True. That money goes quite some way to systematically dividing the population, whether people like it or not.

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

All HOLOCENE did was hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

All HOLOCENE does is hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

Not surprising. HOLOCENE's worldview isn't shared by many -- if anyone -- except the author of that particular book.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

A rapid montage of people entering and exiting this room over a series of months. All of them wear loose-fitting outfits in mismatched colours.

Artist types have their own uniform -- usually, whatever constitutes the opposite of formal.

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

Pick one out, show her that you know your stuff -- you know, as a fellow poet.

Getting the target to fill in the blanks for you -- good form.

A hint of suspicion.

It's like she was suddenly thrust upon a stage, all her lines unrehearsed.

Janitor? That's why she's the one who let you in -- she's in charge of the doors.

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

She's getting döm'd by her sub.

She doesn't lack what's required of a boss, something else has dismantled her authority.

Having EMTERR as a sponsor doesn't come without a hefty price. She's paying for it in some way.

Must be something to do with her sponsor, the Civilisation Trust -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

Must be something to do with her sponsor -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

A TACTICALLY WORDED RETORT. SOMETHING HAS BEEN OMITTED.

She only said she's in charge of the magazine -- not the subeditor, nor the building.

Her jaw is bound tight.

A high-pressure system hovers between the two women.

Finding order. She enjoys this, it keeps her together, grounded.

Probably covering for her. Possibly in denial about her subordinate's incompetence.

Poetry is your area of expertise while you're in here, remember? Please try to uphold your cover at least a little.

Some people's baseline is kindness.

This is the answer she wants to give -- carefully avoiding any mention of her 'sponsor'.

A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

The venn diagram is a perfect circle.

There was a desk back at Foto 24 -- the one with the red folder on it. That would work.

The only place that even half belongs to you in this city is the upstairs room at Foto 24. Find a desk in there and get to work.

The inner core of people. She wants them to rip out whatever makes them tick.

Classic poet. Can't describe anything without a gamut of trisyllabic words.

THE SPECTRE OF 'ART FOR ART'S SAKE' REARS ITS DECADENT HEAD.

Glad someone's standing up for The Word around here.

Not a people person, then.

Decent word economy, shame about the inconsistent imagery, but it's pleasing enough to the ear.

A shadow passes over her face. In the darkness, her pupils momentarily dilate.

Petrol fires blackening the sky over razed jungles. Mountains levelled under the ant-labour of a thousand slaves that lived and died to produce a single, gleaming shard...

Translation: please, stop, I can't take this any more.

Her face softens -- an expression you haven't yet seen.

The words sing above the quiet hum of the machines in the room. They ascend through the ceiling, past the clouds that line the world, entering a realm lit perenially by the shimmer of godbeams.

Blood. Flash. Hot! Craving...

She's holding back -- as if not doing so would not be good for her.

You glean she is... largely unimpressed.

She doesn't get it. Or you. Or poetry.

Your feedback on her own verses still spirals inside her head.

Bloodlust. Trasmuted into its most abstract form, but pure in nature.

Bitch wants blood!

This is a direct attack. A drive-by critique, duck and dive!

For most people, this would be a severe blow to their confidence. But not you -- a professional shit-taker.

Wow. A mega-blow. An all-in-one Hershel-ender.

No need to be so dramatic. You're an operant, not a poet -- get over it.

You're not equipped to deal with this kind of blow. There's no controlling how this makes you feel.

Her eyes dart left and right, machine-like. Occasionally they pause as she processes a thought before continuing.

This is exactly her kind of thing.

You have performed admirably, operant.

False promises and disappointments? Those are two of your special abilities.

Her mocking of you ruptures whatever coolness you thought you had in this moment.

It's as though you proposed something unseemly at the dinner table.

You're exposing yourself, shut this down right now.

Just because the words formed in your head, does not mean you had to speak them.

Just what the assignment called for. Some Big Thinking.

Forever consigned to the backroom. The worst fate for any laboured words -- including some of your own.

Forever consigned to the backroom. The worst fate for any laboured words.

The lower level is the jail, in other words.

A look of worry, like she's just broken an agreement.

Whatever's down there is a secret, kept even from her.

The sensation of puzzle pieces connecting inside you.

That 'institution' the subeditor mentioned... You've heard the name somewhere before...

A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

That practically confirms it -- this whole operation is a front for the secret jail. They must keep the prisoner somewhere behind that door at the back.

A successful poem submission might be the simplest way of getting through that door.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

For something sneakier, you could try the route via the waterlock you drained.

For something more secretive, that little girl mentioned seeing a door in the waterlock canal...

Or you could case the rest of the building to see if there's an alternative way down there.

Forget that shitty Opera-assigned pen. You've got an editor's pen now!

