Just one more customer she won't have to deal with again.

You never did clear up if she was a spy or not. Is this wise?

A fitting farewell drink. Just hopefully not your final farewell.

Steeling you for whatever is about to come.

So she wasn't trying to poison you.

Too many questions.

Followed up by looking around you, as if something else caught her attention.

A similarity she hasn't ignored.

Bits of paper... like the one the little girl delivered you?

The favourite euphemism of smugglers and bootleggers.

And operants.

Hiding in plain sight; the perfect patron.

Not her business, not her problem.

He won't be back.

What was never there can never leave.

That shrug was a little stiff. He's her type.

Not 'why'd you leave', blessedly. She knows her audience.

You see the glint of a silver medallion around her neck as she moves to give you a view of the selection behind the bar.

Notes of industrial turpentine and sour pear.

He can't have just been waiting for you.

Your double. PSEUDOPOD.

So the old fiend wasn't bluffing.

The old fiend didn't deign to mention that.

Did he, now?

Length of time he's been waiting for you to walk through the door: unknown.

Your defensiveness makes her cagey. Try to cool it.

No one said anything about a 'friend'.

A word that in context almost certainly means its opposite.

Not friend.

Probably just a dirty old man, enlisting the bartender in his pick-up scheme.

Offended that you'd mistake her for someone's wing-woman.

Would that line of work happen to be 'fake sock importer'?

IDENTITY: Unknown. INTENT: Unknown. AFFILIATION: Unknown. THREAT LEVEL: Unknown.

Cool it. Just drink your drink, observe him from a distance.

You're lined up to get zeroed out. Best get out of here fast.

The gäng doesn't tolerate that. Tell the Elder-Creep to get lost.

Somewhat bland. Not recently brewed. Overall: serviceable.

Soap scum caked into the corners of the pot.

Tempo used to swill the coffee around his mouth, then spit it back with a muttered 'mierda de cerdo'.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

She doesn't give it a second thought.

Dust gathers on the polished surfaces around her.

Her demeanour softens ever so slightly.

Mercifully not insisting on your name. She knows her audience.

Impatient customers stand at the bar, sol in hand. Behind them, sticky tables go uncleaned for up to an hour.

She's too proud to ask for help, but she'd gladly take it.

Could be a quick way to make a bit of money.

Tipsy stragglers stand impatiently at the bar, sol in hand. Behind them, nearly every table has a sticky residue, uncleaned for up to an hour.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

IF NOT FRIEND, AT LEAST COMRADE.

So the old man wasn't bluffing.

The old fiend didn't deign to mention that.

Ant parade on your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You may be in the presence of the person who zeroed out PSEUDOPOD.

Not her place to eavesdrop.

An old hand at hearing other people's problems, and displaying just enough sympathy to make them feel listened to.

Almost like she's offended, or can't stand to look any longer.

Something about the woman in the photo doesn't match the person standing in front of her now.

Most, not all.

Gut punch.

Operant CASCADE's penultimate expense tally included a handwritten note. 'Asset VIRTUE -- debt to the Opera: value, 1 schnapps, redeemable at any time.'

He owed us a drink. We owed him a way out. Pour one for fallen gäng.

He was a drunk. A cheerful one. Probably how he got himself killed.

Couldn't have had nothing to do with you.

Walls covered in stains and memorabilia. Scuffed wooden floorboards smelling of spilled drinks.

The Fogged Mirror owes its existence to friends dragging friends along.

Keeps her voice low, even, and her eyes downcast.

You don't snitch -- not even on a snitch. She's taking a risk here.

Matches a certain hustler near the roundabout who calls you baby-girl.

Extremely unprofessional.

Secrets and lies. Betrayal.

Works for the Azzurri mob, sells drugs, and he's armed.

He doesn't seem the murdering type. But you can never rule anything out.

Beneath all the charm could lurk a stone-cold killer. Approach with caution.

He has access to guns. Sells them, even.

You've heard he works for the Azzurri mob. May even sell guns.

Happy-go-lucky drug peddler. Among the first steps on the ladder of serious crimes.

That description almost fits Ramses, though you wouldn't describe him as heavyset, just big.

Years of regulars move in and out of the bar's entrance. Among them, a pair that was recently halved, a lonely silhouette amid the rest.

Taking in Vespar's face, then yours -- younger, not yet burdened by five years of guilt.

Wondering how a member of the carabineros doesn't know what happened to a fallen brother.

The streets breed a bone-deep distrust of people who ask too many questions. Each secret you withhold lessens her suspicions.

Silence is worth more than a thousand promises.

Quiet scepticism as she re-assesses you.

Figuring who we belong to, where our loyalties lie.

It definitely had something to do with you.

Nicer than any cop had the right to be. Still, he believed in the cause -- your cause.

You need to know. One of your assets being dead has a million implications.

She stands behind this bar most days, has done so for years -- she must know someone connected to this.

No sign of grief, though she appears faintly sad to be the bearer of bad news.

