Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

Behind her eyes, flickers of fear and apprehension. But she's keeping them down, for your sake and hers.

Her, you, and the breathing mannequin.

Upstairs, your double twitches, electrical reflex running to a dead switchboard.

Unwelcome terrain. Tread lightly.

Younger than your mother, but in her mind, she's an old woman.

Some days pass without a single customer.

An age old recruitment technique. Let those with a sufficiently 'international' perspective reveal themselves.

She likes remembering him this way, in her shop, pretending to discreetly examine her list of services.

Whatever made this woman a plausible asset, it wasn't her knowledge of chemistry.

The disconnected fantasies of someone who only knows how to be alone.

This is a woman who's planned countless 'perfect' murders in her idle hours.

The image in her mind growing fainter, like it might disappear the second she stops believing in it.

She recognises no neighbours -- only potential threats.

No match for us.

You swim with sharks and jellyfish.

So this rumour about Luzian 'imprints' goes back at least a generation.

Somewhere within your third left intercostal space, the bullet by your heart makes its presence known with a nasty twinge.

A long time for a rumour to linger.

Reports from Operant PROBABLE suggest that 'Proyecto PESCADERA' was aborted in early 78 after one of the study's dolphins developed a violent sexual obsession with his trainer and committed suicide by sinking to the bottom of his tank.

How long dead? How many generations of ministers does this theory implicate?

The inextricable swirl of global perils and the middle-aged terrors of a life wasted.

Heart-in-throat, crumpled knees against cold linoleum. A deafening pulse inside the skull. Oblivion oozes through the doorframe.

'Strange cousins'. How locals refer to the menacing techno-fascist superstate across the Noscorrentes Sea.

The existence of Satellite Facility B is closely held information. There's no way a special asset would know of its existence, unless...

An open mind, an unguarded fortress.

She doesn't trust you. Yet.

You don't trust her either.

The facility's nickname is new to her. A delicious tidbit to hide away for later.

The existence of Satellite Facility B is closely held information. There's no way a special asset would know of its existence, unless...

Your red folder.

Permanent wrinkles.

Even if he's not the man she knew anymore, she doesn't know if she can bear to see him hurt again.

Mouth drawn down in what's threatening to become a permanent frown.

The 'within reason' is implied.

Tape retains a lower profile, leaves no holes -- no evidence. Also, she won't hesitate to subtract the price of wall repairs from your stipend.

He died alone, in an unfamiliar room, with nothing to remind him of who he was or where he came from.

Relieved at the prospect of not having to spackle any tack-holes once you're gone.

A hot water heater on the second floor?

Definitely snooping.

YOU ARE BEING CHALLENGED TO JUSTIFY YOURSELF.

No no, this is an artistic meeting of the minds. A curatorial critique!

Hopeful.

Deluded.

She's heard you through the floorboards, stomping around, stewing, in the small dark hours of the morning.

She tries not to think about it.

She feels his eyes on her, through the bag, through the paper, the second she enters the room. She shuts the door quickly and totters back down the stairwell with a shudder.

You won't wake PSEUDOPOD, no matter how much you clang and curse around.

Her features seem to harden ever-so-slightly.

She knows.

Checks