THIS NON-MAN IS UNWORTHY OF THE PEOPLE'S TAR.

Suprema 100. Smoked by tens of millions across the People's Republics.

A name passes through your skull like a ghost, a shiver on its tail.

Whatever happened in 69, it must have to do with that box. Maybe it's not just a medical necessity. Maybe it's something more.

Predator smell. Sharp. Outgrew his cage.

Whatever happened in 69, it may not have had anything to do with him at all.

That's because you're not speaking with a man, you're speaking with an augmentoid.

DISREGARD THE NON-ENTITY. PREVIOUS EFFORTS WERE SO 'HOT' THE PARTY GRANTED YOU FIVE YEARS IN THE FREEZER TO 'COOL YOUR JETS'.

That was merely a test-run, proto-gäng. Now's the one that counts.

An uncanny buzz in the air, as though a director might pop out of any one of those doorways, yelling 'Cut!'.

But no one jumps out of anything. No one appears to fix your hair or tell you exactly what to say. It's just you, the man with the box for a heart, and a few metres off, the maintenance man going about his lonely offices.

The strange fax. The one that was waiting for you at Foto 24.

A bead of cold sweat slides down your back, whispering 'no'.

You're not really about to spill your guts to a null entity, are you?

He's not a null entity, he's our number-one fan!

You haven't yet emerged from the fog of sodium thiopental. There's no deflecting just now.

Wow! This truth sauce is strong. Hahaha! But ooohh, should you really be saying all this?

Face it, gäng is döömed.

WHY ARE YOU SPILLING THE PEOPLE'S SECRETS TO A NULL ENTITY HAHAHA OH IT'S THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES FOR YOU.

A note of genuine disappointment. He wishes he could think better of his former employer.

An unplumbed abyss, haunted by strange and incomprehensible monsters.

A brief reminder that you don't know anything about this man.

The girl. The paper heart.

You know your role, operant. Play it.

Cue your main theme -- synth-driven, with a few woodwinds and an upright bass tossed in for organic effect.

Spoken like an old coach haunting the edge of a pitch.

Grounded, wet trail, retreated into his shell... not bad at all.

A phantom itch. He's scratching at something that hasn't happened yet.

A brief sniff. Total lack of interest.

B diminished. Phantasmal. Soul rattling.

Disturbingly topical.

Enough said.

THE PUNISHMENT FOR DESERTION IN-THEATRE IS REASSIGNMENT TO THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES.

Your inner ear fills with the groans of ancient machinery, hydraulic mechanisms, your nostrils with the smell of exhaust and heavy fuel oils.

A place where the gäng can do gäng-stuff undisturbed.

One must think of multi-tiered privileges. Access granted or withheld via radio wave. Most likely off-the-shelf.

You had all the pieces, you only needed to slot them together.

A damaged heart, longing to redeem itself.

A fevered mind, desperate to order the world around it.

A tool for a task, nothing more or less.

Another plaything of the stars, impelled by processes beyond its comprehension.

He's slightly baffled by your timing. That leaves him open for a follow-up.

You could ask about his motivations -- casually, as he asked about yours.

Tempo was laying low from the Weeping Eye, not EMTERR. It would be very bad news if both the Operant Bureau's ancient enemies were mixed up in this.

Everything you know has directed you to the Bazaar thus far. Doesn't exactly scream The Bank.

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Nothing at all, like a bell struck in a vacuum.

The Weeping Eye -- La Luz's secret police. The dark subconscious of the state.

La Luz. Once a powerful empire, now reconstituted as a modern techno-fascist state, the rising military and cultural power of the day.

Checks