No need to slam a door you might want to use later.

The respect is begrudging, but true.

You're simply doing what you were made to do. You can't expect him to understand.

Machine matters are never simple. Boo, Ignatz.

It can feel it.

He seems surprised somehow, as if he willed it to materialise in his hands.

He knew that already.

Why does he not sound impressed then?

Rows of cables, desks and shuttered windows above a very cold basement.

Barely concealed bliss.

He's about to blow.

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.

It's hard to see any resemblance to the proud, mustachioed leader behind the coloured hair, the spindly pale legs, and the permanent sneer.

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.

Checks