This little weirdo thinks she owns music now?

A metric tonne of silence falls between the two of you.

A metric tonne of silence falls between the three of you.

The melody you've been unconsciously constructing suddenly unfurls itself in your mind. Two notes to stick the landing...

The smile of a girl visiting her grandmother on the dementia ward.

You're just going to give up? Once again, this is the Kagami 7X60 REIGNbow.

Could it... could it be...

He really doesn't want to be doing business with Gonza, or you, for that matter.

The streets exhale around you. The shouts of partygoers slacken, and music thins to echoes. Beyond Party Alley, your asset awaits your signal.

Farther south, past the fraying edges of Party Alley, a man in a crisp tracksuit climbs into a heavily-loaded tuk-tuk. He adjusts the rearview mirror and checks himself. Verdict: 'dope'.

The cramped houseboat crossed in a single anxious stride.

Despite the quick answer, his voice sounds as though he's just emerged from sleep.

His gait is off. He had another seizure since you left.

The reigniting of a custom you'd feared lost forever.

Engaging would only compromise your social and ballistics skills for no tangible benefit.

A hit to steady the fibres can't hurt. Just a small one.

The crepitating telephoto lens of your mind widens as your circuitry slackens.

Further down Party Alley, basslines thump and laughter echoes. But here, a silence settles.

The world shrinks to the here and now.

This moment, it's important to him. A re-kindling, maybe -- finding warmth among ashes grown cold.

Don't tell him. There's a reason we keep it inside, where it doesn't hurt too much.

'Did she just abandon us?'

'Did she sell us out?'

'Did it mean nothing?'

The air gets heavier, as if you were being annexed by gravity.

A few thoughts scatter, like loose paper on an empty train platform.

Operant. You're compromising performance. Explain why.

It's getting harder to tell where you end and where the streets begin.

Satellite Facility B -- a suburb-sized arrangement of honeycomb structures.

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

Day 523, row unknown: sighting of a senior operant dusting the spines of cloth-bound logbooks. Hands: trembling, liver-spotted. You kept moving.

Above, a bottomless well, depths aglow with pale fires reaching out.

An evil alignment of celestial bodies, the spearhead of that dread constellation hanging directly over the heads of you and your old comrades.

A slight wobble in the back -- stacked pallets.

Someone could be hiding in the backseat.

Near ideal conditions for an ambush.

He has no idea who you are. No need to say a word -- just do it.

Exploiting a blindspot. He knows what he's doing.

He's desperate. Do not engage.

Tell him it's true. Make him understand.

Was this what you had in mind, operant? You, at gun point, and your asset disclosing personal matters?

Ramses may be high, but this guy is somewhere in low-orbit.

Don't let this get ugly. Not after what he told you about Vespar.

He's alone, and not expecting any backup.

Your advantage is slipping. Draw already.

There's no point in lying at this stage.

Somewhere behind his bloodshot eyes, a slow, yet impeccable calculation emerges.

The words pass through Goat Eyes' lie detector.

Years worth of medication. With proper storage, the expiration dates shouldn't be an issue.

Assuming four pills per day, and ten pills per blister pack. One pack lasts two and a half days. One crate would cover Ramses for six years and change.

Checks