Beside you, HOLOCENE's hands search for pockets he doesn't have anymore.

Büllshit! He's afraid of feeling things, which is different.

Your own, maybe?

Not vigilant enough. Either of you.

Panicked. You've got him up against the wall of his own heart.

A small bird flutters onto his mind's shoulder, catching him completely by surprise.

As he's talking, his whole posture changes -- a lightness across his features.

You can almost see it -- behind all earthly plots, a vast, meta-plot opening up before him.

Underdogs. Exactly how you like it.

His full-force gaze reminds you of meeting the sharks in Mircea Aquarium eye-to-eye. Empty yet full, processing alien thoughts.

Everyone occupying one fixed and immovable place on the pyramid of life.

A race of primitive sophisticates wanders through the vine-covered ruins of Portofiro. Impeccably dressed in fabrics the secrets of whose production has been lost, they skulk around judging each other's fashion while the day's strip of rat meat dries on the line.

Something about this rejection feels more than just embarrassing. It feels dangerous.

Faint but frantic chatter audible through the wood, PSEUDOPOD's voice.

One of the reasons, he told you, that he always took the nasal route with his blow: concerns about receding gums.

Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of black mould wither and perish in the chemical mist.

His relief is such that it's almost a shame to correct his illusions.

He struggles to wade through the sedatives still weighing him down.

You've taken the tools up one by one in the intended order -- now comes the final tool and the logical end.

The moment we've been waiting for our entire life, Herschen. Stoop to the occasion. Trepan him.

REVOLUTIONS UPON REVOLUTIONS!

Somewhere within: A hard drive of perfect memory, each scene evenly catalogued and ready for playback.

He looks like PSEUDOPOD.

Slowly, with a kind of chemotheraputic drip, the knowledge of what you have just done sinks in.

Operational silver lining: the body comes pre-disposed at the bottom of an abandoned silo.

If you want to eulogise him properly, use someone else's words.

Not exactly eulogistic material, but better than anything you can produce.

There is, however, a response from within.

Job status: bötched.

You are a destructive force of nature. Channel it. Break open the world.

Preferably not at your friends. In fact, it might be best if you simply refrain from contact with people you don't intend to destroy.

His aura sketched in lightning.

Warming up is for pussies. We're in the big leagues now, Hersh. Gäng under the lights.

A nuclear core of psychosis... both real and imagined...

A note of sadness in his voice.

A mind churning in perpetual consumption of itself.

Your true enemy has yet to reveal itself.

Fool him with his own systems. Bridle his hypertrophied imagination -- the outcome will be the same.

Dear god, it's trying to talk to you.

It's impossible to tell which limb moves next -- beware!

The language is different but the tone is familiar. It's like how operants assess and cultivate assets.

'Boundaries are illusions; everything looks back.'

You picture signals, fired from the thermosphere, spearing through noctilucent clouds as they fall toward Portofiro.

A little bell inside goes 'ding-ding'.

Defiler. It sends a sick thrill through you.

Light years stand between you and the star -- your hunt will be long over by the time this invocation reaches it.

A pool of blood dries on a tile floor, on skin rapidly growing cold. The stain will linger, but the body itself will slip back into the shadows as if it was never there.

On the deck of a boat bound for the Illuminated Empire, a young woman contemplates throwing herself into the sea. The water is cold, dark, clear.

The huntress flips open her satchel with her left hand, holding the cliff face with her right. She plucks three large eggs from their nest.

You should be able to pull up a directory of all network terminals. Try 'DIRECTORY' or 'NETWORK'.

Checks