The concern might be well placed -- he is a master spy and you are a mere sub-lead on his assignment.

Maybe he's got himself fooled.

Like the fax machine in Foto 24. Another misaligned paper tray.

OBSERVE THE CAPITALIST BOX AS IT RELIEVES ITSELF OUT OF FEAR. MOCK IT SO IT KNOWS HOW PATHETIC IT LOOKS.

The poor thing's been abandoned. Left to pickle in the bitter piss of passing drunks.

Karolina's chest rises and falls, her blue, paper-thin eyelids twitching.

His fingers go to her hair, reflexive. Blunt nails scratching gently against her scalp.

Beneath his self-deprecating exterior there is something genuine -- sensitive, loving, hopeful.

And beneath that is the part that desperately wants to hear the whole sordid tale.

No smug self-satisfaction here -- just pride.

Punchable face. Begging for your fist.

Spittle? In your barrel? Who knows where that mouth has been?

The fabric of his oversized shorts begins to sway.

Not the first time he's taken a hit like this. Not even close.

He can't help her. He's tried.

An old-school, derogatory term for spies.

Most likely overheard during one of his father's notorious tirades.

Translation: They have no ideas and no money.

The fantasy of the eternal studio-hang is more vivid in his mind than any actual 'production' that might occur there.

They haven't written a word.

He has no idea how many parts of his life bear your fingerprints.

Karolina's never told him that Tempo was your asset, too.

Know them? You introduced her to them.

And demand is high. Higher than it's ever been.

A criminal syndicate like that will come for him eventually. Nicely at first. Then with weapons.

An infamous image, from Nestor's 64 campaign -- the dictator, holding a baby with his own face superimposed over the infant's, moustache and all -- 'Soy Nestor'.

He assumes he won't make it past 40.

Same nose. Same dark eyes. Wildly different posture.

Other people's distaste is a warm blanket, familiar in its itchiness.

Sure, you could use that as an excuse for your ignorance. Or you could just admit that the Hershel of five years ago was somehow even more self-centred than the Hershel of today.

In truth, it was Portofiro that got 'fucked' when the local economy collapsed and EMTERR swept in with another round of 'stabilisation' packages that only tightened its clamp on the city's collective throat.

Sense memory.

The comparison to his sire is inevitable. He's resigned himself completely to the umbilical tie -- a noose, a lifeline.

A name he has no business knowing.

KINDRED. You played down the cryptonym when she asked you about it half-drunk one night. Nothing to it, you shrugged. First name that came to mind. Which wasn't a lie -- it was the first. You just also happened to mean it.

Blatantly incorrect. Evidence of a malformed creative spirit.

His father directed a whole city-state -- he wants to do the same, minus the hassle of elections, or governance, or approval ratings.

Pussified behaviour.

DYNASTIC INHERITANCE, SQUANDERED! NEPOTISTIC FOOLISHNESS, DELUSIONS OF GENETIC SUPREMACY.

He knows without a doubt that you are not a real cop, and is playing along solely for his own amusement.

He finds his girlfriend's dark past equal parts enraging and intriguing.

He was born within one. Knows little else.

Don't act surprised. The network was blown, this was inevitable.

There hasn't been a movie shown in this theatre in years. It was already closed when you were in Portofiro last, vacant and waiting.

Also, notably, hidden out of sight in the back somewhere.

The sort of people making heavy 9-minute epics with a target audience of mind-altered twenty-somethings.

Ooh! Score! Hit a nerve with that one. Dig your little fingers in.

Your vanities are not so different.

The realization of yet another carefully maintained lie in a lifetime full of them.

Totally unperturbed by the paranormal.

Checks