The question is: Can you live with your own?

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

You recognise the patch sewn into his pants. It's the Carriles de Portofiro's logo -- the oldest transit company in the city.

Behind the abstractions, an unopened envelope rests on a countertop, the words 'FINAL NOTICE' stamped across its front.

He's not surprised at all.

Whatever lies you tell have a low chance of reverberating here.

He really does feel for you.

Bodies are harder to move than you'd expect.

Ample space for a person, plus cushioning and dampening material.

Merchandise. Bruises.

Sat at the top of the world, he is free to judge anyone without repercussions -- yet his ire is reserved for those who violate health and safety regulations.

The hallowed god of hi-vis vests and hard hats.

Terror to most. But for those with a taste for it...

But no Tempo.

This man's punishment may be of his own making.

Hairs, attentive.

A light crackle teases you. The man from Foto 24?

He has been watching.

He's not bothered by you bringing this up.

No harm in testing him -- just a bit.

Shit, are we the only creep on this pylon?

Pretty far up. But you'll be alright. Back on the ground in no time.

A man who's fond of things being orderly.

We might be dealing with a rules creep.

An implicit accusation there.

We're calling it now. That's a rules creep.

He doesn't seem physically incapable of leaving, nor is he restrained.

His tone: one step short of accusatory.

Time and neglect have taken a toll, but it's only stood here for about a half-century.

The opposing kingdoms of animal, mineral, and vegetable will always contest each other. Their clashing provides the fertile bed from which life springs.

THE PROLETARIAT HOLDS THE LINE AGAINST FASCISTIC INCURSION.

A man, white-knuckled, spits on the stone yet to be engulfed by the plants. 'Traitor', he says afterwards, curling his lip in contempt.

SOME DEAD REACTIONARY, WHO CARES.

The intelligence has self-redacted.

Pulse within the rock. Old power.

Dirt under your fingernails.

His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

NOT IF THE REVOLUTION WAS RETROGRADE! FORMAL DISQUALIFICATION ON GROUNDS OF IDEOLOGICAL INCOMPATABILITY!

But across an ocean, the moment contorted into legend.

A voice from the dirt. Bullets in stucco behind him. Ears ringing, throat tight with panic. He shifts in the muck, clutching his gun, and whispers a prayer to an unnamed star: Not here. Not like this.

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

The plumber fills his cup with ice and a little bit of water first thing in the morning. By the afternoon, sweating away in the hot, dark, half-flooded humidity, he sips at the lukewarm liquid.

He carries himself with straight shoulders, a confident posture, but his thick glasses hide a furry face twisted with anxiety.

A sudden cramp wracks your body as an electricity runs through it, but there was no current.

The crackling void is different from the last time you used this phone in some inexpressible way.

True emptiness - no signal reroute.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Have you seen yourself? A solitary woman jabbering into a phone, repeating random words.

Checks