The whisper of a smile at the corner of her mouth suggests she even enjoyed it.

The Housing Campaign, bathed in purple light. A man in a brown jacket and no pants looks up into the face of an angel. She regards him with radiant indifference.

She's often lingered in that doorway here, after you've gone to bed and in the odd hours of the day.

The club hates to see an operant abandoned on the pitch, deadly for morale.

'Yes', she means.

Immediately.

In actuality, an urban myth prevalent among more casual ether users. Still, sweet of her to look out for you.

She takes a long, slow look around the little photo shop, as though committing it to memory.

Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

Behind her eyes, flickers of fear and apprehension. But she's keeping them down, for your sake and hers.

Her, you, and the breathing mannequin.

Upstairs, your double twitches, electrical reflex running to a dead switchboard.

Unwelcome terrain. Tread lightly.

Younger than your mother, but in her mind, she's an old woman.

Some days pass without a single customer.

An age old recruitment technique. Let those with a sufficiently 'international' perspective reveal themselves.

She likes remembering him this way, in her shop, pretending to discreetly examine her list of services.

Whatever made this woman a plausible asset, it wasn't her knowledge of chemistry.

The disconnected fantasies of someone who only knows how to be alone.

This is a woman who's planned countless 'perfect' murders in her idle hours.

The image in her mind growing fainter, like it might disappear the second she stops believing in it.

She recognises no neighbours -- only potential threats.

No match for us.

You swim with sharks and jellyfish.

So this rumour about Luzian 'imprints' goes back at least a generation.

Somewhere within your third left intercostal space, the bullet by your heart makes its presence known with a nasty twinge.

A long time for a rumour to linger.

Reports from Operant PROBABLE suggest that 'Proyecto PESCADERA' was aborted in early 78 after one of the study's dolphins developed a violent sexual obsession with his trainer and committed suicide by sinking to the bottom of his tank.

How long dead? How many generations of ministers does this theory implicate?

The inextricable swirl of global perils and the middle-aged terrors of a life wasted.

Heart-in-throat, crumpled knees against cold linoleum. A deafening pulse inside the skull. Oblivion oozes through the doorframe.

'Strange cousins'. How locals refer to the menacing techno-fascist superstate across the Noscorrentes Sea.

The existence of Satellite Facility B is closely held information. There's no way a special asset would know of its existence, unless...

An open mind, an unguarded fortress.

She doesn't trust you. Yet.

You don't trust her either.

The facility's nickname is new to her. A delicious tidbit to hide away for later.

The existence of Satellite Facility B is closely held information. There's no way a special asset would know of its existence, unless...

Your red folder.

Permanent wrinkles.

Even if he's not the man she knew anymore, she doesn't know if she can bear to see him hurt again.

Mouth drawn down in what's threatening to become a permanent frown.

The 'within reason' is implied.

Tape retains a lower profile, leaves no holes -- no evidence. Also, she won't hesitate to subtract the price of wall repairs from your stipend.

He died alone, in an unfamiliar room, with nothing to remind him of who he was or where he came from.

Relieved at the prospect of not having to spackle any tack-holes once you're gone.

A hot water heater on the second floor?

Definitely snooping.

YOU ARE BEING CHALLENGED TO JUSTIFY YOURSELF.

No no, this is an artistic meeting of the minds. A curatorial critique!

Hopeful.

Deluded.

She's heard you through the floorboards, stomping around, stewing, in the small dark hours of the morning.

She tries not to think about it.

She feels his eyes on her, through the bag, through the paper, the second she enters the room. She shuts the door quickly and totters back down the stairwell with a shudder.

You won't wake PSEUDOPOD, no matter how much you clang and curse around.

Her features seem to harden ever-so-slightly.

She knows.

Failed artist types always have a few pale downward shots of their own genitals stashed somewhere. She's seen it.

There's no such policy. She knows taking your money would make her complicit in the act.

Another expense she can add to the Operant Bureau's running tab.

He doesn't at all align with the shadowy image of a Luzian secret policeman in her head.

Techno-fascism holds that flesh is a prison, and technology the shank that will free us. Beneath the ugly orange coat and dry skin, there may yet lurk the sleek carbon-steel frame of an augmentoid.

We've been leched!

But you've been leched many times before. This is not a garden variety leching.

You're no 'type', you are singular. Sui generis. Unrepeatable.

A name like a cat sneeze.

One hundred photographs. A family of strangers.

The darting eyes, the hunched posture, the furtiveness -- she was watching for a watcher.

There are no spies contained within this photo.

Staring at photos all day doesn't make her a student of the human condition, just another species of voyeur.

A phrase you've heard uttered often, with either panic or disappointment. She's gone for the second.

This is no mere 'Look', it is an expression of absolute, devastating neutrality. It will take weeks to recover.

MASSIVE LOSS OF FACE ON THE INTERNATIONAL STAGE.

