You don't need his guidance. Wires and cables are the same everywhere and you are their master.

You sense a change behind his eyes. A decision has been made.

His insult does nothing. You are a steel wall that cannot be affected by mere words.

You see the pity for the miners in the man's eyes. Men and women drying out inside barren rock, the billowing dust steadily making them blind...

Unlikely to be a coincidence that he's now occupying a place of reflection.

A simple misperception, absolutely nothing to be alarmed by, obviously it's just the way that the breeze pulls itself through the tree's leaves -- but it seems to you that the tree is breathing, and the cadence of its breath matches your own.

Naturally, if this were the Paleolithic, and if you were the Paleolithic huntress, you would experience this sensation all the time.

Oblivious.

Yana is her own person now. You don't need to betray her trust just because Ramses picked up on some speech patterns.

Not a second of hesitation, doubt, or curiosity. You couldn't fake that kind of acceptance if you tried.

He wishes you hadn't asked him that.

Of all your assets, none knows better than KINDRED. Wilful ignorance is another matter.

A delicate ship constructed out of the flotsam of spy dramas and revenge fantasies sails headlong toward this rock, where it will shatter into a thousand lacerating crystals.

You'd remember a name that stupid.

For better or for worse, he's pegged us and Deaf Romero as spiritual gäng of some sort.

You have merely been living 'Hearing Impaired Romero'. Time to crank the volume.

Tanka Hônen survived his assassination of East Kodian opposition leader Reido Saiji, whom he shot twice with a homemade firearm at a train station opening ceremony.

No judgement, just a fact -- you have never lived through the bloody 'loose ends' phase of a spy network collapse.

He's never going to let you forget that you alone came out unscathed the last time.

His standard of appearance suggests 'gambler on an eternal losing streak'.

Evidence of this 'training' is yet to manifest.

And what was it that killed the cat...?

Don't point it at yourself.

And an even weirder thing to be so evasive about.

The ghost-remnants of a consciousness long lost, impressed upon the only part that's left.

That information is strictly self-hold.

Yum. Rut-rut.

His dedication to metaphor is respectable, obfuscatory, serene -- a probable disciple of Dositeo Fernandez.

Fear makes men scared of rut-rut.

According to Dositeo Fernandez, the market has no edges, it is an amorphous, asexual blob.

Not for the last time, you sense.

A flash of inspiration? He seems to be drowning in it.

HIS INEFFICIENT AND FLAMBOYANT RHETORIC IS HIGHLY SUSPECT. BEWARE VERBAL SNARES.

Supposedly, The Vessel was disgusted by the practice, but eventually ceded as a political gesture to earn the support of the traditionalists in the Shogunate.

Pay close attention to what you find in here -- it clearly holds deep significance for your troubled friend.

A stab of pain in some unknown psychic organ.

Brow slightly ruffled, not entirely sure where to look. He's not used to having his picture taken.

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.

BEHOLD HOW THE MASSES ARE CHOKED BY INSIDIOUS ABSTRACTIONS.

Sat at the top of the world, he is free to judge anyone without repercussions -- yet his ire is reserved for those who violate health and safety regulations.

THE PROLETARIAT HOLDS THE LINE AGAINST FASCISTIC INCURSION.

NOT IF THE REVOLUTION WAS RETROGRADE! FORMAL DISQUALIFICATION ON GROUNDS OF IDEOLOGICAL INCOMPATABILITY!

But across an ocean, the moment contorted into legend.

A voice from the dirt. Bullets in stucco behind him. Ears ringing, throat tight with panic. He shifts in the muck, clutching his gun, and whispers a prayer to an unnamed star: Not here. Not like this.

True emptiness - no signal reroute.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Maybe you imagine it. Maybe you heard it, infinitely faintly... a slight, barely perceptible, click.

You become aware of an infinitude of tiny movements. A total convergence on your surroundings -- all drawn to you, here, right now...

Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

Checks