Speakers spaced out, the reverberant pop, pop, pop of the ball's ricochet echoes off the bar's high ceiling.

You study their movements carefully -- a beautifully choreographed display of physical prowess.

The words of your old double HOLOCENE come to mind. In the so-called Developed World, the whole political and cultural economy of a place is revealed through its sporting rivalries.

The local's local. Team of the working classes, with strong ties to the old silk industry.

Thin ribbons of the old fabric sewn into the tops of their socks.

Her lack of expression is so blank as to be an expression itself.

Recreación is a money laundering vehicle for the profiteer class, those who've won the End of History by steering years of 'stabilisation packages' to their chosen enterprises.

Needless to say, a significant part of their player's salaries are paid by EMTERR.

Maintain plausible deniability for everything, at all times.

Indeed, each of the pelota players display taut hamstrings, chiselled gastrocnemius and soleus, and perfectly rounded glutes that bounce appealingly under the shorts' tight, synthetic material...

She's not yet entirely convinced that you are 'normal people'.

In your trance-state, you hear a voice that sounds eerily like yours hiss 'yesss!' when one team scores a point on a particularly tricky shot.

BY DESIGN. THE ARCHITECTS OF THE DEVELOPED WORLD WOULD HAVE YOU ACCEPT AN ENDLESS CYCLE OF CONSUMPTION AND DECAY.

What's wrong with the picture?

The television may be dusty and broken, but it is not yet its time to go to the scrap heap. Salvation is possible.

A discoloured bloom of interference mars the corner of the screen, tinting the dancing mascot on the sidelines purple.

A lopsided smirk on his face, an unusually light gait. The look of the expertly fucked.

The document has to be displayed, by law. Operating an unlicensed clinic inside the city limits is strictly prohibited.

However, due to a loophole in the city code, the canals aren't technically a part of Portofiro.

The license is real -- but it's out of date. There's a faded stamp, half-hidden behind the frame. The renewal date reads OKTOS 91.

Nothing out of order about these documents.

He wouldn't have willingly given up a career that meant so much to him.

A fellow Freezer-mate. This boat is his Satellite Facility B.

That's not true. There's one.

Back when she was nothing but potential.

He misses this version of her the most.

Rendered a non-person for her betrayal.

Your experiences are not universal.

Ghosts, gathered.

In times of uncertainty people naturally gather in large groups, perceiving safety in numbers. This behaviour is widely observed even when the opposite is true.

More specifically, it's an onagadori -- an ornamental rooster bred for its long tail.

Let's not forget the obvious double entendre here.

Blood... loose. Urges. Fuck!

Remove it right now. You cannot lose your only hope of reviving your double.

This might be exactly what you need. Take the edge off the world, relax...

You have no idea what this treatment will do to you. It could cause harm as much as help.

A cipher.

Encoded by a frenzied hand.

The key that requires a key.

Beside you, a gradual upshift in HOLOCENE's energy.

Unmistakable. Parsing through his near-impenetrable theatre reports could often feel like full-tilt hallucination.

Operant, please. This kind of stagecraft takes application, a methodology. You can't just dash it off.

Watch this.

A cryptograph.

His voice a ten tonne weight.

Here we go. Actual boss cünt.

They were waiting for him, like they're waiting for you.

His voice, the tonality. Like a shadow creeping up the wall of a memory.

The past again. This time worse.

With fear, or maybe rage that the past should repeat itself so shamelessly.

Checks