You

The familiar Renotel chime hits your ear.

The control unit idles in its cradle, lights softened to a tired glow.

As you press down on the intercom button, a little light comes on.

"I'm here to support you, trade agent. What do you need?"

The fire door stands between you and the roof. Unfortunately, someone removed the pelota ball that was wedging it open.

PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.

You return to the lone payphone.

Ramses' body, breathing softly.

The stereo is right where you left it.

A shade in a leather jacket thrusts a decapitated head towards the reader -- its lolling tongue and dripping viscera a promise of what's…

There is nothing more for you here.

The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.

You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.

You stand before Tempo's door once more.

"Hello again."

You return to the shrine under the stairs.

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.

A cosmonaut suit, a relic of Project AUTONOMÍA. Its shoulder patch reads, 'The Stars Are Ours, 77'.

The cat lounges.

The satchel by the door is empty, but the rain boots haven't moved.

The door looms before you once more.

Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.

The novel lies where you left it, gathering expensive dust -- 'Blood Type: Hecatomb' by H. S. Lastra.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

The gate stands before you, still locked.

There they all are, just as you left them.

One more phone, one more voice.

Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.

"Operant."

The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

The bed looks cold and dishevelled.

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

Nighttime. The moon enters its waning cycle. High up in the firmament, a few malignant stars awaken.

Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?

This place is not as you left it. The world moved on behind your back.

Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

Amid the chaos and disrepair, the ghost of what this room used to look like emerges for a moment:

The iron railing sagged beneath your elbows when Tempo leaned on it beside you.

Exotic Pet Shop [tk]

Your flashlight beam pans across a series of steel shelves on floor rails. Some aisles sit half open.

Stopping abruptly by the Honour book stall, your double HOLOCENE opens the duffel bag he has been carrying with him and begins depositing…