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A tinge of respect, beneath the bruised ego.

He can't be serious. The gastrointestinal system isn't designed to make those kinds of call.

He relishes the thought. He thinks it's funny.

Just like Ignatz said.

Scent of marked territory. What can be pissed on can be possessed.

Defector accounts confirm Buendia favours a hands-on approach to counter-intelligence. No foreign network, including yours, collapses without his say.

Director-General of the Weeping Eye.

An effulgent burst of colours, the blast passing through buildings, turning bodies to particulate matter.

A mix of emotions in his voice.

The dialectic assumes a predictable trajectory. It does fail to account for one thing.

Marginally impressed.

Spoken like an artist admiring a rival's technique.

No playful jab, no implied wink. He doesn't know you met her.

He's not implying anything. Just lean in.

The PR Lävendi -- the less socially developed neighbour of the PR Kohila.

Money. Power. King with no crown.

THE ONLY PARTY GAMES RECOGNISED IN THE SUPERBLOC ARE PURGES AND SHOW TRIALS.

THERE WAS AN ALTERNATIVE: TO RID THEMSELVES OF CAPITAL AND PROPERTY. THE LUZIAN BOURGEOIS FOUND BLOOD MYTHS PREFERABLE.

Basic tradecraft: if the mark is focused on the shiny coin in your hand, they won't feel the left slipping a wire around their neck.

Renotel -- the dolphin payphones. Invisible courier of the city.

Reno. One of Portofiro's most successful vulture capitalists. Major beneficiary of EMTERR's privatisation schemes.

No attempt at deception here.

And opens his memory house. An old remembrancer's trick.

A name he'll never answer to again.

A tiny knife twists in your chest. The less said about 'red folders', the better.

A question your controller would surely second.

A small comfort: he did not address you by name.

The Subcomandante's 'metaphysical superweapon' is useless, unless.... could it be he's found a way to reconstruct the red disc?

You dimly remember seeing his signature yellow posters plastered around the city. They probably have his call-in number on them.

Strange. Somehow you do know where his studio is, despite having never been there before.

Wait, you don't actually know where his studio is... do you?

The Operant Bureau concurs with the null entity. You are not actually considering this.

A shimmer across your field of vision, or was that the television screen?

Through the television screen, his eyes meet yours.

No one is suggesting that he's watching you through the TV screen, that's ridiculous. The raised hairs along your arm must have some other, more mundane cause.

Dubious cryptonym. Likely self-assigned.

Obviously making a commentary of sorts.

Like a dead octopus smothered and forgotten about.

It should be said that you've never seen this man before in your life.

This man must be part of our welcoming committee. The gäng's legend spreads far and wide!

Your stomach tightens. Predator. Caution.

You might still be able to play this off.

Null entity, the Operant Bureau's preferred name for those it would rather forget.

His shirt is very ugly, it must be said.

Perhaps a kind of social scramble pattern.

There's no threat behind his words. He's simply describing the objective state of things.

Out of the corner of your eye, on one of the little rounded tables, you notice someone's left an old sausage, casing black and blistered, pool of grease congealing around it.

The cost of a new set of tyres.

Or a compact pistol.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 180 of 197