'Don't do it. If you do, I won't recognise you anymore.'

Stuck in a metal box moving at 55km/h in close proximity to the enemy. No way to call in backup, no way to jump out.

Except for the old Kohilan hands, who called it 'potatoes two ways'.

Hesitation in her voice.

'Don't do it,' her voice says. 'If you do, I won't recognise you anymore.'

A ripple through your heart. She remembers.

She has a copy of your pomegranate folder open in front of her. All your patterns and tells: itemised.

Spoken from experience.

One-hundred percent. What we can't feel can't hurt us.

Yes! Crack them and gut them. Spend their offal on sweet pleasures.

Make it political, a war on the automated future.

Sounded like she really enjoyed saying 'fat sol stacks'. See if you can get her to say it again.

Let her think it's pretend, but you know the truth. They have better stuff.

You realise you have seen no dogs in Portofiro.

Dr. Hugo must have killed them all.

MAINTENANCE WORK IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL. ALTHOUGH THE SOUL IS AN INDIVIDUALIST CONSTRUCT. PERFORM SELF CRIT FOR IMAGINING A SOUL.

Sick tradeoff. A little ideological betrayal in exchange for the chance to use a pneumatic drill in reduced gravity.

The sound of a coin purse jingling from behind the curtain... a single copper rolls onto the stage.

Dripping skepticism.

It's not, it's an essential concept in the latter writings of the critic Dositeo Fernandez.

Memetic contagion. A massive risk to any modern organisation.

There is something incredibly satisfying about making that 'nom' sound. You should do it some more, just to see what happens.

'Her'?

A pen stands to attention in a long-fingered hand.

Nightmare-grade material. You have to try it out.

Or, perhaps, a genuine techno-fascist.

You hear the sound of a pen dropping onto a pad of paper, unused.

A liquid supper.

The heavy thud and sway of the Kohilan National Railway. She knows every jerk and bend along the route.

Beyond the curved windows, fields and suburbs of identical single-story houses. When they dim the coach lights, stars come out in force.

Something takes flight in your chest. She thinks of you.

Damn.

When you were the worst disaster of yourself.

She pronounces the word like a caress.

Hear that? She thinks we're amazing.

A can of Vana Kohila. Horizontal in the bottom of her purse.

Unmistakable regret in her tone.

Having a number of 'side-things' to achieve can help with your overall psychological balance. Small pips of easy pleasure.

Even more daunting than collecting such a set is the task of arranging and displaying it.

IN THE EVENT YOU ARE ZEROED OUT, YOUR BRAIN WILL BE BEQUEATHED TO THE OPERA'S SEMIOTICIANS SO THEY MAY STUDY THE PRECISE CAUSE OF THIS EXTREMELY CONTEMPORARY PSYCHOSIS.

REACTIONARY NOSTALGIA. THE YOUTH OF THE WORLD CRAVE THE DIALECTIC NOW MORE THAN EVER.

You hear a thump in the background.

Did she put her feet up on her desk?

She's thinking of her friends, whom she doesn't actually spend that much time with.

You imagine yourself at a table on the perimeter of a city square, watching her walk towards you. You have a freshly lit cigarette, the waiter is bringing schnapps. Her face is a blur.

The heavy silence that follows signals that this particular engine has run out of steam.

You hear long, comfortable breaths. The sound of her mind wandering elsewhere.

The line's ambient buzz grows louder without her voice to interrupt it.

You feel like your organs have flattened themselves against your spine.

It's fine. We'll scrape them off and put them back. We remember where most of them are supposed to go.

Checks