Speaker A
It's a good place to hide, but it doesn't look like anyone, Mazovian or murderer, has stayed here in a while. It's definitely a good place to hide.
A detailed analysis of Visual Calculus voice lines from Disco Elysium, exploring clues, characters, and crime scene investigation.
Key Takeaways
- Visual Calculus skill provides deep, symbolic insight into crime scenes and evidence connections.
- The murder investigation is complex, involving multiple locations, characters, and timelines.
- Physical evidence like tire tracks and bullet trajectories are crucial to understanding the crime.
- The protagonist’s perspective and internal conflict add depth to the narrative and investigation.
- Historical and environmental details enrich the story and provide context for the crime.
What the video covers
- The video analyzes voice lines from the Visual Calculus skill in Disco Elysium, focusing on a murder investigation.
- It discusses the significance of clues like a broken window, tire tracks, and bullet trajectories.
- The narrative explores the perspectives of witnesses and suspects, including descriptions of characters and their behaviors.
- The video examines the physical environment, such as the bay, balcony, and surrounding buildings, to reconstruct events.
- It highlights the use of neon-lit imagery and symbolic 'red threads' to connect pieces of evidence.
- The analysis includes speculation about the murder weapon, shot angles, and possible escape routes.
- There is a focus on the protagonist’s internal dialogue and reflections on police work and personal identity.
- The video touches on historical elements like old bullet holes and references to past events in the setting.
- It also covers the technical details of vehicle tracks and their role in the crime scene.
- The content blends narrative storytelling with investigative logic, reflecting the game's unique style.
Chapters
- 00:00Introduction and Initial Observations
- 02:45Clues and Witness Accounts
- 05:20Environmental and Structural Analysis
- 08:13Vehicle Evidence and Tire Tracks
- 11:30Historical Context and Setting Details
- 17:05Character Descriptions and Psychological Insights
- 21:49Bullet Trajectory and Crime Scene Reconstruction
- 27:28Conclusion and Reflective Thoughts
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
Speaker A
Mazovians know how to lay low. All you can see is the fact that her skin is a different color from yours. That's literally all.
Speaker A
You're going to have to run with that, and then accelerated straight into the fence, left a hole big enough for the Franco-Nigerian cavalry, according to the cafeteria manager. Congratulations.
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You smashed the window with your own shoe. That's why you only have one. If you're lucky, you might still find the other on the balcony outside. The door to it should be outside your room.
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The shot would have been a small miracle, 5% likelihood. There is an extremely narrow field of view from the bay to the window, between Rue des Songisienne 8B and 33A.
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The angle would have been extreme, and access to the islets is questionable. But, it is a possibility. Then, there's the thread the witness left. She did have a first-hand view of the event.
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Perhaps she found something in the outer reaches of her memory of it. You need to inspect it again. Like the witness said, the man is kneeling, the woman is on her back. It's the night of March 4th, and a
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shot has just been fired. A ray of backward motion explodes from his mouth to the roof outside, A prime, to then widen into a radius of locations in Martigny. B prime, B double prime, and B triple prime. A
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red thread runs through the neon-lit shapes of a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's mouth to the roof outside, to then widen into a radius of locations in Martigny.
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B prime, B double prime, and B triple prime. It's not the roof, and had it come from the coast, you would have probably stumbled upon it while you were running around over there. This leaves a red thread runs through the neon-lit
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shapes of a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's mouth to the roof outside, to then widen into a radius of locations in Martinez.
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B prime, B double prime, and B triple prime. Eight pairs of boots have shuffled back and forth in the mud.
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Where else have we seen a gang of men in work boots? That's right. The Hardy Boys in the mess hall of whirling in rags.
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All you can see is the fact that her skin is a different color from yours.
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That's literally all. You're going to have to run with that, and then accelerated it straight into the fence, left a hole big enough for the Franco-Nigerian cavalry. According to the cafeteria manager.
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Why that pang of guilt again? A red thread runs through the neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's mouth through the window to the roof outside, widening into a radius.
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A prime. It's not the roof, so it had to come from the coast or the island. You should probably start with the coast.
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It's closer and doesn't require you to do a lot of swimming. A red thread runs through the neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's mouth through the window to the
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roof outside, widening into a radius. A prime. Two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman having sex. A ray of backward motion explodes from his mouth to the roof outside. A prime, to then widen into a radius of locations in Martinez.
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B' prime, B'' double prime, and B''' triple prime. Two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman having sex.
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A ray of backward motion explodes from his mouth to the roof outside, A' prime, to then widen into a radius of locations in Martinez.
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B' prime, B'' double prime, and B''' triple prime. It was dirtier there. After the janitor's closet.
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She avoids the end of the hallway. Don't forget his face. The bloated and reddened cheeks, the bulbous nose.
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This would be Kuno after 30 years of substance abuse, if he drank, too. Don't forget his face. The bloated and reddened cheeks, the bulbous nose.
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This would be Kuno after 30 years of alcohol and substance abuse. Honestly, he does kind of look like you after all.
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It's definitely not holding. Those matchboxes are stacked so haphazardly, it's like they want them to collapse.
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Track his gaze. He's looking out past the broken wall toward the opposite side of the bay.
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They rise like electric obelisks in the night. Many tall buildings belonging to a district whose name escapes you.
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There's no way it should stay up like that. How is the weight being distributed? His eyes are tracing an invisible line back and forth from your jacket to his companion. Sound familiar? That matches the prints you observed at the scene.
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It's about 4 and 1/2 km from your position, you estimate. Condensation from stepping inside. The coat, the hat, the swindle so crooked a yeggman couldn't break it. The whole shebang.
