Frederik

Again you mist yourself into a psychic fog, but your advance breaks against his shoals of unhinged lust.

CEASE THESE DEVIATIONIST VOCALISATIONS.

Don't stop --

Eyes closed, the young man remains lost in his erotic fantasy.

Hatred. Contempt.

His defenses are impenetrable! The gäng break apart like waves against his rocky shore.

It would be a lot easier to form a coherent image of this man if it weren't for his... constant gyrations.

Superiority. Contempt.

The lanky young man continues to do unromantic things with the handset.

The name. The one that made him sputter.

There can be no doubt: this is the 'junior negotiator' Oskar Metamoto mentioned.

UNACCEPTABLE. THE PEOPLE'S REPRESENTATIVE WON'T BE OBSTRUCTED.

Warily, the young man watches you go over his shoulder.

Where are we? We're nowhere. Our gäng is dust.

"Deadlines, yes, I'm missing them," the young man pants down the phone like a dog. "I need to feel like it's been a very bad quarter for me..."

"Did you hear?" He lowers his voice, hand around the receiver. "Not my type at all."

"Does this mean you'll be giving me... a good report... to Shadow Banking?"

"Does this mean you'll be giving me... a good report... to the Mircean ambassador?"

"Does this mean you'll be giving me... a good report... to the Trade office?"

"Hard to believe, but it seems the gap is widening, even as we speak!"

"I asked you politely once. Now, kindly wait your fucking turn!"

"If I said I wanted you to -- to t-touch me." The young man gulps. "Where would you do it? Would it h-hurt?"

"My god... the suit she's wearing... those colours would kill a less financially secure woman."

"Probably all those thrashings you've been dealing him. Now if you don't mind, some of us are still working here!" He cups his hand over the receiver.

"Shhhh, it's her again. My stalker."

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

"Sooooo... cloooose."

"What's... this..."

"What, threatening me again? After your last attempted assault I wouldn't be so confident."

"What, threatening me again? The animals in this piss-hole only respect violence. I don't know why we bother propping it up."

A few metres away, the well-dressed young man continues to pant and sweat as he whispers into the payphone, the cable still wrapped around his neck.

"Animals. That's how it is with most pilots, though. At the very least we owe you a drink for getting rid of that phone hogger -- here." A shotglass slides across the table to you.

"I don't know how you managed to kick the hogger off the phone, Mircea, but we owe you a drink."

"I don't know how you managed to kick the hogger off the phone, but believe me when I say we're in your debt." The old man looks at you with unabashed gratitude.

"We're all strangers on this island, Mircea, why don't you join us?"

"Whatever you did to the hogger, he looks proper sad for once." The old pilot tips his drink to you.

On your person.

Stressed, liquid, junior? It can only be that hopeless fool hooked to the sex line.

The thinking man's masturbation.

"He's in ribbons, man."

The description matches the desperate young man clinging to the Miracle Line. Perhaps there's more to unpeel there.

The now unoccupied payphone stands half-embedded in a concrete pedestal, its frame weather-stained and dulled.

You've heard him talk, you know his arrogant, fast-talking manners -- he's faking the stutter as part of the roleplay.

"A question for your so-called 'enemies' from EMTERR. The ones you have been seen consorting with already."