The pre-Mircean poets-resuscitants saw pain as the soul rejecting unearned memories. Speak more, ancient wisdom man!

There is a difference -- you brush against it, but all too light, too quick.

'What is it now, CASCADE?'. The lips of the dummy remain still, and yet, the voice continues. 'Why am I naked, CASCADE?'.

One side withers while the other remains the same -- into it, he pours the remainder of his own life.

A two-way mirror.

HER SHAM-MAN IS A BLACK ELEMENT. ALL MAGIC AND MAGE-ING IS REACTIONARY UNLESS IT WORKS.

A hallucination.

A living memory.

They will -- creeping in on padded feet, striking with a shiv to the spine.

She's seen something true, if not real.

She can concentrate more easily on the machinery; the topic occupies most of her mind.

"Out here". The material world is no longer home to her.

Stiff limbs, orange suit. The tiny cosmonaut sees the world from between two large fangs resting wet and loving on either side of his head.

This is the ceremony you've been directed to perform. Its offices are lonely and obscure -- it is a ceremony of strangeness, heartlessness, and emptiness.

The Opera's psychomancers must've known you'd be keen to play this particular song on repeat -- Hoping this time the tune would come out different somehow.

A thinker and a lover of the first order.

'Blood Type: Hecatomb' is the book you want.

Lesser people than you would feel embarrassed for being caught in such an act. Fortunately, you have the indifference of a low-class pervert.

It would be an honour to be the ground beneath a Luzian L-56. Their tracks print the initials of their most decorated generals.

If you overdo this you're going to break the economy.

It's Ignatz. The Weeping Eye would not let him live.

Five feet above your head, the bedroom window. Glass still bearing the dots and lines of bedtimes past, her fingers tracing a map of stars to guide the little ones to sleep.

Because of the Miracle Line. She thinks of you as a client.

She is a hostage to the phone.

Ooh, ooh, do the torture.

In retrospect, the whole thing smells like a massive set-up. Already the unseen enemy had you all in their grasp.

Your heart hollows. Just a thumping muscle where the feeling should be.

Stupid. No gifts. No drinks. No friends.

A wave of despair. The friends you abandoned, the promise of camaraderie you made a lie of.

You are going to turn him inside out with this.

Fuck that.

They began from the same point, but their lives have spiraled off in such different ways.

Ours, too!

Party Alley offers options in bulk, if one is looking for ground-level sources. Why him?

78mm barrel. Length: 150mm, maximum. Fifteen round magazine. And, crucially: the trigger's click must feel nice.

Go for polymer. You'll move with it, not against it.

You need to merge with the gun in your palm. Become one.

An index finger hammers on the mouse. One click, and time jumps forward by exactly one minute.

ALWAYS MORE WOLVES. A LUPINE REACTIONARY HORDE.

A life lived in a permanent state of war.

THE WAR-LOVING REACTIONARY CHALLENGES YOU IN THE IDEALOGICAL ARENA. WILL YOU STAND FOR IT?

Powered by two A4W nuclear reactors and four great steam turbines, this Lanza-class behemoth carried out the bombardment of the Western Provinces in 82.

AH-HA! SO SHE ADMITS THERE IS SOMETHING TO THE WHISPERS.

THIS PERVERSE COLLECTING MANIA CAN ONLY BE OVERCOME WITH AN IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSION. RECOMMENDED DURATION: ONE HOUR PER WOLF.

Veiled insinuation? Has he made you?

To the death, now. No quarter.

Psych. Evaluation #23 ('Childhood Fears') -- Subject CASCADE describes at length negative feelings associated with mother's personal study, which contained multiple graphic depictions of vintage whaling practices.

Psych. Evaluation #11 ('Emotional Response to Targeted Stimuli') -- Subject CASCADE responds poorly when faced with critique from a simulated maternal figure. Session devolves into name-calling and personal insults.

Voices chanting and singing -- words learned out of spite. The sound of Nestor's window slamming shut. He looks down over them, watching from behind a half-drawn curtain.

Checks