You imagine her crumpled and dead from a stray bullet, blood running down the front of her mirrored sunglasses.

Good. If she's bullet fodder then she won't be able to distract you any more.

Solo-karaoke, no one around to hear her shout-singing along to the griefsludge disc she keeps in her bag for days like this.

You're all doomed.

She's savouring it.

Behind her mirrored sunglasses, she's around your age.

This is a normal woman, doing her normal job. She has no clue that she's just ferried up a contingent of the Weeping Eye.

She's playing it too normal. File under 'Goon, potential'.

Right. Alcohol is known to damage the brain, after all.

The real question -- how did he get them to serve him?

Transparent liquid, normal glass, ice cubes and crushed leaves. Appears to be something-tonic.

UNQUESTIONING, UNWAVERING ACCEPTANCE. EXACTLY WHAT THE PARTY DEMANDS.

Something about the look in his eyes tells you he'll be with you till they come to mop the blood up.

He's a good luck charm. A rabbit's paw you wear around your neck.

The autopilot is immaculate, all things considered.

Opposable thumbs- check.

The vacant smile hits you like a bag of bricks.

A mixture of guilt and the desire to lobotomise him even more comes over you.

He has been subjected to the 'Hershel Wilk Special'. The history of all your former assets, condensed into just a few days.

The nagging idea that you should just finish the job accosts you.

Just take him on the assignment with you. He'll catch a stray one, and the problem will solve itself.

Based on the reports from Constanz and Melita, he certainly wasn't like this before.

YOUR AUTHORITY, DEAD IN THE WATER.

He's not just saying it. He has actually understood.

Congratulations. You have made your point, and in doing so, you have toppled one of his few psychic pillars.

He swallows hard. You can practically see him pushing the emotions and thoughts down his throat.

He strips you naked with his gaze, on his expression a desire that is not lust.

Not the bald spot! The font of luck.

He's like a laboratory where you can see what you actually think, stripped of all niceties.

He half hopes he won't. It would solve all his problems, a simple bullet to the head...

All frames of reference have gone to shit. He's second-guessing his every conception of basic social norms.

A tiny reflected Hershel stares back at you, framed in hair.

It's never going to work like that. You have to believe.

EXERCISE YOUR AUTHORITY, AND HE WILL FOLD.

You're milking your lucky cow dry, take it easy on him. Once a day is more than enough.

ECONOMIC HUMILIATION. A BASE METHOD, BUT EFFECTIVE.

New post-assignment achievement: Zero out PSEUDOPOD.

Every once in a while he accidentally wanders close to the edges of his limited experience in the world, and when he does a deep and primal fear enters his eyes.

Is that the problem? Do you have to fuck your imprint? Is that the only way to resolve the hatred between you?

It's not obliviousness, at least not primarily-- there's something else holding him back..

Fear. One foot back in that place, and his fantasies about being the original will collapse on him.

A tiny reflected Hershel stares back at you, framed in hair.

The last time you spoke, there was a hint of desperation in how he insisted he was the original. Not anymore. Now he's had days to indoctrinate the idea into himself.

He has made it clear he will betray you first chance he gets. A treacherousness so overt, it is somehow easier to deal with.

The vicinity displays a marked absence of 'new friends'.

He's like a laboratory where you can see what you actually think, stripped of all niceties.

Nothing short of an in-theatre liability and, what's worse, one that's auto-generating false lore in real time.

It's in the air. In the smell of your sweat, in the rhythm of your breathing.

It's never going to work like that. You have to believe.

It's exactly the way those kids learn the lore from their wolf show -- fiction imbibed with a seriousness that outstrips anything in real life.

Checks