Goosebumps on the back of your neck. As if all those of absent, lifeless eyes have turned to watch you.

Tarsier shaped! A little curled-up tarsier!

A sudden urge leaps within you -- you want to see the sky again.

Unless this host had already outlived his usefulness... and what it wanted was a new host, a vehicle to take it to the surface.

Reaching into another person's head to glimpse what is inside -- it is not the first time recently that you've heard about such a method.

You are deep in it this time. So deep you can almost touch dream.

Close reading: 'then, take him out. With the drill.'

He's awed and onboard.

Syringe. Free hand.

The void around you grows agitated, heating and wetting, as your senses close around the thing.

Whoever it is, they produce a white hot antipathy in you.

Like a child waiting for a dreadful present.

Hemorrhoidal anus, disabled bird, squiggly line of undefined intent.

THE SMALL CONTROLLER IN TERRIBLE DISGUISE. KILL IT.

Muffled noises emanate from within.

For a moment, you're back in that classroom, staring at a great plume of smoke on a small screen, rising, and rising -- until the feed abruptly cuts out.

One of these things is not like the others.

Horrifically vague, yet ominous. Here's a thread to pull at.

A shudder runs through you, as if brushing against a frayed wire.

Orbital velocity is typically achieved at the eight minute mark. They weren't even close.

A difference of almost nine minutes.

Wait. Something's not right. Didn't you see a number that went much higher?

Your jaw tightens, your molars grind against each other.

All self-perpetuating cycles are a form of the hunt. Addiction, anxiety, conquest. The Chase, the Flight.

The offerings on the shrine altar are a mix of the old and the new -- though the recent additions are fewer in number.

Perfect spot.

The glow of the candles' collected light reflecting on the awning, their warmth cutting through the cold.

Smells like pine needles.

Maybe one of these pine trees cushioned his fall...

He's dead.

Perhaps the mountain will keep a little of your voice. For company.

When you type in a sequence of characters it recognises as a command, the machine will react.

With any luck, it can show you the signal that goes directly to the prisoner's intercom.

This is not the first time you've hacked into a phone terminal, though it is the first time you haven't been able to delegate the task to asset RADIAN.

RADIAN's fingers danced, each input a new incantation. The ember of his blunt pulsing with every keystroke. A sorcerer within his haze.

With the notable exception of the Miracle Line, which remains on a wired connection.

It could conceivably let you tap into the Miracle Line.

Specifically the dual centres of Bootleg Bazaar and Party Alley, immediately surrounding you.

Beneath the city's murmurs, the soft rustle of read/write heads gliding across a disk.

You might as well be staring at the remains of coffee at the bottom of a cup.

Dormant stars waiting for ignition.

Must be the faulty intercom.

Keep it to yourself. That way, no one will think to fix it.

Nothing you do can interrupt the mechanised processes going on unseen.

That Renotel technician you met earlier was carrying a device. Must be that.

A wound in the city's flesh. An orifice where the metal veins that twist and knot below your feet are exposed for a moment.

Relays clack in a series of deep, satisfying clicks -- like pistol chambers locking into place.

Whoever's using these isn't trying to get better at writing poetry -- they're trying to get better at reading it.

This is the cheat sheet of a complete amateur.

You at least deserve to be judged by someone with an eye that has been trained by years of experience.

Checks