Those little arguments made his day.

Checks

Those little arguments made his day.

TEMPO DEL SUR: I heard some stuff over in Cicatriz F. It got me seeing pictures, Hersh. This thing, when it hits... new world order.

They are already untangling themselves from each other.

Marco would have been fathoms beneath Tempo's sphere of awareness.

The most loyal -- to the corps more than the people. Gäng over all.

Useful. Hiding place. Proud.

He'd be eyeing the top shelf liquor, daring it to try.

Scheming. Yelling about dead ministers and 'international plays'. Back in the game.

In herself, she means. In her own mind.

'Thought' maybe, but she was clutching something more with the barest of fingertips. That's gone now. You almost heard it go.

You do not. Emotional liabilities become operational liabilities.

She can't bear the thought. You shoved her into this -- you alone will follow it through.

In fact, you haven't heard it since you got here.

Push her, now. Get this over the line.

The silence between you is so heavy it begins to exert its own gravitational pull.

COMPASSION IS BOURGEOIS, A MIND EXERCISE FOR THE MIDDLE CLASSES.

But her body trembles with relief.

BEAUTIFULLY PLAYED. ANOTHER YOUNG MIND TURNED.

But her voice trembles with relief.

Operant, this is a once-per-aeon opportunity to get a shot at the Grand Lich. Let it slip now, who knows how far back it may set you?

Set her free. Why should she sacrifice her second chance for yours?

A SKYWALKING REACTIONARY, AT VERTICAL DISTANCE TO THE WORKING CLASS, AS OPPOSED TO HORIZONTAL.

Beyond the apartment's walls, this girl has a form of family, friends, classroom enemies, unfinished homework. None of them will know her again as she was.

A flash of Tempo and his child-logic loyalty, bestowed upon a strictly-chosen few.

You first among their number, for reasons you could never quite put your finger on.

Awaiting your approval.

'And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

There are other ways. There always are.

Fuck it. We make our own ways.

Operant, reconsider. You haven't even heard out the prisoner. You may be letting a massive opportunity slip your grasp.

A sudden crack across the thin glass of trust.

A smidgen!

She's trade curious. Tempo never could resist a little off-the-books hustle.

Gauging you. Hard. A Mega Gauge.

The pit of your stomach curls. You tense it back down.

Two aero-trams criss-cross somewhere above you. The apartment's windows rattle in their frames.

Cheap glass.

You didn't hear the word 'no' in there.

Two ghosts stalk this house -- a teenage girl stomping the attic, a middle-aged man screaming in the basement.

A barrage of words -- none of them an outright refusal.

Let her off easy -- she won't handle the guilt well.

Her pupils narrow to slits.

CONVINCE HER TO SELL OUT ULTRA VIOLETA.

Requirements

All of these

Story condition not identified

Story condition not identified

Splitting at the seams, almost ready to tear away clean. Ungänging herself hard.

You dust off and briefly consult your topographical maps of the Teenage Psychosphere. It remains as wondrous and enigmatic as you left it.

Summits of derision, mesas of lust, valleys of tedium and miscommunication, ever-enchanted with an opaque mist of technicolour neurochemicals.

Even her friends are wavering, it seems. Not as real as they used to be.

She's concerned about Marco? The espionage voyeur?

She meant it lightly, yet still -- a papercut across your heart's epicardium.

A nod. Uncharacteristic gratitude.

Her safety catch flips to 'OFF'.

THIS UN-RE-EDUCATED YOUTH MUST BE MADE TO FEEL THE FULL WEIGHT OF TERROR BEHIND THOSE SIX LETTERS.

The way she says your name is stiff, somehow. Like she's forcing herself to say it that way.

She's holding other things back from you, but this is the truth.

Half a city away, an old man hunches on a damp mattress and thinks of the odd stranger who went through so much effort to find him.

... Jacket?

The device. Ask her about the device.

You need to get to the bottom of this 'bootlegging device'. Press her.

Tempo's half of the deal. This 'unusual device'. Pull back the curtain.

Under a stray shadow, stifling any noise.

No backhanded retort, no reflexive insult.

