Narrator

The grinning 'Financial Citizen' welcomes you back, his offer still on the table.

A click somewhere inside. The world slows.

The carabinero and his controller are deep in conversation.

She spins toward you, arm raised.

Movement at your peripheral vision.

"Welcome back to our program, Lieutenant Prophet Wilk." He raises his hands and claps slowly for the cameras.

You wake to blurry vision, thudding ears, and a dull ache in your lower spine.

"Perhaps someone should go down and check on Boris and Irina?"

You return to the shelves.

"You should probably find your colleague."

The two teenage girls refuse to look at you.

"Welcome, welcome."

"Hey, bud!"

The Luzian device smoothly unfolds, its twin faces looking away from each other.

The wall is slightly discoloured where the Jefa Red & Black poster once was.

You return to the rack.

You find yourself staring at the dummy once more.

"Hersh."

Another plastic wolf cup in your hand. As before, '1/6' is stamped on the hard bottom.

You step up to the terminal again.

A ruined sofa with a sad story to tell.

The wall where Bagman once stared at you is now blank.

You stare up at the high filing cabinet.

There is no response, just the sound of your own breath against cool plastic.

You can make out an impression of the Bazaar beyond the window, obscured by dust and grime.

The stall remains as haphazard as ever, its payment bucket near empty.

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

The brightly-coloured refreshments seem even more vivid upon your return.

You're in the clear. Give it a go.

Placid Wolf languishes atop his plastic cup.

The Editor-in-Chief's desk is somewhat orderly. A few notebooks and proofs, a terminal, and a collection of pens -- laid out side by side.

"Operant... are you busy?"

Bagman gestures wildly on the television screen. This is the ad for the Reality Situation you've seen before.

There is nothing more to see here.

There is no answer.

"Well? Have you found out about the gap yet?"

"Yo, habibti." Goat Eyes flicks his cigarette.

You return to the hole.

"Ah here you are yes here. Do you like life in True Time?" She bounces excitedly, her metal headgear still jingling as she moves.

The toilet is still hung on the wall above the bar, a place of great honour -- a reminder of the Ceramic Panic of 83.

"Hello, again."

You pick out the latest issue of 'The Noscorrentes Review' and feel its hefty weight once again.

You step back to the tower of plushies.

"Did you have a chance to tidy up Admiral Rigau's shrine?"

"Mm. Hey."

You return to the door of the little houseboat.

"... We spy another day, CASCADE..."

The brightly-coloured cans and cigarette packets seem even more vivid upon your return.

The sun begins its slow retreat behind the western housing complexes. The day is dying.

'THE SHADOW MOTHER: A Clinical Study of Traumatic Generational Narcissism'