A.Journal

Checks

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Sounds pretty 'off the books'... Eszti's going to be even more mad at you now.

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She has yet to notice it's already stuck in.

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For the first time -- just for the life and death of a second -- you see her as a fearful young girl, flinching at every movement outside the door.

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He thinks he's going to stay there, too.

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Trying to think of an insult. He doesn't like that your name is cooler than his.

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He'd rather have the girl.

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She's drinking from the same bottle, you're fine. Get her drunk, make conversation, see what guts she'll spill.

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Everyone else here is actively avoiding him.

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You would be well within your right to leave him down here.

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They frequently lost fingers to frostbite in the Mircean winter, and wore their absence like trophies.

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A little impressed, a little disturbed.

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Underneath his speechifying you detect a melancholic tinge, a shadow on the mirror's surface.

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Encoded by a frenzied hand.

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Pride. He wants you to know he saw you enter the shack, and he wants you to know what you saw was his work.

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The first genuine response you have elicited from him at all.

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After all these years perhaps they've developed some notion of society, even religion. Open your mind to their theologies and they may accept you as their own.

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A trace of concern. Lean into it.

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

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

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Women trained to elicit joy, to be polite and obliging, to please. It genuinely does nothing for him.

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She's concerned, but she knows his limits.

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'Why twist the knife?', his gaze seems to say.

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Neither the friend you left behind years ago, nor the quivering wreck you found in his houseboat.

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A small promise, remade and unkept a thousand times over. 'Tomorrow', he'd tell himself, until the word meant nothing.

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He's not taking a no.

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

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

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

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Not a fleck of irony.

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They have. Many people have.

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He remembers every betrayal, every expression of horror when his target hears the mental click of the cage-door locking behind them.

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A note of genuine disappointment. He wishes he could think better of his former employer.

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Marginally impressed.

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A name he'll never answer to again.

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What is this man going on about?

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All but calling you a traitor.

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This woman is serially drawn to victims of world history. Septimus, KALEIDOSCOPE, you...

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It's happy to see you again.

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He'd happily sell drugs to you. He's just caught wind of an opportunity to get something out of you.

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Lying to herself, even if she doesn't know it. This is subconscious spycraft.

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The images come to you, one by one.

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No, no, no. This isn't right. This can't be right.