Staring you down. Hasn't blinked in some time.

You glimpse him. A giant shadow, hulking behind her.

Impossible...

Inhuman. Your hackles rise.

Who are you dealing with here?

Three breaths fill the room -- two in perfect sync.

You remember him saying that, a long time ago. Chant-like. A little ritual.

This is no mere scheme. It's an enchantment, the likes of which the Operant Bureau has never before encountered.

And yet you can't help but feel a sense of desperation clinging to it.

And yet... doesn't it chime a distant chord? The Luzian political elite being strange copies of themselves...

This is no mere persona. It's an enchantment, the likes of which the Operant Bureau has never before encountered.

Leave the door ajar. Do not lock yourself within the tyranny of the rational.

Forbidden colours. All known laws defied.

A weave of city away, the being formerly known as PSEUDOPOD twitches in his dream.

Cigarette haze cloaks her face.

OH DEAR, OH DEAR. YOU ARE NOT TAKEN IN BY THIS UNFORTUNATE DISPLAY, ARE YOU?

About time! Dissonance reconciled at minimum psychic cost.

A theory often dismissed as rumour, but taken more seriously on the top levels of the Operant Bureau: the Luzian political ministry are all identical psychic grafts of the same ancient philosopher.

Just what on earth has Tempo encircled you in here?

You are standing close to the contaminated core of grand political conspiracy.

A middle-aged man's last gasp ritual at remaining.

There's that 'They' again... The oft-invoked nemesis of 'You'.

The girl glances at the window, searching the narrow portrait of the city beyond.

An ordinary night with ordinary stars.

One of her eyes disappears behind exhaled smoke. The other eye stays on you.

This girl can't be more than seventeen. Barely a glimpse of a lifetime.

Shelter.

Like a day-old phone number written on the back of a young hand.

Holiday memories of your mother, struggling with an antenna, trying to access foreign cartoons -- through the static, glimpses of a shaggy, vintage vagina.

Said for herself, not for your sake.

A pair of cold, tiny hands play a minuet up your spine.

Someone leans on a fader marked 'The World' and all sound dips out for a moment.

TAXMAN.

An old friend.

A ghost hologram.

As she speaks, a tiny shiver passes through her.

Probably not what it's actually called.

Acquire this instrument. Wield it. Relieve the world of the burden of consent.

What is this thing? At first glance it could pass for some unmarked consumer novelty. -- a portable television, or a handheld game system.

Quiet magic. Dormant. Danger.

Squelching one person into another.

Jackpot.

Finally, the Hershel Clone Army can begin to fill its deviant ranks!

You have noticed her eyes avoid mirrors and windows -- anything with a pronounced reflection.

Wrong vessel!

Sounds familiar... she's talking about Goat-Eyes, the lovelorn soul of many endeavours.

Horizontal pupils... Undersexed... You've met him. The being known as Goat-Eyes.

The Ultra Violeti encountered this man. He scared them.

The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

You get the distinct sense she's about to confide something to you. But at the cusp, she retracts the words and puts others in their place.

Overplaying it, needlessly. The Operant Bureau's instructors would have a lot of notes.

When you were sixteen you once put your blood type down as 'mysterious' in an attempt to impress a vaguely attractive doctor.

'Scarf'.

Siccing people on them.

... 'Skarth'?

'Scarf'. Come on.

She's used to dealing with peripheral creeps, but this one's unsettled her.

Door liable to get kicked in any minute.

The air in the apartment is very stale all of a sudden. Cigarette smoke swirls like a spell.

Your heart begins to thunder.

KINDRED. The first glass domino.

Right when they were about to make it big.

That's your cue. To know what this is.

'Ritual'... not a term from the Operant Bureau's playbook.

Must be a Tempo styling for something significant -- all gravitas and enigma.

She was counting on it.

Uh oh. Tempo didn't know they shelved you after 91. He thought you were still... respected. Revered even.

No need to mention our half decade career ender in 'the Freezer'. Play it mysterious, teenage girls love that.

So are you.

