A woman, scarf framing her face in muted colours, places a basket of lavash and stuffed grapes by the houseboat door. Her husband, a silent sentinel, nods for her to step back. A thin bridge, beckoning Ramses back.

NO. THE PLAN IS THE DEATH OF OUR ENEMY. AT ANY COST.

It's a talisman, not a functional object. It's imbued with whatever Ramses feels towards you.

He's not taking a no.

'It is a good thing yesterday was not the end of history after all.'

It was too much to hope that you were here without an agenda, but he had hoped.

He doesn't know Dr. Gonzalo E.S. Gonza.

Dr. Hugo did seem cagey, not the type to hand out drugs without going through a robust checklist.

His eyes are dark, tired, but still sharp.

A valuable piece lays on its side, unused, next to the board. Put him back into play.

He dismisses it with that special bitterness reserved for smothering dreams that hurt.

Easy. Plug them into a phone or terminal box, and they'll listen in. From there, Ramses can record calls, or reroute them.

He's asking you to hold back.

Behind the apparent chaos lies all the trappings of a carefully executed ritual. This isn't the first time. Not for either of them.

That's our boy. Are you seriously going to abandon him again?

You remember the first batches of number, at least. The right combination must be among what's left.

You roughly remember where you stopped last time. Whatever's left, you'll have to try all over.

A barracks full of small boys, huddled together on a cold floor. An older man reads aloud from a worn and dogeared book. His words echo off the low, tin ceiling.

Keep your gun close.

You should be armed right now. This was a mistake.

The same 'heroes' who dropped Berrion bombs on the Tenantries of St. Ulwen.

The index finger of your left hand twitches.

He tries to conceal it, but something in his voice tells you he's more concerned about Ultra Violeta's fate than that of the Grand Lich.

Why are you standing around for? Kill this ancient fool. That's what the script demands.

Your conspicuous lack of gun is seriously compromising the scene here.

Just like the autumn fireworks you used to watch from your window as a child.

Surprisingly fast.

Not a fleck of irony.

Below your feet, the prisoner slips in and out of a terrifying dream.

A good poet listens more than they speak.

They have. Many people have.

Into the dustbin it goes.

Like a rabbit. Scenting danger.

The flight path from Luz's costal airfields to Portofiro is approximately 60 kilometres, or 3 minutes at supersonic speed.

A distinction that will preoccupy you in the small hours for many years to come.

Silken web of awareness, holding dark tides in place.

According to gäng, shit is positively school-like.

Of course, some possess this to a greater degree than others.

Say it.

The old spy's grey eyes flash like light reflecting off a rifle scope.

No-no-no. Keep away.

By the wall, the magic box chirrups in response. A warning tone, indicating an unstable connection.

Savour this moment. One of the old ones of your craft is asking for your opinion.

Not a weapon, a tool of psychic eviction, a means to disinhabit the soul.

Fully charged now. The world's first augmentoid hyper-spy.

One of the shadow-world's ancient deities preparing to slip back into the black sea beneath a starless night.

'Borders are illusions. Everything looks back.' That's their motto.

In your mind's eye riffles a deck of faces, regular people, people with modest apartments and pensions, every single one of them disposable.

Bottom-feeders of the secret world. Making a small-time trade of stale information.

Crackling tree squirrel impaled on a spit. Savoury smoke rising into the night. The Paleolithic huntress turns her gaze upwards.

Checks