Embarrassment isn't the problem. A much darker feeling is trying to claw its way into her consciousness.

HOLD ON, OPERANT. This is the phone Yana mentioned. The one even you now know is tapped.

Why would EMTERR care about a couple of impressionable old men?

Washing out the container that carried homemade rice and beans, glancing out the window above the sink as the sun goes down.

Don't look at the clock. Don't look. Don't...

Momentarily, the mumbling from the nearby stalls hushes, listening.

That did it. She's becoming hysterical.

Words that deny the frailty of his aging legs.

She can tell you're smoothing it over for her.

She can't believe you. She can't believe herself.

Not really. Bagman doesn't sound like he's trying his hardest not to cry.

Like something trying their hardest not to cry?

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Her eyes are bloodshot, hair lank.

Aren't you looking for someone who's missing, too?

She raises her hand to bite her nails. A new habit -- they're bleeding.

Anyone regularly listening to Bagman's sermons on reality could easily lose their grip of the thing.

Who in their right mind would not follow up on an invisible aircraft carrier?

Television doesn't destroy minds, you fool. It moulds them.

She's fading. No sleep. Three, maybe four days now.

Looking you straight in the eyes, sympathetic. She really doesn't know.

Sock merchant. One of the Opera's most battle-tested covers.

A scenario she has been forced to create in order to ignore a heartbreaking truth.

The words fade almost to nothing as they leave her mouth.

Her voice is thin -- she's not strong enough to carry them alone.

Behind her concern, a note of admiration, and a small shred of hope.

Gone.

If what she says is true, then that payphone might be another way for you to get into the basement of that magzine office.

If what she says is true, that magazine office just got a whole lot more suspicious.

If what she says is true, that magazine office would be worth casing out in full.

And he isn't.

She's been keeping some little lights glowing inside herself -- to guide his safe return. Now they have started to flicker, dim.

The shape is robust and clean, with an architectural asymmetry. Like a knife.

Knuckles white as she balls them into fists.

Her father, calling from beyond. Calling for her help.

She can only ignore it for so long.

She's not the intended readership.

A childhood boogeyman, suddenly and horribly real.

Who he is doesn't matter to EMTERR. It's what he did...

A scenario she has been forced to create in order to ignore a heartbreaking truth.

Not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat.

NOVESSAN SLANG IS NOT OUT OF DATE. IT IS ETERNAL.

Startled by the sound of her own joy.

Could explain why Dr Hugo dislikes Septimus so much. His daughter's living in an old doss house.

A stolen keyboard watches the underside of the thief's bed. Alone but not forgotten, it develops rust.

'FEEDBACK PARTIES'? SHE MUST MEAN COMMUNAL IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSIONS.

Luzian stuff? La Luz is a techno-fascist state. Are they jackbooting on music now?

A loose wind rattles the window fittings in a long-deserted building.

Her voice explodes with enthusiasm, a register so long lost to her that it crackles a little as it erupts.

Thud, thud, thud. The War Drum's crowd thunders its beat.

LIBERALISM DESTROYED YOUR DEN OF INEQUITY, FOOL.

She deflates at the change of subject, back to the misery of now.

Swish of a dirty-green cloak, dust flies up after it, blinding you. When you can see clearly again, the man responsible has disappeared.

Also known to you as VIRTUE, your former asset and friend. Now confirmed dead, mostly for associating with you.

That's not 'no'.

Still not a yes. She's nervous, looking away, could get a discount out of it.

Local law enforcement is far beneath you in effectiveness and influence. No need to lower yourself, operant.

Also known to you as VIRTUE. Your former asset. Currently out there somewhere, waiting for you to realign once more.

Carabineros: Portofiro's sanctioned police investigators. They report directly to the Prefectura and deal in actual crime -- murder, grand larceny, rape.

Under the thick hoodie, her eyes are fixed on a single point to the west.

Psyching herself up. Gathering her gäng.

No matter how terrible reality might be, it's better than the not-knowing.

No longer can she live with the burden.

It's all that matters.

If you don't get back on track, there's a chance you'll both end up in an EMTERR work camp.

Or dumped in a mass grave...

The last words she said to him replay in her head.

She didn't believe you before. She does now.

He'll fall if he can't see...

No, but you've seen those glasses.

Tough blow. The one institution that's supposed to take her seriously.

Frantic but resigned, exhausted by herself.

Anonymity is your most precious asset. Salvage what you can of its ruin.

She's looking at your glasses.

The ones on your face.

Her hood a burrow, she the mouse within.

This must be the party vendor the GM mentioned -- the one whose father has gone missing.

She raises the photograph until it eclipses the bazaar in front of you.

This must be the girl the kids by the TV mentioned -- the one whose father was eaten by a payphone.

Unconvinced, unbothered.