Unfazed. Face like granite. The glasses help.

Unfazed. Face like granite. The glasses help.

He'll have a talk with the vendors later today. A firm one.

A decent performance. But you have notes.

The slightest hesitation. Skirting around a secret.

Heightened defences.

Now. Stop circling each other. Commit.

This is the only way through. Darkness visible.

YOU DO NOT EXIST. YOU ARE MERELY THE SHIMMER OF A RIGHT WING PROPAGANDA MINISTER'S FEVERED IMAGININGS.

End of the line. The PSEUDOPOD terminus. He bounced off this man and landed somewhere in oblivion.

He's genuinely perplexed.

And because he's tense, beneath it all. Finger on trigger tense.

A polite round of applause for the support act.

A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

A familiar silhouette peels itself from the dark.

Your friend is here.

Your cerebro-spinal fluid turns to liquid refrigerant.

Even before you ask the question, the outline of a name is forming, letter by letter.

Time to show. Cards on the table.

Now's the time. Pull back the stage curtain.

You know a stonewall when you smack off one. He's waiting for you to put something together.

As the sun smears across rooftops, a man with a briefcase full of carefully-folded socks sits on a metal bench. He sits there for a long time, considering the tangle of alleyways that surround him.

From day-player bootlegger to directing the full production in five years. Quite the ascent for an exposed asset.

Khalti -- a Rustamian term of endearment for an older woman.

He's very fond of her.

Not part of his job description. A caring gesture.

Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

Tempo had many criminal-grade contacts in La Luz. Probably how he dodged the fallout after your network blew.

His eyes are green. And very dry.

Why couldn't PSEUDOPOD get past this man?

Requirements

All of these

Story condition not identified

Not

Spotted the building.

He's going to make you say it out loud.

Your name is the flood. Home turf. You have returned.

A rough voice down a splintering phone line: 'No silly cunts! CASCADE only, person to person! CASCADE or nothing!'

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

They wanted PSEUDOPOD to become Tempo's new handler. You were just here to smooth the transition.

They farmed out your asset, your friend, to some trouserless infant?

You knew it all along. One of your people reached out for you.

Teeth bared, but nothing left to guard. Fear of the dark.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

He was hoping you could make sense of it.

Many old assets cry 'urgent' -- especially when they're looking for a handout or a favour.

Maybe it was company he wanted. A chance to palm away the frost and peer into the old days. For some, that counts as 'urgent'.

So either under a lot of mental stress or seeing ghosts. This message could be critical. It could also be nothing but branches tapping a windowpane.

It would have. It would have brought you running. If they'd bothered to tell you.

And from the other side, only silence.

A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

Better to know. Always better to know.

Come straight to me. Never cross my path again. Both true at once.

He's rattled. And not used to the sound of rattling.

Shards of both past and present collide. In the wreckage, a jagged pattern forms:

Tempo called for help. For cavalry. For you.

Of course you do. A true name.

Unless... he's in on this too?

The end of that sentence sharpened to a point. Your friend asked for a single name.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

He already fears the worst. You don't need to get into the uglier details.

He doesn't know what he's asking for. Not really.

A flicker of river-green, bright and unguarded, before the glasses slide back down.

You see him, boots braced on a trembling deck. His vessel noses out past the breakwater, into the Noscorrentes sea. Behind, Portofiro dissolves into a golden blur beneath a pale sky.

Tell him to not go into that office himself. He shouldn't see.

This place was home for him, until now.

The man may be gone, but the ties live on.

Post-mortem loyalties -- sign of a well-cultivated asset.

He doesn't have to like it, but his nights will be kinder for it.

It's about what's right.

Ignatz. The man you first saw at Foto 24.

What if he got to PSEUDOPOD? Ignatz was lurking around Foto 24, after all.

He's trying to be polite and not point out you fucked it on your own terms.

In exchange for keeping tabs on Tempo. The logic holds, given what you found in the office.

There it is. The man from Foto 24 -- and the one sniffing after you. You have his name.

Controlled, subtle. The man has had formal training.

Had you been standing a couple metres farther away, you wouldn't have registered movement.

Still, he'd bet on the flashy-jacket prick.

The roundabout's wide open. It'd be hard for a tail to not give themselves away.

He'll make a call, as soon as you step away. It will work out.

End of the line, coming up fast! Soon you'll be drooling, just like PSEUDOPOD.

Everyone swears silence until it can buy them something.

Behind the words, you feel your old asset's ghost, smiling.

There's a hollow in his voice, one you doubt was there just weeks ago.

It must be slain.

A jolt of fear snaps through you, but you kick it down.

Six-headed mudskippers that feed on men, tentacled creatures that stink like a thousand corpses, giant sea urchins that paralyse their prey before devouring them while they're still alive... Yes!

One of eight great trenches in the mapped world. Its edges run from the Telmaar Gulf to the Lioaran sea. Conservative estimates suggest a depth of twelve thousand metres.

Probably, but not definitely.

A jolt of fear snaps through you, writing itself across your face.

He didn't need to. His gut said enough.

That look wasn't for nothing. Something happened over there.

He knows you're one of Tempo's now. Remind him that you can be trusted.

The outline of a building, just past the roundabout.

Instinctively, he looks down, but tries to stop himself. It's almost like he's...

See the dockside as he does.

An uncharacteristic tension in his voice there.

He's convinced of it now.

If he knows something, it'll require finessing.

The 'Decreto de Recaptura Cívica', a set of regulations from 81. Drinking age raised to 16, limits on public assembly, and stringent gun laws. All tied to 'stabilisation' packages arranged by EMTERR.

The outcome: Citizens are still paying for guns they no longer own.

As in, the Azzurri mob. The largest organised crime syndicate in Portofiro.

He turns his head briefly, as if hearing it now.

He misses her dearly.

Long-dead hands carrying the hull, white fingers in the brine.

You know where this is going, right? You're not going to just walk into it?

Progress! Suspense! Quick, ask more!

INSIDIOUS IMPERIALISM. TODAY, THE SOFT POWER -- TOMORROW, THE HARD.

Treaties, obligations to foreign banks and bureaucracies, third-party audits. All part of joining the Developed World.

A big gäng where no one's your friends, and there's always more palms to grease.

A tinge of grief flutters past his face.

FIRST THE BOOKS, THEN THE CUPS.

Not that he minds.

Resin on the seams, hairline cracks across the hull. Someone's been fighting to keep it alive.

Marinha-32, early 70s issue. Portofiran manufacturing. Built for municipal dredging, but this one's been heavily modded.

THUS BEGINS A GREAT STRUGGLE AGAINST INERT MATTER. ALSO EXPLOITATION.

A small seed of him, sprouting.

ON A POSITIVE NOTE, YOU ARE NOW MORE SELF-REALISED THAN EVER.

It won't always be like this. Eventually, you'll learn to dissociate better.

But he's aware you're here.

Sparrowhawks. Predators. Awaiting an opening.

His jacket's been patched over many times. Storied.

Shattered teeth in a ruined mouth.

No one is 'sensitive to moonlight'. He just thinks he looks cool.

Fast reply! Definitely awake.

Must be cataract glasses. He's visually impaired. Maybe mentally impaired also.