The sight of bullet holes stirs something in you, making you forget the lieutenant's surname.
Psyche
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
623 · Voice lines
The sight of bullet holes stirs something in you, making you forget the lieutenant's surname.
The fading marks are too degraded to draw any forensic conclusions. Just chips in the sandstone.
Elsewhere yet, an obese female sits in a wicker chair, her silhouette ball-like against the window. Outside: Grand Couron. The day is turning dim for Sergeant Mack Torson. Hand extended, he approaches. To make sure she is dead, more than anything else...
...and so all across Jamrock, Coal City, G.R.I.H. Forty two deceased persons found today -- forty two Stations of Breath.
Please get yourself together, the lieutenant from Precinct 57 thinks.
That's not good. Trust among officers is extremely important. If you don't improve your rapport, there could be consequences down the line...
Somewhere, Lieutenant Kitsuragi is preparing a report. He should be here for this, you realise. You have to return later.
Somewhere in Jamrock North, a small wood shed behind Rozenkrantz Row, Lieutenant Nick Feuerbach puts his hand to the chest of a small corpse, no larger than a monkey. It's raining outside, light drizzle. There is darkness in the shed.
You stand there with the ledger open like a lonesome idiot, realizing you have no idea how to conduct an autopsy without the lieutenant, who is out there doing something immeasurably serious.
And Station 41 and the glow of its desk lamps, the clicking of coffee mugs, clouds of cigarette smoke and the ringing telephone... your youth. There is still a way back.
You haven't been drinking, she thinks. So maybe this time...
Would fit in? Am crazy enough? Can take the stress? He doesn't know how to finish the sentence.
Even now -- you're his colleague.
Perhaps it was an unspoken agreement between you and the junior officer?
They speak of change. The city. The tension on the streets. They speak of the events of April and the blood on the streets in May.
A lowset house, windswept -- and without you. Traffic whooshes by...
It's more than that. He just can't. One final time...
Somewhere under the curved roof of a former silk factory, shaped like a ladybird with two chimneys, Police Captain Ptolemy Pryce sits behind a heavy wooden desk. Resident medic Nix Gottlieb pours him coffee. It's silent in the captain's office...