Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of black mould wither and perish in the chemical mist.

His relief is such that it's almost a shame to correct his illusions.

The disappointment he feels is unjustifiable even to himself, but you can read it in his eyes.

He wanted to meet his nemesis head on. He wanted it to have a face.

He struggles to wade through the sedatives still weighing him down.

You've taken the tools up one by one in the intended order -- now comes the final tool and the logical end.

The moment we've been waiting for our entire life, Herschen. Stoop to the occasion. Trepan him.

Trepanation was the earliest form of treatment for brain tumours, relieving the buildup of pressure inside the skull.

Life and death. Kill or cure. No middle ground.

Extract the Small Controller.

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REVOLUTIONS UPON REVOLUTIONS!

Centuries-old paintings of patients, sans anesthesia, getting bloody chunks removed from head. The agony. The insanity.

Feel that. Life and death trembling beneath you, a single gram of pressure between them.

A porthole opens into vein-crossed dimness.

Somewhere within: A hard drive of perfect memory, each scene evenly catalogued and ready for playback.

Light shines for the first time on territories it has never before reached.

Stop this now. Human beings were never meant to do this.

Tarsier shaped! A little curled-up tarsier!

<<Good job, CASCADE. M.I.H.O. salutes you.>>

At the edges of your ears, a tiny scream.

Best not to think about it. But also, definitely brain.

Maybe it's just a random nerve firing, but a smile flutters at the corner of your former double's mouth.

A tiny, wet SKIRCH as it slides in.

He looks like PSEUDOPOD.

Slowly, with a kind of chemotheraputic drip, the knowledge of what you have just done sinks in.

Primal howling from the depths of your brain.

Operational silver lining: the body comes pre-disposed at the bottom of an abandoned silo.

Words useless. Can't hear. Void.

By now you are an expert in speaking to the non-responsive and the absent.

If you want to eulogise him properly, use someone else's words.

The mirror-corpse cannot absolve you of anything.

The stillness of death is different from that of catatonia -- the conversation that results from it more unnerving.

You are actively courting schizophrenia at this point.

Hissing radio silence. The darkness between planets.

Not exactly eulogistic material, but better than anything you can produce.

There is, however, a response from within.

The boat has been set alight, the chants intoned, the cuts made on the body to attract the vultures. Some kind of ritual action performed to obtain closure from death.

Death sealed. Silent ghosts. For now.

A sudden urge leaps within you -- you want to see the sky again.

He gives no indication that he has the slightest clue that's not where the story ends. You're off the hook.

Hopefully it isn't one of the kinky blood sex scenes.

Job status: bötched.

You are a destructive force of nature. Channel it. Break open the world.

Preferably not at your friends. In fact, it might be best if you simply refrain from contact with people you don't intend to destroy.

Unless this host had already outlived his usefulness... and what it wanted was a new host, a vehicle to take it to the surface.

Precipice. Jump or flee.

Reaching into another person's head to glimpse what is inside -- it is not the first time recently that you've heard about such a method.

With Remote Viewing you are going in cold. This technique has at least been explained to you.

You are deep in it this time. So deep you can almost touch dream.

His aura sketched in lightning.

Warming up is for pussies. We're in the big leagues now, Hersh. Gäng under the lights.

Close reading: 'then, take him out. With the drill.'

We're going in with that thing. Straight through the bonescreen.

He's awed and onboard.

Syringe. Free hand.

From the implement table, the crank drill snickers at you.

A good opportunity to administer some semi-rational treatment: the ozone.

Cöward! When will we ever have this opportunity again? Drill, drill, drill!

This game's getting played, even with a handicapped substitute.

Use Duchess's Technique to look inside HOLOCENE.

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He's not hiding it. He's screaming.

Incessant. Scream of newborn.

The mind turned inward on itself.

He should have been giving literature classes at a university, not out here, down here, doubting everything...

Cave paintings of insane protohominids.

An artist's impression of biological decay.

Outer stillness accompanied by rapid eye movements as your amateur diagnosis hits.

No. You have HOLOCENE.

Feels it. The communion you shared.

The void around you grows agitated, heating and wetting, as your senses close around the thing.

Whoever it is, they produce a white hot antipathy in you.

Blood pumps. Heartbeat tapdance. Around you, the smell of sex rises.

Close your eyes. Draw what enters your mind.

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Living... living and round... living and round and within...

Scheming. Force. Dangerous.

A nuclear core of psychosis... both real and imagined...

Deprived of sight, the inches of paper travelled by your pen feel like chasms.

A crude impression of one, at least.

Is it also wearing... a tiny dressing gown?

A note of sadness in his voice.

A mind churning in perpetual consumption of itself.

Make contact with HOLOCENE.

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GÄNG! ARE YOU OUT THERE?

Gäng's skipped psychic town.

Like a child waiting for a dreadful present.

A flower.

SOME NICE BIRDS.

Maybe a squiggle at the top?

Hemorrhoidal anus, disabled bird, squiggly line of undefined intent.

THE SMALL CONTROLLER IN TERRIBLE DISGUISE. KILL IT.

Designed to be taken into the far reaches by cosmonauts. Any alien life matter can be sealed inside and brought home.

Plaintext. No cipher. Good start.

Preparing to ram his plane of reality into yours.

Your true enemy has yet to reveal itself.

The phoneless handler.

Curse. Parasite. Uproot.

The mere sight of HOLOCENE's handwriting incurs a shiver of post-codebreaking trauma.

IF THERE IS A HOLOCENE, THERE IS ALSO AN INNER HOLOCENE.

Fool him with his own systems. Bridle his hypertrophied imagination -- the outcome will be the same.

And... presumably... HOLOCENE's method of locating you in the first place.

Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of…

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