text / audio | un: newt

[groupiedrifter]

Alright, let's not be total wallflowers at prom here, if we're going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I think it's only right that we (read: I) start getting to know all of my fellow space cadets. If we're ACTUALLY in space and this isn't some humongous simulation. You guys saw how easy it was for this place to manufacture a hyper-realistic simulation earlier, right? Yikes, big yikes.

But if we ARE in space and we're going to be traveling around, that's actually kind of AWESOME.

No offense to anyone who didn't want to actually be here of course, but you're nuts if you're not a LITTLE curious about the vast expanse of outer space. C'mon. OUTER SPACE! How incredible is that? And here I thought me coming face to face with aliens back home was INCREDIBLE, now we've got ACTUAL OUTER SPACE??? Pinch me I'm in a simulation. LOL.

Sorry I'm rambling, my name's Newt. Dr. Newton Geiszler, but but that sounds so much more boring and overcomplicated than 'Newt', so just stick with that. Worked as a xenobiologist on earth (is there multiple earths or what??? a lot of you are crazy unfamiliar with Kaiju, which is wild to me), helped giant robots fight aliens, the usual. Likes are rock music, playing instruments, tattoos, science and tech, dislikes are bossy pushovers who complain about those things.

Speaking of which, my really good pal from home's name is Hermann Gottlieb, and you should call him Herm to make him REALLY feel at home. :)

It's nice to meet you guys on the NEWTwork. ;P

... Actually—

[Suddenly, the text turns into audio, in which a higher voice with some focal fry bleeds in-]

—can I just abruptly switch to an audio function?

[A pause, and then an excitable:]

Holy shit, how awesome is that?! This is amazing; we've made some pretty monumental gains in technology back home, but we're still working on finessing the finer aspects of neuralogically connecting to networks like these for the general population. I'd love to take one of these apart sometime and see what makes them tick. Good to have an idea of what to expect, in case we need modifications or repairs done at any point.

Anyway. Uh. Hey!

... This whole voices-in-your-head thing can't be good for my train of thought, but geronimo, right?

[If anyone listens beyond that, they may catch the accidental thought-to-audio that follows:]

Wha — oh, dammit.

I sure hope this is the last nosebleed, because I would rather not worry about having accidental brain damage from drifting with aliens.

Comments

audio;

[groupiedrifter]

[wiiiiince]

About a six? I guess I should've seen that coming. I'm not bleeding out of my eyes or ears, though, so I'd say this was a success. [He rubs his temple a little, suddenly wishing he had some meds. Or some coffee? Just a little coffee.] I've got experience in medical, sure; if I'm going to study creatures from another planet, I might as well have a pretty solid understanding of our own biology, right? Only seems right.

[Mr. Fancy PhD Boy adjusts his glasses.]

Pharmaceutical science is my better work; spent way too much time back in the day helping develop artificial tissue replication. But — yeah, uh. Little bit of everything. I like to have options, you know? Especially now that the war's over, I'll have to have more to fall back on.

[kimballin]

[He smiles faintly, amused despite himself at the answer. It's a scientist's answer, filled with enough details to intrigue him in about four different directions.]

If what you have told me of your world is true, Dr. Geiszler, I suspect you'll have no shortage of job offers from experience alone. Someone who understands the biology of an invasive alien species? If nothing else, I should think there are cults dying for a firsthand account.

But ah: you will be able to appreciate, I think, just how advanced the medicine on here is. I was shot two days ago, and yet here I am, walking around carrying on a conversation in my head about aliens and their biology.

[. . . he thinks two days ago. It only now occurs to him that if they have this level of medical advancement, who's to say they haven't kept him under for far longer? But ah, while that's an important thought, maybe for another time.]

[groupiedrifter]

... Yeah... I guess I will. It's gonna be weird to, uh. Not do what I've been doing all these years. But that's life, right? Like the David Bowie song. Ch-ch-changes.

[He may be a little conflicted, because of course he's glad the aliens are defeated; they scared the shit out of him, even if he found some strange comfort in the monsters they made and sent through. To love what you fear, it's an ultimate coping mechanism. And now he supposes... he doesn't need that mechanism. Well. Until now, since he's in outer space.]

That kind of medical care, it sounds — pretty nuts. Where were you shot, anyway?

[Sorry, that came out kind of casual. Should he be casual about it? Reading the room is hard when you're not only bad at it but not in the same room. His kind of thing is his worst enemy.]

[kimballin]

Hmm.

[He actually says that out loud. Hmm, a thoughtful little hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing to that notable hesitation. He won't press Newt on it, not least of which because what would he even press? But that's a different answer than most might give, and that's always interesting.

