Please let me bow before The Protectorate’s gold-trimmed porcelain thrones, The Outer Worlds 2

I blast my way through another hulking dragoon, and run off down a corridor, companions breathlessly in tow. Surrounded by doors, I pick one before the next platoon of goons can descend upon us. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Nirvana. A rare breather from The Outer Worlds 2’s rollercoaster of shooting and talking.

For a moment, I just take it in. Breathing deeply, my nostrils fill with the scent of fresh bleach. My mouth waters at the sight of surfaces you could eat your lunch off of. My eyes widen at the brilliance of the gold trim. Somehow, I can hear the fact there mush be a fresh roll in each perfectly-maintained cubicle.

In the midst of another cold, intimidating Protectorate facility, I’ve stumbled into the loos yet again. I don’t mind. They’re beautiful. The urinals are grandiose, but practical, with thick partitions separating each pissing party. For those among us who require more privacy, there stand vigilant and proud lines of serene while cubicles. “Fear not, I’ll take care of you while you’re at your most vulnerable,” they seem to declare.

The room itself manages to feel spacious, but also cosy. Like a cathedral to the call of nature, a refuge in which you can act upon said call with dignity and grace. They generally seem very clean, and I assume they have to be, since the authoritarian regime likely lack a billion bit air freshener industry. That said, they are supposed to be very technologically advanced. Maybe that’s why I can’t go.

It’s not for lack of trying. I can’t recall saying anything unfortunate to their representatives which I could have avoided, and would cast me onto the no-piss list forever. I’ve recruited Tristan, a high ranking Arbiter in their society, and have aided him in his quest. I’ve tried to beg him, in the name of the Sovereign, to teach me the ways of the Protectapotty. He hasn’t.

It’s a tragedy. There’s not much else which could seduce me to convert to their authoritarian collectivist doctrine, which boasts lots of oppression which is oppressing people oppressively. Aha, but we have technology and aren’t Auntie’s Choice, the bigwigs chortle. Ok, I say, show me! I’ve heard about your mental refreshment, wheel out the gizmos that can refresh me in the areas which really matter.

They just look at me. There’s no declaration of no, just a general hostility and a desire to run into my bullets. Auntie’s Choice’s loos aren’t memorable, I say in a final attempt to persuade them, all of the toliet seats have been sold off to save money and they force you to use Spacer’s Choice bog roll which rips as soon as you look at it. The Order don’t care about restrooms, I assume because they calculate exactly how many times they’d need to go during their lives the moment they’re born, and engage in tactical fasting so they can avoid losing valuable study time to deal with the most important numbers: one and two.

You guys are the faction for me, now let me in. Don’t flush my dreams away.