She smooths her skirt as she stands, slipping from her desk and walking over to an ancient mainframe -- LITOST's altar.

That pause wasn't hesitation, it was mourning. She's grieving a less disappointing version of you.

Hard, abrupt words.

You were never told. No formal directive, no rationale. He simply appeared two days after you did, already briefed.

Parallel placement. You recruit assets, he evaluates network stability.

An acceptable sacrifice.

Push a little. You can get it out of her.

He didn't want to change his assignment. He wanted to change what it meant.

Uhhh... this just sounds like talking to HOLOCENE.

The Steel Rod Night Bitch is sealed shut!

Her last three words flutter across the inside of your mind, casting quick new shadows as they pass.

You might be able to suss out one more detail before this call implodes upon you.

Ground-level routes are architected, well-known, for the commoners. If you want in, there's no better way than up.

He slides right back into his old skin.

Roughly: 'Defeated, but incapable of surrender.'

A recent darkening night. Dr. Gonza waits in his office chair. Unable to show his usual bravado, unable even to say 'Board', he surrenders to the sadistic mercies of whoever and whatever comes through his door.

Nickin' meds by the trolley. Proper smash and grab.

It's pointless to argue. You won't be stopping him.

Hunger's good.

Unarmed, armed... high, disabled, maimed, dead -- there's nothing that could put Ramses off the job at this point.

Sweet mercy! That's no human waveform!

His personal sedentary yoga - hunched, elbows on his knees, staring at the device from zero distance.

We remember hazy footage of a bright flame on a small television screen...

A tuk-tuk pulls up on the dock. A young woman peers through her window. Two men step out, and walk towards the houseboat. Something is wrong.

The paint is chipped and worn. These figurines have been well-loved, played with often.

Callsigns aren't meant to be flattering. So if he was named after a bird known for its wayfinding...

A dirty little city bird. A winged rat.

What they did to him is the reason why he can't speak.

His reward was severe.

A particularly brutal annexation, the Tenantries were razed almost to the ground. What remains is a shrunken capital surrounded by non-arable land.

THE TECHNO-FASCISTS WOULD BRAND HIM THE SECOND HE LANDED, AND HE KNOWS IT. THEN THEY WOULD GET CREATIVE.

He means 'buy me a round'.

You know what he means, but you can't help it: an apple-sized dollop of lard melts between hand and chest as you massage grey-tufted folds of old skin.

That smirk. Like he's somehow gotten one over on fate.

Were the talks not currently on hold, Portofiro would be being carved up by the drunken and otherwise degenerate diplomats representing the two rival powers of EMTERR and La Luz even now.

Bandying about the fact that you're no common civilian is tantamount to wearing a sign.

And by some strange alchemy, somewhere is turned into nowhere.

The stories affect them as much as any listener. They reopen the wound with every telling.

LIKE VULTURES TO A DYING ANIMAL. CARRION-TO-BE.

He will not lower it. Defiance keeps it aloft.

In his perennial lasciviousness, he's trying to throw a lifeline to his friend.

The fleeting shapes of ghost-words flit through your vision.

An example, to prove the Developed World was 'serious' about cracking down on human trafficking.

Pain and pleasure, revulsion and attraction, all irremediably tangled.

Caught out. Fair play.

Envious.

PSEUDOPOD. It's as though he had been as much of a nonperson when he was alive as he is now.

The filthy communality is what they get off on.

You cannot rule out the possibility that she is a spy, that the vein has already been tapped.

Mild generalized discomfort. You have pointed out the elephant in the room.

Checks