Narrator

"As I suspected, my sources were very pleased with your work. Well done, Hershel. It's an honour to work with you again."

The strange noise is coming from a printer with a piece of paper stuck between its lips. You recognise the brand name: 'Sonatine'.

The machine is still soured by the smell of urine. Beverages glow on the inside.

"Fuck off, Tigerpussy."

The glimmering purple keyboard is just as you left it.

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

Look, around your feet.

THE WANG GUIDE TO IMPROVISED FIREARMS, VOL 2.

The ladder beckons.

"Wow... an actual liquidity mage..."

"I'm good, Hersh... I'll live."

"Goodbye."

The abandoned cardboard moving boxes remain in the corner of the little apartment.

"Here again."

You have already engaged in model train repair and improvised weapon manufacture here. There is nothing else to do at the workbench.

"It's cold out here." The girl rolls her shoulders and lightly stamps a foot.

There's nothing to do here anymore.

"Didn't work, did it?"

"Hello, lapinette."

"Hi again. Still not leaving yet, sorry." She puffs on her pipe.

"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.

"You. Again." The tapping begins.

You loom once more over the shrine and its congregation of frames.

The ration pack crinkles as you turn it over.

She will not look at you.

The pipe twists out from the concrete like the roots of a plumbing tree.

"CASCADE." The barest of nods. "I've been playing 'I Spy' relentlessly with myself to pass the time. Pretty even as things stand, but I'm…

You return to the postbox.

"..."

The receiver awaits your hand.

"My agent of fortune returns. Happy Dante."

Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

You were standing here at a house party when you saw the unmistakable bulk of Tempo del Sur clambering over the rooftops towards you.

The one personal touch in the otherwise sterile, bland clinic, the wall has been decorated with photographs, documents, evidence of Dr.…

The sun burns off the last of the morning fog. The day is clear. The people of Quisach district go about their lives.

The pink paper tab is no bigger than a fingernail. One side is decorated with a simple illustration of a cockerel.

The bed welcomes you for a soft slumber.

A sheet of thick paper lies on the floor, folded in half and partially covered by shadow.

"Dull the blade, and unsteady the hand. The great CASCADE makes her appearance at last."

The clinic's metal door is scabbed with rust and surrounded by graffiti. An official looking sign hangs to the right of it.

The chair waits before you, sagging and forlorn.

"Anything interesting in the shack back there?" He smiles at you.

"You should move, CASCADE."

Whatever light that's slipped in from above has nearly drained away.

You flip the shutter lock open from the inside and slip out into Portofiro.

You crawl back into the tunnel, as far in as you were before, where it starts to shrink.

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?"