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Her voice sounds like she's clenching her jaw -- an internal battle won at the cost of enamel.

Her voice wobbles, poor thing.

THEY ARE BEYOND ALL HELP, THE LATEST CASUALTIES OF LA LUZ'S CULTURAL WARFRONT. LIQUIDATION WOULD BE MERCY.

Their fidelity to the concept of fidelity is laudable.

A LINE STRAIGHT FROM A PROPAGANDIST'S BLOODIED MOUTH. GULAG.

Given your assignment... she's not far off.

Rain from sky-smeared cloud pools in the cracked pavement.

Somewhere nearby, a stray creature grunts as it tousles through long-discarded things.

Her claws are out, but the throat's unguarded.

SHE WILL REGRET THAT VISION-IMPAIRING HEADGEAR.

Could be. Isn't. He's somewhere nearby.

She meant that. Delusional.

Maybe little pale lies draw her attention to the pitch black one at the core of this relationship.

Relieve the pensioner of his plastic propaganda.

If we were dolphins we'd be a Whole Sick Pöd.

So this is what it's like to have a pod. It's nice.

It's so nice having a friend.

He smiles shyly as if this is a good thing.

Damn right there isn't. You could do flips over this sofa that would put the dolphins to shame.

A still adolescent face. Small glittering lips move as if summoning a spectre from the distant future. This must be early Ultra Violeta.

Like an actor asking the director: 'Are we rolling?'

YOU HAVE BEEN CENSORED.

A touch of desperation, there.

Oh no... and we fucked up his postbox...

His brows meet, then he smiles knowingly. He's about to tell you a secret.

Too polite to allow himself to accept what you've said.

He has felt it too.

Pain is a nociceptive signal -- a response triggered by actual or perceived tissue damage.

Fringe health theorist, frowned upon by most medical bodies in the People's Republics and the Developed World. Owns dozens of 'wellness centres' across Tsun's Arc, and millions of followers.

That's how he makes sense of the world, there's no need to fall for it.

This is an old man, coping with existence by clinging on to a nonsense routine. Let it be.

The sound of boots, the warmth of people and a simple, stupid, stubborn hope.

THERE IS A POCKMARKED FIRING WALL AWAITING THE OPERANTS WHO ENTERTAIN THESE REACTIONARY DREAMS, EVEN IN THE PRIVACY OF THEIR OWN MIND.

A technofascist future dawns.

Careful, you need a working camera for Ignatz's gig. No batteries, no gig.

Fück that guy, and fück his creep gig.

Futuristic, yet legible. Cool.

A FASCIST DREAM OF A WORLD ENTIRELY MEDIATED BY MACHINES. THROW IT AWAY. THROW IT AWAY NOW.

This technology does not belong to your generation. You have stumbled by chance onto something that not even your grandchildren were meant to be looking at.

It's been scrubbed clean more than once, to banish graffiti, paste, grime.

It still looks cool. It would look even cooler in your room, if you've changed your mind.

A board of wood and chalk, a too-small iron chair. On the blackboard: SAFEHOUSE BASICS. 1 - There are two types of safehouse, defensive and offensive...

Yet another poster that would look awesome on the wall above your bed.

Alright, hear this out: how about this poster for the wall next to your bed?

The soft pink hue, the artfully arranged petals... 'Condolences for my Actions' drips with tasteful remorse.

The verge of a smirk. She likes watching your fingers flail.

Fingers. Inside. Melita.

Its sheer grammage can barely be contained!

Dust gathers on everything. This place has been preserved exactly as it was once left -- months or even years ago.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 7 of 74