His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

Somewhere down the line is a makeshift switchboard with six phones manned by six bored assets. One of those assets is listening in on this call.

The Housing Campaign, bathed in purple light. A man in a brown jacket and no pants looks up into the face of an angel. She regards him with radiant indifference.

One hundred photographs. A family of strangers.

A TRAITOR TO HER CLASS, A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE. THE PARTY WILL SEE THAT SHE'S REWARDED WITH A PRIVATE ROOM IN THE LABOUR CAMPS.

Her eyes reflect the glow of the terminal screen. She's been at her desk for fourteen hours today.

There'll be plenty of time to think of a more personally satisfying answer while you're on the boat. Alone.

They won't.

'Sounds like a first stab'.

A heart without its ribcage.

Except for the old Kohilan hands, who used to call it 'potatoes two ways'.

Except for the old Kohilan hands, who called it 'potatoes two ways'.

Memetic contagion. A massive risk to any modern organisation.

A liquid supper.

A can of Vana Kohila. Horizontal in the bottom of her purse.

A woman glides upside down, chanting. The sun revolves outside the window.

Spring morning. The girl tugs her father's hand. She presses her nose against the cool glass. A double-deck commuter train, 1/160 scale, rattles across a miniature country scene.

Fig. 1452: a linocut of an early diving suit, so primitive that the explorer had to be sewn into it before he went under — and cut free after surfacing.

Talk your way into the supply line.

Dositeo Fernandez... nevermind.

This conversation is many levels beneath the cat. It knows what it thinks.

That's... that's none of his business.

There's no need for counter-measures, this man is deluding himself.

He might cry later.

He's a little afraid of you now.

It's far from the first time he's been threatened like this.

All the time?

This is not your fault. The risks were the risks. This is not your fault.

Your fault. Un-fixable. Fucked.

Closing the neat nutritional loop as the culture digests itself.

A scab across his heart he can't quite stop picking.

HE HAS DISCOVERED A WAY TO BRIDGE CYNICISM AND EARNESTNESS. THIS METHOD REQUIRES STUDY.

Afternoon matinee -- plush red carpet, the frosted glass windows of the box office reflecting warm orange light.

Thirty-two.

That's inspiration, baby.

He wants you to tell him that it's not bullshit. He wants it to be real.

The reigniting of a custom you'd feared lost forever.

The world shrinks to the here and now.

Don't tell him. There's a reason we keep it inside, where it doesn't hurt too much.

The air gets heavier, as if you were being annexed by gravity.

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

He's alone, and not expecting any backup.

Gun gäng! Gun gäng! Gun gäng!

But you're faster.

In a small recording studio deep in the Housing Campaign, a man slips his arms into an old military-style coat. He pops a tablet of pure L-theanine. On the desk nearby, a brown paper bag, reinforced with ultra-thin foil, waits for the head that will unleash its power.

'Machine Gun King', if your limited Tsunese serves you well.

Not exactly how you would be best described.

Very you, in other words.

Checks