And after all this time, the Protectorate of Rustam amounts to two meagre towns, devoid of resources, kept propped up by foreign funds. That, you know.

Four centuries ago, approximately.

You know the kind: vaguely colonial, full of misinformation and the promise of erotic adventures with cannibals in far off jungles.

Glad that the time he spent on the whistle wasn't wasted after all.

Slick crimson river of parted sinew and cartilage. With the utmost care, two strips of membranous tissue are ripped from the surrounding meat and tensed over a wood tuning peg.

The material must know fear.

AAAARRGH! KILL ME! KILL MEEEEE!

Confirmed: fear is in the glands.

Deep inside, somewhere in the bloody recesses of your genetics, something primal and long-dormant stirs.

The words are just the modern brain attempting to decipher a voice from the ancient, pre-human parts of itself.

Death. Madness. Decay.

You catch a glimpse of a deformed hairless face, bone-white skin, flaring simian nostrils.

Fear is yours. You are both terrified and terrifier.

You barely flinch at the violent torrent of sound that washes over you. It makes you feel...

Neither the friend you left behind years ago, nor the quivering wreck you found in his houseboat.

None of his weight has been regained, but his movements are firm and his presence light.

Awaiting his assignment, as promised, in the old haunt.

He still doesn't quite believe it.

A spectre in loose fabric, feeling out the contours of his own body -- just in case.

The slightest vibration, ordinary human unsteadiness.

The baseline rhythm of the electrical signals in his body has steadied, a regular pulse instead of that jittering telegraph blip.

Slowly populating itself with your crew members, around you the Fogged Mirror begins to take on the appearance it had five years ago, before your network collapsed.

Empty of the other members of your old crew, the Fogged Mirror feels barren, infinitely distant from what it was five years ago, before your network collapsed.

His silhouette flickers in the houseboat's dim lights. For a moment, all you see is a man untouched by the weight of your actions.

A faint bleep on a sonar gone quiet for too long.

A small promise, remade and unkept a thousand times over. 'Tomorrow', he'd tell himself, until the word meant nothing.

A woman, scarf framing her face in muted colours, places a basket of lavash and stuffed grapes by the houseboat door. Her husband, a silent sentinel, nods for her to step back. A thin bridge, beckoning Ramses back.

Hints of a new life looming -- unless you occlude it.

You break them, over and over, and still they stick by you.

If you care about him, the best thing you can do is step out of his way and let him rejoin life. Regardless of what he wants.

NO. THE PLAN IS THE DEATH OF OUR ENEMY. AT ANY COST.

It's a talisman, not a functional object. It's imbued with whatever Ramses feels towards you.

He's not taking a no.

'It is a good thing yesterday was not the end of history after all.'

Clay teeth. No eyes.

That's him. Mind's fucked, face worse, but that's our boy.

Timestamp: five years, three months since last contact.

His lopsided smile is the same, though perhaps cut with a streak of bitterness that might be new.

His fingers twitch in jittery bursts. Postictal tremors -- the aftershock of a seizure.

Six-hundred and fifty sol.

Exploitation money. Reserved for those willing to undergo serious bodily harm for what they do.

Right after his name slipped from KINDRED's bloodied lips.

One by one, your crew was picked off while you were whisked away to safety.

The getup. The fashion. The aesthetics of Luzian mass culture unmistakable even when they're undercover.

The faces. 'Strange cousins' to Portofiran in more ways than one.

The Weeping Eye's interrogator class.

That's how it always goes: some loose ends that can't be tied off.

Conclusion: You are speaking to a phantom.

'You people'.

Textbook practice. Once you find an enemy network, you torch it and ensure nothing remains.

Checks