He really doesn't want to be doing business with Gonza, or you, for that matter.

The streets exhale around you. The shouts of partygoers slacken, and music thins to echoes. Beyond Party Alley, your asset awaits your signal.

Farther south, past the fraying edges of Party Alley, a man in a crisp tracksuit climbs into a heavily-loaded tuk-tuk. He adjusts the rearview mirror and checks himself. Verdict: 'dope'.

The cramped houseboat crossed in a single anxious stride.

Despite the quick answer, his voice sounds as though he's just emerged from sleep.

His gait is off. He had another seizure since you left.

The reigniting of a custom you'd feared lost forever.

Engaging would only compromise your social and ballistics skills for no tangible benefit.

A hit to steady the fibres can't hurt. Just a small one.

The crepitating telephoto lens of your mind widens as your circuitry slackens.

Further down Party Alley, basslines thump and laughter echoes. But here, a silence settles.

The world shrinks to the here and now.

This moment, it's important to him. A re-kindling, maybe -- finding warmth among ashes grown cold.

Don't tell him. There's a reason we keep it inside, where it doesn't hurt too much.

'Did she just abandon us?'

'Did she sell us out?'

'Did it mean nothing?'

The air gets heavier, as if you were being annexed by gravity.

A few thoughts scatter, like loose paper on an empty train platform.

Operant. You're compromising performance. Explain why.

It's getting harder to tell where you end and where the streets begin.

Open up to Ramses.

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Satellite Facility B -- a suburb-sized arrangement of honeycomb structures.

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

Day 523, row unknown: sighting of a senior operant dusting the spines of cloth-bound logbooks. Hands: trembling, liver-spotted. You kept moving.

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

An evil alignment of celestial bodies, the spearhead of that dread constellation hanging directly over the heads of you and your old comrades.

A slight wobble in the back -- stacked pallets.

Someone could be hiding in the backseat.

Near ideal conditions for an ambush.

He has no idea who you are. No need to say a word -- just do it.

Pull your gun on him.

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Exploiting a blindspot. He knows what he's doing.

He's desperate. Do not engage.

Tell him it's true. Make him understand.

Was this what you had in mind, operant? You, at gun point, and your asset disclosing personal matters?

Ramses may be high, but this guy is somewhere in low-orbit.

Don't let this get ugly. Not after what he told you about Vespar.

He's alone, and not expecting any backup.

Your advantage is slipping. Draw already.

There's no point in lying at this stage.

Somewhere behind his bloodshot eyes, a slow, yet impeccable calculation emerges.

The words pass through Goat Eyes' lie detector.

Years worth of medication. With proper storage, the expiration dates shouldn't be an issue.

Assuming four pills per day, and ten pills per blister pack. One pack lasts two and a half days. One crate would cover Ramses for six years and change.

He could sell it to them as a win.

Not a safety net in sight. You have to at least respect the boldness.

He soldiers on, undeterred.

A little thank you and shoutout to his higher power.

A childishly stylised gesture, practiced for countless hours in front of a mirror.

Pull your gun on him.

modifier +1gates.HasItemgates.HasItem

Pull your other gun on him.

modifier +1gates.HasItemgates.HasItem

Gun gäng! Gun gäng! Gun gäng!

He hasn't seen your face, he doesn't know who you are. There's nothing to lose.

He knows who you are. Better for him to walk away from this with something.

He's seen your face now. Better for him to walk away from this with something.

His brain says 'run'. His body, not so much.

Don't.

Embarrassing. We are clearly not as gängster as we try to be.

He doesn't quite buy it.

Make Goat Eyes reconsider his reality.

modifier +1

Drink from the ancient spring of stoned teenage philosophising.

Are you really going to do this to him?

No need for any more talk. Get it over with.

This man isn't just high. He's on a dirigible coasting stratospheric over the Noscorrentes Sea.

He doesn't know who you are. No need to say a word -- just do it.

Vespar's asset. That might complicate the situation -- or make it far easier.

Oh yeah. He's catastrophically high.

If Ramses is high, this guy's on a zeppelin coasting over the Noscorrentes Sea.

Above his right pants pocket, tucked into the waistband. He's armed.

But you're faster.

You know the steps, operant.

He tries to conceal a grin, and fails.

Said operant then asserted she could 'set up a top-tier surveillance op while crawling through my own puke' and downed another schnapps.

The text of the respondent transcript appears to have been obliterated by a spilled drink.

The jovial words are accompanied by a shaky voice as if from some kind of wounded animal.

Computing explanations. Coincidence: 0.1%. Insider leak: 0.4%. Physical shadowing: 4%. Technical compromise: 95.5%.

He's amused, but a part of him is hurt.

Bloodshot eyes. He's fresh out of an episode. One that nearly killed him.

A flint catches in your chest -- a stubborn spark flashing where you thought only ashes remained.

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

Static skitters across your palms as a thought dawns: history is littered with failures.

You feel the warmth of shared blood and smokes, in the aftermath. Heartbeats humming in tandem; every small, defiant smile its own flag.

You've been outplayed. By an asset.

Act like this was all part of The Plan.

The technical kind. The payphone is compromised.

A wizard. Of course. The beard was a dead giveaway.

Ramses is one of us. He's gäng. If he stumbles, we catch him. If you stumble, he catches you. That's the deal.

It's a simple calculation: company inevitably increases entropy.

He won't let you down.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- umistakeable Azzurri accent.

That's a call-and-answer routine, also known as a sphynx. He asks a question to which there is only one right answer.

If you're wrong, that means you're talking to an oblivious civilian -- you can just hang up.