A.Journal

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The city hems you in. All of its potential escape routes suddenly seem like doors crudely painted on brick walls.

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You can't shake the feeling of being watched. Each curtained window in this city could be an eye.

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Its people blur with it. Some look up as the oldest aero-tram line in the city shudders high above them, a bird without wings.

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A window large enough for the stars to spill in.

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The universe is back in its place, but something feels different -- something you can't see.

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

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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.

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

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Except Vespar. He left a bit of a trail to chase, at least.

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In a place like this, it wouldn't be surprising if the kids were the ones who put them in here in the first place.

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If the inspectors begin to suspect something's amiss, they'll lock the machines down -- or worse, stop refilling them until they can be replaced with tamper-proof models.

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His ideas will spread across the city, passed down through generations, like paranoiac family heirlooms.

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A place where you grow up with the same people, watch their faces change, their dogs die. It's home.

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'Fell off' the back of a tuk-tuk.

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This structure is not stable. Anything could happen, withdraw your poker immediately.

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Her voice closer to the door. Cheek pressed against wood as she peers through the peep hole.

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The lock is for show. People don't steal from Carmuna out of respect.

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Look at these clothes -- she wouldn't know gare in a circus. It's absolutely the same man.

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The same man who followed you through the bazaar?

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She glances at her own wares, daring them to challenge her on the fact.

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Ground-level routes are architected, well-known, for the commoners. If you want in, there's no better way than up.

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And by some strange alchemy, somewhere is turned into nowhere.

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A man and a woman, comfortable and understated -- a quiet life lived on a well-beaten track.

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He still sweeps up there, though.

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Cities made of playing cards.

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A pointillistic map of the island, drawn in phone terminals.

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That structure is ready to give away almost entirely if you put any more weight on it.

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At the centre of the bazaar stands a mound of flesh, rendered in cotton. Reflective eyes, brown fur, a long tail.

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The Honour Stall in Party Alley might be a good first stop.

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Names over numbers. Old school community.

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Your eye gravitates toward the framed credentials on the wall, the dusty anatomical torso, all of it.

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He looks around the houseboat. It feels incomprehensible to him now. How he came to be on it.

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The Quisach backways are known more for fly-tipping and feral boars than for 'families'.

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Because this place feels hollow enough as is.

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Far off Portofiro's beaten tourist path.

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The girl glances at the window, searching the narrow portrait of the city beyond.

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The aimless, over-scarfed teen hanging around the plaza.

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He freezes, even his thigh hair seems to stand still in horror.

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Buildings like this do not conform to 'lists'. Their rules are ancient, etched on the underside of the keystone, transferred by psychic dispatch to anyone who stays within them long enough.

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No one will find your body down here. The water will cover you up.

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Direct line of sight to the Campaign from here. You can see all of Party Alley from its top floor.

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A near-fatal casualty of Party Alley. White collar, judging by his attire.

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That's the problem here. Everyone demands results, but no one's willing to stomach the cost.

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His steps trace no further back than the first floor of Foto 24.

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There's nothing down there either.