He was a friendly face she barely remembers.

Nice way to describe a brother of the drink.

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

Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

ROLL OUT THE WORKERS. RESTORE FORMER GLORY.

It's better than admitting you don't know why you're here.

Behold, an orgy of elderly audiophiles. A show not to be missed, standing room only!

A chime echoes somewhere in the back of your memory... 'Re-no-tel'.

As good excuse as any, and one handed to you on a plate.

'Sex line'? The lack of trousers grows more ominous.

It's as if you just told her a secret, the same secret she has kept for many of her patrons.

A TRUE PARTISAN.

Is there any part of you left that's still of Mircea?

NOT PARTY ALLEY. THE PARTY'S ALLEY.

The Palace of Culture in Novessa is grand, imposing, and in a constant state of renovation and expansion. You've never seen it without at least one wing closed for construction.

Inside a dark desk drawer, contracts and architectural drawings for a sixteen-story luxury apartment building and retail complex await the day the Palace's ceiling finally caves in.

IN ANOTHER LIFE YOU SING SONGS OF LIBERATION AND BRAID CARNATIONS INTO EACH OTHER'S HAIR.

THE CITY-STATE'S INDIVIDUALIST STREAK HAS LEFT IT WEAK AND EXPOSED.

Your hand shakes. Your mind buzzes with worst-case scenarios. It could get so much worse than she thinks.

She suspects the answer is 'now'.

She's right.

She's just happy you took the hint -- she truly doesn't want to dwell on this.

Look around.

modifier +1

Never drank himself.

He'd devour the world if there were no one to stop him.

He'd cover you if you whined about it, but only if he was already getting one for himself.

Like one of those master sword makers the government subsidises to make two blades a year.

It took him a long time to warm up to people, but once he did he was loyal to a fault.

Like a bear in his den, always on the cusp of hibernation.

Unable to disappear into her own coat, she attempted to recede into the painted backdrop.

Slouched in the booth, affect too stiff to be believable.

And your work made her lie to him, betray his trust. He could sense the distance growing between them, but could not bridge the gap.

Back to the nearest wall.

He even began to distrust those towards the end.

The memory of the endless ring when you called to tell him the boat was going to leave without him still itches at you.

An attempt to spare your feelings.

The thought should probably make you sadder than it does. But there's a hollow where your memory of him sits.

This is the correct level of emotional response for someone in your position.

Product of her generation. She knew how to keep herself to herself.

You can only remember being employed as a spy.

Gäng's poured plenty of drinks! How hard can it be?

Fresh soap smell mixed with the sweetness of sticky malt, the sharp tang of alcohol.

You really were scrubbing the hell out of those tables. Probably scared a few people off.

Shoulder, shoulder, elbow, elbow. You do everything to maintain your grip.

You hold your cool as the glasses rattle, attracting the attention of a few worried onlookers.

Shake. Stir. Pour.

Your short-term memory is being severely tested. Fried, even.

Voice carefully neutral.

A little pit opens in your stomach.

She won't say what she really thinks of him. Not yet.

A vision of changing jobs, relocating, but it takes a lot, leaving a whole life behind.

An uncomfortable reminder of his assumed familiarity with you.

She'd almost prefer if he just tried to assault her. She's used to that.

Every time she leaves home: dread.

Not only is this woman not in your class -- she's not even in your field.

Without the long lens of the camera between you, she suddenly seems horribly normal.

Another null entity?

No, a true nobody. Dragged unwillingly into another world.

For the first time, you notice a faint scar on her cheek.

Drunks in a bar celebrate their team's victory. Across the street, a crowd in opposing colours wait, broken bottles in hand. Among them, a young woman, gritting her teeth harder with every cheer.

Her eyes dart across your face, trying to find reassurance.

Her training must be ultra-high-level. Sift her soul through your fingers, find the woman hidden within.

That's not what the ring on his finger told you.

It is, but only in the saddest, most mundane of ways.

Through the cracks in her indifference, horror starts to leak out.

Only a trace of sympathy.

Hoping to blend in with the rows of spirits behind her.

Like she's explaining to a simpleton.

This is a site of tribal warfare.

Sports bars like this are loyal to a single team. You must be wearing their rival.

Running through euphemisms in her head.

Like a rock struck by lightning, she remains solid though her molecular structure has been altered.

An offering will be made to Rotanev the next time she can get out to the Pitol Tract.

'Angel, keep him away, keep him away from me for good...'

The line between incredible operant and social cripple is a thin one.

Through the cracks in her indifference, horror starts to leak out.

You invoke a demon.

Something long repressed rises within her.

Looking past you, careful to keep an eye on his table.

Fight-or-flight suppressed. Danger tolerated, acclimated, night after night.

He may be onto her, but she's onto him, too.

Looking past you, keeping half a careful eye on Ignatz.

Above her, the small mounted television fizzes with the tinny shouts of a pelota match.

What you did flipped her world upside-down. She needs more time.

Resets