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Bullseye. A snooper. And a damn good one. That's because you're a dick in cop's clothing.
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Underneath. A snooper through and through. That's it. You got it. You could have been one of the good ones.
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The dicks, Gumhills, Hawkshaws, Peepers. Sleuths. Men like Mullen and you. If there's any doubt, consult your trusty Dick Mullen book and reconnect with the real you.
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Him. Dick Mullen. You. Him. Use. Modus Mullen. Don't think like a cop. Cops don't solve cases. They slide nippers on the goons and take them into big houses. But they don't solve anything. This is how I always talk.
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Move on. The swindle. Cracked it like a discounted safe. Don't let him go. This could be your witness. The balcony has a great view of the whole thing.
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More old bullet holes. Half a century at least. From the revolution. Another set of awfully old bullet holes. More old bullet holes. At least half a century.
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A different era altogether. No, that won't be necessary. Look closer. The gun, all three barrels, red and blue light shining through.
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It's not loaded. Recent. Self-inflicted. It's about 4 and 1/2 km from your position. You estimate. It's no older than a day or two.
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No mold yet. He could have easily disappeared into the sea through that hole. And you would have never found him.
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Height, 170 to 175 cm. Curly hair. Stout build. Age, approximately 50 to 60 years. This one could work for seeing where the shot came from. Disintegrating into mathematics, the bronze ribbon twists around and within the branches in an intricately natural pattern.
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But there's something. There's a twisted logic in this mess. You see the ends of the ribbon, the way it flows, how it twists and turns. It's all starting to make sense.
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It'll be easier to remove now. Just some tasteless advertising at the bottom of the canal.
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No use rubbernecking now. Judging by the size of the impact and the parallel lines of burnt rubber, the cause was probably a motor vehicle. There are two good candidates, the Cuprace 40 and the Lineair G22. It's about the right size.
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And the tire marks looked like they came from the skinny tires frequently found on that motor carriage. Very sturdy but light motor carriage.
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More likely than most to survive that jump. The black marks on the roof indicate that the vehicle vaulted from the crater to the roof of the shack.
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Sideslip marks indicated that the vehicle was traveling up the crater at 35 km/h. The vehicle soared through the air, hitting the billboard and upsetting the posts. Then it continued its flight, taking the billboard with it. The sign broke the vehicle's fall into the canal.
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The panel served as a takeoff ramp. Still speeding, the vehicle made a loop and vanished into the fog along the coast. These look like the same tire tracks I saw earlier in front of the Wurlitzer Rex. You'd have to follow the
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tracks to be sure. These match the tire tracks you saw earlier. Your tire tracks. Clearly, the motor carriage in question was a Cuprace 40 mere minutes before it took a final voyage into the ocean. This panel usually closes the
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water lock, turning it into a bridge that lets you cross the canal. But there's a crashed Sammaron butter sign in the way. Pulling the lever probably won't do anything. It's shaking the building's foundation.
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The floor
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older woman wearing thick-rimmed eyeglasses, holding a golden right scepter in one hand and a scepter in the other. This is the queen her innocence they advised. Above she herself is whole. Small figures of wise men, common men, worshipers walk up the stairs to
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stand at her feet. Secret servicemen, that is, stand in a row guarding her. It must have taken years to produce this work in all its dizzying detail. Below both women, in luminous black letters, apres la vie, mort.
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Apres la mort, la vie de nouveau. And then, along the left side, apres le monde, la guerre.
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Apres la guerre, le monde de nouveau. Unknown. A jigsaw of broken shards falls into place in front of you. A ghostly reconstruction of the stained glass window. Before it was shattered, there was an older woman beneath the younger one. And the text, a
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light motif below them both. The shards glimmer in the dark. You see little pearls of light on the edges of the crack that splits the female figure.
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Something was written there. Remains of broken letters line the emulsion. What it said, you do not know. He's assessing the situation.
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How long ago was it abandoned? There's no echo and no answer. The light vanishes inside the concrete slit. The structure goes deep under the earth. Maybe it's just a storm drain for the sewer. There's rust and corrosion on the bars. They're
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foaming with it. And a small layer of white salt from the sea. I don't know. Sleeping?
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What do people do under boats? This is merely a measurement from your visual cortex.
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Do with it what you want. Sleeping. Was it not decided that you're a hobo cop?
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More hobo than cop. Or was that fine irony that your visual cortex somehow misunderstood? Great news. The boat is big enough for a grown man like you to fit underneath it in a supine position. No, wait. Sorry. My
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bad. There's a rotting dog carcass under there and old fish, too. You wouldn't fit next to the mummified canine's mausoleum. That would be incredibly unsound at this moment. That does sound quite unlikely. Yes. The big guy leading the scabs at the gate is colossal.
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Trying to visualize the physics at play is liable to give you an aneurysm. Don't think about it too hard. There are no collars on the barbell.
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This is a safety hazard. She's got a direct view to the backyard. You should interrogate her about the lynching. It's light here, but dark in the yard at night. Your visual confirms. You could fit two more bodies in the Ice Bear
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fridge. The bear looks oddly realistic. Is it taxidermy? The drawings are precise and look true to their pseudo-scientific ambitions. One thing, however, it is not entirely free of throwbacks in the phylogenetic tree.
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His large jaw, for example, could be a trait indicative of criminalism. Also, his earlobes could be smaller. The Koykos of Grad, Yugo, Zhivsk, Shest et al. are what you would call white officer in a suspect description in what
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must have been feminine on the photo in your hands. The dead man's skin is studded with stars, tens, hundreds of them littering his dead skin. You should return to the boardwalk now that the body has been taken away. There's
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something you need to see, a little something that your visual cortex has put together while you were away, a luminous wheel of pleasure and all things bright.