'For my old friend, CASCADE, tell her TAXMAN is ready to begin the ritual. No silly cunts! CASCADE only, person to person! CASCADE or nothing! And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

She has iced over with sarcasm.

'Ritual'... 'deal'... you could easily hear Tempo exchanging one word for the other...

The exit papers you discovered at the shrine grow a little heavier in your pocket.

With your old friend, it was never one deal. Always a tangle of side bets, optional riders, and overlapping interests, arranged in such a way that Tempo always wound up across the table from himself.

This time when he sat down, the other him was already slumped over the table, bleeding across it.

Hit, point awarded.

Highly likely that this sign doesn't exist.

She was going to say another name there.

This is her way of asking for help. She needs a friend.

We're currently two friends down -- we could use one too.

Here's your best shot at completing the assignment you were never officially given.

This fixture is not yet rained off. The scoreboard is bleak, but there is still time to turn it around.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

'And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

Human smuggling -- risky, yes, but not exactly earth-shattering.

As she speaks, a tiny shiver passes through her.

Highly likely that's not what it's actually called.

Track this thing down. Wield it. Relieve the world of the burden of consent.

Dildo nom de guerre. In recognition of its heft.

Or maybe himself in some form.

A glancing flash of a person overlayed upon another -- like a stencil nudged off its overlay.

Where do you recognise that gesture from?

'NOSTALGIA' IS A SYMPTOM OF REACTIONARY MENTAL RETREAT. YOU MUST REMEMBER FORWARDS!

KINDRED. Unreachable for the last sixteen hours.

A lot of plates for one person. She must spend all her time here.

A far too familiar gesture -- something grinds and sparks against the inside of your skull.

Sudden, intense déjà vu curtains your mind.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

'And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

Read: A phone that you should know is tapped.

A scab she's already been picking at, destined to scar.

A flash of the bloodstain in the office, landing like a sharp boot to your stomach.

Woah, kid never mentioned she's a medium!

Not precise, no. But not a liar either.

'Ritual' brings up zero matches in the Tempo archives. Or any archives.

His second banning that you've been witness to. He's a ban magnet!

You're still under consideration.

A flash of your abandoned double, alone in a lonely room.

Hold your cards close for now, operant. All remains tilted.

Be open with her. This girl is not your enemy. She may yet be your ally.

On the second floor of a failing photo outlet, a pair of green eyes widen, catch a glimpse of the impossible, then cloud back over.

HE DESERTED THE TRACK BEFORE THE STARTING GUN. MENTAL WEAKNESS LED TO PHYSICAL.

So much more 'not' than anyone else. No funeral, no salute, vanished from the world with a muttered incantation and a phantom hand.

Boneless gäng, yet still a part of us.

Blown away into the night before you could even give chase.

Encrypted in those flicks, you glean, are the letters 'F' and 'U', in that order.

THE PARTY DIGS AGRICULTURAL LABOUR. ACTUAL DIGGING. EVERY DAY A WORK DAY.

PSEUDOPOD has unlocked one of life's secret endings.

But she has stiffened slightly.

Her fingers are spangled with violet glitter.

SMOKING ANY SUBSTANCE OTHER THAN PARTY-APPROVED BRANDS WILL BE CLASSIFIED AS 'TOBACCO WRECKING'.

The best cigarette you've had in years.

She says, but does nothing to stop you.

Shapeshifting love. Impossible to hold.

MUCH LIKE THE CLASSIC FASCIST DILEMMA -- THEIR ENEMY MUST BE BOTH STRONG AND WEAK AT THE SAME TIME!

They won't make it.

Worse, they both know it.

Yet she was happy enough to put him in KALEIDOSCOPE's crosshairs.

Yet she was happy enough to put him in the Man with Compelling Headphone's crosshairs.

Uh oh.

Translation: At the back of another life somewhere.

Push a little harder and she'll open up. This girl wants to tell you things.

As if they might be waiting just outside it.

Trying to shrug off the shrill taunts, kicks against toilet stall doors and scribbled lines on cracked walls that take root as undeniable truth.

She looks at you like this is the most salient point in the world.

But now it's precarious. Friendship under review.

