Barely.

She means it. She's with you, no matter what.

Wants to kill you. Won't try.

Like everyone, you are susceptible to the human impulse to find order within your environment.

We can rub it in their little faces!

A woman leans in close over a monochrome plastic cup. The lights of the factory are harsh, and her eyes water. She licks the tip of her tiny paintbrush -- a few hairs in width -- and carefully applies a dollop of green paint to the polycarbonate wolf's eyeball.

As it should!

Perfect. Now activate pilot-tone injection at 997 Hz, -20 dBm, below conversation level. You'll be able to follow the magnetic bleed.

No regular crime scene, not just motive and victim -- an echo of fairytale, tracings of black magic. Everything glows in the dark.

Askew on nearby shelves, a stereo system, blinking on standby. They used that to drown out the noise.

The stereo system is facing away from the couch. Think about this suboptimal room layout for a moment -- it's much easier than looking at the blood.

Hopefully he went out riding the high white hörse. All the way to heaven.

You imagine him getting his last licks in, dying roaring, slower than they betted on, all teeth and fury and cunts.

Tempo had never begged for anything in his life. The words felt unnatural, covered in blood and spit, the coke long-faded, an odd fit for his last: 'Stop. Please. I don't want to die.'

A slow, cold needle to your soul.

ALL TREATIES ARE HEREBY DENOUNCED. PREPARE FOR OPEN WAR.

For now.

A jagged mouth pressed against phone receiver: 'It's CASCADE or nothing! And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

Gäng's very troubled. The secret feds darked out our friend.

Pointless theatrics only get you remembered. Real professionals wear faces.

That bag looks oddly rigid -- probably lined with copper mesh to block radio frequencies.

Bagman's been flooding the city with these. They're designed to be taken home.

A reality-check.

You've found the source of the song, a haunting in a box.

Don't let her hear your surprise. Volley it back.

Ahead of you -- there.

There is no need of 'I', only a dumb hand unwise to its purpose.

The enemy's knife turned against its own throat.

Your task etches itself in the folds of your subconscious.

Her voice. Your ear.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Someone's kicking in the doors of your heart.

Already the outlines of the whole picture are beginning to shimmer. Your fingers tingle at the chance to fill them in.

A chance to put the gäng back together.

You've already given over to yourself. These words are simply gestures to be performed.

By contrast, the international market for Proletfolk consists of five geriatric scenesters on a commune outside Capoblanco.

You can practically feel her pinching the bridge of her nose as she says 'tiebreakers'.

Veering wildly between the formalities of her role and her desire to speak plainly. She's been drinking.

Vana Kohila. Treacly liqueur. Her usual.

Thus, a terrible synthesis is born.

Personnel assignments by day, disposal of off-the-record holdings by night.

'Human capital' -- the euphemism makes your stomach turn on itself.

Sincere.

A note of concern for the company you've been keeping.

Let's be real: Your controller doesn't get it. You need gold coating on the barrel. You need little skulls carved into the grip. And what about having two triggers on there?

Ghosts descend from the rafters of the city.

No phoneline is safe when he's on your side.

Rolls a great spliff, too.

The girl, Yana.

On the north wall of the Novessa Palace of Culture. The only memorial departed servants of the Operant Bureau ever receive.

Checks