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Its wooden frame creaking in the wind. 12 red cabins form a circle that stretches from the engine below to the flocks of seagulls up in the sky.
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There's a ticket office made out of an old gondola. Its wooden frame the same shade of red as the ones above.
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A sign mounted on its side declares 20 centimes for the ride of a lifetime, up and down, up and down, all the way around. A cold sea breeze stings your face as you step on the boardwalk.
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The body is gone, but something still lingers in the air and high above it, against the stars, some waves come crashing against the boardwalk, shattering the mirage.
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The cold sea breeze stings your face as you step on the boardwalk. The body is gone, but something still lingers in the air and high above it, against the gray.
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The pleasure wheel stands still on the boardwalk. Its 12 red cabins suspended in the air. The little wooden gondolas dangle in the wind. Their seats empty and floors littered with old ice cream papers and discarded tickets. A little
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something that your visual cortex has put together while you were busy solving the case. You should return to the boardwalk once the body has been taken away. There's something you need to see.
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It's waiting for you there. The edge of a floorboard next to it looks scratched.
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There's something on the sea ice there. Year after year, flake after flake, white washed clean, then covered in green moss. The lack of alcohol swelling is a bonus. Though there's a pinch of that in your cheeks already. There was a mail delivery box
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in the plaza near the corner of the bookstore. It's going to be awfully close to the already existing buildings, almost wall to wall, practically integrating them into the youth center.
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The faint impressions of many footprints are also present. Though it's impossible to tell what kind or how many. Suffice to say, the jacket spent some time on the ground before someone draped it over the railing. Then find the gun that shot
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it and the person that gun belongs to. He used it to kill your victim. Neat-o.
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I know. You should find the gun that shot this bullets. Pedagogical, somehow. Brash. It must be yours for you to be able to read it.
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These are the lines of someone who has written by hand a lot and has developed a style only they themselves or you yourself can decipher. No, you don't.
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You're a human measuring instrument, almost entirely intellectual. A young woman in her 20s. There is care, effort, and a smile. You think.
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Although that is not something you can read from someone's handwriting. Oh god, someone shot him in the heart.
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Interesting. Moreover, the boots were size 37. Tiny. There are too many discrepancies in all this. That's correct. There is no visibility of any of the others. An aerostatic passes overhead. The whiskers of its floodlights on the ground below.
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Kitsuragi's glasses light up as he looks to the sky. Two glowing circles. A suit of armor like this would have been manufactured with a particular person's physique in mind. You should ask for whom this suit was fitted. You count 216
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perforations. Considering that nice large number, a wave of pride washes over you. Though you can't say why precisely.
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Helium headlights would improve the range and quality of the visual field a lot. A building like this must have multiple doors serving various functions.
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Perhaps a basement access. He means the pipe must be coming from somewhere in the building. That merc was probably shot from a distance with a military-grade rifle. Otherwise, everyone at the whirling would have heard the shot downstairs. There's only
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3 m between you and the machine. If you keep her distracted for long enough, maybe he's right. That place is like a fortress. It's already almost impenetrable. Could this have been the killer's hideout? And this narrow window, the point of origin of the shot
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that killed the mercenary. Outside the window, another day. The beach sand soaks up the drizzling rain, growing darker and darker. Outside the window, desolation.
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Snow falls softly onto the coastal sand, where it melts almost instantly. On rooftops, it lingers. Outside the window, the day is clear and as mild as can be in early spring. You hear the rain's susurration across the seawater.
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The night shudders. In the darkness, you can barely make out the falling snow. It settles, making the night still quieter. The lights of Matinaze shine coolly in the clear night. No, it's not. No matter how you crane your neck, you can't see the
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whole of the whirling in rags. And certainly not the relevant segment of the top floor. It's a good place to hide, but doesn't look like anyone has stayed here in a while. It's definitely a good place to hide. You barely found
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it yourself. It may have been used to service an aerostatic battleship in the atmosphere or a fortification like a sea fort in the bay for service in an aerostatic battleship in the atmosphere or a fortification like a sea fort in
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the bay. It's glowing in the dark night. The lights are on. Glacia must be in there.
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Looks like she kept her promise not to go out at night anymore. There. 1.2 km over the cold water of the bay.
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Blue from the distance and the air. You see the smallest rectangle. Barely visible. The light is off on the third floor of the whirling in rags.
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The young woman is gone. Who knows where? Safe. Closed off. Her form no longer moves behind the glass there. A smoking assailant who favors team artillery to Astra or Duhan.
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Cigarette butts are part of the campfire set. They're also everywhere. Is there something here that would indicate a sniper used this place as a nest for taking the shot? Just some urban detritus, a bottle, and a dilapidated old comms tower. The salty water has
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corroded the ladder to nothing but two thin orange rails. In addition, there is no stable nest up there.
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It would have been useless to warm his hands before he pulled the trigger. There are no markings on the ground for a tripod. He would have had to lie on a mattress.
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This is simply not a good spot for a 1.2 km shot. Are you sure?
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You haven't ruled out the shot coming from here yet. So, there. 1.2 km over the wave-crossed bay through heavy, dark gray curtains of rain, you see the smallest rectangle, barely visible, a glowing light on the third floor of the Whirling in Rags.
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With binoculars, you would see a young woman's shape move behind the glass. Her limbs long and slender. There. 1.2 km over the cold water of the bay through a thick snowstorm melting flake by flake in the waves, you see the smallest
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rectangle, barely visible. The light is off on the third floor of the Whirling in Rags. The young woman is gone in Precinct 57, safe, closed off. Her form no longer moves behind the glass there. It's late.
