Where is that 'subeditor'? When is she going to spring the trap?

No way out but through. The deal. You're here for the deal.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

At the base of your skull, a tickle in your brainstem.

THE BANKER AND THE SECRET POLICEMAN IN PASSIONATE, TONGUE-HEAVY EMBRACE. THE PEOPLE'S STOMACH TURNS.

Enough chatter. Get out of this place while you're still able.

You can practically hear the fetid water sloshing about his feet.

A shift in his tone. Barely disguised concern.

Tactical misfire -- always leave yourself a clean exit.

Hemmed in. Not even a shadow to hide under.

Another piece of the outline begins to fill itself with colour and detail.

You picture your interlocutor, ankle-deep in dirty water, less than a metre away. He's not used to standing this long. He rests his arm atop the intercom's cool metal.

Your mind hums. Your inner eye awakens.

The way he pronounces the name tells you there's no love lost there.

No, it still matters a great deal. This little corner of the outline refuses to be filled in for now.

Speakers spaced out, the reverberant pop, pop, pop of the ball's ricochet echoes off the bar's high ceiling.

You study their movements carefully -- a beautifully choreographed display of physical prowess.

Thin ribbons of the old fabric sewn into the tops of their socks.

BY DESIGN. THE ARCHITECTS OF THE DEVELOPED WORLD WOULD HAVE YOU ACCEPT AN ENDLESS CYCLE OF CONSUMPTION AND DECAY.

The television may be dusty and broken, but it is not yet its time to go to the scrap heap. Salvation is possible.

The document has to be displayed, by law. Operating an unlicensed clinic inside the city limits is strictly prohibited.

He wouldn't have willingly given up a career that meant so much to him.

A fellow Freezer-mate. This boat is his Satellite Facility B.

Your experiences are not universal.

Ghosts, gathered.

In times of uncertainty people naturally gather in large groups, perceiving safety in numbers. This behaviour is widely observed even when the opposite is true.

More specifically, it's an onagadori -- an ornamental rooster bred for its long tail.

The key that requires a key.

Beside you, a gradual upshift in HOLOCENE's energy.

Operant, please. This kind of stagecraft takes application, a methodology. You can't just dash it off.

His voice a ten tonne weight.

With fear, or maybe rage that the past should repeat itself so shamelessly.

There they go. Your people.

... 'constitutes the single greatest tactical catastrophe in the Operant Bureau's history'...

Thud thud thud. The secret police of your heart are kicking down doors again.

THIS IS NOT OVER. YOU WILL MAKE HIM POST-HISTORICAL.

The assignment is lost. You no longer exist. Bite down on the poison. Turn the gun on yourself.

'Courage, CASCADE.'

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

SHEDDING ITS OLD SKIN, A LAUDABLE ACT OF SELF-CRITICISM.

It's the damp. Your lungs have probably aged two years since stepping foot in this office.

In sync with the snap of his fingers, halfway across the world a young man in the midst of his birthday celebrations is stricken to the ground with an aneurysm.

The smell of nearing death is all over you. Maybe not yours.

His hands are dripping with the blood of your asset.

It is happening. The pain just hasn't hit yet.

He knows, but he does not necessarily know you know. This smallest of advantages you can retain.

Shattering even the faintest confidentiality at the last moment. You are now exposed on every level possible.

A natural intensity of gaze. The eyes that weigh you up do so coldly, openly, and with genuine curiosity.

Not dying, already dead.

Profound indifference exudes from him.

Checks