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ENOUGH OF THIS INSUBORDINATION. SHE IS YOUR ASSET, COMPEL HER TO OBEY.

She sends a worried look to the door. Pascal sits beyond.

Alone in her apartment, knife under her pillow. She dreads the sound of footsteps approaching her door -- until she learns to recognise his.

Lying to herself, even if she doesn't know it. This is subconscious spycraft.

Perhaps you can love a lie so much that it becomes the truth.

She smiles in a way you've never seen before; Eszti without a trace of ESTOC.

The spoils of working for EMTERR.

She sets her jaw, taking you in as if for the first time.

Gears spinning behind her eyes. Systems on high alert.

She hasn't seen us. We could still rün.

That could be her activating her laser vision. How deep does the augmentoid takeover go?

She pats her left hand dry on the tea towel hanging from the cupboard. There are tiny little daisies on it.

Here it comes...

Translation: You're talking guff, Wilk.

You hear someone laugh, loudly, on the roof above.

That was a threat.

A breeze rolls through a plantation in Lágundi. Leaves hiss at its passing.

Shit, bluff called. What is she into?

Consider the fate of Operant NOTION, eviscerated by a rogue GentleNight-5000 in Western Hvârda. This asset has much to learn about modified euthanasia robotics.

'I wish I was deaf.'

The medium of hum simply doesn't allow for anger.

And somewhere beyond them: the shores of La Luz.

The moment crystallises. The world is empty save for you and your enemy.

The board is set. The Manus Fati wriggles its fingers above the pieces.

His words uncertain, his bearing unsteady. Drunk, possibly high?

YOUR COUNTER-OFFER IS THIS: A BULLET TO HIS REACTIONARY SKULL.

As he attempts to straighten himself, he lists to one side like a wounded battle-cruiser.

He could pass for a simple drunk, waiting around for his off-licence to open.

A top-heavy piece, just waiting to be flicked off the board.

It will have to be. You've come too far.

This feels wrong. Inverted.

A stoic drunk. Tourniquetting the slur with sheer concentration.

It's not just booze. Benzos.

Dante... could it have been... Tempo's message... all will be forgiven... if you pull this off...

This is an open goal. A match-winner. Don't overthink it.

A combination of anaesthesia and mettle just about manage to contain his fear.

A distant look comes over him as he sways to and fro, one foot in the present, one in the memory.

You know the school well. You've already seen the courtyard, the old ginkyo, the barracks where the boys' minds are beaten until they're no longer their own.

Dopamine, adrenaline, DMT, endorphins of every flavour and hue.

Horrific chemical orgasm. A hallucinogenic purge of everything stored within the brain's archives, known to the laywoman as life flashing before your eyes.

Like the domesticated dog whose loyalty to his masters lies in his genes, even now he regards the Lich more with sympathy than resentment.

In spite of you, the conclusion slips into its natural niche -- common sense, inevitable in retrospect.

Brilliantly played, operant. When you get back, there'll be champagne and a line of women's athletic socks commissioned in your honour.

GLORY TO THE PEOPLE'S SPY.

It's over, operant. You've failed.

In spite of you, the knowledge slips into its natural niche in your brain - common sense, inevitable in retrospect.

Assignment rating: Catastrophic failure. Turn gun on self.

Someone has to die today.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 177 of 184