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Khalti -- a Rustamian term of endearment for an older woman.

He's very fond of her.

Not part of his job description. A caring gesture.

Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

Tempo had many criminal-grade contacts in La Luz. Probably how he dodged the fallout after your network blew.

His eyes are green. And very dry.

He's going to make you say it out loud.

Your name is the flood. Home turf. You have returned.

A rough voice down a splintering phone line: 'No silly cunts! CASCADE only, person to person! CASCADE or nothing!'

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

They wanted PSEUDOPOD to become Tempo's new handler. You were just here to smooth the transition.

They farmed out your asset, your friend, to some trouserless infant?

You knew it all along. One of your people reached out for you.

Teeth bared, but nothing left to guard. Fear of the dark.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

He was hoping you could make sense of it.

Many old assets cry 'urgent' -- especially when they're looking for a handout or a favour.

Maybe it was company he wanted. A chance to palm away the frost and peer into the old days. For some, that counts as 'urgent'.

So either under a lot of mental stress or seeing ghosts. This message could be critical. It could also be nothing but branches tapping a windowpane.

It would have. It would have brought you running. If they'd bothered to tell you.

And from the other side, only silence.

A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

Better to know. Always better to know.

Come straight to me. Never cross my path again. Both true at once.

He's rattled. And not used to the sound of rattling.

Shards of both past and present collide. In the wreckage, a jagged pattern forms:

Tempo called for help. For cavalry. For you.

Of course you do. A true name.

Unless... he's in on this too?

The end of that sentence sharpened to a point. Your friend asked for a single name.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

He already fears the worst. You don't need to get into the uglier details.

He doesn't know what he's asking for. Not really.

A flicker of river-green, bright and unguarded, before the glasses slide back down.

You see him, boots braced on a trembling deck. His vessel noses out past the breakwater, into the Noscorrentes sea. Behind, Portofiro dissolves into a golden blur beneath a pale sky.

Tell him to not go into that office himself. He shouldn't see.

This place was home for him, until now.

The man may be gone, but the ties live on.

Post-mortem loyalties -- sign of a well-cultivated asset.

He doesn't have to like it, but his nights will be kinder for it.

It's about what's right.

Ignatz. The man you first saw at Foto 24.

What if he got to PSEUDOPOD? Ignatz was lurking around Foto 24, after all.

He's trying to be polite and not point out you fucked it on your own terms.

In exchange for keeping tabs on Tempo. The logic holds, given what you found in the office.

There it is. The man from Foto 24 -- and the one sniffing after you. You have his name.

Controlled, subtle. The man has had formal training.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 14 of 184