You are surrounded by representations of his mind, in all its facets and incarnations.

The contact between stone and open flesh was a transference, an attempt to gain something that she does not have.

Leatherback turtles often emerge from unknown battles in the abyssal depths.

The irreverent self-image of a trickster people, eternal underdogs.

The burning, twitching gaze she fixes on you transmits the message with telepathic clarity -- you will not distract her -- she is onto you.

Somewhere beneath the Noscorrentes Sea, a bloated body turns to face the sky.

Somewhere within the warren-like streets of Lower Viudas, an old man pulls a pelota cap over his face and ducks into a neon-lit bookmakers.

At the bottom of a hidden jail, a trembling old man turns and looks at the blank space where a window should be.

A body in a ditch. A back alley arrest. A name scraped off a plaque and folded into bureaucracy. You'd assumed a lot, but not this sad half-death.

He can't face them again. A part of him still believes he let them down.

Pia mater: the thin, almost transparent final membrane protecting the brain. On top of which you found the small controller.

Just the tip.

He doesn't think it's for the best at all. Part of him is still hoping that the visions will arrive, albeit late.

Trepanation is hardly the most extreme thing an operant has done in pursuit of becoming a supranaturally-inclined spy. Nor is it, for that matter, the only one involving bodily mutilation.

Photons propelled through silver halide gelatine, nothing but the momentary flash of a false star.

The narrow space where anything which is not can safely exist within his mind.

As unfavourable as the scenario is, there is a comfort to seeing it lucidly played out before you.

Maybe breathing is slow-acting poison that takes eight decades to kill. Death's contingency when he can't get a clean shot at you.

HOLOCENE thinks, and the fog of war dissipates before the both of you. The landscape does not look inviting, but at least it is visible.

For a moment, you catch a glimpse of HOLOCENE's schematics, a machine of moving parts where the alteration of any single piece sends reverberations through the entire structure...

You hurt his feelings.

REACTIONARY THEORISING. HE SHOULD DIRECT THIS DOORSTOP-SIZED CRITIQUE INWARD AT HIS NEXT IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSION.

A banishment of mirrors.

Origin point for a long-held dream of being smothered by the firmament.

Operants of the Psychic Wars!

He's attempting Functional Invisibility again. Or 'Psychogenic Translucency', as M.I.H.O. calls it.

He doesn't move -- but you swear you feel the gentle weight of a hand upon yours.

Reason through this. There will be some logic, underneath it all.

Oh no. Oh no.

Describe the ginkyo tree.

So bitter you can taste it on your own tongue.

AS THE PEOPLE ARE MOVED TO SERVE THE STATE, LIKEWISE SHALL THEY BE MOVED TO SERVE THE STORY. A RARE POINT OF CONCURRENCE.

Missteps in the chromosomal dance, without which you and everyone else would still be proteins sloshing about in the primordial soup.

A wariness in his voice. Even now he thinks the Weeping Eye may have ears as well.

An urgent question bubbles to the top of our mind.

A shiver of electromagnetic interference.

What's wrong with the picture?

He misses this version of her the most.

Unmistakable. Parsing through his near-impenetrable theatre reports could often feel like full-tilt hallucination.

His eyes peer through an inverse cascade of smoke.

His eyes suggest that he could give you one, if you really wanted it.

He is daring you to doubt him further.

There is something you can perceive through his layers, but the form is too opaque to make out.

All of life's waiting rooms.

Look at him with a sympathetic stare.

The corners of the mouth vibrate pathetically against the rags that stuff it, gagging the scream in its throat.

The day hasn't even begun, and already his hands are dripping with the blood of your sometime-asset.

ZERO OUT THE GRAND LICH OF TECHNO-FASCISM.

Your adversary's grudging acknowledgement is the greatest compliment you can receive.

No matches found in the facial archives, and yet the voice...

Checks