She sends a worried look to the door. Pascal sits beyond.

Alone in her apartment, knife under her pillow. She dreads the sound of footsteps approaching her door -- until she learns to recognise his.

The spoils of working for EMTERR.

She sets her jaw, taking you in as if for the first time.

She hasn't seen us. We could still rün.

Here it comes...

Translation: You're talking guff, Wilk.

You hear someone laugh, loudly, on the roof above.

That was a threat.

Consider the fate of Operant NOTION, eviscerated by a rogue GentleNight-5000 in Western Hvârda. This asset has much to learn about modified euthanasia robotics.

Fuck...

And somewhere beyond them: the shores of La Luz.

His words uncertain, his bearing unsteady. Drunk, possibly high?

YOUR COUNTER-OFFER IS THIS: A BULLET TO HIS REACTIONARY SKULL.

As he attempts to straighten himself, he lists to one side like a wounded battle-cruiser.

He could pass for a simple drunk, waiting around for his off-licence to open.

A top-heavy piece, just waiting to be flicked off the board.

A distant look comes over him as he sways to and fro, one foot in the present, one in the memory.

He seems to be perplexed by his own question.

Unfortunately, he's right.

Playing dumb. Squeeze harder and he'll burst.

Seeing something beyond, or absent from, his immediate surroundings.

That's not a denial.

This old fool just wants to live. He's just trying to get under your skin.

A rustling sound, like a bag of dry leaves.

A useless death. A small, fleshy monument to futility.

There is no 'occasion'. Nothing has happened. All is right with the world.

No parade, and no funeral, either.

Milk fills the glass of his eyes.

It's only when he starts running that you realise how inebriated he truly is.

THIS HABIT OF RELEASING THE PEOPLE'S ENEMIES IN YOUR POSSESSION WOULD MAKE EVEN THE MOST FORGIVING ETHICS COMMITTEE QUESTION YOUR ALLEGIANCES.

LICH OR NOT, THAT'S ONE OF THE PEOPLE'S ENEMIES YOU JUST RELEASED. EVEN THE MOST FORGIVING ETHICS COMMITTEE WOULD CALL YOUR ALLEGIANCES INTO QUESTION.

Where would I go, if I were me?

Nose to the air. Take in the scent.

The mandibles on the stag beetle are fully the size of its body. Obvious physical superiority.

He's none-too-discreetly hiding a cigar-sized joint under his wrist.

He's got secret pockets of old smoke inside his body!

Don't be distracted by the tiger beetle's iridescent shell, look at it's eyes -- the eyes of a killer.

Eyes strained from low light. Fingers blistered.

No calendars, no clocks. Days bleeding into one another; waves eating the shoreline.

The book flashes open for a moment -- you see that the margins are black with annotations furiously scribbled out on almost every page.

Something feline in his eyes, too. An intelligence, but utterly dissimilar from any kind you know.

An equal mix of 'old people' and 'immunity to fun'.

Ramses was white lithium grease and hash. Vespar: leather, salt, sour pear. Karolina, often up programming all night, wafted coffee wherever she went.

Also: Frigid, judgmental, and eminently punch-able.

They only bloom at dawn -- most of the day, nearby buildings block out the light.

When you were quite small, there was a jasmine plant that trailed over the neighbour's fence. Knowing they could be made into tea, you took a flower and popped it in your mouth one autumn morning.

It tasted like perfume -- floral, bitter. The flavour lingered on your tongue all day.

You could build a garland of the small white blooms, wear it in your hair. Trail a path of perfume behind you.

Then, whenever you get zeroed out, she'll have to spend the rest of her life avoiding perfume counters, tea rooms, and community gardens.

Checks