The natural hierarchy of the photo shop rearranges itself. You're now on the very bottom, just below the street boars snuffling through the rubbish bins.

What's that smell?

modifier +1

Her eyes are looking every which way but towards you. Highly suspicious.

Huffy Hershel, ready to rag up!

Somewhere fun. The rooftop of an ancient warehouse, in the dark morning hours.

Just looking at that thing causes you to take psychic damage. Best stay away.

A dread-beast humming with dormant power. A handless scribe. It just needs to be soothed.

A stagehand, not even worth a cryptonym.

WITNESS THE DOUBLE CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE MIDDLE CLASS ON FULL DISPLAY.

And yet, the thought of scandalising her dead parents thrills this woman to the bone.

Observant. Rigorous. Doglike.

A lead weight pulls her expression downward.

Shock. Bewilderment. Your cue.

Behind the acrylic display case, your eye catches on a scene of an amateur pelota squad, smiling against a sun-bleached wall.

Memories trapped beneath dull ice.

This isn't getting anywhere.

Meaning PSEUDOPOD must have brought it here.

Trying her best to be helpful.

She's dying inside. She felt a great deal of affection for your double.

Your double's condition is of secondary importance.

The 'Bootleg Bazaar'. That matches the purchase order you found on his body.

On the contrary, asking the wrong question can hurt quite a lot. Still, a lead is better than no lead.

There. Two lines of inquiry converge. Bring this purchase order to the Bazaar. That's your next stop.

There. You feel the baton hit your hand. This Bazaar is your next stop.

'Bootleg Bazaar'? Not on your mental map of the Quisach district.

Trick the photo lady into revealing what she knows.

modifier +1

She fucking loves it.

You have shit, in other words. Chicken bones.

She pronounces 'Carmuna' with a slight distaste, like she's naming a rival.

AN INFORMAL PEOPLE'S TRIBUNAL.

She believes her spy-errant is about to burst down those stairs and save her from you, the mad witch.

Check your map, operant.

The shiver of a familiar name. Smell of old wood and cigarette ash. Tack of spilled drinks on the underside of your shoe.

Your old haunt. Where you met with your former assets, once upon an assignment.

A den of ghosts.

It must be said there's no mention of a 'Fogged Mirror' in the files. It almost certainly holds no deep personal or professional significance for you whatsoever.

She hesitates. Torn between two thoughts.

She hesitates. A little shy all of a sudden.

Ooff. It's possible you're going to regret engineering her so thoroughly.

A TRAITOR TO HER CLASS, A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE. THE PARTY WILL SEE THAT SHE'S REWARDED WITH A PRIVATE ROOM IN THE LABOUR CAMPS.

More likely, it's the ether.

He really did repair the red disc by himself. Astounding. And terrifying.

Uh-oh. Gäng's going to get in trouble.

Are you two speaking about the same show?

A grave offence against telephonic communications.

Terrible stagecraft across the board. PSEUDOPOD should've caught this while examining the safehouse.

Strange smell about her. Chemical. You remember it from somewhere.

Ignatz said she's been huffing photo chemicals.

Something's got her in an unusually euphoric mood.

The aggressive man said she's been huffing photo chemicals.

Important? There's only one way she could assess that...

Caught out for her nosiness, she doesn't dare do anything else.

Something she should know better than to ask and you should know better than to tell.

Her demeanour is sincere. You could open up if you wanted.

The attitude that has carried her through her entire life, through whatever hardship.

Rebuffed.

When whatever happened to him, happened.

Hunch correct. Snooping vindicated.

A glacial wind emanates from her.

Interior temperature: 23.5 degrees. Humidity: 44%. Pleasant by objective standard.

When whatever happened to him, happened.

All music? Inhuman.

Hunch correct. Snooping vindicated.

That's an interesting camera he's carrying. Professional-class. No consumer model.

'Loaded gun'. Your hair stands on end.

Requesting assistance.

A crackle of recognition behind his eyes as they meet yours.

Where do you know him from?

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A lonesome utility shack high above the city, its door broken on its hinge. A white cat tracks bloody prints in the dirt. Sadness overwhelming.

Restless eyes, evasive demeanour. This man may not have zeroed out your double, but you're sure such things aren't beyond him.

Gripped tightly in her hand: a star-headed screwdriver.

It reminds you of the faces in old portraits.

She's evaluating you just as you are her.

You've not seen the last of him. The two of you are bound by a hideous orange thread.

This toolkit looks so empty, barely usable in its current state. Fortunately, it appears highly expandable.

We shouldn't let her find one of our own up there without warning. Very un-gäng.

This woman could be a valuable source of information, if you can prise it from her.

Your controller was clear: She doesn't need to know anything beyond her station. Compartmentalise.

The whisper of a smile at the corner of her mouth suggests she…

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