Your breathing is amplified by the transmitter held at your mouth.

Voiceless, limbs tied to a chair, both eyes pushed all the way in. Frantically, they trace the word 'help' on the roof of their mouth with what remains of their tongue.

In the background, the creak of wood, an aging door used only by the wind.

Something tells you that their teeth are yellowed with decay.

Your lifeline, should you ever need it.

She'd only tell you to get on an aero-tram back home again.

A direct order which you have so far disobeyed.

Don't start wasting your time with prank calls, operant.

A relay of chatter. Invisible poetry that travels above and between the walking heads of the city.

You will need to remember this number. No need to make it difficult.

You could make it longer by using the Old Calendar. According to the New Calendar, you were born in 61, but by the old method it was 2632.

Sounds like a war fought with the sharp-end of noise.

It didn't work last time. It won't this time.

You know this voice. It's the man at the top of the financial pile -- Mr. Reno himself.

Recognition like that never goes amiss.

We crave it! We want it!

Unfortunately not your prisoner.

A whisper beyond the doorframe. Ripples of frozen air, a shattered seal. Seven people stare through a window as an unseen hand taps at the glass.

Below you, the social static of the bazaar, muffled by distance.

But you get an impression of the room. A vibration. Somewhere between crime scene and radioactive accident.

Yet you can sense something leaking through the door seams. Unearthing. Contamination.

Humans dominate doors every day! Hurl this one back down the pecking order.

Your asset called for you. Whatever's behind this, you can take it.

This is a tough watch.

Our friend needs help -- kick the fucking thing down.

If this is the beginning... one must fear the end.

True. That money goes quite some way to systematically dividing the population, whether people like it or not.

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

All HOLOCENE did was hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

All HOLOCENE does is hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

Not surprising. HOLOCENE's worldview isn't shared by many -- if anyone -- except the author of that particular book.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

A rapid montage of people entering and exiting this room over a series of months. All of them wear loose-fitting outfits in mismatched colours.

Artist types have their own uniform -- usually, whatever constitutes the opposite of formal.

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

Pick one out, show her that you know your stuff -- you know, as a fellow poet.

Getting the target to fill in the blanks for you -- good form.

A hint of suspicion.

It's like she was suddenly thrust upon a stage, all her lines unrehearsed.

Janitor? That's why she's the one who let you in -- she's in charge of the doors.

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

She's getting döm'd by her sub.

She doesn't lack what's required of a boss, something else has dismantled her authority.

Having EMTERR as a sponsor doesn't come without a hefty price. She's paying for it in some way.

Must be something to do with her sponsor, the Civilisation Trust -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

Must be something to do with her sponsor -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

A TACTICALLY WORDED RETORT. SOMETHING HAS BEEN OMITTED.

She only said she's in charge of the magazine -- not the subeditor, nor the building.

Her jaw is bound tight.

A high-pressure system hovers between the two women.

Checks