Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
Sounds like a ghost. Wind blows through your clothes and you feel detached from your surroundings. Inside the building -- a cold memory hangs.
The temperature has dropped in the cover of the night; you see frost on the windows.
A gust of cold air sweeps through the chimney. The stones and minerals on the shelves rattle as though agitated. For a moment it almost feels as though you're outside the building, exposed to the atmosphere...
Outside it's light. Light scatters from the low hanging cloud cover. There's always the threat of snow.
Rats scuttle in the dark rooms, under the abandoned blow driers and dusty mannequins, cobwebs cover rotors and radiocomputers alike... so much failure.
No. The old coal plant that used to be here was subsumed into the new venture, its ruins swallowed up -- yet it has a different address in the heart of the city.
Aside from getting naked, you're not sure what else to do. The building holds no more answers for you.
As she makes her way to the market stall the girl starts crying: a ferocious ice bear is guarding the fridge! Its paws raised to ward off any potential customers.
Her mother rushes to soothe her, but Fifette doesn't want ice cream anymore, she just wants to go home. The ice bear stares at them as they leave the plaza. A gust of wind flies one of the wrappers right past the sobbing girl...
Somewhere in the past it's summer. Five-year-old Fifette lets go of her mother's hand, change jingling in her pockets, as she hops towards the ice cream stand right across the plaza.
You may ignore the labyrinthine pathways, but you will never be freed from them -- they are carved into your soul.
To the Old-Old South, to the farthest outskirts of Revachol. Through the chequered fields of farmland, upstream to the River Esperance, past Monte-Martin... The border approaches.
The road disappears, it is but a mirage... before you stands a tall lorry driver with sad eyes.
Above the Jamrock Quarter, in the form of a raised motorway, and then the never-ending sprawl of Faubourg. High above buildings new and old, the air filled with the rumble of motor engines.
The road continues for miles, flowing together with other roads, turning into causeways or bridges, ending suddenly in dead ends -- or ramping up or down highways. It forms a criss-cross pattern across the land...