An attempted smile fails to mask the pain behind it.

Presumably because her whole life has been flipped around after her magazine was shuttered.

There's a bit more to it than that, but she's reluctant to admit it.

It was the title of the report lying around when he asked you to clean. It was in front of you the whole time.

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

She's referring to the honour book stall next to her.

You detect a slight tremor in the hand holding the book she was reading.

That certainly wasn't there before.

Could be indicative of an underlying condition. No need to bring it up and scare her.

Before, she mentioned the magazine's sponsor is the 'Civilisation Trust'. It suddenly seems highly relevant that you recognise the name.

This is the woman the shrimping girl mentioned.

NO, YOU ARE HERE TO DOMINATE.

Don your persona. Do not sabotage this opportunity.

Few of the middle class residents of the Housing Campaign want to be seen openly making offerings or tending the shrine. Such things scream 'working class'.

It's customary to 'invite' the angel to the festivities -- to bless the union.

Maybe it was her husband's idea.

Or maybe you don't know your old asset as well as you think.

The stopper has gone brittle, covered in a thick coat of sticky dust. There's no way to remove it without getting fragments of disintegrating cork everywhere.

It belongs here.

An officer of the Pious Order knocks twice on the door of an apartment in Mircea's ever-dwindling Arts District. The person inside does not answer, too busy throwing everything they own onto the fire in the hearth -- the smell of burning paper and plastic.

The war has finally caught up.

Just what he was afraid would happen.

This is a shrine to Sirius: angel of romance, war, and negotiation.

Your vision darkens at its periphery.

A PORNO-GRAPHIC SIGHT FOR THE LOCAL PORNO-BOURGEOIS.

Linen in soft cream, dusty ochres and pale sand.

The cuts and drapes speak of sun-baked streets, old plazas, and afternoons that meander towards the horizon.

It's as if the space was arranged to reject sharp cuts and high-contrast neon.

That's the polite way of saying 'astronomically'.

It's all posh people shite. Stylish, though.

Borderline insane.... but on the right side of aesthetics.

This man is full of excrement -- our calves are the right size!

AND WHY IS THAT? HE IS NO HERO OF THE PEOPLE, THAT'S WHY.

The Miracle Line.

The flash of a gold tooth near the back of his mouth.

EMTERR -- the Bank. This mention of the Operant Bureau's ancient enemy makes you bristle.

Machines don't make mistakes, mister.

A single missed thread in the neat chain at the hem.

You're going to have to take his word for it.

Some weeks ago, sweat gathered on his bald head under the strap of a forehead lantern. Broad hands delicately protected by latex gloves, he rummages through the back rooms of the abandoned Essilk No. 3, hoping for a bolt of stained fabric.

Underground caverns filled floor-to-ceiling with cultivation beds, fat larvae munching on mulberry leaves.

Beautiful young women with eyes weakened by candlelight tend to each short-lived grub as if it were a princeling.

Melita won't like seeing that on your expense report.

A star-worshipping priest? Might this help you pass off as the Liquidity Mage Kurt is looking for?

There seems to be no creditor in this man.

THIS SOCIOPATHIC DEBT COLLECTOR HAS BEEN CAST FROM THE SAME MOULD OF DISHONESTY AS ALL OTHER SUCH PARASITES.

He does not see the it in you.

How weird, right?

EMTERR deals in development loans, sovereign debts, exchange rates -- not individuals.

Checks