Excrutiatingly. Robotically.

A moment of silence -- Eszti has found new gäng.

A blankness to the eyes, a downward twitching to the mouth. The beginnings of panic.

The suicide clock ticks one stroke closer to midnight.

Now he thinks we narc hard! Soon the entire Campaign will know!

The last impression you register is the brush hairs scraping ineffectually over a layer of sad decrepitude that is not exactly filth.

Tomorrow, the dust will have spread again. Objects will erode, and total amount of dust in the world will have increased by an infinitesimal amount.

BUT WITH AN ABUNDANCE OF IDEAS. RICH IN THEORY.

THE REACTIONARY WORLD AWAITS YOUR DEFECTION! THE BOSSES WILL MAKE YOU HOLD THE BROOM, THEN TAX YOU FOR HOLDING IT.

YOU ARE TRANSLUCENT WITH THE WORKERS' SPIRIT.

A curious intimation that, maybe... you have found your place. This is what you are meant to be doing. What you should have been doing all along.

He hurriedly smooths down the single patch of hair which time has yet to steal from his head.

You're dealing with a 'Get Off My Property' type here. Problem is, his property is communal.

'Nice Campaign' certainly sounds better than 'laboratory of urban decay'.

Sweetly sickening. Like a thousand strawberry air freshners all at once.

Now that you have both parts you could try repairing it.

With how attached the materially wealthy are to their items, there's no telling how much they'd give to have something so precious back.

You could try getting the other half and repairing it.

Show it to EMTERR's spineless junior negotiator. He can't ignore this!

Alternatively, now that you have both parts you could try repairing it. With how attached these rich people are to their items, there's no telling what he might give to have it back.

Alternatively, you could try getting the other half and repairing it. With how attached these rich people are to their items, there's no telling what he might give to have it back.

Whoever attended the debaucherous party that was held here should have a good idea of which orifice you should check next.

Whoever attended whatever it was that went down here should have a good idea of which orifice you should check next.

A stickiness now taints your fingertips. You try to ignore the faint smell of lube and fecal residue.

The sound of wet flesh slapping.

They don't have to answer to you. Thus, they won't.

You are flea. Insignificant. Squishable.

Foreign accent, questions about the area... you're nothing but a lost tourist.

An apartment block housing hundreds of families who were displaced after their original homes were seized by eminent domain, victims of the city's mid-century ambitions.

There are rumours that a high-speed bullet train is being constructed from Cicatriz-Frontera to the Tenantries of St. Ulwen, connecting Luz's thousands of miles of territory in a trip that takes less than a day.

And much like their clothes, the trio blocking your path is genuinely Luzian.

With none of the griminess of the surrounding neighbourhood.

Shit, should we have been doing that? A gäng uniform?

They wear their clothes like the very mannequins they were sewn on.

Outfits made for these people. Or, people made for these outfits.

Then they'll see... they'll all see how cool we really are...

That's what she thinks of your 'taste'.

He couldn't care less about your opinion.

The way you phrased that makes it sound like you're in possession of a knock-off.

They're going to think you're a phoney. A fraud. A poseur!

Look at their clothes -- these people are decked out!

It's you, but from a bad dream.

The half-animal in you freezes. You're alone. Split from herd. Vulnerable.

The tunnel, it's everything you imagined it to be.

The obscenely loud crunching sounds rattle through your skull. It's like he's pulverizing gravel.

He's just got something in his eye.

Ready and willing to guard his food to the hilt.

He's staring at the sky like it's his first time seeing it.

Wide, slick, animal. Only two words behind them: friend or foe?

From this altitude, it looks like Portofiro has been caught in a web of dark yarn.

Checks