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Ah, ah! Maybe something like...

Easy? So, like... alphabet but reversed...

This is old news. You've cracked his stupid cipher.

Lastra was aiming big and bloody with this one.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A 'HUMBLE WARLORD'. FASCIST VS. FASCIST.

Around the words, a memory coalesces of HOLOCENE in his prime, novel held aloft.

In a very real sense, he has already passed beyond your reach.

Any operant who stares too long behind the stage curtain has historically gone insane.

The ego must perform a dissociative split before it can look back at itself and say 'I'.

NOW BURN IT TO PREVENT CONTAMINATION OF INCENDIARY IDEAS.

Pièce de résistance levels of self-confidence.

The longest you endured was eight and a half minutes. Basically an audio-disc.

Paper ages quickly exposed to the greasy, moist air around the docks. This hasn't been out here for more than a week.

An improvised welcoming party, here to greet the distinguished visitor from the People's Republics.

Each heavy with significance, all of it lost on you.

Say a prayer to Polaris.

A coastal wind slips through a ground-floor window and brushes a man's thinning hair. His eyes open, awash with impossible colours swirling like oil in water -- before closing again.

He's scared shitless.

LET HIM SPEAK. LET HIS LOOSE LIPS SINK THE SHIPS OF THE FASCISTS.

There's no craft here -- only despair.

You are very lucky that the maestro has your back.

He can't hold on for much longer.

Hurt. Everywhere.

Only his left eye looks at you. The other one seems to have lost focus and is well off-target.

Whose cat is that?

He is extremely out of joint.

Uh-oh gäng... incoming pity-party!

Uh-oh gäng... incoming pity-party!

This man is on the brink of complete defeat.

He has most likely had between one to seven drinks.

Its 'eyes' find yours, even through the haze of crimson.

You extracted a small lump or organic matter. You did not extract the brain.

No. There's nothing to consider. Your brain cells rebel at the thought.

'Small controller' or 'former double' -- both possible entities are devious in their intelligence.

YOUR ORDERS COME FROM THE OPERANT BUREAU, NOT FROM GRISTLE IN A JAR.

Parasite. Deceiver. Kill.

Death, real death. Whatever it was, you feel its little life force being violently snuffed out.

This never happened, operant.

This cannot have happened.

He may be a liability, but he is a beautiful one.

What a professional. Back with a vengeance.

A shiny meadow within a tangle of dark forest.

The mention of 'The Bank' makes you bristle.

You recognise the patch sewn into his pants. It's the Carriles de Portofiro's logo -- the oldest transit company in the city.

Behind the abstractions, an unopened envelope rests on a countertop, the words 'FINAL NOTICE' stamped across its front.

Merchandise. Bruises.

The hallowed god of hi-vis vests and hard hats.

Terror to most. But for those with a taste for it...

Pretty far up. But you'll be alright. Back on the ground in no time.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 40 of 74