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

A knot of tension forms between your eyes. Once again you're a step behind.

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.'

Too quick, too distant -- he disappears from your line of sight.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

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.

His hands have been wedged in his hoodie pockets since you approached.

He may try and shoot you again.

A genuine question.

Unproven gäng, surprise gäng... yet undeniably dashing gäng.

A grown man in a pink hoodie should be laughable... and yet...

Ignatz was right. The idiot was hiding gold in that hideous coat all along.

You've never seen the man before either, but the horripilation up your neck tells you exactly who he is.

Uh oh. An unknown quantity. You don't care for those.

The thought itself seems to echo and rebound off the curved concrete.

If this were a trap then he wouldn't have been so cagey about his client.

Checks