Narrator

"Hello again."

The hoglets are still grunting merrily among the urban detritus.

You approach your double. A faint line of drool darkens the sheet.

"Loneliest... of towns..."

"I already told you, miss. You can't come through here. Try the other entrance." He waves you off.

You return to the framed photographs.

The container is still overfull with rubbish.

Ahead, the electric hum and rhythmic clatter of an aero-tram station.

You return to the collapsing pneumatic system.

With the carabinero uniform on, you remember Vespar in his -- cape roiling like smoke under dim lights, boots scuffing cobblestones. He…

He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.

The girl in the postcard still wants you to join her fan club.

There's nothing to do here.

Ahead, the electric hum and rhythmic clatter of an aero-tram station.

You return to one of the city's ancient benches. It welcomes you.

"Hello, hero."

An assortment of cargo crates sits in waiting, adorned with faint chalk marks and bright yellow labels.

You return to the desk. Everything is right where you left it, including the pack of Suprema 100s.

The vandalised jukebox is where you left it, looking slightly more dispirited on second visit.

"You're back." She eyes you warily.

You return to the boiler.

He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore PSEUDOPOD. He looks extremely uncomfortable.

You take out the bomb again.

The girl is far too preoccupied fiddling with her fishing wire to pay any attention to you.

The man's eyes are closed. He is completely still.

The tree has fulfilled its task. Now time for you to fulfill yours.

You return to the staircase.

"I really think you'd dig this. You look like the type."

"Back again, Hershel."

H.S. Lastra's blood-obsessed pulp epic awaits you.

With awkward reverence, you approach the shrine again.

He turns his head toward you in slow-motion and barely.

The lump of flesh you extracted from HOLOCENE's head sloshes about in the mysterious red liquid.

"You've come back."

The shrine is eerily still.

The container is empty.

You step into the booth and press the receiver to your ear.

"Operant. Something big is happening, isn't it?"

The magic box hums its secret tune. In a dark Novessa sub-basement, your controller answers.

The sleek metal callbox stands guard.

The cleaning tuk-tuk with its soap bubbles and secrets seems almost prestigious now.

"All sleeping soundly here, CASCADE... Any luck with those brakes?"

The building noticeboard stands beside a communal area, full of ads and scraps of daily lives.

It all happens in milliseconds. A sharp blow to your elbow, the flashlight flying out of your grasp...

"Hello again." The subeditor smiles at you with the left side of her mouth.

"Yyyes?" Again the heavy, authoritative Azzurri voice comes through.

"Thanks again for clearing out the squatters. I won't forget that." He nods, then looks away.

You approach Shelves B and C once more.

A typed page lies upside-down in a stack of similarly formatted files. The cover reads: 'Remote Viewing Testimonial N.28'.

Ultra Violeta remains frozen mid-song, trapped within the shimmering projection. Her music plays somewhere behind you.