Blood nearby. A kill to be made.

The sign for the ritual of death to begin.

A spiraling column of amber and green lights, twenty stories deep, pulsing as one.

Strange man. Strange wishes. Strange destination.

Oh boy, you're finally going to get your steps in!

Above you, uncountable stars veiled by the scattering of blue light. Elsewhere, the bark of a small dog muffled by a window.

Above you, the evening's first stars blink into life. Elsewhere, the bark of a small dog muffled by a window.

Above you, a canyon of stars, framed by the buildings of the Housing Campaign. Elsewhere, the bark of a small dog muffled by a window.

Information has a half-life. At all times, windows close. Seize what is there.

A cost-benefit analysis. The probability of determining the why of him is near zero. Conversely, the utility of him is high.

He's not a puzzle. He's a lever.

A name whispered among tutors and veterans, invoked like a demon from a lost mythology.

The posture remains yet the gravity in the air thickens.

A name passes through your skull like a ghost, a shiver on its tail.

DISREGARD THE NON-ENTITY. PREVIOUS EFFORTS WERE SO 'HOT' THE PARTY GRANTED YOU FIVE YEARS IN THE FREEZER TO 'COOL YOUR JETS'.

But no one jumps out of anything. No one appears to fix your hair or tell you exactly what to say. It's just you, the man with the box for a heart, and a few metres off, the maintenance man going about his lonely offices.

A bead of cold sweat slides down your back, whispering 'no'.

Cue your main theme -- synth-driven, with a few woodwinds and an upright bass tossed in for organic effect.

Spoken like an old coach haunting the edge of a pitch.

Grounded, wet trail, retreated into his shell... not bad at all.

B diminished. Phantasmal. Soul rattling.

Enough said.

Your inner ear fills with the groans of ancient machinery, hydraulic mechanisms, your nostrils with the smell of exhaust and heavy fuel oils.

A place where the gäng can do gäng-stuff undisturbed.

One must think of multi-tiered privileges. Access granted or withheld via radio wave. Most likely off-the-shelf.

He's slightly baffled by your timing. That leaves him open for a follow-up.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Nothing at all, like a bell struck in a vacuum.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

The Luzian high caste known to be a box of scorpions. Internal elimination virtually assured.

Like the fresh scent of stone after rain.

And no one else to attest to what he saw. Over years the memory has smudged into dream.

In other words, he was in three places simultaneously, each separated by thousands of kilometres. A physical impossibility, unless...

A message to the world's intelligence agencies.

He can't be serious. The gastrointestinal system isn't designed to make those kinds of call.

He relishes the thought. He thinks it's funny.

Just like Ignatz said.

An effulgent burst of colours, the blast passing through buildings, turning bodies to particulate matter.

The dialectic assumes a predictable trajectory. It does fail to account for one thing.

Spoken like an artist admiring a rival's technique.

No playful jab, no implied wink. He doesn't know you met her.

THERE WAS AN ALTERNATIVE: TO RID THEMSELVES OF CAPITAL AND PROPERTY. THE LUZIAN BOURGEOIS FOUND BLOOD MYTHS PREFERABLE.

Basic tradecraft: if the mark is focused on the shiny coin in your hand, they won't feel the left slipping a wire around their neck.

No attempt at deception here.

And opens his memory house. An old remembrancer's trick.

A small comfort: he did not address you by name.

The Subcomandante's 'metaphysical superweapon' is useless, unless.... could it be he's found a way to reconstruct the red disc?

Strange. Somehow you do know where his studio is, despite having never been there before.

The Operant Bureau concurs with the null entity. You are not actually considering this.

Like a dead octopus smothered and forgotten about.

Checks