You remember it all too closely -- hopscotching through the lightning strikes of youth.

Fück. Mandated creativity time.

Could go with TAXGIRL... Strong thematic resonance.

Nail Yana's cryptonym.

Requirements

Story condition not identified

Argument is futile, and you know it. Teenage girls are the unacknowledged legislators of reality.

Immovable.

Where have you heard this music before?

Requirements

All of these

Story condition not identified

Story condition not identified

Finally, she thinks. A part of her was desperately waiting for you to put this together.

What's Tempo got you mixed up in?

Requirements

All of these

Story condition not identified

Story condition not identified

Story condition not identified

In the slow dip of silence, a piano melody lulls through a thin wall.

The shadow of a passing aero-tram flashes across the girl's face like a zoetrope as she glances up.

The plea is subtle, but present. Her head is barely held above the waterline.

The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

You get the distinct sense she's about to confide something to you. But at the cusp, she retracts the words and puts others in their place.

This will be a personal call.

Scarf boy. You are face to face with his pack alpha.

The teen in the scarf. She's the other half of this doomed couple you've been hearing about.

The boy in the scarf. This girl is his tormentor -- and also his first love.

The aimless, over-scarfed teen hanging around the plaza.

The teen with the scarf. Though you recall him as more scarf than teen...

A close companion, from her expression.

The bazaar.

You.

Dissonant urges rise in you -- one to reveal the world as it so often is, and the other to protect her from it.

Go on. Tell her about the Thing on the Roof. Give her something to remember him by.

Good question. Evidently you succumbed to a sudden fit of camaraderie.

Oh yeah. You did let it slip back there.

The inner city gangs of Rega Seven regularly use teenage girls as assassins.

In theory, it exists -- but many assume it to be an empty office behind a locked door. The Operant Bureau also does not dictate age restrictions for potential assets.

REVOLUTION IS AGELESS! THE TINY WORKSHOPS OF THE CHILDREN'S LABOUR COMMUNE PRODUCE THE FINEST SK-53 ASSAULT RIFLES IN THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLICS.

Oh yeah. You did let it slip to her.

A geometrically precise matrix of cocaine.

Every time. Rain-smeared missing posters taped to the streetlamps of your life.

Culture then cash. Tempo to a tee.

Her eyes flash with new tones, almost finding a unified colour.

There are words to be traced in the loops of her cigarette light -- if only you could read the language.

Never on your own. One among the dancing thousands -- multi-limbed shadow, neon-scaled beast -- the spirit animal of the city.

Opportunity to correct a teenager, incoming.

Behind the black cigarette, the girl's features soften.

Not quite accurate. It actually just has a few competing axes. Mostly Tempo, yes, some of the original girl... but also a little of the popstar in there too.

The piano from the next room still plays, the melody repeating, softly insistent. You are dimly aware that the melody has changed.

The piano from a room beyond this one still plays, the melody repeating, softly insistent.

CASCADE: 'Are you sure it's okay to just... leave them behind, M?' CONTROLLER: 'They're assets, CASCADE.'

Ouroboros Black. Case closed on the cigarette thief.

Her eyes are two different colours: amber and ash.

Your true name brings a shiver with it. You are better known than you realised.

Your former asset was swapping secrets with a teenage girl? What is occurring here?

Not that, probably. The man was a committed homosexual.

When it comes to teenagers, best to stick to direct statements.

A trembling young hand searches for the bite of the deadbolt. It takes five attempts.

Your adrenaline has discharged. In its wake, nostalgia and pain. Muscle memory.

This is her Brave Face, for your sake.

Masking the wound. For you.

Steady hand, even voice. Poise beyond her years.

Mayday, mayday! Gäng taking heavy emotional flak here!

Carried from a nearby apartment, a piano melody floats through the room as if on small wings.

You can hear her silence: 'Don't Trust You With The Big Stuff Yet Fuck Off'.

From a nearby apartment, the muffled sound of a beautifully-played piano gently shifting key.

Another name added to the ever-expanding list of Those You've Consummately Fucked Over.

Real now -- once and for all.