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There is no light on the third floor of the Whirling in Rags. No shape moves behind it. Glazier must be out on the town. Nothing in the history of things that are has ever been as monolithic as Jean-Luc
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Méchante right now. He is an obelisk, a towering phallic obelisk of willpower. Have you noticed how much taller he is than you? Strange. He seems different in here, less monolithic somehow. This could be a way into the apartment building the
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smoking man vanished into. Backyard door. There must be another entrance to the east. One of the tall buildings overlooking the roundabout, most likely.
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That would give them a read on the entire quarter. How convenient that they're stranded like beached whales at that roundabout. One of the tall buildings overlooking the roundabout. It would give them a read on the entire quarter. They must have someone in an
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overlook position near the gates. He means beyond the coming days and weeks. All the grasp of newspaper and radio reports that may trickle to your desk if you ever return to Precinct 41 in the far future. Gone, like a skipping
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stone beneath the surface. Guess so. Just be careful out there. One false step could cost you dearly. Whoa.
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What have we here? A bridge with loose nails and rot-infested wood that creaks in the wind.
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A construction code violation if there ever was one. Oh, pardon me then. I forgot just how cool you were. Those arches acted as support for something greater than what you see now. Only three stories stand where nine to 12
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once did. Restoration has failed. What the shelling took out was never rebuilt. The waves of the Martenaze Inlet rolled over the fallen remains of the building.
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The dark waters obscured the better part of the remains. A fleet, the combined armies of Occident and Grad with Mask volunteers. A five-nation army, hundreds of vessels. Ruination has come. The broken arches betray the once grand history of this building. It
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towered over the harbor until it happened. They massed airships further down in the bay of Rivershaw. The artillery was so powerful. The ships not only required gyroscopic stabilization, they were anchored into the ocean floor as well. Many are still there to this
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day. If you squint, you can just barely see the shadow on the water far in the northeast.
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Cannons still ready to placate Rivershaw. The tenement acted as a defensive wall the worst of the shelling until it was destroyed and they had a direct firing line. A great force from the northeast fired into the city. Heavy
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artillery shelled the coastline. Fired from the water. A straight shot into River Show. He looks worried. He's not imagining it. He's trying to find a straight line of sight before the rifleman can take you out. He's drunk.
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Drunk fighters overcorrect. Move right. He aims further right. Get him to overshoot. He's aiming for the eye slot in Rude's helmet.
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An extremely difficult shot. The kinetic energy of the 9 mm front loaded bullet is distributed evenly across the chest piece and into his hands. He's trying to find a straight line of sight before the rifleman can take you out. In the
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background, the leader is still on fire. He's trying to find a straight line of sight before the rifleman can take you out. In the background, the leader staggers. It wasn't Ho House of [ __ ] The shot was at least 23 m, probably 24
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and then some. Nothing to be embarrassed about. It wasn't mad. The shot was at least 23 m, probably 24 and then some.
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Nothing to be embarrassed about. Consuming food is a mechanical process for him. He doesn't enjoy it.
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Just goes through the motions and moves on. Stop looking at her. Look around. What do you see? All you can see is the fact that her skin is a different color from yours. That's literally all.
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You're going to have to run with that. Are you entirely sure? You're black as [ __ ] You should really check out that mirror thing. For now, go with she's black. It's important to the case.
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That's right. And the canal, the bookstore, the harbor gates. This is a great vantage point for keeping an eye on you. Glad to have been of service.
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Now you know the locals are keeping tabs on you. She has changed the subject and won't let you get back to this and then accelerated straight into the fence. The tire tracks were left here by an unknown event that took place some days ago.
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It's a message written in the language of burnt rubber. Some of that rubber stuck to the tiles right in front of the whirling in rags.
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This is point A. The driver started there. The driver proceeded to back out of the yard barely stopping before hitting the adjacent building before heading south.
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Must have been in a hurry. Maybe. Probably. Why, yes, it is. Good connection. Yes, and ended up half sunken in the sea.
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You must have been drunk when you left off. You could follow the tracks south.
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There seems to be a canal there. See where they went if you find the time. No.
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These tracks are not interesting at all. Let the street sweeper just sweep them away. The tracks are as they have ever been. A bit more worn, perhaps.
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Fortunately, the street sweeper still hasn't noticed their presence. These are the hands of someone who smoked for at least 20 years as evidenced by the discoloration of fingers.
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Marks on your skin may point to past quarrels. She starts coughing. It's definitely a smoker's cough. They look pretty ancient. The wind is cold from the east. Cold from the east. Cold from the east. It had to be. He's
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already proven capable of taking a far more complicated shot from here. The bullet hole in Philip's heart. He'd been shot in the heart by him. Just one thing remains unclear.
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The rifle does not seem to have a scope. He's practically admitting to it. Just one thing. The rifle does not have a scope. These are not the unusual horizontal pattern soles you saw in the dust on the floor of the hidden room.
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They do, however, seem to be about the same size. He would have a good view of the tribunal from here.
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It's not just empty boasting. Something about the tracks. Suddenly, all those tracks are so confusing.
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Go with something else first. The bruises. You can't make that out in a scope. The bruises. Can you make that out in a scope? There is some kind of countdown happening.
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As it slowly processes the overwhelming brightness of the signal, the invertebrate is regaining control.
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Some sort of countdown process is happening. That's all you have time to think. In the reeds, where the phasmids was hiding, you see a little flash of white.
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Porcelain white. In the reeds, where he's pointing, you see a flash of white. Porcelain white. No, you feel there's something important here.
