You don't have to use it to sell it.

Do we need to be part of his gäng? Seems like the safest option.

Of course. Religion is a drug for the masses -- it's code.

Hard to tell if he's genuinely worried about being exposed, or it's just part of the sell.

He's scanning you, as he has scanned many before.

A coded question. He needs to be let 'in' enough on the details to be willing to open himself up to risk.

His posture spells it out: not at the moment, at least.

It's not the lines he cares about. Only your reactions to his reactions.

Thud in your chest. Heart skipped a beat.

Steel. Superior feedback -- every bullet shuddering, while you remain still.

Safety. No impact on performance, and it makes a really nice 'click' too.

Something to keep your arm steady when it gets heated. Ultimate stability.

At the Novessa Greenhouse, you and the other would-be operants were trained on steel. There's something comforting in the familiarity.

No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

Funny. Didn't seem like he had any problems asking that.

His balance is off today. He's favouring his left leg, like the right one can't be trusted. Like it hurts.

Old Viúdas shifted around him. There was a route traced for him, but he veered off. Around the corner, a car kept waiting, engine ticking. In the trunk: carpet and old rope.

He's tired. The kind of tired that comes from getting through the wrong version of the night.

Triple-stitched premium nylon. Expensive.

Manufactured in Kino's Gambit. Slide coated in dark-grey finish. Fixed barrels, ported. Machined for high-accuracy pressure.

The killer inside you grins.

The look of a kid pretending to be an adult in a room full of consequences.

STATE-ISSUED, LOOTED OFF A CORPSE, OR SELF-PRODUCED. THAT IS HOW YOU GET A GUN. WRITE IT DOWN.

The tension before a stand-off is known to him, engrained.

This is a man who knows guns, the mess they make. He doesn't throw out threats like that lightly.

His smirk's gone. Just a tight line now, barely there.

Quick, pull your gun on him again. Just for kicks.

Professionally? Low-triple digits, by the time they put you in the Freezer.

You robbed the man and left. An apology isn't undeserved.

Easy there. No recognition on his end. Not even a hint.

Your opacity holds. Pretend this is the first time you two have ever met.

Poor guy. He had such a rough night.

You've seen this kind of bravado before. He's running some kind of side-hustle.

Easy -- he's obviously not harbouring a grudge.

Worried.

In another life, he'd have made a fine operant.

A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

He can't take his eyes off your outfit. Must be jumpy around law enforcement.

THERE IS NO AUTONOMY WITH THE BANK'S ROTTEN TEAT IN YOUR MOUTH.

Shit. We're about to get shot for a third time.

You hear excited screams from behind you.

A figure so storied that some inevitably got lost.

'Nestorismo' -- Nestor's personal brand of politics. It meant whatever he meant at that moment.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Made by a bullet, undoubtedly. Things were getting heated in this Portofiran People's Assembly.

This structure is not stable. Anything could happen, withdraw your poker immediately.

THRUST PROUDLY INTO THE ORIFICE. CONFIRM THE STRUCTURAL AND IDEOLOGICAL IDENTITY OF THE PARTY HEADQUARTERS.

A chill runs down your spine as the true meaning of her words sinks in.

Pointless to wonder. Best to steel yourself and carry on regardless.

The huntress balks. The fear inside her is the germ of that which one day will become religion -- an intuition of powers existing beyond, outside her world.

Checks