These babies have some heft to them. Planar magnetic drivers. Premium foam cups. And a triple-padded suspension headband, designed to distribute their weight ergonomically.

GROTESQUE. YOU ARE ADRIFT IN THE OUTER REACHES OF BOURGEOIS HEDONISM.

You can feel the value in their heft. It's a tribute to his pomade that there isn't a permanent dent in his hair from wearing these things.

The clatter and hum of the bar around you deadens to nothing. Then he presses 'PLAY'.

Maybe they do... You wouldn't know. Operant CASCADE has yet to turn around a 'success'.

Our shitty life is bumming him out.

HE WILL TAKE THEM TO HIS TOMB, LIKE THE SELF-STYLED GOD EMPERORS OF PRE-HISTORY.

Once more into auditory oblivion. Nice.

A state asset for life, in voice and image.

She'll never make it that long.

The noise-blocking effect. Anechoic.

The world mutes utterly. It's like being smothered by the future.

Still, a part of him was hoping for a little more out of their private journey.

You've asked him to part with the feather from an angel's wing.

Good choice. But he's dictating a lot of terms here.

Bring a gun. He will.

Apart from the girl around which it is built.

Behind the white blue of his eyes, a rapid recalibration is occurring.

Alongside fear... and RESPECT.

The point of zero return. If he goes fully off-script and abducts the prisoner, he will be EMTERR's fugitive son from here on out.

Speaking about her like a newly-adopted kitten.

A face flashes on the underside of your mind -- expression stern behind a black cigarette. Yana needs to agree to this too.

A whole career cast off in a single moment.

And possibly a whole life.

You don't have to emotionally prybar these two girls apart. There must be another way through.

It's not Ultra Violeta who must agree to this, but her custodian, Yana.

There's a friendship to sidestep first. Yana won't agree to this easily.

It's not. More favourable would be a clean trade, the prisoner for the girl.

Forget mere 'info'. Trade the popstar wholesale.

You've brushed up against this popstar already. The Yana girl knows more than she is letting on.

There was a third presence in that safehouse, on the fringes. Back to the teen.

You've brushed up against this popstar already. The Yana girl knows more than she is letting on.

Poor prick's so far gone he doesn't even knöw himself.

Hmmmmmmmm. Does this guy fuck or not? An impenetrable mystery.

Not a strand moved. That is one solid-gelled mane.

Dubious.

He keeps them on. He keeps them on!

He could try. But all his bullets are in your pocket.

A vague threat. Should've disarmed him.

WHO? THE PARTY HAS ALREADY FORGOTTEN HIM.

Not some kind of bluff. Genuine.

Almost tripped by your own shadow.

'Listening experience'? He must mean the red disc...

The red disc! Weaponised culture!

'Quick'? No fucking chance.

OUR SO-CALLED 'SPY' DIDN'T EVEN NEED AN INTERROGATION TO BREAK. A DAY EXISTING IN THE DEVELOPED WORLD WAS ENOUGH.

It was too early for PSEUDOPOD to be in-theatre alone. The Opera failed him.

One of Ultra Violeta's songs was titled 'Holding Hands with Strangers'.

And to think... you rubbed that bald spot for luck. Seems he had zero of that stat to begin with.

High upon high, the Manus Fati swivels in its stars and raises a middle finger in PSEUDOPOD's general direction.

He doesn't notice.

Taken all the way to the edge, then dashed upon the rocks of oblivion.

More than a trace of envy.

Didn't Ultra Violeta herself mention a missing recording engineer?

A light glows beneath the pale ice of his eyes.

END TIMES. CULTURE SHOULD GO THE WAY OF HISTORY AND DISCONTINUE ITSELF.

L-Pop heaven.

In a grey-curtained apartment on the fringes of Novessa, a mother has not heard from her son in days. She pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and tells herself the odd dream she had last night meant nothing at all.

Petre knows a mega perv when he crosses one.

'Radio Mutual Peace and Understanding' as it's colloquially known. Very ironically.

Playing that thing on a radio station? Metaphysical nuke.

Did you forget? You're dealing with a mega fan here. He's so attuned to her creative wavelength he's phasing out.

Perv.

Ha ha ha. Good one from the liberals. Real gang of comedians over there. Remember that time they had to write off an entire country after they 'misplaced the constitution'? Great people. Hilarious.