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The embrasure. Look again. Affirmative. This is B triple prime on the island. A nest. From ballistics, it could easily have been a triangle, too. There.
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Behind them, across the delta, the Insocom building. Coalition government in Selindian mission control. He does seem frail go for his age. More like 75 than 65.
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Trouble putting on weight could mean cancer. You feel the dots connecting. Little dots on the map he's walked across. Hmm. The print in some of these is pretty small, though.
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This person has good eyesight. As a defensive measure, locking off that side of the bay, the estimate is correct. The incident probably occurred on Sunday evening. The lieutenant's estimate is correct. The incident probably occurred on Sunday eve. Remember the tire tracks
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in Martinez. This is where they were leading. That rebel who jumped the canal and broke the water lock.
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This is their doing. This was a good call. That guy probably thinks forensics is autism, too. Then you should prepare.
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Analyze this armor. Figure out its vulnerabilities. Yes, you should analyze the armor. Figure out its vulnerabilities. It may be a while before you have all the pieces.
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In the meantime, you should analyze the armor. Figure out its vulnerabilities. Certainly. But you may want to hold on to the armor you have for long enough to properly analyze it. Figure out its vulnerabilities. Remember, this is a
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highly specialized kinetic redistributor meant to stop bullets. Wear it. Observe its properties. See if there's a weakness in the design. Remember, the vitreous enamel material acts as a kinetic redistributor. It's meant to stop bullets. Wear it. Observe its
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properties. See if there's a weakness in the design. The hardened vitreous enamel, at once sleek and light, adds a glow to your cheeks and a spring to your step.
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Just imagine what a full suit of this stuff could do for you. The white ceramic cuirass hugs your torso, shielding your vitals without adding much bulk to your form. The hardened vitreous enamel, at once sleek and voluptuous, adds a glow to your cheeks
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and a spring to your step. Just imagine what a full suit of this stuff could do for you. You look down at the white ceramic sabatons hugging your arches and calves, surprised at how well they fit. Well, you found that one piece
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you're after, anyway. Don't forget to enjoy it, too. Are you sure you're correct there?
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There was a helmet too. Three pieces more like. You were ambitious. As your head is ensconced in the ceramic helmet, you realize, well, it's a bit late to think about all this now, isn't it? As you fold your fingers into a fist, you
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realize you could knock anyone out with one punch. The white ceramic gloves wrap around your digits comfortably. I guess so. He wants you to open fire on the mercenaries before he does. He's waiting for you and your partner to be the
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shield. He points toward the waterline with his bottle. Smooth reflective surface. Are these the gloves you're looking for? My prediction, it will be at least two days. This is the man with sunglasses from the whirling in rags.
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But where are his sunglasses? The hook. Where is it? I can't see it. This reel.
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50 in his palm. It's a peninsula. She might be trapped, unable to piece together the big picture just now.
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There's a hole in their hypothesis. They stand facing the wall. It's impossible to discern any details about their personality or background.
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The morning sun rises beyond the horizon radiating the first light of the day. The order was carried out at dawn. The sun blazes high up in the sky baking the planks, the sand, your skin.
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The order was carried out in the afternoon. The sun falls slowly toward the horizon. The last light of the day.
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The order was carried out in the evening. It's dark. Very dark. Faint lights flicker at the edge of your vision.
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It's rare for the order to be carried out at night. Droplets of rain fall on the wooden planks, the surrounding sand dunes.
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The clouds block out any rays of light. Snowflakes fall on the wooden planks and the surrounding sand dunes, covering the land with the white of innocence. 10 m away, other shades are lined up in an orderly manner, automatic rifles primed.
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A gust of wind blows by. The coats of the firing squad flap slowly in the breeze.
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A single person stands on the side. A long time has passed since the moment of this fusillading. Rain and brine has since washed all of the blood away. Not a trace remains. Seven men in combat uniforms and dark coats, holding
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automatic rifles aimed at the people. Soldiers from some side, but from which one? The abundance of bullet holes leads to two options. Either an inordinate amount of executions were performed here, or they did not use a conscience round, where only one soldier has the
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loaded rifle. Looks like this was a mass execution with everyone fully armed. I'm just a representation of your mental faculties, piecing together any available information.
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You should probably ask the lieutenant. A host of men, probably in everyday clothes, ragged from the conflict and covered in dust.
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They were not sitting, a common practice for executions in some nations, as demonstrated by the height level of the bullet holes. The commandant, the one who gives the order.
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Machine gun fire crackling through the air. The lights of the muzzle flashes dancing on his face. A cold sea wind blows away the figures. A row of ghostly shades facing a crumbling wall with another seven shades standing 10 m from
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them. A single person stands on the sideline. A row of ghostly shades stand facing the wall. There are many of them.
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A dozen at least. Their heads lowered and eyes blindfolded. It's quiet. No sound. No movement. It's about 4.5 km from your position, you estimate. Her eyes move up and down your person as though taking your measurements. Her attention is
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scientific. Measuring things is important. How did she get the size? What if it is the case, just for the record. You look nothing like the man on the document.
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Back to the village, then back here, then back to the coast again. That must be 3 km in total.
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Okay, and it's not a shaker. It's nothing. He's holding nothing. It's not a shaker.
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It's nothing. He's holding nothing. It is but an imitation. He knows, correctly. It is too small. Maybe, but hey, you've stood there for about 4 seconds not saying anything.
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Now is a good time to hit them with questions. Where's the eighth Hardy? Exactly. But none of this is news to you.
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You've stood there for about 4 seconds not saying anything. Time to move on. Yes. Ruby the lady driver drug runner.
