Happy. Floaty. Dank.

A good operant knows when to wait, and when to imbibe.

Who's Placid Wolf's guy? Where can we get some?

Pleasantries exchanged. Time to move on, operant.

Forget the pen. Talk to this woman and inquire about this 'Trust'.

Goosebumps rise on your neck.

Reminded of her loss, the liqueur tastes like honeyed grief on her tongue.

Her voice sounds distant, like she's already putting down the receiver.

The excitement, the anticipation, it's all got you feeling a little on edge.

This is a topic she will not allow herself to get into.

The Dream of Rustam. For eighty years, there were no kings or bosses -- only open councils, grain cooperatives, and radio poets. As the Developed World spread, the Dream cracked.

Carabineros: Portofiro's sanctioned police investigators. They report directly to the Prefectura and deal in actual crime -- murder, grand larceny, rape.

It wouldn't do for an Azzurri associate to be too close to a carabinero, and vice-versa.

His employer? What's he heard?

Portofiro's largest organised crime syndicate. Who he no doubt works for.

So that's it. He's gone.

Asset VIRTUE: confirmed ZEROED OUT.

Should have went west at the roundabout, by the sounds of it, not east.

The bullet by your heart twitches, then stills.

Out of the question. He must be able to get you something sooner than that.

This path can only end badly, for the both of you.

Crap, the Azzurri delivery man. Get the gun.

This must be the 'heavyset Rustamian' the bartender at the Fogged Mirror saw with VIRTUE.

This must be the front for the Azzurri mob, mentioned by the Boatman.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

Lips in the concrete, singing to you.

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.

The heat of unwanted attention prickles your skin. She wants something from you.

She's like a bottomless well. Shake her and more will come out.

You feel nothing. If you expected a surge of energy, a rush, that is not where this was going. And yet...

There is nothing false about that money.

La Luz. Once a powerful empire, now reconstituted as a modern techno-fascist state, the rising military and cultural power of the day.

Focusing on the relentless black on white of the pages make your eyes strain with effort.

Hopefully the Editor-in-Chief will have made a dent in HOLOCENE's work soon.

The Editor-in-Chief said she's responsible for this page. Perhaps she could help you decode HOLOCENE's work.

The person in charge of the magazine should know -- the Editor-in-Chief.

Someone from the magazine must deliver each of the issues to the Honour Book Stall...

You've already solved two ciphers since you've returned, so they should be child's play.

You've already solved HOLOCENE's cipher since you returned, so they should be child's play.

You've already solved Tempo's cipher since you returned, so you've had a little practice, at least.

Though you are yet to solve a single cipher since you've returned. You may be a little rusty.

Seems like an acknowledgement of some kind.

That's the building where the Luzian prisoner is being held. The site of your interrogation.

That's the building where the Luzian prisoner is being held. The place you managed to escape from before being caught...

That's the place with the shiny new intercom near the roundabout. So it's a poetry magazine...

That's near the roundabout, east of the Bazaar. This poetry magazine must have its office there.

Their pelts are damp and shiny with rain. You expect the smell of wet dog -- there is none.

La Luz: Expansive techno-fascist state known for high quality electronics, pogroms, and pop music.

BRAZEN POLITICAL THREAT! THE PILE DECLARES THAT THIS TOO IS THE FUTURE OF THE WORKING CLASS: DEFANGED, FUZZY, SOLD IN A HEAP.

Checks