A ripe opportunity to see how this new editor's pen glides across the page.

These people love words. Use them to find out what it will take to get them to open the door for you.

Pause for a moment. Take a step back to examine what you are seeing.

Not to mention the mysterious flooded basement that's currently off-limits.

Suddenly, you are struck by the horrible feeling that something obvious is eluding you.

It appears that this place is a front for the secret jail. The prisoner must be somewhere behind that door at the back.

Where have you heard of The Civilisation Trust?

modifier +1gates.IsFlagSetgates.IsJournalTaskOnState

PRIVATE FOUNDATIONS: COLOSTOMY BAGS FOR THE SO CALLED 'HIGH ARTS'.

It occurs to you that this little magazine may well be the sum total of this woman's life and legacy.

That 'subeditor' is an EMTERR operant for certain. Rank unknown.

This direct line of questioning is drawing far too much attention to you.

Placate her with a lie.

modifier +1

You often find inspiration in the allure of architecture. Use that.

Barely holding it together as she dramatises her words.

You got off extremely lucky this time, operant. You won't next time, if you make it that far.

Operant! Did you not learn from last time? Keep it on the down low.

Showing this woman the cryptogram has revealed far more than you should.

It's almost like she's lost a fundamental part of herself.

Perhaps all your work as an operant has just been preparing you for becoming the greatest poet that ever lived.

Hardly. You have utterly failed as a poet so far.

Steady on. You'll need to prove yourself a competent spy before you can make that kind of transition.

Waltz asymmetrically in the unseen. Something you're used to.

Unfortunately, it won't make you a better spy.

You don't need art, you need a gäng. Real shit.

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

She's not wrong. It's a crime against decency.

Amid the heavy darkness that possesses her comes a sunny spell. It won't last long.

Her composure is immaculate, but it's not enough to hide the agony crashing through her.

That feels harsh. Maybe the gäng has gone too far...

Her composure is immaculate. If she felt any pain from this it goes completely unseen.

Blood hangs in ghostly shapes amid the dark waters of a ravine. Curious trout follow the trail and discover a body -- gore streams from a barbaric crater, where there was once an eye.

You feel the sting of a decision made, unable to be reversed.

The outline of a man, his back and shoulders, spotlit in your mind -- before he disappears into the black, never to be seen again.

A man runs away in your mind, zig-zagging towards an unknown fate, but still very much alive.

The shake in her hand intensifies. She looks like she could be sick.

She looks like she could be sick.

'Maybe I do', she thinks to herself.

Nothing fake about her reaction.

Can't trust anyone in this world that you occupy. You are forever being deceived.

You remember the many times you have staked out a place, a person. All by yourself -- at all times, in all weathers.

All around you: tall buildings with multiple viewpoints, from roofs and windows. You feel eyes watching you from one of them -- you may never find out whose.

Resigned, she sinks into herself, doing her best to swallow her pride.

'I deserve a much worse fate', she thinks to herself.

Gulp. Dry mouth. A skeleton of fear.

Are you risking your cover just so you can feel cool for a moment? Try to have some sense.

That's the poetry magazine you got for Hauzmann. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

Deep down, she's wincing, fighting to deny the worst case scenario.

That's the poetry magazine you have on you. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

That's the poetry magazine you've heard about. Has its offices nearby -- or, at least, it did.

That's the poetry magazine you found in the book stand behind her.

A failed metaphor, in other words.

It was bad, not horrendous, as that would make it memorable.

In a way, hitting a low like that is its own kind of achievement.

Here's a question for you: when was the last time you enjoyed your own line of work?

Hope all the stress and isolation and paranoia is worth it.

Overly defensive. Usually a sign of insecurity.

There's more to it than that. Having a break wasn't her choice.

It's been much harder than she's letting on. That magazine was her life.

No doubt due to the security breach you enacted. An unfortunate knock-on effect.

Your little security breach and subsequent escape must have had something to do with it.

An attempted smile fails to mask the pain behind it.

Presumably because her whole life has been flipped around after her magazine was shuttered.

There's a bit more to it than that, but she's reluctant to admit it.

It was the title of the report lying around when he asked you to clean. It was in front of you the whole time.

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

She's referring to the honour book stall next to her.

You detect a slight tremor in the hand holding the book she was reading.

That certainly wasn't there before.

Could be indicative of an underlying condition. No need to bring it up and scare her.

Before, she mentioned the magazine's sponsor is the 'Civilisation Trust'. It suddenly seems highly relevant that you recognise the name.

This is the woman the shrimping girl mentioned.

NO, YOU ARE HERE TO DOMINATE.

Don your persona. Do not sabotage this opportunity.

Contact the Secret Prisoner

Case files

Resets