Tape "Doorgunner Megamix"

The porta-reel is just what you needed -- the reels attach to the apparatus with a satisfying click. The tape is routed behind the magnetic reader.

Play the tape.

Not so fast. Somewhere between the GRIH and Le Cycle, the good lieutenant steps out of his Kineema. A brisk, chill wind greets him. You get the feeling he should be here for this. Listen when he's here.

Not so fast. The lieutenant is out there somewhere. Doing something. You get the feeling he should be here for this. Listen when he's here.

Take out the tape.

As you take out the tape, the boombox tunes itself back to the cheery radio again, spewing out beats like it's a Friday night.

The contrast feels chilly -- inappropriate even.

Don't play the tape. [Put porta-reel away.]

Play the tape.

You push 'Commencer' and the tape starts spinning. Violent static and machine sounds fill the air....

"...this isn't Revachol," a man's voice says. "This is a fucking village, I can almost see the elephants." Another loud screech. Some kind of machinery.

"The harbour." The lieutenant takes out his notebook. "That's the sound of a Kvalsund crane."

He's right.

More static. "When this shit is done I'm gonna tear that place up, Soldier of the Apocalypse style -- kill shit, dogs and chickens too..."

"Gonna rent a room, Korty, a real nice one..." This part is unintelligible. "I don't give a shit, I'm fucking done. I'm done mentally."

"I'll fucking do them all in, rape that disco cunt on the counter. You know, the dancer whore upstairs. Do it Co Hoi-style."

"Never did get that taste out of my mouth..." A click -- then silence. The rest of the tape is empty.

The lieutenant presses the button marked 'Arrêter' on your porta-reel; the tape stops spinning.

"What do you think?"

"It seemed authentic enough. Probably recorded off their shortwave, then edited to seem more incriminating. He sounded like he was on patrol around the harbour walls."

"I agree. He also sounded inebriated."

"Still..." The lieutenant looks at the tape. You are familiar with this look now -- it's his look of suspicion.

There's more going on here than we know.

"But he did say he's going to do it. You can't edit words into someone's mouth."

"Indeed, but..." The lieutenant looks at the tape. You are familiar with this look now -- it's his look of suspicion.

"I think he sounded all right. Just letting off some steam."

"Yes," he says incredulously. "It was just locker room talk." The lieutenant looks at the tape. You are familiar with this look now -- it's his look of suspicion.

"Who's this Korty?"

"Korty could be short for 'Kortenaer'. One of the other mercenaries, the one he was talking to. The third one must be relaying the signal."

"One of the other mercenaries I think. The one he was talking to. A friend of his?"

Bad news.

"Okay then. What now?" (Remove the tape.)

"I think we've got a few more questions for Klaasje, don't you?" He looks around. "This seems to contradict her testimony. At least to some degree."

"What was that at the very end? Silence?"

"End of recording."

"What's Co Hoi?"

"A village on the Samaran isola, in South Safre. Graad committed war crimes there -- the kind of thing he talks about."

The South Safre conflict is an ongoing proxy war between Graad and Safre. It has been hot for 12 years with the atrocities piling on. Mostly committed by the Graad.

"You think he was there?

"No. The tattoos did not say so. They said he served on Semenine. I think Co Hoi is merc talk for atrocity."

A symbol of Soldier of the Apocalypse-style conduct in a civil environment.

"Who knows? Maybe the tattoos would have an answer. Or maybe Co Hoi is just merc talk for atrocity. Slaughter."

Somewhere between the GRIH and Le Cycle, the good lieutenant steps out of his Kineema. A brisk, chill wind greets him. You get the feeling he should have been here for this. Listen again when he's here.

The lieutenant is out there somewhere. Doing something. You get the feeling he should have been here for this. Listen again when he's here.

The Kvalsund crane in the harbour. Its screaming is distinctly apocalyptic.

The porta-reel is just what you needed -- the reels attach to the apparatus with a satisfying click. The tape is routed behind the magnetic reader.

You stare at the Great Doorgunner Megamix. If only you had a boombox, you would be able to play Titus' tape.

The tape feels ominous... Upon it, the dead speak. Respect the tape!