But hey, casual is the way to go, it seems, for Kim's own tone matches Newt's. Mostly. There's a bit more tension in there than he wants there to be.]

My upper back, tearing through my chest. One of the— a mercenary I was fighting came behind me while I was tending to my partner. She shot me point-blank in the back. The bullet missed my lungs, thankfully, but . . .

[Unseen, he shrugs.]

I assumed I was going to die, and then I woke up here.

[It's matter-of-fact, not a bid for sympathy. Sometimes people get shot and then they die, that's just how it works. Not, like, ideal, but so it goes.]

My point is: not only did they repair fragile tissue, but internal damage as well. There is a scar, and some post-operational pain, but nothing compared to what it should be.

Whoever we are dealing with, they are far beyond any scientific advancements I'm familiar with.

[groupiedrifter]

... Wow, holy shit.

[Sorry, he's just kind of surprised you're even standing up right now, dude. He eyes Kim's chest for a moment like he expects a bullet to just pop out and say 'kidding! he's still shot!'.]

You sure you should be walking around right now? [Newt's cleaned up a lot since he woke up here. Sure, he's got the odd red burst vessels in one eye, and lingering scrapes from his journey back home that were hardened into little scabs now, but he wasn't shot. He just. Seized once or twice.]

Sounds like a hell of a job you were on, though. I had a dozen guns aimed at my head once, but that's about it; turns out, I still don't like them. Who'd have thunk it?

[kimballin]

Eh. Probably not.

[On whether or not he should be walking, he means, but hey, here he is doing it anyway. All is too interesting to pass up on seeing.]

The job was . . . unusual, to say the least. A murder that we did not solve fast enough.

[The same one he wants another chance at solving— though honestly, it's more for his partner's sake than his own.]

Who thought you needed a dozen guns to die? Surely just one would have done the trick, especially aimed at your head.

[RUDE.]

[groupiedrifter]

Hey. You've got a point, but I refute that point anyway.

... What was unusual about that?

I mean, murders are pretty atypical of the usual crime people commit, sure, but... Is there something particularly weird about this one? Weird circumstances?

spoilers for like a solid 75% of disco elysium, also rip the essay

[kimballin]

A cover-up, but not an obvious one.

[The sound of pages flipping; he's pulling out his notebook, because what use is a detective if he's not organized, huh?]

Victim: Mondial male in his early forties, his corpse found hung from a tree branch behind a local hostel. Victim had been hanging there for seven days. He was eventually revealed to be one Ellis Kortenaer, more often known as Lely, the leader of a local group of mercenaries hired to break up a dockworker's strike. And indeed: the rope used to hang him was a belt from the local harbor union. Heading into the hostel and asking questions proved to be fruitful: a small gang of union members not only openly admitted to the murder, but bragged about it. They called it justice, for they claimed that he had raped a patron of the hostel, among other crimes.

[A small pause, as Kim hesitates, wavering on saying something, but then bites it back.]

However. Inspection of the corpse revealed post-mortem tampering. That the cause of death came from a bullet to his head, small and easily missed. That he was hung as a diversion, and that some witnesses reported that while they had witnessed Hardie and his boys carrying a still body and hanging it, there was no mention of a gunshot, nor indeed any sign of struggle. The hostel manager did not report any sexual assault, and when interviewed, the supposed victim openly informed us that not only was she not assaulted, but had been, ah, "partying" with Lely for several days.

He was shot in the mouth while the two were having sex. Fearing that she would be blamed, Klassje enlisted the Hardie boys to help come up with a less incriminating story.

So. Where did the bullet come from? Lely was not well liked, but nor was he openly despised. Further: he was more than capable of defending himself from an opponent. No one heard the gunshot, and indeed, no one could think of a direct reason why he would be killed at that time, in that place. Most of Martinaise is made up of the poor and the destitute; those who can kill often escape to find work elsewhere.

[A sigh, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his notebook, and continues wearily:]

We had a few days. After that, impatient, Lely's mercenary friends came to . . . [He scoffs softly.] Dispense justice.

It was a massacre. I was shot, and my partner . . .

[Mph.]

I do not know what will happen to him. If I succeed here, I will never have to find out.

[groupiedrifter]

Holy shit; that's a lot.

[Well, it'd make for a good novel for sure, with all those little twists and turns and general absurdities. He kind of sits quietly for a second to stew in the information, rubbing his chin with his hand.]

So you never even got to figure out what the hell was really going on? That sucks. I mean, not nearly as much as getting shot sucks, but — I hope your friend's okay. So that's your regret, though? That you couldn't stop all that from happening?