Assignment compromised. Rating: CATASTROPHIC. The day is lost.

Time. You need time. Keep them engaged. Keep your eyes open. Every moment you breathe is a victory.

A barely-perceptible edge to the way he says 'that name'.

This is good. Keep him talking.

The jukebox. Signal. Fighting chance.

Just for a moment there -- he was curious about what song you would choose.

The world, as you've found it.

The veins on his neck bulge, blood drips from his ear.

Perhaps the last such aesthetic experience you'll have.

Its people blur with it. Some look up as the oldest aero-tram line in the city shudders high above them, a bird without wings.

The only thing to hand is intimidation. They know you, but they don't know what you're capable of. Unsteady them.

Zero yourself out as soon as possible. You are high up -- defenestration is viable.

Lie. Draw it out. Time is not yet your enemy.

A shopgirl nods her head, aware of nothing, lost in the same rock-and-roll dream she slips into every morning on her way into the city. A young boy, traveling with his mother, shifts nervously from one foot to another.

He watches, like his father taught him to do, a trick to keep him occupied. On the lookout for sinister bodies.

At the word 'Reunión', a number of necks stiffen. A man in a bucket hat casts a hateful look over his shoulder.

There's nothing more to say for them. They're just normal people, and not very interesting to you in the end.

No sign of your squadmates either.

Completely matter of fact. He's considered the hypothetical many times.

Solid stagecraft. Very results-oriented. This goon knows of what he speaks.

"The Opera never tires."

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Unsettled.

As he looks at you evenly, his eyelid begins to twitch.

THE IMPERIALISTS ARE SHAPING NEW REALITIES WHILE YOU SIT AND DO NOTHING.

The kind of laugh that compels others to politely avert their gaze.

Dread, realising itself as vomit rising up the back of your throat.

Could these be the sensitive, invisible fingers you've always felt, hovering darkly above your days?

No. His fingers are muscle, blood, fat, bone. Mortal like yourself.

Here it is, laid out: the logic of the ritual sacrifice.

Behind the man's gaze, the world turns against you.

Fight. Kill. Live.

This prick still has our gun. When the moment comes, we jump him first.

What about your friends? Do you not owe them, for everything they've given and are about to give for you?

Wait! There, at the far end of the carriage.

Your controller was right: KALEIDOSCOPE has eluded the Weeping Eye's gaze. To them, he's simply a middle-aged man in a slightly inappropriate hooded sweatshirt.

Awaiting your signal.

A knife in your boot. You can turn this around.

Gäng! GÄNG!

Something about the way he says the name 'Facundo'...

Point to the Opera.

The slowly collapsing mind of an old political philosopher, violently working through its own contradictions.

Ignatz turns to you and grins his lopsided grin. "Wow, no time for your old friend after two years of nothing? Cold, Hershel. Hopefully I can live with this."

You don't know why you just said that. But you meant it.

At your direction, of course. Her father was head of a secret Dream Study receiving EMTERR funding.

"Take me wherever you want, but let my friends go."

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You have miscast your company. You were all amateurs, unfit for your roles, and for this stage.

In spite of your pleas -- relief floods your heart.

To your left and right, his goons avert their eyes.

Ancient Luzian game of divination. Uses a unique deck of cards not seen elsewhere.

TURN THE FASCIST'S SUPERSTITIONS AGAINST HIM.

Do it. Stall. Draw this out.

His upper lip inclines to the right as he speaks. His canine is chipped.

The violence of the wave, the crushing weight of the abyss. The cards see your strength.

THE PRISM.

Recall the case of Operant DUTY, who was tortured so effectively by the Weeping Eye that he began to reveal the secrets of his captors.

Melita's voice in your ear. Tired, comforted.

He respects the idea of this love even if he would despise its reality.

Rhythmically, like blades of a machine churning together.

Now. Offense. Turn the table.

Blood trickles from Ignatz' lip to his eye.

KALEIDOSCOPE is still unknown to him. Good, good.

As it was with Operant AXIS, captured in La Cupola in 75 and then dragged behind the resurfacing machine at every Luzian ice hockey game until he finally succumbed in 78.

Yana is still unknown to him. Good, good.

"Your turn." (Draw a card for Tesoro.)

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A distance grows between you as his mind wanders into the past.

His attention was so strong that you feel cold in its absence.

He pronounces the word 'dialectical' with a teasing viciousness which is almost like flirting.

The golden shade, the screaming boy beaten by his fellows...

Rattled. Good.

Drawn by the malice in his master's voice.

WE ARE BEAUTIFUL.

He bites his lip, apprehensive.

Rage 2.

Melita's voice in your ear, distant, irritated.

The Opera set you up. They knew you'd fail; they sent you here to die.

SINGED IN THE GLORIOUS FLAME OF REVOLUTION.

Block out these vicious theatrics. Don't give him the fear he wants.

OVERTURNED LIKE THE OLD ORDER.

Like Operant KEEPSAKE, who was fed to sacred hawks by the Mircean inquisition in 21 -- consigning her soul to eternal torment.

Funny name, difficult trick. This is about training.

HEY.

A trick, left unmastered.

Crushed -- like Operant MARBLE, who was ejected from a Mircean submarine and immediately pulped by the sheer weight of black, icy water above.

Pity, sorrow. He regrets this on your behalf.

Ultra Violeta loses sight of Portofiro, twinkling softly into darkness.

No reaction. Your face gives nothing away.

Still a strong trade. Absolutely worth it.

No. No.

Portofiro's sprawl flashes briefly across his six-fold lenses as he sneers at the city below.

You recognise the empty features in the drawing. A feeling like an itch in the corner of your mind.

The clown thing really got to him. Nice.

One can only betray friends, the traitor has many.

Physical literacy, the divines know how well you read the world.

Your controller was right: Yana has eluded the Weeping Eye's gaze. To them, she's simply a teenaged delinquent, skipping class for the day.

The shopgirl wearing headphones has closed her eyes. She must take this tram all the time.

The music carries her to her own pocket dimension. She has never and will never notice you.

The young watcher averts his eyes but his posture betrays his attention. He knows there's something up with the mysterious party of foreigners, and he's trying to work out what.

What about your friends? The dialectical counterforce, the only ones you've ever truly known to be on your side...

What about your friends? The ones who've been beside you this entire time...

What about your friends? Those who keep you grounded, the only who give solidity to all your abstractions...

BESMEARING THE IMAGE OF THE PARTY.

Elbows out as they pass, gäng.

"Let's talk this through..."

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Your guts slide a couple of inches downwards.

Your controller paces the small area behind her desk. Her Novessa colleagues are surprised -- so rarely is she on her feet. You are all that fills her mind.