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There's no denying it now. Time to ask the boys some questions. In conclusion, these seven are the actors on the crime scene. The footprints were theirs, but there's a discrepancy. Exactly. You've stood there for about 4 seconds not
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saying anything. Hit them with questions. Where's the eighth Hardy? Too late to stop you. You've already got them all, including the old bearded man who's smart enough to smoke instead of talking. That's enough to take another look at those tracks in the yard.
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See if they fit this band of miscreants. Of course, when you get the time, you could take another look at those tracks in the yard.
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See if they fit this band of miscreants. Exactly. The missing lady driver who was running the drug trade.
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Does it mean the Hardy boys are involved in the drug trade as well? This is where the first shot will come from. Forget about their gains. You've mapped out the characters. Reading the footprints in the yard should be easier now. Do a head
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count first. Connect these men to the tracks you saw in the yard. Chances are they're going to match. Put the numbers out there. This will impress them. Fine.
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Don't impress them with ballistics. The lieutenant is glad he got the floor plan right there. Of course, time to really close the deal.
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Show them the bullets. Hey, did someone say something already? No? Yes? Who cares? Upstairs in Klausner's bedroom, the window the bullet came through.
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Analyze that. You know, I don't usually do this. I just measure things, but hey, did someone say something already?
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No? Yes? Who cares? Upstairs in Klausner's bedroom, the window the bullet came through. Analyze that. There's something about this guy that matches with a face in your head. A similar but different face.
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Can he even see through those glasses? Good luck. These look darker than welding glasses. The kitchen.
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The only part of the building you haven't thoroughly searched yet. It's worth a try. The kitchen.
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The only part of the building you haven't thoroughly searched yet. You see two, maybe three bushes grown into a single thicket over a period of circa 50 years.
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It takes time for a hedge like that to form. One can't see into the union box from the yard outside.
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That hawthorn is too thick. It's close enough to the latch up there. One can slide it open and just take it.
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Surely not a coincidence. Yes, the nest of a common house sparrow. Passer domesticus. It could be connected to the barred door upstairs. It leads to a side building adjacent to this one.
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The old building next to this, half ruined. Whatever is behind it must be older, more likely a projectile than a held object. There are no fragments on the floor from pulling a tool back in after impact. It is too large for a bullet,
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yet too small for a piece of furniture. You're looking for something heavy and larger than your fist. The single green shoe you found fits the hole almost as well as your foot. It would have also been heavy enough, if thrown with force,
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like the green shoe that's on the hat rack in the corner, which, coincidentally, is missing its friend.
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Something you've done before. What do you mean? Assess the damage. How would you do that? What are you even trying to do? Congratulations, you smashed the window with your own shoe. Now you only have one. If you're lucky, you can still find the other on
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the balcony outside. The door to it should be outside your room. The shoe you found on the balcony fits the hole almost as well as your foot.
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It would have also been heavy enough, if thrown with force. Congratulations, you smashed the window with your own shoe. You mean someone else took your shoe off and smashed the window with it.
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And maybe, just maybe, you succeeded. We'll never know. Pretty much. But hey, at least you found your shoe.
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Congratulations. You smashed the window with your own shoe. Now you only have one. If you're lucky, you could still find the other one on the balcony outside.
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The door to it should be outside your room. The shoe you found on the balcony fits the hole almost as well as your foot.
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It's similar to the green shoe that's on the hat rack in the corner. Which, coincidentally, is missing its friend.
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Congratulations. You smashed the window with your own shoe. You mean, someone else took your shoe off and smashed the window with it?
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The shards face outward. Whatever broke this window came from the inside. A fine web of scarring covers the back of your right hand, but none of it is recent.
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Ballistics. In Klaasje's room. Do it properly. Ballistics. In Klaasje's room. Do it properly. It seems like the bracket's broken inside. Your voice alone rings in the room. This visual forensics ability doesn't dispense shocking tips. You would need a map for
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that. A map of Martin A's. B prime for Boardwalk, B double prime for Land's End, and B triple prime for the Islet, detective. There may be smaller points in between, but those are too fine to zoom in on. There could have been. Then
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the rain and slush and wind washed it away. This was more than a week ago. 700 m away. The likeliest of these B positions, 20% chance. A skilled sniper could have made the shot, provided he had a safe sniper's nest. Even with the
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light on inside, we're talking military training. At that distance, the perpetrator would have had to take wind direction into account. 1.2 km away. The least likely of these positions, let's say 3%. A truly skilled sniper could have done it. Possibly from a tent.
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No. Too far-fetched. 1 km away. An unlikely point of origin. Beyond the docks somewhere on an islet in the Bay of Martinique, perhaps. There are islets there.
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Badly charted as they may be. 1 km away. A point beyond the docks on an islet in the Bay.
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The fort is ruined, but the perpetrator may have found a stable spot on the beaches surrounding it. Where the concrete crumbles into the sea. As you saw in the coin-operated viewer, Ruby ruled this out vehemently. The shot would have been heard from downstairs.
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When no one heard it. The likelihood of A prime has fallen drastically. You may be looking for a sniper. None that you've found thus far. But that doesn't mean there aren't any. The red thread bisecting the room shows the
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trajectory of the bullets. Indeed, there was no evidence of a sniper's nest in that location. The distance is too great and water vapor would have made the shot almost impossible.
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Indeed, there was a possible sniper's nest underneath the boardwalk, but no one had been there in months, if not years. The red thread bisecting the room shows the trajectory of the bullet.
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Clausia has done some amateur ballistics here. The shot would have been a small miracle. 5% likelihood.
