but Kaase? With this accent?
REVERIE: Try again.
YOU: Is my name…
YOU:
1. > Wait, let me try to think of a hint.
2. Kendall Klitz?
3. Kieren Kossow?
4. Kenji Kincaid?
5. Kobi Kwon?
6. Kim Kitsuragi?
7. Kenny Kampe?
8. Kendri Kon?
9. Kinsey Keady?
NATURE MORTE: You hear… something melodic. Like a lullabye nearly forgotten. Your name rolls off the tongue, balanced and memorable.
YOU: I’m not sure if that helped, but…
YOU: Is my name…
YOU:
1. Kendall Klitz?
2. Kieren Kossow?
3. Kenji Kincaid?
4. Kobi Kwon?
5. > Kim Kitsuragi?
6. Kenny Kampe?
7. Kendri Kon?
8. Kinsey Keady?
RÊVERIE: Got it in one! Or, well. Two. Mais ça suffit!
YOU:
1. This is obviously my name. It’s the best on the list.
2. > Why does it feel… odd? A bit ill-fitting?
3. I changed my mind. I want to pick again.
RÊVERIE: It was, once. But don’t worry. You’ve grown into it.
YOU: I don’t know how I feel about-
SANG-FROID: You might want to save this little crisis for another day. You’ve been making odd faces at the notebook now for at least forty-five seconds. Any longer, and you will start to worry the detective.
YOU:
1. “Khm. Well, we’ve learned I have bad handwriting. I can’t make anything out.” (Close the notebook.)
2. > [RÊVERIE: Formidable] “I think I know my name.” (Prepare to say it out loud.)
3. (Say nothing and put the notebook away.)
FAILURE
YOU: You open your mouth to say the words, but they die at the back of your throat.
RÊVERIE: If you tell him now, you can never go back. Do you really want to be this person? This Kim? Isn't it better to be this new, nameless person you've created.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Um, officer?"
YOU:
1. > “Khm. Well, we’ve learned I have bad handwriting. I can’t make anything out.” (Close the notebook.)
2. (Say nothing and put the notebook away.)
HARRIER DU BOIS: “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Toulemonde. Why don’t you look it over again this evening? I’ll give you some space.” He looks down at his wrist to check the time on his psychedelic wrist watch. The watch face is so abstract that you aren't certain how he reads the thing, but he apparently does as he huffs and runs a hand through his hair. "It's past my bedtime anyway."
YOU:
1. > "I'll walk you to your room. I should get some sleep, too."
2. "Please don't leave me alone."
3. "Finally! Some time for myself."
YOU: You and the detective walk out into the hallways of the Whirling in Rags. He heads to his door and fumbles to open it with his set of keys.
HARRIER DU BOIS: "Goodnight, Toulemonde."
YOU: Your hand freezes on the doorknob.
RÊVERIE: When you cross the threshold, you will be alone, truly alone, for the first time since you ran headfirst into the detective this morning.
VOLONTÉ: You've only known him for a day. Get over yourself.
LOGIC: You've only known the world for a day.
SANG-FROID: You can do it. Shoulders back.
YOU: You turn the knob, push open the door.
YOU: "Goodnight, detective."