A polite round of applause for the support act.

A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

A familiar silhouette peels itself from the dark.

Your friend is here.

Your cerebro-spinal fluid turns to liquid refrigerant.

Even before you ask the question, the outline of a name is forming, letter by letter.

Time to show. Cards on the table.

Now's the time. Pull back the stage curtain.

You know a stonewall when you smack off one. He's waiting for you to put something together.

As the sun smears across rooftops, a man with a briefcase full of carefully-folded socks sits on a metal bench. He sits there for a long time, considering the tangle of alleyways that surround him.

From day-player bootlegger to directing the full production in five years. Quite the ascent for an exposed asset.

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.

He's not.

His eyes are green. And very dry.

Why couldn't PSEUDOPOD get past this man?

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.

Cowards.

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.

Checks