A vacuum megarail train designed for lunar operations.

He's lost far pricier things in terms of market value but this one makes the very marrow of his bones ache with worry.

His eyes well up as he turns his back to you, gently cuddling the model train. His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs.

Irrational and inefficient.

Using your asset in ways never known to be possible. You have to respect it.

A flagrant misuse of man for his own gain.

Great art deserves exhibiting.

Underneath the cold and calculated exterior, rage boils.

You're a marvellous engineer, that's what's wrong with you.

Obviously plastic.

Grey suggests a man who cuts corners in life and business.

He's less confident than he used to be. Pain is a great teacher.

Oh no gäng, hold on, it's another one of her 'special interests'!

Blasphemy!

Said without a trace of pride.

This cat thing must be really upsetting him. He's lost it.

Lightning flash! Thunder! A crackle of electricity in the air.

It's hard for him to remember.

Your forte.

The cleaners must be really upsetting him. He's lost it.

He can no longer look you in the eye.

A man with the demeanour of a goalkeeper whose team has fled the pitch.

Whoa-whoa. A missing model kit?! This cannot stand.

'Baby'? You may have miscalculated here.

Yeah. We should have asked for more money.

The corners of his glasses fog up.

An audience member at his own vivisection.

Stop all the clocks: A purloined model kit? This investigation is Priority Alpha!

A guest at his own vivisection.

His own appearance is neat and precisely kempt. Even the way his jumper is tied around his neck appears studied and deliberate.

They moved out before garbage collection day, hoping to avoid another fine stacked atop the broken lease, the lost deposit, the month's rent half-wasted...

Tiny debts, each magnified and made more impossible by a greater loss.

Old clothes, soft on your hands from repeated washings and cheap detergents. Plastic toys, delight outgrown.

Three people lived here: two adults, a child approaching adolescence.

A woman leans out the open window, shivering in the cool evening air. She tries not to blink. They've had to pack so quickly, this is the first chance she's had to try to memorise the view she's mostly ignored for the last six years.

In the end, the outcome was the same: a flurry of packing, a quick shuffle of locks and keys in the dark.

It all happened very quickly, once they'd made the decision to leave. In that moment, the priorities seemed clear.

Approximately 25 items are missing from the count of Operant CASCADE's possessions following her extradition from Portofiro in 91. Due to failure to keep up with requests for a formal inventory, the exact number of CASCADE's lost / forsaken belongings remains officially unknown.

They knew they weren't getting the deposit back. Why bother.

These babies have some heft to them. Planar magnetic drivers. Premium foam cups. And a triple-padded suspension headband, designed to distribute their weight ergonomically.

GROTESQUE. YOU ARE ADRIFT IN THE OUTER REACHES OF BOURGEOIS HEDONISM.

You can feel the value in their heft. It's a tribute to his pomade that there isn't a permanent dent in his hair from wearing these things.

The clatter and hum of the bar around you deadens to nothing. Then he presses 'PLAY'.

Maybe they do... You wouldn't know. Operant CASCADE has yet to turn around a 'success'.

HE WILL TAKE THEM TO HIS TOMB, LIKE THE SELF-STYLED GOD EMPERORS OF PRE-HISTORY.

Once more into auditory oblivion. Nice.

A state asset for life, in voice and image.

She'll never make it that long.

The noise-blocking effect. Anechoic.

The world mutes utterly. It's like being smothered by the future.

Checks