A.Journal

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Easy

This must be the party vendor the GM mentioned -- the one whose father has gone missing.

Easy

This must be the girl the kids by the TV mentioned -- the one whose father was eaten by a payphone.

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Ramses said he'll need 'around half a day' to capture anything significant.

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Ramses said he'll need 'half a day' to capture anything significant.

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A paragraph from his red folder flashes redder across your mind: '... POSSESSING A MONSTROUS INTELLIGENCE THAT RESTS ON HALLUCINATORY LOGICAL CONSTRUCTION.'

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Rumour has it that an old vending machine in Lower Viudas once sold anonymous murder confessions to anyone willing to pay ten sol.

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'FOR CASCADE ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN'

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Some memories warp and bend with handling, but not this one. Dissimulate and dissociate all you like, it doesn't change anything.

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There's nothing in the filing cabinet on this. Did you misplace that folder?

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A telephone from five years ago startles in its cradle, waking you from the thin end of a dream.

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The instructions were very clear: 'Party Alley, West Side.' It's for you.

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The site of the failed launch.

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The Pitol Tract was the site of Portofiro's aborted space program.

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In fact, you haven't heard it since you got here.

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You dust off and briefly consult your topographical maps of the Teenage Psychosphere. It remains as wondrous and enigmatic as you left it.

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A far too familiar gesture -- something grinds and sparks against the inside of your skull.

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The teen with the scarf. Though you recall him as more scarf than teen...

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Ouroboros Black. Tempo's brand.

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''Gunshot victim D, long-range penetration. Anterior left chest entry wound w/ surrounding burning stain. No exit. Extraction impossible without death.'

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... In the hot tub. You have half of the crime in your pocket right now.

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Bad news. He has.

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Eno -- her father's name. You saw it in the document you read in the filing cabinet.

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To Eszti's right -- a man with a familiar mop of upstanding hair.

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You watched her over the university courtyard, waited until she parted from a group of friends. You recognised her from the dossier -- the daughter of Dr Abe, head of the sleep study.

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Ash on a black fur collar. Piercing blue eyes through smoke, a laugh that could turn wicked.

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You've seen these before. Smoked them before. This was Tempo's brand.

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All true, none of it useful just now.

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Suprema 100s. Cheap Superbloc export.

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Length of time he's been waiting for you to walk through the door: unknown.

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Tempo used to swill the coffee around his mouth, then spit it back with a muttered 'mierda de cerdo'.

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A chime echoes somewhere in the back of your memory... 'Re-no-tel'.

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Your short-term memory is being severely tested. Fried, even.

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The day the leaves fall from the ginkyo is a day of transformation -- he told you himself.

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The result of non-competitive bidding and a bit of self-dealing on the part of the city's governing elite.

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Your obsessions and secret passions have saved you more than once, and may yet again.

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If the words of the old Luzian prisoner are true, you have days, not weeks.

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Scenes flash against the bedsheet screen of your mind -- framed in the same red veinage as the book's cover.

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Some tossed off dregs involving space shamans and deals with ascended beings.

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It was you who taught him the cigarette trick in the first place. The Opera speaks to itself.

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The shrine lacks the sacred air of Mircean churches you knew as a child -- it is an organic thing, maintained by locals of their own volition.

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All past entries pertaining to Operant CASCADE are stamped with the words 'NOT MY FAULT'. Twice.

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So this rumour about Luzian 'imprints' goes back at least a generation.

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Your old haunt. Where you met with your former assets, once upon an assignment.

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It must be said there's no mention of a 'Fogged Mirror' in the files. It almost certainly holds no deep personal or professional significance for you whatsoever.

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You realise you have seen no dogs in Portofiro.

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A.k.a. 'The Freezer'. The Opera's labyrinthine archival complex. Where the old, useless, and discredited are consigned until they're dismissed or die of despair.

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Five years, three months, ten days. That's how long it's been since her voice was in your ear.

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It's the metal stripper. The one who urged you to come down here.

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If what you're looking for is still down here, it must be on the other side.

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'He's no one. Just a seedy little oddity'.