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Don't let her down -- become the operant she needs you to be.

This is wrong. You shouldn't be here. This should be happening to someone else.

It takes all your concentration to keep the receiver steady against your ear.

Heavy words. Words that set machinery in motion.

Five-thousand kilometres away, in a small office deep underground, a mid-level controller of the Operant Bureau leans forward and cups a hand over her earpiece.

She's wondering how long till she can have a drink. Treacly liqueur from a can. It's been several hours since her last.

You feel the receiver slipping from your sweaty palm.

Barely audible: a mechanical hum.

Such majestic buildings always have multiple points of access -- better look around.

One door closes, another opens -- there must be another way in.

The camera whirrs.

Both of those things can't be true.

Checks out. No discrepancies detected.

'No' is not an answer.

A list you're meant to be on.

There's a delicate balance to be maintained here.

This has to be Reno's pied-a-terre. He's one of the only people in Portofiro who can afford such material luxuries.

Sterile, discreet, professional. This is who you call in when you're paranoid that 'regular help' might molest the contents of your apartment.

When the things you're cleaning up after are especially sensitive in nature.

El Dolor de Viudas. Extremely popular at pelota matches and the main cause of Portofiro's looming epidemic of atherosclerosis.

El signo del Vega. Angel of ancestors and bringer of the new year.

Some astrological thing -- who can keep track of it all?

This tuk-tuk has recently suffered a rear-end collision.

The cleaner's face obscured from clients who'd rather not have to acknowledge the humanity of their janitorial staff.

It vaguely resembles a giant sausage, an organ stuffed with flesh, processed and squeezed into shape.

The tram wires crackle above you, as if charged with new energy.

Nothing to do with M.I.H.O. If it came to it, he would've taken ten more bullets on his way to you.

His eyes, while not quite lighting up, definitely kindle at the prospect.

A life sacrificed on the altar of her cover.

Precisely where an artist's signature would go.

Let queen bitch have it!

That's not a real apology -- it's an insignificant scrawl on a pre-vandalised note.

Objectively true. She is all but a professional narc.

But someday -- maybe very soon -- CASCADE will be 'NEVER 4 EVER'.

The inverse flash of sudden blackness--

An instant of sheer confusion before the panic can kick in--

No one else knows about the disc, how could your attacker be looking for it?

Hold on. That sound... was that crinkling paper?

She's getting up. After her.

A rustle of paper and clanging metal as your attacker flees up the stairs.

Either she can see in dark, or she's got every inch of the terrain memorised.

Alright gäng, just breathe. Let's take a moment to gather ourselves.

Body: uninjured, if somewhat rattled.

Robbery attempt: foiled.

Mind: profoundly confused.

Body: no major injuries, though you've sustained quite a beating.

Dignity: in tatters.

Operant status: ready to shuffle your way back into cold storage.

A deranged fan... or a representative.

There are no common muggers at the bottom of abandoned rocket silos. This was targeted.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 44 of 74