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There is an extremely narrow field of view from the Bay to the window between Rue du Song Gislin 10 and 33A.
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The angle would have been extreme and access to the islets is questionable. It suggests the bullet came from the extreme upper quadrant of possible angles. From a point beyond the roof.
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B triple prime. Maybe if you extrapolate all possible points of origin first, the thread will make sense. The island in the bay. The shot had to come from a greater distance, beyond A prime. Should we extrapolate to include every possible
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point of origin in Martinez? Then, there's the thread the witness left. She did have a first-hand view of the event.
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Perhaps she found something in the outer reaches of her memory of it. The man looks directly at the woman.
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The shot's possible directions converge in his mouth. A ray cast from somewhere outside entering his brain. No, we're not failing this. You didn't get shot for nothing. Close your eyes and open them.
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You can do this. You've done it before. The golden light melts away into the blue glassy darkness of your mind. In it are two neon-lit shapes. A man and a woman on the single bed. Obviously, she was there that night. She would have
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known precisely where the bullet hole was in the glass. Your voice sounds hollow in the deserted room.
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You are alone. Again with this. You're not some kind of super detective. Question people. Bust a lip open.
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Leave this glass cathedral of ballistics to the smart boys. Nothing scares you now. There were boats there.
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You should ask around. Of course, the village on the coast. Let's go. It is the [ __ ] island that waits. Nothing.
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The makings of a sniper's nest. You don't know when to quit, do you? Of course, it's where the threads all meet.
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But how will you get to the island? You have to go to the island. It's where the threads all meet. There were skiffs in the fishing village. You should ask around. The man is kneeling. The woman is on her back.
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It's the night of March 4th and a shot has just been fired. You see the same two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman.
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Only now a red thread bisects the room, pointing from the antenna outside to the cupboard on the wall. Golden light melts away into the blue glassy darkness of your mind. In it are two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman on the single
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bed. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's mouth through the window to the roof outside, widening into a radius. A prime. The same two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes from the man's
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mouth through the window to the roof outside, widening into a radius. A prime. It is possible that it came from B prime, the boardwalk. B double prime, Land's End. Or B triple prime, the islet. You can't know for sure until
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you investigate those locations. The island in the bay, it's not the roof. And you would have found it had it been on the coast in either B prime or B double prime, which leaves the island in the bay. The
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island in the bay. According to your map of the district, this shot could have come from a wide angle of locations, starting with the northern edge of the abandoned boardwalk, ending with an islet in the bay.
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Let's call them B prime. Islet, technically, but yes, it looks more and more probable. Golden light melts away into the blue glassy darkness of your mind. In it are two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman on the single bed.
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Golden light melts away into the blue glassy darkness of your mind. In it are two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman on the single to A powerful gust of wind coming in from the bay rattles the windowpane. You see
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the same two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman. Only now a red thread bisects the room, pointing from the antenna outside to the cupboard on the wall. The same two neon-lit shapes, a man and a woman. A ray of backward motion explodes
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from the man's mouth through the window to the roof outside widening into a radius.
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A prime. She had a long time to think about it after, standing on that roof, staring at the glass. A vague sense of disappointment fills you.
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The glass shimmers, as if taunting you with its secrets. From the roof outside, location A prime, the glass fractures around the bullet hole. Shoots face inwards like a corona behind the woman's back. The man does not know the bullet
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has entered his brain. He never will. Death comes faster than the realization. The ray cast from the man's mouth unravels into a fan of possible directions, all on the roof at first.
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The shot could have come from any of them. This is composite location A prime, most likely of the origin points, 72% with a weapon that fires jacketed ammunition, likely a rifle.
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This is a good short distance, but not too short. The perpetrator aimed with their back against the railing or possibly kneeling for precision. This would explain why it only took them one shot. 72% with an antique weapon that
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fires military grade ammunition, a Belmagrave rifle, for example. This is a good short distance, but not too short.
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The perpetrator aimed with their back against the railing or possibly kneeling for precision. This would explain why it only took them one shot. That's a 28% yes. In this model, the shot could have come from a greater distance. Nothing excludes the
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possibility. Should we extrapolate to include every possible point of origin in Martinez? According to your map of the district, this shot could have come from a wide angle of locations, starting with the northern edge of the abandoned boardwalk, ending with an islet in the
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bay. Let's call them B prime. The lights were on in here. Outside it was dark. It was like shooting fish in an aquarium.
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A well-lit aquarium. The victim opened his mouth to let the bullet in. Neither of them would have seen anything outside in the darkness. Too busy with their own bodies. 72% with a weapon that's good for medium range, like a
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rifle or sports pistol. This is a good short distance, but not too short. The perpetrator aimed with their back against the railing or possibly kneeling for precision. This would explain why it only took them one shot. Point X would
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contradict the woman's testimony, rendering the entire proposition void. These figures would be wiped out, detective. Shoe size is 41 to 42, maybe 43.
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It could be a large-footed woman or a small-to-average-footed man. This is, unfortunately, the worst, most vague shoe size there is. This can be navigated.
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The balls leave almost imperceptible disruptions in the fog. Use them to calculate where they hit next. Yes, you see the glass sparkling out of the corner of your eye. Still, you see the glass sparkling out of the corner of your eye. Oops. This is
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concurrent with your doubts at the autopsy about the coloring being this tactful approach. It will rob you of the glory, but hey, all I care about is angles and timetables. The loss is yours. You should have a look at that
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window. Reconstruct the scene. It's right here. So near. You should have another look at that window after this.
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Reconstruct the scene. It's right there. A grand expanse of water reaches over the bay and to the horizon. Gray and pale violet in the morning lights. A grand expanse of water reaches over the bay and to the horizon. Wine dark in the
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evening lights. A grand expanse of water reaches over the bay and to the horizon.
