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Here we go. The spontaneous audition that launched a thousand collabs.

Was it? Maybe it was.

Playing the keyboard in front of her is one thing... singing quite another. No way.

Sing... in front of a mega-talented popstar? Back up, CASCADE, this is far beyond your training.

Collaborate with the psychedelically famous popstar.

Because you fear it carries a curse. CASCADE, emissary of failure, death and the plague of human disunion.

Not only is there nothing cool about this proposition to her, there is no chance this 'collaboration' ever occurs.

'Never. Please.'

Magnitude of setback: Enormous. Failure rating: Spectacular. Morale damage: Catastrophic, yet Not Unfamiliar.

There's unease at her fringes -- slow ripples along the shoreline.

THE MASK IS DISCARDED. THE EVEN-FEATURED TECHNO-FASCIST TURNS HER MIND TO ETHNIC CLEANSING.

Of course that's what you say now, in the cold light of rational thought. But a submerged part of you remembers those moments as they were.

For a moment, her mind flits to erasing all life through a single song. A communal three-minute ritual of beauty and horror.

Her gaze has both hold and fight. It takes effort to meet it evenly.

LUZIAN AND STAR OF POP? QUAKE BEFORE IT. TWO PRIMARY CANCERS HAVE METASTASISED.

You can't quite shake the feeling that this girl is seeing visions of your death as you talk and keeping them all to herself.

The passage engraved 'MID-THIRTIES' is soon to seal itself behind you, magic mountain cave-style.

Doesn't care for that collective noun.

A stack of gleaming hi-fi equipment, speakers resting on cinder blocks, the only thing arranged with care in the apartment. Your asset presses play with a large finger:

'MINOR 9TH' CHORDS ARE MIDDLE CLASS MUTATIONS THAT MOCK THE SIMPLE BEAUTY OF FUNCTIONAL HARMONY.

So pre-zero out, PSEUDOPOD was listening to this girl. Or someone imitating this girl.

'Ultra Violeta'? Could be that 'UV' on PSEUDOPOD's red disc...

The Tyrant Queen of the World's Wounded Heart.

The most beautiful face you've ever seen. Your insides clench in terror.

A sudden vision -- shrine, priestess and angel bound within a single frame.

It's not a door, you pathetic ape.

Septimus presses it a lot.

She thinks that you're her boyfriend.

There it is, this is what's making the whole thing work. Not this woo woo sigil shit.

Don't look at it. Evil. Talk to K.

You spot one legible button right in the centre of the console. It says 'INTERFACE'.

Her boyfriend must know how it works.

Break into Karolina's mind.

And not a hint of any ritual script or sigils. They give her the creativity to think in this space, but she's the one making it work.

A bird's eye view of an impossible landscape.

Evil! Stay away!

The equipment makes a high whining noise as thousands of little particles infiltrate its tender insides.

Different to the rest of the screens, calmer yet with more potential.

The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

Yana's using him as a doorman.

He said that way too quickly. Bet he can't name any.

He thinks he's going to stay there, too.

From us and Tempo? What did we do!

He's made up his mind.

Afraid that he won't be able to forgive himself if something happens, but aware that he isn't equipped to help either way.

Wearing a nametag? Idiocy even for a civilian.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 139 of 197