Own goal. Then an early bath.

The man's pale blue eyes have drifted somewhere beyond you.

Principles.

LAWS.

Underdog. You. Pieces of soul between teeth.

Felix Kaido... the name knocks loose some rubble of memory. Revolutionary. Aeroplane. Tragic end.

He tries to underplay it, jars the cadence.

Yeah, from the child protection feds when they booked him for nöncery.

OF COURSE YOU HAVE. A MONUMENT TO COMRADE KAIDO STANDS TALL IN ROHKUS SQUARE. LONG MAY HIS WILL LIVE ON.

The Militia Ruban Rouge, or M.R.R., an extreme communist fringe group who have slipped further and further into darkness over their ten year 'campaign'.

The soul of the state on the line.

APPROPRIATELY DIALECTICAL.

Okay, good to know. There are worse friends than you out there.

Whips of dust blown by helicopter blades. Thud of boots on ground, billow of trench coats, steel cackle of assault rifles. The Empire Without Territory descends.

IMPERIALISM LOOSES ITS RUNNING DOGS.

Next up, eradication.

Same result. Nothing more 'stable' than a corpse.

Valkyrie pop. Chants of war.

They'd just dispatched their gäng in hot blood -- things were no doubt 'a little hazy' before the EMTERR Pop Marathon.

Read: A very bad time in the nearest vacant aircraft hangar.

RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW.

TURNS OUT REVOLUTIONARY-CRAFTED STEEL DOES NOT EASILY CRACK. OR BREAK. OR EVEN BEND.

A glimpse. Then void. The stars above were unmoved. Many didn't exist in time to witness it. In the distance, pop music played.

Cranial fragment halo. Blood chromosphere. Heart deranged.

But nothing he could easily forget. Push him a little.

'Atta boy, we should be on our feet saluting that shit.

To follow him home.

What class of music player is that headphone wire connected to? Must be a high-end import -- likely customised -- equally compelling.

THE REACTIONARY LAYS DOWN HIS CUSTOMISED GARMENTS AND TURNS TOWARD THE LIGHT.

Your assignment could do with a professional operant.

Within the hull, Ultra Violeta clasps her keyboard to her chest and stares unblinking at her damp shoes.

Former enemies can often make the most loyal allies.

By night, the Dreameater Chrisom drinks the tears of sleeping birds. By day, its brilliant ventral display wards off its natural predators.

The antithesis of camouflage.

PAPERING OVER GENUINE FEELING WITH MONEY. HOW ORIGINAL.

THIS GARMENT BEARS THE TECHNICOLOUR INDECISION OF REACTION.

Something about them is vaguely terrifying, the way things crafted for the human head or face often are.

These things are heavyweight. An annihilating force, captured and contained within two masses of metal, foam, and electric wiring.

Get the drop on him.

modifier +1gates.IsFlagSet

A vertical clip running across the top, patterned guards on both sides and is that... two triggers? Verdict's in: this gun is far cooler than yours.

And you both know it.

Don't forget the one in the chamber.

A BALLISTIC CUCKOLD.

There is a little vacuum of gun-shaped space beneath your coat.

Why aren't you armed, again? This man has already used his weapon on you once.

That adds up. Last time he just shot and never spoke a word.

That confirms it. He's after the popstar.

A massive sign marked 'NONCE' flashes red in your mind.

There it is. The moon.

One postcard, no fax. The meeting place, your home turf. Before you is an operant gone way off script.

He's not playing with house money. He's got his own chips down.

Sounds pretty 'off the books'... Eszti's going to be even more mad at you now.

EMTERR is trying to defect Luz's most valuable cultural export. The play of plays!

Worth a shot.

News to him.

Of course he does. Perv factor off the charts.

Woah! The TAXMAN making some serious post-mortem plays!

TYPICAL BOURGEOIS APPROACH TO THE DAY'S LABOUR -- COMMITTED ABSENTEEISM.

He's tense around the shoulders. Twitchy at the edges.

A professional courtesy. He knows your real name. You gave it to his colleague under extreme duress.

And doomed spies.

You know this man is partial to a loaded gun. Given your last encounter, you should be in control of the bullets.

Whatever you say, do not say 'Hershel'.