His infallible recall must distort time. With every memory the same weight, they become the unit of measurement -- and down here he's not making many new ones.

What does midnight alone feel like down here?

A ghost in the system.

Woah, woah, woah, easy! That nickname is offensive and unapproved.

So what, we partake in 'interpretive masturbation'? We think not.

A faint heartbeat from a long lost vein.

You sense the weight of the structure above you, the inverted tower hanging over your head.

Fück us, he's been down here a long time.

You'd take a week of the Weeping Eye fiddling with you over five years down here.

It remains unclear what exactly is 'on' in this gutted space pit.

You never met Twitchitov, but you were always aware of his presence on some unknowable higher level.

A rumour whispered among the more seasoned Remembrancers: That Director Twitchitov asphyxiated himself under auto-erotic circumstances.

AS-YET-UNDISCOVERED ENEMIES CERTAINLY MADE IT APPEAR AS THOUGH DIRECTOR TWITCHITOV HANGED HIMSELF WITH THE FLAG OF THE PARTY IN HIS DEAD MOTHER'S CLOSET.

Let it go. This is as far as you'll get on this.

For a long moment he looks switched on without the sound.

By HOLOCENE's logic, you bear none of the blame for what happened. Everything you did was an expression of institutional logic.

LUDICROUS! THIS ISOLATIONIST POLICY HE'S PURSUING HAS UNSHACKLED HIS MIND.

After a certain point the logic of betrayal becomes its own motive.

SOLVENT ABUSE ALLEGATION. UNSUBSTANTIATED. HOSTILE.

The size of a small cat's coffin.

And he can't wait to tell you.

REACTIONARY THEORISING. HE SHOULD DIRECT THIS DOORSTOP-SIZED CRITIQUE INWARD AT HIS NEXT IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSION.

You hurt his feelings.

In a dark basement in Novessa, a female controller in her mid-thirties shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

PSEUDO-INTELLECTUALISM. SILO-SELF-EXILE WAS THE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION.

Suspect. No true gäng would ask you to read something this big.

REACTIONARY THEORISING. HE SHOULD DIRECT THIS DOORSTOP-SIZED CRITIQUE INWARD AT HIS NEXT IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSION.

You hear his words, then unhear them.

Old wounds split open within your mind. Are you between crosshairs? What have you missed? What has the other not missed?

Such crucial information should have been conveyed directly to the Operant Bureau. Something is out of step.

Absolute conviction behind his words. This is no bluff or bait.

'Intra-agency'? But there's only one agency... The one you both work for...

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

HOLOCENE has never once lied to you. As far as you know, at least.

The cold flat of dread's knife presses against your heart.

Hold on. Monoaxial... Hermetic... this is literally just him. Your old bandmate's gone and tried his hand at a solo career.

In a dark basement in Novessa, a female controller in her mid-thirties stifles an inexplicable urge to push a palm into her face.

A banishment of mirrors.

He's taking this seriously. You should too.

How fucking stupid it is to live in a höle for half a decade. That's what you're thinking.

Surely there's a lift to get out of this silo. Not the stairs every time... Surely...

Sixteen-years-old, physical education class. Mia Holloway climbing the rope ladder directly above you. Panties, constellation pattern, eking loose from sweat-damp gym shorts.

Origin point for a long-held dream of being smothered by the firmament.

Melita. Bust size. Mystery.

At least we have a building with working electricity.

A trace of concern that you've pre-achieved the very thing he was attempting to do when you found him.

'What is this? Arrête! Get off me!'

Snagged on a memory. A pleasant one.

Operants of the Psychic Wars!

Checks