The lieutenant's aftershave. A common drugstore brand. Strong hints of pine needle.
Motorics
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
703 · Voice lines
The lieutenant's aftershave. A common drugstore brand. Strong hints of pine needle.
The rest of the rags are just kitchen-variety waste. A yellow old mug that catches your eye. But other than that...
Are these the victim's clothes? The smell is not nearly as bad as the cadaver. These clothes could not have been in contact with the deceased for more than two days after his death.
The rest of the rags are just kitchen-variety waste. Just garbage.
It's bad. Very bad. Before you can heave the wind changes direction again, the greenhouse plastic flapping in it's gust.
There are several footprints in the mud, left by work boots: anywhere from 6 to 12 pairs have walked here.
Heavy worker's boots with reinforced toes and hobnails. All over the yard.
Hard to say. Your vision is blurred and you are having difficulty concentrating thanks to your relentless hangover.
You see a set of tyre tracks in the brown slush that covers the plaza mosaic.
About a week's worth of mail has collected in there. They'll empty this very soon.
A faint sticker on the side reads: "RCM Emergencies Desk no 8-100-2", with a slogan: "Mankind, be vigilant!"
"Eat shit, pig!", "FUCKED BY THE CUNN" and "Saint-G" with a crown have been scribbled on it. "Jennie is a WHORE" and "Baise cette mailbox!" also.
You hear cracks as the lieutenant moves his sharp fingers inside the flesh. Like the creaking of an old house at night.
"I should have just brought a dictaphone," he mumbles.
A solid guess, Mr. Racial Profiler!
Your clearance will not go up while you're within earshot of the Union headquarters.