He could sell it to them as a win.

Not a safety net in sight. You have to at least respect the boldness.

He soldiers on, undeterred.

A little thank you and shoutout to his higher power.

A childishly stylised gesture, practiced for countless hours in front of a mirror.

Gun gäng! Gun gäng! Gun gäng!

He hasn't seen your face, he doesn't know who you are. There's nothing to lose.

He knows who you are. Better for him to walk away from this with something.

He's seen your face now. Better for him to walk away from this with something.

His brain says 'run'. His body, not so much.

Don't.

He doesn't quite buy it.

Are you really going to do this to him?

No need for any more talk. Get it over with.

This man isn't just high. He's on a dirigible coasting stratospheric over the Noscorrentes Sea.

He doesn't know who you are. No need to say a word -- just do it.

Vespar's asset. That might complicate the situation -- or make it far easier.

Oh yeah. He's catastrophically high.

If Ramses is high, this guy's on a zeppelin coasting over the Noscorrentes Sea.

Above his right pants pocket, tucked into the waistband. He's armed.

But you're faster.

You know the steps, operant.

He tries to conceal a grin, and fails.

Said operant then asserted she could 'set up a top-tier surveillance op while crawling through my own puke' and downed another schnapps.

The jovial words are accompanied by a shaky voice as if from some kind of wounded animal.

Computing explanations. Coincidence: 0.1%. Insider leak: 0.4%. Physical shadowing: 4%. Technical compromise: 95.5%.

He's amused, but a part of him is hurt.

Bloodshot eyes. He's fresh out of an episode. One that nearly killed him.

A flint catches in your chest -- a stubborn spark flashing where you thought only ashes remained.

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

You feel the warmth of shared blood and smokes, in the aftermath. Heartbeats humming in tandem; every small, defiant smile its own flag.

You've been outplayed. By an asset.

Act like this was all part of The Plan.

The technical kind. The payphone is compromised.

Ramses is one of us. He's gäng. If he stumbles, we catch him. If you stumble, he catches you. That's the deal.

It's a simple calculation: company inevitably increases entropy.

He won't let you down.

Every vowel turned into a dipthong -- umistakeable Azzurri accent.

That's a call-and-answer routine, also known as a sphynx. He asks a question to which there is only one right answer.

If you're wrong, that means you're talking to an oblivious civilian -- you can just hang up.

Your gaze turns instinctively toward the ginkyo plaza.

On the ground, a pool of golden tears.

All across the world, subjects of the Illuminated Empire are looking at trees like this, and thinking of home.

To redeem the failures of your past.

Your blood beats a kick-drum rhythm behind your ear.

Ask the paleolithic part of your mind: Would the ancient huntress stalk the megalosloth with this band?

In the auditorium of a decrepit movie theatre, a young woman staves off sleep with a continual drip of artificial dreams...

In an unmoored houseboat, windows lit with strobing lights, a bearded man prepares once more to sacrifice his body for the sake of prophecy...

In the bottom of an old rocket silo, a man in an eccentric bathrobe waits in his messy room for someone to save him from his own thoughts...

In the spare room on the ground floor of a twenty-four hour photo shop, a fleshy vessel that used to contain a man waits for someone to breathe new life into it...

Checks