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.

The seizure you saw may have been self-induced, but others are not.

You flash back to the memory of planting that cricket with Ramses, how it had trembled in his hand for a moment...

A small silence as you rearrange your understandings of each other.

He doesn't try to hide the disappointment on his face.

RADIAN: no mention of epilepsy found. Medical conditions: left blank.

It was too much to hope that you were here without an agenda, but he had hoped.

He doesn't know Dr. Gonzalo E.S. Gonza.

Dr. Hugo did seem cagey, not the type to hand out drugs without going through a robust checklist.

WHO ELSE BUT THE DEMON FACE OF MARKET FORCES AND ECONOMIC FETISHISM.

Perhaps, but behind it all there is something else, far simpler -- the power to pay someone to have a medical emergency for your viewing pleasure.

The mouth muscles contorting into every shape they know, producing random morphemes that latch onto words from every language floating around the brain.

He stalls momentarily as his brain computes the information.

THERE IS NO BETTER DOMINATRIX THAN THE STATE. WE WILL SATISFY ALL URGES, IRREVOCABLY.

His eyes are dark, tired, but still sharp.

Prognosis: almost identical to the one Dr. Gonza gave you. Either they are onto something or these men have the same kind of brain parasite.

He's weaker than he looks. Even these little exertions leave him drained.

A valuable piece lays on its side, unused, next to the board. Put him back into play.

A good deal of Ramses' equipment always consisted of improvised devices cobbled up from the cannibalised remains of consumer electronics.

'Crickets' as in bugs. Ramses' signature wiretap devices.

When all is said and done, the weed plug is Ramses' last point of contact with the world of humans.

His body completes the sentence with another one of its periodic shivers.

Unexpected venom. Directed inwards.

He dismisses it with that special bitterness reserved for smothering dreams that hurt.

Easy. Plug them into a phone or terminal box, and they'll listen in. From there, Ramses can record calls, or reroute them.

He needs to feel useful somehow. Especially as you're trying to help him out.

Sure. Attach bug to phone line and then it will do a bleep-bloop-blorg to the circuit thing.

You can't abandon your old asset -- a friend -- in this kind of state. At least, not without finding out what happened to him.

The sound immediately sickens you to your core.

Haunting images of torture surround your mind. In seconds, imagined people deform into blistering, moaning creatures -- writhing in what's left of their insides.

You're in Ramses's houseboat, he's alive... nothing bad is happening...

Not dying. At least, not right here and now.

No wires, switches, or screws anywhere on that thing he's holding. Remarkably untechnological for a Ramses project.

Instruments do not sound like that. That was the scream of something alive.

Instrument in hand on his sickbed, he could easily be a dying melancholy poet strumming away on his lute.

You can see it properly now. Looks like a human skull frozen in mid-scream. Ritualistic symbols are inked all over.

Clay teeth. No eyes.

Unbelievable. He finds the sound comforting.

Your friend is dying. This is his death knell you're listening to.

Something tells you your head would fill with nasty images right now if your imagination was a little more vivid.

Each flash reproduces the world in monochrome, and the body on the bed spasms in time.

Muscles clenched in futile effort.

A syllable strains against his lips. He's trying to say something, but his jaw is locked shut.

It's Reno. The richest man in Portofiro here, in this dilapidated houseboat.

Checks