His own febrile logic has turned in on itself. He'll believe anything you tell him now.

No spouse. No friends. No passions. No beliefs. Just this.

All around you, thousands of copper strands reach out in as many directions. The electricity buzzes softly with unheard voices.

She looks out over Novessa -- bleary eyed, searching.

It can't be more than a few seconds, but from your perspective an eon passes. Whole civilisations rise and dissolve into the mists of oblivion before she speaks again.

The groundskeeper will find the body. A gloved hand will erase any record of his report to the authorities.

A scent below the perceptual threshold, something the animal that is your body can smell even if you cannot.

What's the problem, can't take a little 'bad death'? Look inside.

The deconstruction of Ignatz was a pleasure for him.

The Reality Situation is gone. It only exists in the airwaves now.

You glance upwards, as though expecting to see a cage fall down around you. One doesn't -- at least not visibly.

To you. Because you're a client.

Smiling, but her voice is hard.

A dramatic change in her voice.

She's excited about the prospect of you being a therapist, play into it.

She laughs, but there's an edge to it.

She's not her sister, in other words.

A pleasant little shiver as they pop against the edges.

Can you be sure this is really your mind and not some psychic fabrication of hers?

IMMATERIALIST SENTIMENTALISM.

You're not afraid of any empty space. Fill it the fuck in.

It's our sad place, our pain zone. Everybody fucking get ready.

A new Advanced Cognitive Manoeuvre for your operant's grimoire.

Laughter, nervous.

Sarcasm, laced with longing.

Like you.

Keep it, sick wolf stuff!

Ours, too!

He's perfectly aware you're not from around here, much less a cop.

For you, as much as it is for him. Has to keep himself sharp, or that'll be the day he loses.

Rings honest enough, but there's something more.

Gentle heat on your skin, coconut liqueur on your tongue. He's onto something...

A dash of nonsense to disarm you while he runs a checklist.

Could be another of his sales pitches. Could be...

There are many crimes you may commit; none worse than mediocre aesthetics.

His trigger finger twitches.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

Poor guy. You should make sure he's okay, at least.

How can we not love him? He's got all the makings of a top-tier gäng member. Solid right through.

It sounds like a yelp of pain.

Wait. There's something off about this woman's off-ness... she's not what she appears to be.

Even the pelota ball, tossed back and forth by forces greater than itself, occasionally gets the chance to crunch against the nose of those who would try to catch it.

It descended like a vile comet from the stands above: white, planetary, drawing its own aureola of discoloured liquid as it spun. Only in the instant before impact did you realise what it was...

In the Portofiran plushie scene, some of the knock off labels have become their own commodity, almost as sought after as the real deal.

And then they'll probably turn around and add even more wolves.

YOUR FLOURIDATED COMMUNIST TEETH WILL MAKE SHORT WORK OF HER JUGULAR.

Keep clear of the nails! One swipe and she could open your jugular.

In the smouldering wreckage of a schoolhouse, a screaming child writhes under the limp, heavy body of his teacher as their world burns around them.

The dead and the discarded.

Wait until you get your hands on Bitter Wolf... she has a special straw... oh, and Radiant Wolf, he glows in the dark...

Checks