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Golden gray in the noon lights. The pale, the windy isola. The occident. And then Aranya.
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The old old world. The grand expanse of water is barely visible in the darkness of the night. The horizon is there, somewhere. The light reflects. She takes out her lighter. Of course she won a beauty pageant. She's very symmetrical.
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Where the dead body used to hang. Clearly visible from the roof. But no longer. Yes, you're a rough rider, but not in your early 30s. Do you want to know the truth? To the laboratorium. Okay. Seek not the truth.
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Cower in poltroonism, you 58-year-old man-child. Yeah, but probably not though. Do you want to know the truth? Do you want to know the truth? Wait. Stop. That man, bloated beyond all recognition, was 42. Below the damage, the weeks of
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decomposition. All the swollen indignity of mortality. He was 42 years old. Wait. This requires scientific measurements. To the laboratorium. Okay. Seek not the truth.
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Cower in barbarism, you 58-year-old man-child. How old are you? That's where this is going.
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45,000 L of raw alcohol has left its disfigurements. What lies beneath, you wonder? A shoe cupboard just off to the right. Have you been to this place? Yes.
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You met him at the gates. The one with the boots and the jolly smile. That's Arthur Graham.
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Sir, you can barely see it because there's barely any. He knows it's hard to discern sex from a person's gait. You don't know.
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It's a miracle you can tell the prince apart as it is. The cold must have preserved them. Five.
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Another standard work boot. Steel-reinforced toes. Number 44. Six. An aberration. Lighter than air. Even pace. Same make of boot, but number 41. Impossible to tell.
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Could also have been an adolescent. The gait is undeveloped. Seven. The glowing outline of a standard work boot.
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Number 46. But the imprints are twice as deep as the others. The weight exceeds 200 kg. It is not impossible. There are eight pairs of tracks in the mud.
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Three stick out. But, correct again. Subzero temperatures would preserve the tracks in a good state.
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The commotion here could have taken place a week ago. Indeed, they all stood in a row here and looked at the tree. He might be right.
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200 kg of living weight is unlikely. Eight. And yet another standard work boot. Number 44.
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There's an aberration in the pattern of the sole, however, the right sole is smoother, more worn.
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One, standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 46. Isn't this something an industrial worker would wear? What do you think you are? A super detective? You're hungover.
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These are just dents in the mud. No pattern emerges for the time being. Eight pairs of boots have shuffled back and forth in the mud. You're not bad.
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It's as if the whole world darkens. Everything else has a thin film of unimportance on it. And the tracks burn in the middle of it in a strange, beautiful way. Maybe more than 12. No.
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Eight pairs of boots have shuffled back and forth in the mud. One, standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 46. Just like Titus was wearing in his booth. This is the big dick, Titus Hardy, the one with the ball cap on his head.
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Two, standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 44. Either the blonde muscular guy, Glenn, or the young guy with a plectrum around his neck. Three, hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 43.
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The inked banger, perhaps. Four, standard work boot, number 45 or 46. Theo, the old smoker. You think you even see a tiny fleck of cigarette ash inside the print. Five, another standard work boot, reinforced toes, number 44. Same
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as before. Either the musician, Eugene, or the muscle-bound blonde, Glenn. Six, light but number 41.
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Small like a rat, Shanky. Seven, the glowing outline of a standard work boot, number 46.
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The imprints are twice as deep as the others. The weight exceeds 200 kg. Fat Angus.
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Carrying something? Eight, another standard work boot, number 44. There's an aberration in the pattern of the sole.
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The right sole is smoother, more worn. Curious. A missing eighth Hardy boy. You're not bad.
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It's as if the whole world darkens and the tracks burn in it with strange beauty. Is it?
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They didn't even bother to change boots. Putting them on the scene is easy, maybe even too easy. Of course, there were eight tracks, but there are only seven Hardy boys.
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Wow. Still not doing it. You're bad at this. What else is there to do? Maybe you keep failing because you suck. Better late than never, detective. The whole world is dark and the tracks burn in it with strange
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beauty. Two, standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 44. Three, hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, number 43. Four, standard work boot, number 45 or 46. There are eight pairs of tracks in the mud.
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Three stick out. I'm sure we didn't get everything. There's always something. Try 40. The damage is so extensive, it's better to err on the young side. Would it be a good idea to cut the knots instead of the belt?
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Seems the more conservative approach. From wounds sustained over two, maybe more decades, dispersal and accumulation indicates long and active combat duty.
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You may want to slow down. Don't tear into it like that. The object that is in there stopped just short of the skull in the encephalus, knocking this tiny fracture into the cranium and abrasion collar.
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This is what we're after. Could be. The shape of the branch supports the theory. Indeed, from this angle, it does look like the neck isn't going to take much more.
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Being dead for a week has all but liquefied his muscles. You would still like the hypostasis marks in the neck to be a bit more pronounced. For 7 days, the cadaver is quite well preserved.
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Surprisingly so. There's no deflation, no apparent fly larvae in the abdomen. This is a trick.
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You've done it before. Pink is where the blood settled in the first hours postmortem. You can use it to see if the corpse has been tampered with.
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Does his position at the time of death match the discoloration? Where the buckle ties the rope to the branch, that's a good spot to aim. The slow movement of the branch in the wind and your shoulders directing the gun sync
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up. Dancing hypnotically.
Topics:Disco ElysiumVisual Calculusvoice linescrime investigationmurder mysterygame analysistire tracksbullet trajectoryprotagonistgame narrative
